by Bree Baker
“Coming!” Aunt Clara called from the back room.
“It’s just me,” I answered. “Take your time. I’m only here to pout.”
Aunt Fran appeared first, a scowl on her thin, freckled face and looking ready for a tussle. “Who’s upset you?”
Clara trotted into view next, following a few steps behind her sister. She waved both hands and smiled. “Everything’s going to be fine, my sweet girl.”
Fran rounded the counter and gripped my shoulders. “Just ignore those silly gossips and keep your chin up.” She released me with a huff and straightened her long silk tunic. “I told Clara I ought to find out who’s writing those obnoxious comments and pay them a visit with an angry beehive.”
Before I could ask what she was talking about, Clara piped up. “Nonsense,” she said. “This too shall pass. Things always do, I promise.” She stroked my cheek and beamed. Her loose white frock and blond-gray hair flowed like one moving entity, a direct contrast to Fran’s dark tunic and salt-and-pepper braid. You could see the evidence of their different fathers in their hair and facial features—Fran’s was an Italian sailor, while Clara’s was an Irish salesman—but they moved in tandem, almost like twins.
My mother, grandmother, and I were all leaves on the sailor’s branch of our family tree. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, obsession with carbs. I looked more like Fran than Clara, but according to them, I’d inherited my snub nose and giant owl eyes from my dad. I could have done without both of those—though the eyes had come in handy as a teen when I’d needed to beg forgiveness for missing a curfew or dodging my daily chores.
“Wait,” I said. “What obnoxious comments?”
“On the blog posts,” Clara answered. Confusion wrinkled her brow. “They’re just speculative nonsense. Don’t give them a second thought.”
I stretched my eyes wide and asked my next question slowly, hoping to get an answer I’d understand. “What blog posts?”
My aunts traded meaningful stares. Clara nodded and Fran handed me her phone.
I scanned the little screen. “The Town Charmer,” I read, setting my jaw. “What’s this?”
“Community updates mostly,” Aunt Clara said. “Local news. Occasional gossip.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Since when does Charm have a gossip blog?”
“A couple of years now,” Clara said. “Everyone tries to guess who’s behind it, but it’s all very hush-hush, and normally the posts are incredibly helpful.”
I tucked that information away in my head for later and scrolled through ridiculous comments on a post about Mr. Paine’s death. “Seashell 419 says ‘Everly Swan clearly came back to Charm for nefarious reasons.’ What does that even mean?” The aunts rubbed my back in consolation.
I flipped along, growing more agitated by the minute, utterly shocked as the speculation grew more outrageous with each message. “They’re making a big deal out of the fact I want to keep the tea recipes a secret. Why is everyone so bent out of shape about this?” I groaned at the next insane reply. “This one says I won’t provide an ingredients list because poison is one of the ingredients. That’s completely bananas. Why would I poison my own tea and ruin myself?”
Fran held out her hand, and I returned her phone.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” I checked around the store for prying ears and found the handful of shoppers had moved conspicuously closer. I fought back tears. “These people know me. They’ve known me all my life.” I shot a pointed look at the various shoppers, mostly women I’d known since elementary school.
The ladies dispersed, cell phones in their palms or pressed to their ears as they headed out the door.
Clara sighed. “But you left, and while it wasn’t right, people talked.”
“About what? Everyone leaves for college. Culinary school is the same thing.”
Fran rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated by the entire conversation. “Yes, but we don’t leave. Swans never leave.”
“It’s true,” Clara confirmed. “Our roots are here. Jobs. Family. The Swans haven’t left Charm since we got here three hundred years ago.” She made a pained face. “When we do, people talk. It’s the curse, you know.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I loved my family’s long lineage and ties to the island, but I hated stories about our alleged curse. Swan women are cursed in love. We aren’t supposed to leave the island. The men who love us will die. It was all a bunch of hooey. The stories were obviously designed to scare young women into staying where they were hundreds of years ago, when it wasn’t safe to leave an established community and the quickest way out of town was with a husband. I could practically hear the mothers warning their teenage daughters: Can’t get married and leave. Swan curse says so. Better stay here where it’s safe. The message to young men getting ideas about my ancestors was even worse: Love a Swan girl and you will DIE. No doubt an effective motivation to steer clear in a time when paranoia and superstitions ran the world.
While I appreciated the ingenuity that clearly went into forming these centuries-old safety protocols, the concepts were borderline comical in the new millennium. And got completely on my last nerve. “Lots of Swans have left town,” I said, repeating an argument I’d made dozens of times before. “Otherwise the three of us wouldn’t be the only ones left.”
“Only the men leave,” Fran said. “That’s how the curse works. Male Swans can’t stay and female Swans can’t go.”
“I went,” I argued. “That’s the whole point of this.”
“Yes, but you came back.”
I rolled my shoulders and groaned. “That’s how this conversation started.” The circular logic would drive me crazy if I tried to untangle it. A new and equally irrelevant question came to mind, but it would bother me unless I asked. “Who was the last male Swan?”
Fran tapped her chin with one thin finger. “I’m not really sure. I’d have to look at the family tree.”
“It’s been that long since someone had a son?” I asked. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, since I couldn’t recall any male relatives at the few family reunions I’d attended growing up.
“Seems so,” Fran said. “Swan females are dominant. It’s genetic.” She nodded through the statement, as if it was backed up by facts.
“That’s not how science works.”
“It’s not science, darling. It’s our legacy.”
It was also our legacy to find husbands willing to take our name and not the other way around.
I rubbed my temple. Fran and Clara were consistently two of the worst historians I’d ever met, regularly interweaving fact with fiction all my life. They had some good stories, but tall tales were all they were.
I changed the subject. “No one came to my café today. Not a single soul.”
“Maybe you should reconsider listing your ingredients,” Clara said. “We list everything that goes into our products. Since it’s something folks are worried about, you can use the gesture to clear the air.”
I pursed my lips. Grandma had taken great care to teach me everything she knew about tea, gardening, and the sea. I choked back a pinch of pride and a pound of missing her so much I could die. “I guess I could. The ingredient list only takes folks so far, though.” The measurements and brewing process were what made the teas special.
“Exactly.” Clara tugged the ends of my hair. “Our sister loved you more than anything, and she entrusted you with all her secrets. We respect that, but honey, it’s not worth villainizing yourself to protect them. She’d want to see you succeed.”
Fran locked her hand over one hip. “What about that grand opening you’ve been talking about? Now might be the perfect time to invite everyone over and reintroduce yourself. We can print and hang photos of you growing up here. Remind the naysayers that they know you, and you are pure goodness.”
“Maybe,” I said, turning
away. I lifted a pint of beautiful amber honey from the nearby display and examined the comb trapped inside. “Who do you think poisoned Mr. Paine?” Aunt Clara and Aunt Fran had said it themselves: I’d been gone a while. I’d missed things. “And how do the police know he didn’t accidently overdose on a prescription or something?”
“We can ask around,” Clara offered. “See if anyone has another suspect in mind.”
“Okay. Maybe there’s someone out there who really did want him dead.”
Fran handed me another jar of honey. “Take them both. For your Ginger Tea.”
“Thanks.” I kissed her cheek, then Clara’s. “Let me know what you find out about Mr. Paine.”
“Will do,” they called after me. “Think about that party.”
“Okay.” I stepped onto the sidewalk with renewed vigor and a completely different idea brewing in my mind. I knew how I could clear my name and get justice for Mr. Paine.
I’d find out who really killed him, and make sure Detective Hays took him to jail.
• • •
I hurried home, formulating a plan to covertly survey the town, but stopped short on the boardwalk outside my house.
Detective Hays and his big SUV were situated in front of my home. “Afternoon,” he said, lifting a disposable cup in greeting.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “How long have you been sitting there?”
He shook the cup and sucked his teeth. “’Bout an hour.”
“Why?” I cradled the jars of honey against my chest.
“Thinking.” He set the cup next to a takeout bag sitting on his truck’s hood.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t full and that I could ply him with sweets to see if he’d share some details on how the investigation was going. “It’d be nice to have a guest,” I added. “No one came in today. Might’ve had something to do with your announcement that my products might be poisoned.” I bit my lip. I hadn’t meant to say that. I got madder every time I remembered why the town was giving me the silent treatment and gossiping about me online.
He tipped his head in what looked like a pitiful apology. “No, thanks. I can’t stay.”
Yet he claimed to have been here an hour. What was his game? “Well, can I help you with something, then?” I asked. “You must’ve waited for a reason.”
“Not really. I’ve been exploring the town, but I keep ending up here. I think it’s the view.” He made a show of looking long and hard in each direction. “It’s as if I can see for miles.”
“You can,” I said. “It’s the highest natural point on the island.”
He crossed his arms and bobbed his head. “It’s beautiful. No lights, though.” He shifted his stance and cast his gaze wide, twisting at the waist. “I was out here last night, walking, thinking, and I couldn’t see a thing.”
I waited for his point. It’s dark at night? What could I say to that. “True.”
“It seems like Benedict Paine would have known that,” he said, turning sharp gray eyes back on me. “Lifelong resident and all.”
“So, why was he out walking in the dark?” I asked. “I hope you didn’t wait here an hour to ask me that, because I have no idea.”
“If you had to guess,” he pushed.
I released a long breath. “Maybe it wasn’t dark when he started his walk.” That was what had happened to me. I’d left before sunset and returned at twilight. “It gets dark fast some nights, especially if there’s cloud cover. Maybe the dark came faster than he’d expected, or maybe he got sick and slowed down, and that made the difference.”
Detective Hays watched me intently.
I clamped my mouth shut.
“Huh,” he grunted.
I fidgeted with the hem of my sleeve, wholly uncomfortable with his prodding looks and the subject matter. “So, what made you choose Charm for your big move?” I asked, praying he’d let me change the subject. Was it pure coincidence that he’d arrived on the night of a murder? Was I overthinking? “It’s not exactly a hot spot for someone in your line of work.”
Detective Hays looked out over the sandy beach and breaking waves. “I’m not sure why everyone doesn’t live here. This place looks like a postcard.”
That was true, but his decision to relocate here wasn’t that simple. I’d spent some time researching US Marshal Grady Hays last night after picking up his business card. He’d been a big shot in Charlotte before he’d apparently walked away. “Still, it seems odd to leave a prestigious job in the city to play detective to a puny island town.”
“I’m not playing.” He lifted the badge hanging around his neck. “I needed a change, so I changed.”
“Were you fired?” Could he have done something sketchy to collar a criminal and been banished from the agency for it? Seasons of my favorite cop dramas blurred through my mind. What kind of things did a guy have to do to wind up playing Barney Fife to a town of two thousand year-round residents and four thousand seasonal ones? Assault? Drugs? Case tampering?
“No. Nothing like that,” he said. There was profound sadness in his eyes, and I regretted my implication immediately.
“Sorry.” I pushed strands of windblown hair away from my face. “I didn’t mean to drag up anything unpleasant.”
“You didn’t.” He cleared his throat. “I looked you up too, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep.” He squinted against the sun and growing breeze.
I jostled the jars of honey into one curved arm, using the other hand to keep my skirt from blowing over my head. “Find anything good?”
“That’s debatable.” His lips twisted into a sudden smile that reached his eyes. “Nothing to support my case.”
What was that supposed to mean? Fresh alarm shot through me. “What did you read?”
His smile grew, and a dimple sank in, transforming him into someone carefree and youthful, the kind of guy every woman thinks will steal her heart and change her life forever. Basically the opposite of who he was. Dimples were deceiving.
“What is that face?” I asked. “What did you find about me that makes you look like you want to burst into laughter?” My entire life passed before my eyes: an endless parade of goofy island events, college parties for pastry nerds, and my temporary position as Queen Bee to advertise my aunts’ honey. “What?” I begged.
He looked me over from top to bottom, then shook his head. “Nothing bad.” He collected his lunch trash and climbed behind the wheel of his truck.
So much for feeding him cake and offering to help find Mr. Paine’s killer. He’d only stayed at my shop long enough to provoke me and leave, a habit of his I was already learning to hate.
“Chin up, Swan,” he said, hanging a tanned elbow through the open window. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, if I don’t have to arrest you.”
I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. “You’re not going to arrest me.”
I was going to find the real killer, clear my name, and save my shop, with or without his help.
Right after I googled myself.
Chapter Four
I’d searched my name twenty different ways, looking for what had put that goofy smile on the detective’s face, and I’d found all the predictable nightmares online. I’d never been cool, and the internet indisputably proved it. I’d closed the laptop after coming across a photo of twelve-year-old me being sneezed on by a horse at the town fair. The local reporters had found that clip so funny they had run it on the local news for three years in a row.
I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning tea jars and scrubbing the fridge in my personal kitchen upstairs, puzzling over Detective Hays and his appearance in Charm.
What I needed was a walk to help me think.
I swapped my dress for a belted coral top that accentuated my waist and a pair of white ped
al pushers, then grabbed my matching white sneakers off the mat outside my back door so I could get my daily step count in. According to the instructions with my wristwatch/step-counter/fitness gadget, I should walk ten thousand steps a day, though I tried not to take that recommendation too literally. I would probably have to walk all the way to the mainland to reach that number, but that was the Git Fit’s preprogrammed goal. Some days, the farthest I walked was around my house nailing down loose boards and puttying drywall holes.
I tied up my laces and marched in place for a few seconds to make sure the counter was working, stepping into the brisk night with my chin up and starting down the boardwalk toward town. The roads and sidewalks would’ve gotten me to the shops more quickly, but the boardwalk had better views. Plus, I preferred the sound of the retreating tide to that of traffic.
It wasn’t long before the evening scents of Charm floated to my nose and made my mouth water: Greasy burgers and salty fries. Rich hot fudge and fresh-baked waffle cones. The after-dinner show was in full swing, serving sweets to those who’d eaten at an appropriate time and deep-fried everything to those who hadn’t.
I stepped off the boardwalk with the enthusiasm of Fred Flintstone following a whiff of brontosaurus stew, then floated across Ocean Drive, the main road running along the shore, to stop outside Sandy’s Seaside Sweet Shack, the new ice cream shop next to Blessed Bee, inhaling the heavenly scents. The little pink venue was outlined in white twinkle lights and surrounded by couples with children and baby carriages, rocking in chairs on the porch and lining tables on the patio. I’d had a sensible salad for dinner, but that wasn’t going to cut it after they day I’d had. I needed comfort food, and the sign inside the window advertised “Free Smiles and Sprinkles.” I wanted a little of both.
I followed the steadily moving line to the front of the store. Eventually, the man behind the counter tipped his paper hat at me and smiled. “Welcome to my Seaside Sweet Shack. I’m Sandy. Can I get you something to sweeten your night?” He wiped his hands on a pink and white striped towel and waited patiently while I took in his magical menu.
