“No, she was there. The entire town—except for you and Tina—came to hear me sing,” Bixby said, forgetting that he’d kept his decision to sing last night a surprise. “I was singing with Bubba and looked down and spotted her. She was up front, crowded against the stage with all my other diehard fans. They call themselves the Bixettes.” He looked around and lowered his voice before adding, “You might want to have a talk with her. She’s got a huge crush on me.”
“How do you know?” Tina asked, sounding surprised he’d even suggest such a thing.
He turned to Tina with raised eyebrows and a frown that seemed to say, “Do you really have to ask?”
“How do you know?” I repeated Tina’s question because, yes, we really did have to ask.
“When you’ve performed in as many concerts as I have, you know the look.”
He clasped his hands and pressed them to his neck as he tilted his head to one side. He widened his eyes and let his jaw go slack as if he’d just spotted one of Camellia Beach’s insanely beautiful sunsets.
“You know, like that,” he said with a grin.
“And Bubba was onstage with you when this happened?” I asked, thinking it was Bubba, not Bixby, that Bertie had been ogling. Why wouldn’t Bertie just go ahead and admit she had feelings for Bubba?
“Yeah, he rocked on his bass guitar while filling in some of the harmony. We were worried that some of the band members would get choked up without Stan there, you know?” He looked around. “Do you have any more of those dark chocolate truffles?”
Tina looked at me and smiled encouragingly, which only convinced me that she’d lost her mind. Why in the world would she think I’d want to date this guy? She must have—
I jumped to my feet. “Get him out of here,” I hissed.
Whether he was shallow or not, I’d made a promise to myself to protect him while he stayed on the island.
“What’s going on?” Tina said as she followed my lead and rose from her chair.
“Take him out through the back door,” I said. Because at that moment the grinning woman about to waltz through the front door was none other than the rock-throwing, grill-exploding, shop-wrecking Candy Graves.
Chapter 20
“I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.” Candy blinked her big doe eyes and tilted her head to one side just as Bixby had done a few minutes earlier when aping how women who loved him gaze in his direction.
She’d draped herself in innocence: a white sundress, white sandals—even her long honey-colored hair had been styled to resemble an angelic halo. I didn’t know who she was trying to fool with that. I certainly wasn’t buying it.
I crossed my arms over my chest and kept my body well out of her arm’s reach. “As I’ve already told you, Candy, you aren’t welcome here. I’ve already called the police.”
“Why did you do that? I haven’t done anything to you.” She threw up her arms.
“You broke that window.” I pointed to the large plate glass window that had cost a ridiculous amount of money to replace before business hours and on a weekend.
“An act of passion, and it was only a window,” she said as she crossed her arms in a way that elevated her breasts.
“You broke it twice,” I said. “And you tried to burn down the shop.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You’re calling me crazy?” Was she serious?
“Are you hard of hearing, old lady? Where’s Bixby?”
I glanced over at Fox and Alvin. They were still sitting on the sofa in the corner. But they’d stopped their conversation. Both men were frowning as they watched us.
Fox nodded in my direction. He inched forward as if getting ready to put those long, willowy legs of his into action. They’d heard about Candy the day before when Gibbons had informed us that the grill had been rigged to explode. The detective had also shown everyone, including Fox and Alvin, her most recent mug shot. The two men had obviously recognized her.
Candy didn’t seem to notice them. She kept glancing over her shoulder, watching the road. Was she watching for the police?
I squinted toward the road as well.
Come on.
Come on.
The police should be here already. It was a small island.
And where was Bixby’s security team? If they’d been watching over our superstar, why would they let Candy waltz into the shop in the first place?
“Bixby texted me,” she said. Her voice warbled as she glanced out toward the street again. She held up her phone, as if showing me her phone’s blank screen would be proof enough that Bixby had actually contacted her. “He told me to meet him here. He said he needed to talk to me.”
“Even if he did text you, I’m telling you to leave. I don’t have the money to fix anything else you might break in my shop.”
Fox and Alvin both stood and took a step toward us in a show of support.
Candy didn’t seem to notice them. “I’m here to talk to my boyfriend, not hurt anyone.”
“Bixby’s not your boyfriend,” I said, as gently as I could to someone who’d tried to burn down my shop. In retrospect, my words probably sounded more like a slap than a gentle reminder to a woman with some serious delusions.
Her lips twisted. “That’s an ugly thing to say. What do you know?”
“I know you set a fire in here last night.”
“That’s not true!” she shouted, just as a siren blared in the distance. Candy looked left and right as if frantically searching for an exit. She tossed an ugly curse in my direction and then shouted, “You can’t have him!”
She ran like a fleeing coyote out of the shop and across the street to a stretch of vacant land, where she disappeared into a thick stand of oak trees and scrubby underbrush.
“She’s certifiable,” Fox said as he and Alvin joined me just outside the shop door. The siren grew louder.
Alvin nodded and then said in his thick accent, “Screechin’ harpy. Done remind me of my Marella.”
The back of my neck prickled as I scanned the woods where Candy had fled. Something about her coming into the shop as if she’d been invited felt … wrong. Why would she come here? After what she’d done last night, she had to know she wouldn’t be welcome. She had to know I’d call the police.
The whole situation felt like a weird setup.
Like she was being set up?
No, no. Not her. Me. It felt like I was being set up.
“Crap. Get down.” I grabbed Alvin’s arm, since he was the one standing next to me. I pulled him down to the porch’s wooden deck in front of the store as I dropped to my knees.
Fox followed, dropping into an ungainly crouch just as a loud pop-pop-pop-pop, like firecrackers going off, shattered the air. No, not the air. That loud popping shattered the plate glass window behind us.
“No! Not again!” I wailed as tempered glass cubes from my brand-new window rained down on our heads.
* * *
“I’ve been running all over hell’s half acre this morning thanks to what happened here last night, Penn. What trouble are you kicking up now?” Chief Byrd complained as he stepped out of his cruiser. He yanked up his ill-fitting putty-colored pants and sauntered toward the three of us. Fox, Alvin, and I were huddled together, shattered glass hanging like snowflakes in our hair and on our shoulders.
“Some chick with less than a dozen eggs in her henhouse done been shootin’ at us!” Alvin cried.
“It was Candy Graves,” I said as I shook the glass from my hair. “She was here.”
Byrd cursed.
“That’s right,” Fox said. “The gal was having a dying duck fit when she left. Took off that way when she heard your siren.”
“I don’t know what he’s saying,” I said, hooking my thumb in Fox’s direction, “but Candy threatened me, ran off in that direction, and then the bullets starting flying.”
“That’s what I said,” Fox cried.
“It is? I really need to learn this Souther
n lingo.”
The skin around Fox’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and said, “That you do, girl.”
“She went in there?” Byrd gazed into the woods for about a solid minute before getting on his radio to call for backup.
The officers who arrived first were from the county sheriff’s department. These were the professionals. They’d dealt with live gunfire many times before and knew how to secure the area and conduct a thorough search for evidence.
The officers also ushered Alvin, Fox, and me back into the shop. I started brewing fresh coffee to offer to the investigators. While I stood on a stool and poured a jug of spring water into the commercial coffee maker’s large tank, Chief Byrd moved to stand behind me.
“How can I help you?” I asked as he continued to stand there with his arms over his wide chest, watching me work and not saying anything.
“You could leave town and take your killers with you,” he grumbled.
“They aren’t my killers,” I pointed out. “The coffee will be ready in a few minutes. You’re welcome to a cup.”
After peering into the glass display case at Bertie’s sea salt chocolate caramels, he said, “Didn’t have crime in Camellia Beach until you arrived.”
“So you’ve told me.” I forced the words through my teeth. There were so many other things dancing on my tongue. Things like, “Why aren’t you doing your job and keeping us safe instead of blaming your shortcomings on me?” Too bad letting those words fly really wouldn’t be productive to my long-term life in Camellia Beach.
I kept my hands busy as I waited for the police to finish their business, waited for word to come that they’d caught Candy, waited for someone to tell me I could reopen my shop. The longer I waited, the more my nerves prickled. I felt as if I was grabbing onto a cactus over and over, getting more and more stinging needles stuck in my hands while accomplishing nothing.
Finally, about an hour after the shooting, Detective Gibbons arrived. He climbed out of his ancient Crown Victoria looking composed and in command. His suit’s creases were neatly pressed. His shirt was so white that it nearly glowed in the bright sunlight.
While I waited anxiously at the shop’s door, my heart pounding with nervous energy, he walked down the road to talk with the county officer who appeared to be in charge of the crime scene.
“Penn?” Alvin called to me from the sofa where he and Fox had settled while we waited to be told we could leave.
“Yeah?” I had to force myself to turn my back to the detective and answer Alvin. Actually, it took all my willpower not to run across the street, grab the detective’s arm, and start babbling about what had happened. Chief Byrd had ordered us to stay put until someone told us otherwise. “Do you need something?”
“We’re starving like all get out over here. Will you sell us something to eat?” When I didn’t answer right away, Alvin whined, “Pleeease?”
I checked my watch. It was close to eleven thirty. “Oh, of course. Let me fix you a plate.”
Although all the croissants had sold out, a few chocolate chip sticky buns and a chocolate cinnamon roll remained from this morning’s shipment from the Charleston bakery that provided all of our baked goods. I placed the pastries on two plates and carried them over to the hungry musicians. “It’s on the house,” I told them. It wasn’t their fault they were trapped in the shop with me. “Would you like some more coffee?”
They did. As I refilled their mugs, we chatted about the festival. “If being famous means contending with crazy women like that Candy Graves, I’m glad we never left the island,” Fox said after biting into his sticky bun.
“It’s not like we ever had to worry about being discovered. Everyone with any real talent on the island done be dead now.” Crumbs from Alvin’s chocolate cinnamon roll sprayed in the air with his words.
“Says you,” Fox countered as he chewed. “I could have made it big. Just didn’t want the hassle.”
“You didn’t want to practice, more like,” Alvin said.
“Didn’t see you practicing that much either.”
“I had my woman to keep happy.”
“That’s just mean,” Fox said, taking another big bite of his bun.
“What was it like, playing with The Embers?” I asked.
“Oh, it was a rocking good time,” Fox said. “Stan was the real talent in the group. No one sang like him. We just went along for the ride. Though I was surprised Bubba didn’t strike it out on his own as well after Stan left. His musical scores were what brought Stan’s soggy lyrics to life.”
“What about ‘Camellia Nights’?” I asked. “Bixby fell in love with the song after reading only a small part of the lyrics.”
Both Alvin and Fox shrugged. “Never did play that one. Don’t know much about it.”
“I done read through the lyrics when Bubba was working on the score,” Alvin added. “Didn’t much care for it, if you ask me.”
“But Bixby read it and seems to be beside himself wanting to buy it and make it into his next big hit,” I pointed out.
Alvin grimaced. “That Bixby boy could sing the phonebook and make it into a hit song. Don’t mean a thing.” He scratched his head. “Bixby wants something, but I can’t imagine it’s the song he wants. It’s just something Stan done scribbled down one morning after stayin’ up late drinkin’ all night.”
“And it’s missing,” Fox added.
“Still?” That surprised me.
“Even the handwritten notes Bixby found in the songbook have grown legs and walked off,” Fox said while Alvin nodded.
I frowned at that, but I had another question to ask them. “Bertie Bays,” I said, “she used to sing with the band?”
Both men nodded—Fox enthusiastically and Alvin with an unhappy shrug. “That Bertie had a sharp voice,” Fox said.
“More like a sharp tongue,” Alvin said.
“Was she a regular?” I asked.
“As regular as her man would allow. He wasn’t too thrilled she was singing in bars at all hours of the night with a bunch of rowdy white boys.” Fox shook his head at the memory. “No siree, he didn’t like that one bit.”
I pulled out the old concert flyer I’d stuffed into my pocket and handed it to them. “But he let her sing with you at this concert? How did that go?”
“No, no, no. She didn’t sing. Not after—” Fox looked at Alvin, who shook his head.
“Terrible goings on. Some said it didn’t really happen, but …” Alvin said, still giving that head of his a hard shake.
“What happened?” I needed to know.
“She never sang with us again,” Fox said.
“Wouldn’t have expected her to,” Alvin agreed.
“Didn’t matter, though. Stan left not too long after that,” Fox said.
“Why? What happened?” I felt ready to pull my hair out. What had happened that was so terrible they wouldn’t give me a straight answer?
“Penn? Can I have a word?” Detective Gibbons called from the doorway.
“I’ll be right with you.” As much as I wanted to speak with the detective, I also wanted to stay and shake those two men until they started talking.
“Go talk to the man,” Fox said. “He looks real anxious to get moving on his policing.”
“Fine. But we’re not done here, not by a long shot,” I said, then quickly added, “Let me know if you need anything else to eat. I don’t ever want anyone around here saying I starved them.”
They nodded and pushed me toward the man I really needed to talk to. Fox and Alvin were discussing ancient history. I needed Detective Gibbons to give me answers to why someone here and now and today had shot at us. And I also needed him to reassure me that the police would be able to keep Tina and Bixby safe.
“So tell me,” he said as he pulled out his notebook and pen, “what exactly happened this morning?”
The way he looked at me with his calm steady gaze, his face showing nothing but concern for me and my safety, caused a long-repress
ed ache deep inside my chest to push its way to the surface. This was how I’d always imagined a father would treat a beloved child who’d suddenly found herself in trouble. It was a look I’d never seen on my own father’s face.
I glanced over at my busted window and then at the bullet holes that marred the far wall. The police techs had doubled the size of the holes in the plaster when they’d dug out the bullets. Vintage teacups lay smashed on the floor from a shelf that had fallen from the impact of a bullet. “Candy shot at me. Her bullets did this”—I pointed to the window—“and this”—I pointed to the broken teacups.
He nodded and motioned for me to sit down at the nearest café table. He pulled out a chair for me and one for himself. Like a true Southern gentleman, he remained standing since I was staring dumbly at the chair as if I’d forgotten how to bend my legs and sit.
“Please,” he said, with a pointed look at the chair he’d pulled out for me. “Let’s talk about what happened.”
“My storefront window is shattered.” Tears sprang to my eyes. I didn’t know if they were from frustration or fear or if I was upset over having to pay the glaziers to come back out and install yet another window. “You told me Candy wasn’t dangerous.” Although I tried to stay in control, my voice grew louder and louder. “You told me she wasn’t a killer. Look what she did. She was aiming at me, but she could have just as easily killed Fox or Alvin.”
“Simmer down, Penn.” Gibbons held up his hands. “I’m here. I’m listening to you.”
“Simmer down? She shot at us!” The words burst out of my mouth.
His brows furrowed as he frowned. He did look sincerely concerned that Candy had shot at us. “We have every available man searching for her.”
I drew a shuddering breath and tried again to sound calm. “With a gun. She shot at us with a gun.”
“We’re searching every car leaving the island. She won’t get far,” he said.
“She wanted to kill me.” Even as those words left my mouth, the beginnings of doubt set in. “She wanted to kill me?”
Was that right?
Like Chief Byrd had done earlier, I squinted toward the stand of trees. If Candy had wanted to kill me, why hadn’t she simply pulled the trigger when she was standing not more than a few feet away? Why run a long distance and then start firing? That didn’t make sense.
Playing with Bonbon Fire Page 14
