by Eryn Scott
“I came back here because as much as I love traveling, it’s my home. Murray and I got together and it all fell into place.” A tear formed in the corner of her eye. “And then right when I had him, I lost him again.”
As she talked of Murray, her gaze flitted nervously around the room as if she worried his ghost might burst into the room at any moment. I did the same, following her flighty attention, hoping to catch a hint of what she was so nervous about.
Tabitha stood. “I’m so sorry. I’m not great company right now. Too much on my mind, I think. Thank you for stopping by. And thank you for the tea.”
Standing, I smiled in support. “I understand. Thanks for inviting me in. Like I said, if you need anything, I’m just across the street.”
“I’ll remember.” Her shoulders stiffened, and she glanced once more behind her before leading me to the front door.
I left, and on the walk home in the darkening sky, worked through what I’d witnessed. She’d been jumpy, checking her surroundings, looking over her shoulder. There was something weird going on with Tabitha. I needed to figure out what it was.
13
By the time I walked back to the house, the sun was setting. Pinks, purples, and oranges dashed across the cloud-painted sky as if the sun was throwing itself the most fabulous going-away party.
I boiled some water, made myself a pot of lavender, chamomile tea, and took it out onto the porch to steep. The sun disappeared below the waves while I sat back in one of the lounge chairs Grandma had kept on the deck.
And even with everything going on—with Murray’s death, Asher’s absence, Lois’s flickering, and my burnt shed only yards away—the scenery and steady sounds of the ocean washed away most of my stress.
When the tea had steeped long enough, I poured myself a cup and sipped it as I kicked up my feet. A whisper of cold threaded its way into the breeze that night, but I grabbed a blanket from the bench under the eaves and wrapped it around myself.
It was almost perfect.
And then my phone rang. My mother’s name flashed across the screen—because who else called me?
Now the night was perfect.
“Hey, Mom.” I propped the phone against my ear with my shoulder and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
“Hi, honey.” Mom’s voice drifted through the phone languidly. Knowing her, she had probably kicked her feet up on her leather ottoman after a long day at the library, and sipped at a glass of red wine. “How are you?”
“I’m good. How’s the library?”
She sighed, but it wasn’t a tired sound, more of a contented one. One of those breaths that pulls itself through your lungs whenever you think of or see something you love.
“It’s just about perfect, as usual,” she answered.
I didn’t ask why it was just about, instead of completely perfect. I knew the fact that I wasn’t there anymore made it fall just short. But I also knew that Mom was happy for me, that she’d seen the difference in me since I’d come to live in Pebble Cove. As if I needed another example, that was pretty good proof I had a great mom.
“How’s the shop today?” she asked.
Because she is such an excellent mom, she didn’t add the “still slow?” part of that sentence that she could’ve.
“Better,” I offered. “My iced tea sold really well.” I smoothed the pads of my fingers over my lips as I thought. “I still need something more, something other than just tea. Grandma got along okay with the tea, but she had a much better sense of how to use it, who needed what, and how it might help people’s ailments. I’m not her.”
“Rosemary, you’re much more like your grandmother than I think you realize,” Mom said quietly.
That must’ve been hard for her to say. Three months ago, I would’ve taken that as an insult, knowing Mom didn’t have much positive to say about her late mother-in-law. But lately, Mom had started the process of forgiving Grandma, seeing her own mistakes in their infamous feud. And I knew when Mom said I was like Grandma, she meant it in the best way possible.
“What ideas do you have for the teahouse?” Mom asked.
“Well, I thought about starting a monthly book club.”
“Great idea,” Mom said, her voice lighting up just like it always did when she talked about books. “You know, I just finished this magnificent book that would be a great book club pick. In fact, if you want, I could come out and help you run your first one.” Excitement built in the tempo of her words.
As her voice rose higher, my heart sank. I loved my mom. She was my only remaining family, and she meant more to me than anyone in the world. But she’d always been overprotective of me ever since my tragedy-filled childhood. And while I loved her for keeping me safe and healthy through some of the hardest things someone can endure, I was also ready to move on. I was an adult now, and I didn’t need my mom coming to save me all the time.
“Actually, on second thought, I don’t think a book club would work here,” I blurted out, regretting the words as soon as I said them. Trying to smooth over the deep cut I’d just given Mom, I kept talking. “I also considered offering food of some sort, but I burnt the first batch of scones I tried to make, so that might be out of the question.”
Mom "mmmhmmmed" on the other end of the call. I could tell she was thinking up a question that would challenge my mindset like she always did after making a sound like that, like she didn’t agree. Either that or she was still trying to get over me turning down her help with the book club.
“You’ve never liked to cook or bake, necessarily. What brought on this sudden thought that you need to serve food?” she asked.
There it was.
I stayed silent for a beat as I figured out what to say, unable to share the actual answer since Asher had suggested it.
“Well, cafés usually have both, right? The other tea shop in town does, and she’s outselling me even with her terrible tea.”
“Ah …” Mom said, having gotten me to admit the heart of the issue. “Honey, you’ve only been doing this for a few months. Give yourself some grace to get better at the primary thing your shop sells without trying to add too many other things to your plate.”
My shoulders settled even further. Whether I’d been able to admit it or not, those burnt-to-a-crisp scones had been sitting on my back for the past twenty-four hours.
“As usual, you’re right.” I smiled.
Mom chuckled. “It’s just one of the many services I offer. Speaking of that, I have some news about your World War I deserter.”
My heart dropped at her use of that moniker for Asher. That meant she’d confirmed my worst suspicions.
“It’s all very interesting,” she said slowly as if she were looking over notes while she talked to me. “The entire town seemed downright flabbergasted when they learned the young man had deserted.”
I’d found the same in my research.
“All except his fiancée,” Mom added.
I sucked in a breath so quick it made me cough.
“Fiancée?” I asked through a sputter. “He was getting married?” I tried to pull my incredulity back a little on the second question, not wanting Mom to wonder why I was so invested in this dead person’s engagement.
“Honey, you know how it was back then. Getting to your age without getting married was rare. Many young people got engaged when they found out they were leaving to fight in the war. It’s just very interesting that she was the only one unsurprised by Mr. Benson’s desertion.”
“Unsurprised?” I asked.
“I dug deeper into records of town halls from back in the year he went missing. The records show a town meeting being called out of concern when the Bensons talked of moving their business to a different town. Most of the town urged them to stay, told them they didn’t believe their son had deserted. Miss Abigail Glaser stood up in that very meeting and urged everyone to let the Bensons go, to move on. They didn’t know Asher like she did, and she was sure he’d done it
.”
My mouth hung open. I was glad there weren’t many mosquitos out tonight because one might’ve very well flown right in for as long as I gaped.
I was still trying to grasp the idea that Asher had been set to marry someone, let alone that she would be the one person to believe such an awful thing about him.
“Wow,” was all I could muster, and even that came wrapped in an exhale.
“Though it is interesting that they were only engaged, not married. Many soldiers married their girlfriends before leaving to fight. It’s possible the woman was bitter toward him for that. I don’t know, Rosemary. You were right. This is a very intriguing case. As much evidence as there is that points to Asher Benson’s desertion, something doesn’t quite seem right.”
My heart lifted at her words. It was as if she knew this meant something to me, though there would be no way she could know to what degree. Hearing Mom confirm my feelings from an impartial place—being that she didn’t know and love Asher like I did—meant the world.
My heart stopped as I thought about that. Love. Did I love Asher? I hadn’t even thought twice about it in the moment, but now it stuck in my brain like a popcorn kernel in a molar.
Asher and I spent every day together. We did almost everything together. We laughed and cried and talked about everything. It would be safe to say that, other than my mom, he was the best friend I’d ever had.
And, yes, I loved him as a friend.
As confusing as it felt to hold such high esteem for a ghost, I couldn’t dive into that now.
“Thank you so much for researching this for me, Mom,” I said after clearing my throat.
“Oh, I’m not done. Not by a mile. This is getting more interesting by the article. I haven’t had this much of a historical puzzle to solve in a while.”
We chatted for a little longer before saying our good nights and I love yous. When I hung up and my Mom’s voice was no longer there to wrap around me in comfort, the gently crashing summer waves took over.
I’m not sure if it was that or the tea, but I slept like a piece of driftwood washed ashore that night, tossed about from wave to wave until I sank into the sand and stuck.
The next morning, I got up early and worked on shoveling away the charred remains of the shed. The firemen had been by the day before, and had removed the crime scene tape, so I was free to clean up.
Emboldened by my chat with Mom last night, I decided I needed to focus on what I was doing well. And while Grandma’s tea drying supplies had burned, I had her notes and recipes.
I was still sleeping in the guest room, unable to see my grandmother’s bedroom as anything but that quite yet. That left her room open for my tea-drying operation, at least temporarily.
Maybe I could even rebuild the shed at some point and move the operation outside.
Using a wheelbarrow, I loaded the larger pieces of charred wood inside and hauled them into a space on the beach. I could have a beach bonfire one of these nights to finish them off.
After that work, I was a sooty mess and had to take another shower to scrub the creosote off my skin. This put me a few minutes late opening the shop. I skipped down the stairs, giving the tearoom a once-over to make sure it was customer ready while wrapping my long hair up into a bun.
Expecting a few people to be waiting impatiently at the front door, I swung it open and called out an apology.
My words landed on no one.
The coastal wind snatched them and carried them down the beach, through the empty parking lot in front of my house.
My shoulders slumped all over again. Yesterday had been a fluke. The customers must’ve been there purely to see the damage to the shed for themselves and now, curiosity sated, they had no reason to come out here anymore.
Flipping the sign on the front door from closed to open anyway, I ambled back inside and sat in front of the puzzle Asher and I had been working on before he’d vanished.
But as much as I’d been hoping for a quiet day to puzzle yesterday, getting my wish today felt tortuous.
So lunchtime found me sitting behind the tea bar looking through Grandma’s notes on how she made her own tea blends. An hour later, I had taken two pages of my own notes and had outlined a plan of which recipes I would start with. I smiled fondly down at Grandma’s notes. They were so detailed, it felt like she’d known someday that I would be reading them, that I would be taking over all of this.
And unlike with the scones, I knew I could do this.
While the shed had held jars of Grandma’s already dried leaves, I counted my blessings that the arsonist hadn’t hit her greenhouse, which held her tea shrubs. Being that those were still intact, I could easily harvest the leaves and dry them, following Grandma’s instructions.
And I was about to do just that when the bell on the front door dinged. All thoughts of tea leaves rolled right out of my brain, however, when my first customer of the day walked in. And right away, I knew they weren’t here to buy any tea.
14
“Good afternoon, Chief Clemenson,” I said, pushing aside my notes. I stood but remained behind the tea bar. “Here for some tea?” I asked, even though he’d told me how much he disliked tea the day we’d met.
He shook his head as he approached. “I saw the tea you left with Tabby yesterday.” His voice was deep, authoritative.
If the chief had been my dad, this tone of voice would’ve told me for sure I was in trouble.
Having your father die in a car accident when you’re eight leaves a girl with some dad issues. I’ve mentioned how much the chief reminded me of my father when I’d first met him. So much so, I’d immediately felt the need to gain his approval.
It had taken me two minutes into our acquaintance to realize that wasn’t going to happen. But things had been a little better between us since I’d helped bring Grandma’s killer to justice.
Clinging to that positive feeling, I said, “I just went to check on her. Neighborly …” I drifted off, seeing the man wasn’t buying it.
The old wood floors of the tearoom groaned under his large boots. I swallowed the rest of my excuses.
“I can see through your friendly visit even if she can’t.” His words came shoved through gritted teeth. He stopped a couple of yards away from me and folded his arms over his chest.
I shuffled my feet behind the bar, disappointed. I thought the chief’s opinion of me had changed. I thought he’d finally be able to see me as a respectful member of the town instead of a meddling newcomer. The shadows falling on his face told me otherwise.
“Stay away from Tabitha, Miss Woodmere,” he bit out the last few words and left.
I shivered, even though the mercury in the thermometer on the deck was closing in on ninety.
Suddenly the theories I’d placed on the highest shelf in my mind, because they were too hard to believe, came tumbling down. That was definitely the behavior of a scared man, a threatened man. I may have used them as inflammatory theories yesterday to upset the ghost chief, but now they felt all too real. Chief Clemenson very well could be scared Tabitha had killed Murray and didn’t want me to find out. Or he could’ve helped her and didn’t want me to uncover his crime.
What if he had been at Jolene’s tea shop for another reason? My fingers tapped out an anxious rhythm on my leg as I thought this through. How could I prove he was there before Murray died, though? It had been crowded. It was feasible that he could’ve wound his way through the crowd and put something into the drinks with no one noticing.
I searched my memory, trying to recall if I’d noticed the chief inside that day. My mind stopped on a picture of me and the Rickster chatting as I’d entered. Maybe he’d remember if the chief had been there.
After waiting around the tearoom for another hour without a customer, I closed early. Once downtown, I checked the Marina Mug first. The Rickster wasn’t there, but Vicki thought she heard he was at the Geoduck, a little dive bar at the end of the pier.
I found him there,
bellied up to the bar, drinking a beer in the early afternoon. I guess when you were unemployed or had won the lottery or were retired from seven jobs—whichever of the Rickster’s stories were true—I supposed you could drink in the early afternoon.
Just as it had been the other day for my self-defense lesson, the Geoduck was small, dark, and smelled of bleach and beer. Other than the powerful scent, it kind of reminded me of Carl’s house, all wood paneling and fishing memorabilia. It wasn’t my kind of scene, but I could see its cozy appeal to the local fishermen.
The bartender, Jimmy, glanced at me expectantly when I scooted onto the stool next to the Rickster.
“Uh, I’ll take a soda. Anything’s fine,” I said.
He snorted but went to get my drink anyway.
“Hear you’re looking for me,” the Rickster said, after taking a swig from his beer bottle.
How could he have heard that already? I’d only looked one place and asked just Vicki.
I blinked at him in surprise.
“You don’t expect an ex-CIA agent to not have the town bugged, do you?”
I shook my head. I didn’t. But if he had cameras or bugs set up, maybe he could be even more help than I thought. Maybe he’d caught a conversation or a video that could help break this case open.
“Well, I mean, Vicki called once you left to make sure she’d sent you to the right place. So …” The Rickster shrugged. “Same thing.”
I pressed my lips together, letting go of the surveillance evidence wish list I’d been making.
“I need to ask you about the day Murray was killed.” I stopped, unsure how to ask the next part.
I knew the Rickster didn’t trust the police. But asking a man flat out if the chief poisoned someone’s drink was stepping a little too far. Planning the questions in my mind first, I chose my words carefully.
“Did you see anything surprising at the teahouse that day? Maybe someone hanging out by the register or counter area?” I asked, wondering if that would be good enough.
