Live and Let Chai

by Bree Baker

“Yep.”

  My tummy grumbled. “You might as well come inside.” I had a feeling this wouldn’t be a short conversation, and I was starving.

  Detective Hays levered himself off the step and went to roll a big rock against the base of the broken handrail post. “I wasn’t kidding about fixing that. It’s a safety violation.”

  “Fine, I’ll fix it today.”

  He followed me onto the porch, still eyeballing the busted rail. “You’ll need new wood and hardware. You can’t just go pounding the same rusted nail into a different place on an already decrepit board and call it fixed.”

  “I have wood,” I said, unlocking the door and stepping inside. I flipped the sign to OPEN. “I have nails. I have all sorts of building supplies left behind by the previous owner. I guess he had big plans for renovations but changed his mind.” My thoughts drifted to Aunt Clara’s strange story from this morning, but I pushed that nonsense away.

  I flipped the lights on and the café lit up with a warm glow. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Detective Hays took a seat at the counter and I poured two glasses of sweet tea and set one in front of him. “Do you like tomato, basil, and goat cheese salad?”

  “Got any hamburgers?”

  “No.” I perused my refrigerator for inspiration and decided paninis seemed like former-U.S.-marshal-turned-small-town-detective food. I filled my workspace with ingredients and plugged in my panini press. “What do you usually eat for lunch?” Whatever it was, mine would be better.

  “Antacids.”

  Yep. Definitely better.

  I cut two thick slices of bread so soft I could use them for pillows, then stacked one piece with thinly cut apples and smoked ham. I topped that with a stubbornly sticky slice of brie and smothered it all in my homemade honey mustard.

  “There.” I put the sandwich into my heated press and popped a slice of apple into my mouth.

  Detective Hays folded his hands on the counter, watching. “You really enjoy that.”

  “Eating?” I gave myself a lighthearted glance. “Obviously.”

  He let his gaze drift over my figure with a strange, pained expression. “Agree to disagree.”

  The press dinged and I jumped to attention, plating sandwich halves and scooping tomato, basil, and goat cheese salad onto mismatched dinnerware from my family’s estate. The plates had been passed down like everything else the Swans had, including tall tales, legends, and recipes. “Here you are.”

  I took the stool beside him at the counter and dug in immediately. Best to keep my mouth busy before I put my foot in it.

  He sighed into his first bite, eyes briefly rolling back.

  My heart fluttered. If I could create and serve food that made folks look like that every day, I’d exist in a perpetual state of bliss. “Good?”

  “Unreal.” He took another bite. And another.

  I smiled through half my sandwich and most of my salad before the button on my jeans protested, and my fitness band beeped. BE MORE ACTIVE.

  I pinched the acknowledgement button until my fingers hurt.

  Detective Hays wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Now. Are you ready to talk about what happened last night?”

  I sipped my tea and searched his face. He wouldn’t be here if my little marsh mishap wasn’t a big deal.

  “I already have the basics from the report you called in. To someone else.” He ground out the last three words, as if I’d somehow offended him.

  I inhaled deeply to settle my nerves, then blew the details out all over again. “The crime scene tape was broken when I came back from my walk. I stopped to tie it back together, and I saw something in the weeds. When I sneaked down there for a better look, someone whacked me with an old oar, and I wound up face-down in the yuck.”

  Detective Hays dropped his napkin on the counter and frowned at me. “Why didn’t you call the station immediately? There might have been a patrolman in the area. Someone might have seen something.”

  “There was no one. Just a couple of teenage boys in the distance, way down by the surf.”

  “Can you identify them? Maybe they saw more than you think.”

  “No.” My shoulders slumped. “They were barely more than silhouettes against the ocean.”

  He pressed his lips into a thin white line. “You still should’ve let someone know. You should’ve let me know. We are in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  I bristled. I knew he meant well, but I didn’t like being scolded. “I was afraid, but I wasn’t hurt, and I had no proof of the attack. Except the paddle, but how could I prove I’d been hit with it? I didn’t even see who did it. And it was humiliating.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “Well, what was in the weeds that got you over there to start with?”

  “I don’t know. It was gone when I climbed back onto the boardwalk. I kept the busted boat oar, but I’m not sure what good it’ll do.”

  Detective Hays swore under his breath. “It was the weapon used in your attack. Where is it?”

  I left him alone in the café and went to retrieve the dumb oar. I hated carrying it. Hated touching it. It looked even worse for wear in the light of day.

  I huffed back into his view and thrust the paddle at him. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” His grouchy expression turned sour at the sight of it. He took the thing from my hands and gave it a thorough once over. “Well, I guess your story explains why my crime scene looks as if a swamp monster crawled through it.”

  I frowned.

  “Anything else you want to tell me?” he asked, an edge of a dare in his tone.

  “Yeah,” I blurted. “I don’t like being referred to as a swamp monster, and you should know that Mr. Paine has an opportunistic ex-wife who might’ve had a reason to cause him trouble. If not, then she might know who did. Maybe you ought to talk to her.”

  The detective’s mouth formed a little O before he snapped it closed and clenched his square jaw. “And where’d you hear that?”

  I crossed my arms and kept my mouth clamped shut.

  “Talk.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Don’t make me threaten you with an obstruction charge.”

  “Obstruction,” I huffed. “At least I’m out there asking people questions, rather than focusing on one innocent bystander. Trying to find out what really happened. That’s called investigating.”

  “It’s called obstruction. Now, who were you talking to?”

  I pressed my lips together. Whatever I told him was likely to make him madder, and I was still unsure why he was mad to start with. I was helping.

  Detective Hays shook his head at me, as if he was the one utterly exasperated. “I know you think you’re being useful, but what you’re actually doing is undermining my investigation, and I can’t have that.”

  I slid off my stool and onto tired feet. He didn’t want to hear my ideas, and I couldn’t just wait around for him to get started actually looking for who might have killed Mr. Paine. That put us in a predicament. “What do you expect me to do?” I asked, “because frankly, it feels as if your ‘investigation’ is moving slower than molasses and it’s still pointed alarmingly in my direction. I can’t sit by and do nothing while my reputation is ruined, while my business is buried by rumors and lies. I’ve poured every ounce of my life savings and inheritance into this place.” My determined tone turned slowly into a whine and made me want to cringe.

  Moving back to Charm was supposed to have been a fresh start for me. A chance to heal my broken heart. A do-over. But without the café, I couldn’t afford to stay, at least not in this house. “I have to do something. You would too, if you were in my shoes.”

  He climbed off his stool and lifted his empty plate. After a brief staring contest, he carried the dirty dinnerware to my sink behind the counter and ran water over it.
“You think I’m being mean, but I’m telling you what’s right. This is what I do, and I’m good at it. I don’t need any help, and I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way. That’s just more paperwork for me.”

  “Stop that.” I beetled around to his side and shooed him out of the way. “Get.”

  He sucked his teeth, but retreated. “Who all did you talk to today?”

  I stuck our plates in the dishwasher and snapped the door shut. “Just Sam. He’s a real estate agent.”

  “I know who Sam is,” Detective Hays grumped. “He’s the one who pointed you in Lucinda’s direction.”

  “Yeah. How do you know Sam already? Was he your agent?”

  He tapped a smug finger against the badge on his hip. “This ain’t my first rodeo, Swan.”

  The word rodeo twisted like a corkscrew in my belly, reminding me of the cowboy who’d recently broken my heart. “Why’d you say that?”

  “What?”

  I marched toward him, and he retreated. “The rodeo thing. Why’d you say it?”

  An uncomfortable laugh changed his grouchy face. “It’s a saying. People say it.”

  “You meant something by it.”

  He shook his head. “What I meant was for you to stay out of my investigation. That’s all, and nothing more. I won’t hesitate to haul you in if I have to. Better to have you in jail than out there getting yourself killed.”

  “Killed!” I squeaked. “Was that meant to scare me, or is it an actual possibility?” I trailed him to the doorway. “What kind of maniac are we dealing with here?”

  The detective walked right out the door, toting the oar. “Thank you for lunch,” he called over one shoulder, “and the evidence.”

  I stared, fuming, as he strode away, wishing I’d had the chance to use that big paddle on him.

  • • •

  I spent the afternoon familiarizing myself with power tools. I replaced the handrail and all the questionable boards on the front steps with sturdy new pieces. Then I sanded everything nice and smooth. A fresh coat of white paint would pull it all together, but that was a job for tomorrow. I gripped the now-unshakable handrail, proud of my work. So what if it had taken me four hours? The next time it would only take two.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of one arm and envisioned something different awaiting my many new and prospective customers. Like a pint-sized chalkboard outside the front door, listing the daily specials or just welcoming folks inside, and a big vase of my aunts’ wildflowers with their load-lightening scent charming guests. I could line the outside decks and railings in twinkle lights like Sandy had done at his Seaside Sweet Shack, so people would see my café from the beach. My cliff-top location would make it impossible to miss after dark. A bevvy of new ideas danced through my mind, buoyed by hope.

  Maybe it was time for that grand opening after all.

  I put my tools away and headed onto the beach to watch the sunset across the island. Sunrises over the Atlantic were magnificent, but there was something to be said for the arrival of twilight. Street lamps and house lights snapped on, illuminating my hometown. The first smattering of stars peeked their faces into view, and soon our local herd of wild Colonial Spanish mustangs would wander out for their evening run through the surf.

  I had always loved the horses. I shuffled along the darkening beach, through thick grasses and around tiny inlets, until I found the perfect spot to wait for a glimpse of the mustangs. I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto a giant hunk of driftwood.

  Our town wasn’t the only one in the string of narrow North Carolina islands to have wild horses, but ours were indisputably the best because they were truly free. Charm wasn’t overrun with big-money companies driving air-conditioned caravans of tourists onto the beaches for an intrusive look at the horses’ lives. The people in Charm left our horses alone, aside from a handful of scientists who observed from a cautious distance and reported their findings for education. For most Charmers, the horses were just another component of our town’s robust wildlife, not a spectacle to be exploited.

  I, on the other hand, was obsessed. Always had been. And I didn’t care if I was usually alone in the fixation. I’d spent years of my adolescence seated among the dunes, waiting for the mustangs to appear. Once I’d learned their patterns, I’d returned every night and waited for them to arrive. I’d bided my time, moved one step closer each night, using a heavy chunk of driftwood as my seat and placeholder, until eventually the horses became comfortable enough to ignore me at about thirty yards. I hadn’t expected more, and I’d stopped creeping closer at that point. To my sheer delight, they had started moving closer to me, freely using the space all around me so long as I stayed still and quiet. We’d had a companionable relationship until I left for culinary school.

  Now I wasn’t even sure where to look for them. I hugged my knees to my chest and rested my chin on them. The gentle hush of the sea and the dimming light coaxed piles of painful emotion to the surface, and heartbreak crawled all over me.

  This was how I’d met Wyatt, my ex-boyfriend. He was a college student and aspiring cowboy who’d come to Charm to study the horses, heal from a recent bronco-riding injury, and save money for his next rodeo. I’d left town with him three months later.

  Stupid.

  There was no way to know if Detective Hays had meant anything by his rodeo comment, but it had felt pointed and painful at the time. Most of my thoughts having to do with Wyatt still were. I’d loved him with every ounce of my soul and every fiber of my being. It had been the heart-crushing brand of first love that some people never got over. Some days I had literally ached from it.

  I liked to tell people that I’d left Charm for college, but the truth was I’d left for Wyatt. I’d studied in Kentucky instead of New York for him, staying away from Charm much longer than I’d ever intended, chasing my cowboy across the country. I’d remained by his side until the very end, when a devastating injury and a stint in traction removed him from the show, possibly forever.

  I’d given up everything to follow Wyatt’s dreams, but he couldn’t ride, and I only had one year of culinary school left, so I’d asked him to follow me back to Kentucky while he healed.

  He said no.

  I blinked against the waning sun as a predictable round of tears fell.

  In the distance, a line of mustangs filed cautiously onto the sand and watched me cry.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke with a punch of adrenaline the next morning. Coming back to Charm was supposed to be my new start, a chance to follow my dreams, live my life. And I was going to do it. I was going to make my business a success, fix up the incredible house I had the unbelievable fortune to own, and prove to this town and Detective Hays that I wasn’t a killer.

  At six o’clock, I cocooned myself in a blanket and carried my laptop out to the deck to watch the sunrise. By eight, I’d finished a kettle’s worth of tea and bookmarked a dozen websites with tips for inexpensive but clever ideas to make my grand opening a success. I also bought a book on public relations. Given the recent murder and poisoning insinuations thrown my way, I figured it couldn’t hurt to memorize and live by it.

  First order of business: win back the affection of residents of my sweet town. If the year-rounders loved Sun, Sand, and Tea, they’d eat here and spread the word about my café when tourists asked for recommendations for a good glass of sweet tea or a place for lunch. According to my research, word of mouth was the cheapest and most effective marketing tool, so I needed to get the local tongues wagging—in a good way.

  My printer rocked to life in the next room, and I ran to evaluate my efforts. I’d mocked up five-by-seven flyers to announce my big party. The images fit side by side, two per page, saving me money, ink, and paper, plus they were the perfect size for customers to put up on their refrigerators at home. I made a mental note to order cheap magnets wi
th my logo and contact information. I could offer carry-out for people who wanted to call and order in advance.

  I snagged the next paper coughed out by the aged machine and lifted it into the air. Tiny yellow suns created the perfect border to frame my announcement. A cartoon glass of sweet tea sat in a little hill of clip-art sand beside the text:

  You’re invited to the Grand Opening

  of

  Sun, Sand, and Tea!

  Sample the selection! Enjoy the view!

  “Perfect!”

  I cut the papers down the middle, into two thick stacks of half-sheet flyers, then headed for the door. If my efforts paid off, I’d be making mortgage payments in no time.

  I bounced down the front steps and across the soft grass to the old carriage house, a storage space that most folks would use as a garage. My wagon was parked in the center, handle up, ready to roll. “Rise and shine,” I told the wagon. “We’ve got work to do, baby.”

  Once I got my life together, I would need a vehicle. A bike like my great aunts rode was all I needed for summer travel in Charm, and a golf cart would be perfect for winter. I couldn’t be expected to walk my supplies home in a wagon when it was thirty degrees outside.

  Getting a car wasn’t even an option. Cars were too expensive, from the initial cost to the insurance and upkeep. Forget it. I’d never needed a car before, and I doubted that I ever would. I’d walked everywhere on campus while I was away at school and rode in Wyatt’s truck from rodeo to rodeo. I’d never gotten my driver’s license either, though I’d acquired a learner’s permit in a few different states in case I needed to drive Wyatt to the hospital after his shows. We’d never stayed anywhere long enough to justify the time and effort to get an actual license.

  Besides, a bicycle or golf cart would let me enjoy my beautiful town far better than any car.

  The sunshine and ocean breeze worked in tandem to lure me back to the beach as I headed toward town along the boardwalk. A family with brightly colored blankets, bags, and buckets had claimed a spot near the water, a little girl sitting atop her dad’s shoulders, controlling the string of a frog kite soaring proudly in the cloudless blue sky. The mom patted sand cakes with a shirtless toddler in a red sun hat. They were making memories that would last a lifetime. That was what I wanted to do with my café: I wanted people to come and make memories. I needed to think more carefully about how I could do that—I’d realized this morning that I hadn’t given any thought to a business plan before opening my doors, naively running on the idea that if you build it, they will come. And some did, but not enough of them, and maybe the setback I was experiencing now could actually help me do a better job in the long run than I would have without it.