by Bree Baker
“What happened to the man?” a woman at the counter asked.
Clara hummed softly before speaking, probably buying time to formulate the best answer. “Some people still hear him calling for her at night, roaming the beach in search of his lost love.”
“The wife or the mistress?”
“Who’s to say?” Aunt Clara answered grimly. “Though the spirit of one of the women is said to wander the town as a weathered old cat, ragged from years of heartbreak and homelessness. Which woman is anyone’s guess—maybe after all these years, she’s become both.”
A gasp broke their silence.
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll be back. Thank you all so much for coming, and thank you, Aunt Clara.” For looking after my fictitiously haunted property.
I gave the porch stairs a long look, then rethought my plan. I’d have to empty the wagon and take it down first, then come back for the drinks and reload at the bottom.
“It was a sign,” Clara’s voice carried through the doorway as I returned from my first trip down the steps. “Fran and I knew the moment Everly wanted to come home that this property would show up on the market, and it did. An anonymous seller asked only as much as Everly could afford to pay, and the deal was taken care of online. Can you believe that? She never even met with the owner.”
“Who was the owner?” someone asked.
“All we know is that his name was Lou,” Clara whispered.
I stared through the open door, trays of tea stacked two tall in my arms. Did she say Lou? Like the seagull? I shook my head. That was probably where she’d come up with the name: she’d stolen it from the freeloading bird who begged for my leftover shrimp and scallops.
“The house is perfect for Everly in so many ways, but historically, there couldn’t be a better one,” Clara continued. “The Swan women have been cursed in love for centuries. Magnolia Baine, distant relative or not, was no different than the rest of us. Everly will find camaraderie of spirit here, I think.”
I rubbed the lines off my forehead and refocused on my mission to drum up some business and find Sam Smart. Sam would know if Mr. Paine had been in a standoff with another business owner, and I could use the lead. I certainly didn’t need to hear my family legends recounted to know I was unlucky in love. That truth spoke for itself.
• • •
The walk into town was hot. I’d chosen jeans and a T-shirt with the Sun, Sand, and Tea logo across the back, but I should’ve worn shorts. By the time I reached Main Street, the relentless Southern sun was making short work of the ice cubes in my tea samples and short-circuiting my brain. Everyone I’d met along the boardwalk had declined my offering, and a few had all but run away when they saw me coming. Unloading free sweet tea was going to be harder than I’d expected.
“Sweet tea?” I asked Mrs. Dubiel, my elementary school librarian, as she stepped onto the sidewalk in front of me.
She smiled brightly at my goodies. “Why yes, thank you.”
I delivered her a cup and napkin. She shook my hand and savored her drink with a smile.
“Did you know Benedict Paine?” I asked. She was in his age group and had been on the island as long as I could remember, though she didn’t seem to remember me.
“Yes.” She looked lovingly at her cup, enamored by the tea. “Benedict was a nice man. Shame what happened. This has a lovely flavor. It reminds me of growing up in Georgia.”
“Thank you,” I beamed. “It’s an old family recipe. Had you talked to Mr. Paine recently?”
“No. Not in years. He welcomed my family to town after we moved in and brought a basket of items from the local shops. Let us know where we could buy anything we needed on the island. No need to leave town.”
That sounded like him. It also sounded like another dead end.
I offered her a business card. “I’m glad you enjoyed the tea sample. Stop in and see me anytime at Sun, Sand, and Tea. I have twenty signature blends and keep a dozen flavors on tap most days.”
The woman raised her drink slowly, twisting the cup until the logo came into view. Her gaze flicked to mine, then back to the logo. Recognition dawned on her face as she aligned my presence with the memory of a sand-covered girl in pigtails, no doubt. Her smile tightened, and she hurried away.
“Have a nice day,” I called after her. So far, this hadn’t become the fruitful endeavor I’d imagined.
As I gazed after her, a mom and three boys dragged themselves off the boardwalk, heading toward a line of parked cars near the road.
I waved. “Alicia?” I’d played the trumpet beside her little sister in the fifth-grade band. Alicia was in high school then, and she’d seemed so much older than me, but time had closed the age gap between us. Today, she looked my age.
Her boys were covered in sand from their knees down and dripping with sweat everywhere else. She looked like she could use a drink.
“Tea?” I offered. I reached for a cup, certain to make her day.
She put a hand on the smallest boy’s shoulder. “No, thank you.”
I dropped my hand back to my side, but held the smile. “Okay.” I nodded at her and the boys. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Whoa.” The middle-sized child rushed over to my cart. “Is this the stuff from the blog?” He turned crazed eyes on me. “Can I have some?”
“Yes?” Suddenly I wasn’t sure. My new confidence began to shrink beneath Alicia’s wide-eyed stare.
“Here.” He gathered three cups in his hands and gave one to each of his brothers. “You first,” he told the smallest one.
The boy removed the lid and sniffed the contents curiously. “No way. You.”
Panic and humiliation flooded my chest. “You don’t need to drink that,” I said. “It’s fine. Not everyone likes tea.”
The oldest lifted his tea and smiled bravely. “I do.” He shot his younger brother a look. “Man, don’t be dumb. She’s not planning to take out the town. You think she’s going door-to-door in broad daylight delivering poison?” He removed the lid and gulped his cup dry.
Alicia made a strangled sound. “I am so sorry,” she said to me, finally snapping into action. “We’re late for something. I’d stay and visit, but I really have to go. Come on, boys.” She took the other two cups away and hurried her children toward the public parking lot, tossing the tea into a nearby garbage can. “Hustle,” she growled, as they piled into the car. “You’re all grounded forever.”
The oldest kid tipped his head back and laughed.
I tried not to stare as they drove away. My eyes stung as if I’d been slapped. Is this really where I stand with the town? Barely home three months and already I was a joke? All because someone killed a local outside my shop, and I’d found him?
That wasn’t fair, and it wouldn’t do at all.
I spent the next hour walking the blocks of storefronts, looking for someone in need of refreshment or willing to talk about Mr. Paine. It wasn’t easy. The streets were as still as a Wild West town when a gunslinger rode in. Most of the stores were empty and a few, like Sam’s realty office, were closed, with a clock sign in the window. Be Back Soon.
Where was everyone?
I stopped at the corner of Main and Middletown, deciding where to go next, or if I should give up. Middletown Street acted as the island equator, stretching from Bay View, the street that faced the bay, all the way across the island like a belt, concluding at the ocean on the opposite side of town. The street along the ocean was appropriately named Ocean Drive, and it paralleled the boardwalk for several miles, separating town from beach. Whoever had been charged with naming the streets had been fairly unimaginative. Personally, I appreciated that fact. It made giving directions much simpler.
The same white cat I had seen at the beach sat in an alleyway between two shops, watching me and rotating one notched ear as if she could hear something I couldn�
��t.
Aunt Clara’s story of my allegedly distant relative, Magnolia Baine, and her married lover came to mind. The spirit of one of the women is said to wander the town as a weathered old cat. “Any chance you’re inhabited by the spirit of a heartbroken mistress?” I asked.
The cat flicked its tail.
“That seems like a yes to me,” I said. “So, I’m going to call you Maggie, and we’ll be friends. How does that sound?”
Maggie turned and walked away.
“See you soon,” I called to her retreating frame.
I cracked the top off a disposable cup and sucked down a tea sample, then gathered my wild, sticky hair into a ponytail and piled it on top of my sweaty head. Even with the melted ice watering it down, Grandma’s sweet tea was delicious.
The sounds of hammering and power tools filtered into my consciousness as I moved up Middletown Street toward the bay. A crew of construction workers had torn the roof off a large waterfront home and were working to build a new one under the blazing sun. If they wouldn’t take my free tea, I was in worse trouble than I’d realized.
I jogged across Bay View with my wagon, careful not to spill the goods. The men in hard hats and work belts were quick to notice my approach.
I waved. “Sweet tea?”
The answer was a resounding yes.
The men swarmed me. Some tried to pay me. I gave the money back, along with my business card and directions to my café. Turns out, the crew wasn’t from Charm, so they didn’t read the local gossip blog. They also didn’t know Mr. Paine or have a clue that he’d died suspiciously. Best of all, they expected to work six-day weeks through the summer and it was only late April.
Maybe I’d be able to pay my mortgage next month after all.
Fresh out of supplies and business cards, I dragged my empty wagon back down Middletown Street through town. The streets had begun to fill since my first pass, and a light was on inside Sam’s office.
I parked the wagon and went inside.
“Sam?” I approached the reception desk and tapped the little silver bell. “Sam Smart?” The office was business-bland. I wrinkled my nose against the stink of new carpet and fresh paint. A section of blue faux-leather seats broke up the tan carpet and cream walls and a television in the corner played the company’s commercial on a loop. “Sam?” I tried the bell again.
Sam scuttled into view from somewhere in back. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were wide. “Oh, hello, Everly.” He broke my name into three separate syllables and spoke it loudly.
“Hi.” I glanced around. “Everything okay?”
He drove a handkerchief over his dewy forehead and met me on my side of the counter. “Yes. Fine. How are you? What brings you in? Ready to move so soon?” He laughed awkwardly.
“No. I’ve been thinking about what happened to Mr. Paine, and I hoped you might be willing to tell me what was going on between the two of you that day at my shop. It was obvious that you weren’t happy with one another.”
Sam tugged his ear and crossed his arms. His foot tapped nervously. “I don’t know what you mean. Paine and I were fine. You were the one who argued with him. What was that about, exactly?”
I made a face as Sam picked lint off his rumpled dress shirt and straightened his tie. “You know what it was about. He wanted an ingredients list, and I wouldn’t give it to him. We said as much while we were fussing. Everyone heard it, and you were sitting right there. I want to know what the two of you were up in arms about.”
He settled into an overly casual stance, one hip against the desk, hands in pockets. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I cocked my head and tried not to call out liar-liar pants on fire. “Fine. Let me jar your memory. First, you were trading dirty looks and thinly veiled accusations with him, then he started in on me, and you interrupted him. You said”—I lifted my fingers in air quotes—“‘I know what your problem is, and it’s not her.’”
Sam’s fake orange tan paled.
“So, I ask you. What was Paine’s problem?”
Sam pulled his hands from his pockets, bringing them to the back of his neck. “I was just trying to rile him up. Push his buttons.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he gave everyone else such a hard time. But I didn’t hurt him.”
“Oh-kay,” I drawled. The idea that Sam had hurt him hadn’t occurred to me before that moment. It was still too unreal to think anyone on our island would kill another human being.
But I couldn’t help wondering why Sam had made such a declaration when I hadn’t even asked. Did he have a reason to announce his innocence in Paine’s death? A reason like guilt?
I stepped a little closer to the door. What if I’d cluelessly waltzed into an office devoid of witnesses and confronted a murderer?
“I believe you,” I gushed, suddenly unsure that was completely true. “Do you have any idea who might have? Because the new detective is looking at me, and I’d like to make some secondary options available.”
Sam’s eyes slid hard to the right before he pulled them back to my face. “Have you taken a look at Paine’s gold-digging ex-wife, Lucinda?”
“No.”
“She’s a class-A nightmare. Always on the take. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”
“Two cranky people in one marriage probably explains the divorce,” I murmured.
Sam mopped his forehead again. “I don’t know what else to tell you, but I’m in the middle of something, so…”
“Sure.” I moved toward the front door, thankful for an exit cue and already determined to meet Paine’s ex-wife. “One more thing,” I said, realizing I had no idea who she was. “Does Lucinda live in town?”
“No, but she’s got a gaudy bauble store in Duck.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Come back for tea sometime. Don’t be a stranger.”
He lifted a hand in goodbye, but the gesture felt more like get out.
I dragged my wagon home with a skip in my step. I’d found a construction crew to woo with my tea, and I’d gotten a lead on my investigation: Mr. Paine’s pain in the behind ex-wife.
Not too bad for a lady with no idea what she was doing.
Chapter Six
I dialed the police station from the boardwalk. Sam’s strange behavior had given me the willies, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened on the boardwalk the night before. Much as I hated to relive it, Aunt Clara was right—the people should know there had been another attack by the marsh. I put my pride aside and waited for the call to connect.
Yes, being swatted paddle-style with an old oar was humiliating, but I wanted to know who had hit me and why. The cops couldn’t find my assailant if I didn’t report the crime.
When an officer finally answered, I unloaded every detail I could recall and was thrilled to learn they would accept a verbal report, though the officer told me to make a trip to the station at my convenience and sign the official document. Peace washed over me as we disconnected. The truth was out there, and I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.
My shoulders sagged in relief when my home came into view a few minutes later. I parked my wagon at the bottom of the steps and tucked the stack of empty trays beneath one bent arm. With any luck, Aunt Clara’s group of faux historians enjoyed their tea and ghost story enough to spread the word and come back with friends. Then again, if the café failed, I could always open my home as a haunted house and charge for tours. One way or another, I needed an income to afford the enormous place. Currently, every stick of furniture I owned could fit into any one of the massive rooms, but I’d chosen to spread the pieces throughout the second floor as the layout dictated—a couch here, a table there.
I leaned against the handrail to enjoy the moment, and it swayed against my weight. Well, that wasn’t good. I couldn’t have folks falli
ng off my porch on the way in for tea. I stepped back onto solid ground and gave the rail a shake to test the integrity.
Weathered paint stuck to my palms, along with a handful of rotted wood flakes and dirt. Jeez. I kicked the base of the railing lightly with my toe, and the bottom support bumped loose, revealing a rusted nail and oversized hole where the wood had aged to the opposite of perfection.
“Good grief!” I forced the beam back into place and sat on the bottom step, settling the empty trays on my lap.
The sound of footfalls drew my attention to the boardwalk. Detective Hays walked toward me, his lips puckered in a whistle. “That handrail is in bad shape.”
“No kidding,” I murmured, stretching my hot, jean-clad legs into the sun. “I was having such a good day too.”
He dropped onto the step beside me. His knees poked up in front of him and his arms hung loosely across them, leaving big tan hands to dangle over his feet. Authority oozed from him in a near-tangible aura.
I leaned away so I could squint up at his face. “What do you want? Not tea, I suppose.”
He shrugged. “I could use some information.”
I made a face. “What?”
He flicked his wrist toward the length of crime scene tape, fluttering in the breeze twenty yards away. “I got a call this morning from a man who says he heard a woman scream out here last night just after dark. Didn’t call till this morning because by the time he got over to where he thought the sound had come from, there was no one there. Woke up feeling like he still ought to say something, so he did.”
I wrenched upright. “Who?”
“A night fisherman. He was down by the public bathrooms. I was just out this way talking to him when I got a call from the station.”
My cheeks flushed. I’d barely hung up the phone and Detective Hays already knew I had filed a report. “You’re here looking into that?” I asked.
