Live and Let Chai

by Bree Baker

  The detective followed me down the gravel drive, closing the distance between us faster than I could create it without actually getting on my bike. “At least let me drive you. I can toss the bike in my truck.” His hand stretched out to cover mine on the handlebars and a powerful jolt of electricity pulsed through me.

  My mouth opened and my gaze flicked to his.

  The detective’s eyes narrowed. Confusion and curiosity crossed his rugged features. He jerked his hand away from mine and stuffed it into his pocket.

  I climbed on my bike and rode away, the full weight of his eyes on my back as I made my way to the main road.

  So far, my fresh new start stunk.

  Chapter Twelve

  I pedaled back down Bay View to Middletown Street, avoiding eye contact with shoppers and pedestrians on retail-heavy streets and focusing instead on getting home before the storm hit.

  I hopped off at the boardwalk and checked on Amelia’s Little Library. No added sand. Either Amelia had cleaned it up on her way home from my place earlier or the hooligan had taken a day off. Maybe the sand bandit had even gone to Mr. Paine’s funeral and opted to stay for the obligatory meal served in Boardman’s adjacent reception hall.

  My tummy groaned at the thought of food.

  I borrowed a tattered hardcover copy of Body Language: Unspoken Cues to Know If He Loves You before I shut the library door. I didn’t care if he loved me, but I thought the book might help me figure out when I was being lied to. Probably a good skill to have while interviewing potential killers. I tossed the book into my derelict basket and made plans to fix the filthy vinyl after a bite to eat and a refreshing shower.

  I wasn’t sure there was enough soap and hot water to wash the ick off from my day. Being threatened in sunscreen had gotten under my skin, and I’d felt watched every moment since. The paranoia was thick around me as I walked my bike along the familiar wooden planks. Someone had followed me to Duck. How could anyone have known I was there unless I was being watched or eavesdropped on when we’d made plans last night? Who could do that without me noticing?

  Sam Smart had pointed me in Lucinda’s direction, but he couldn’t have known when or if I’d visit her—could he? I needed to talk with Sam again. I’d like to know why he hadn’t told me about Mr. Metz’s feud with Mr. Paine. As the town’s most popular real estate agent, Sam must’ve known about it. The memory of Mr. Metz’s red face sent ice into my gut. He was scary, angry, and a bully.

  Thunder grumbled in the distance. The rain wasn’t far away.

  I climbed back onto my bike and pedaled, trying to outrun my problems and the rolling storm clouds at my back. The daylight seemed to dim, then vanish ahead of me, vacuumed away by the brewing storm.

  I squinted from the low throb beginning in my head. I couldn’t remember eating anything after the honey toast I’d had for breakfast. After my shower, I was absolutely raiding the fridge—a perfect yellow-and-white frosted lemon cake came to mind.

  My fitness band made a strange trumpet sound, and I nearly ran my bike into the sand.

  “Good grief!” I struggled to control the handlebars as I released my grip with one hand, determined to push the little rubber button and see what the problem was now.

  YOU’VE TAKEN MORE THAN 8,000 STEPS TODAY!

  Well, what do you know? No sand in the Little Library. My digital trainer was happy. Maybe my day was finally taking a positive turn.

  The Sun, Sand, and Tea sign came into view as the first fat drops of rain burst around me. Another dose of good luck. I hurried into the carriage house and parked the bike beside my wagon and a pile of partially used spray paint cans. “Your makeover is scheduled for tomorrow,” I told the Schwinn. “Right now, my pajamas are calling.”

  Maggie appeared just outside the open door, mewling and rubbing her arched self against the doorway.

  “I knew you liked me. Feel like a little dinner?” I took a step in her direction.

  She took three steps away.

  “Well, you can’t stay on that little strip of dry cement. It won’t last. Why don’t you come inside?” I went to her. “I’ve got more tuna upstairs.”

  I was close enough to feel the whisper of her fur on my palms when she ran around the corner toward my home.

  I followed. “Where are you going? You’re getting soaked.”

  The front door was open. The cat was gone. I hustled toward the porch, hoping this meant Aunt Clara or Aunt Fran was still around, maybe cleaning up after their impromptu gathering of unsupportive locals.

  “Aunt Clara? Aunt Fran?”

  Lightning zigzagged across the sky as I reached the open door. Surprisingly, the lights were off inside.

  My heart stopped.

  The next blast of lightning flashed and blinked my café into view before leaving it in darkness once more.

  I poked an arm inside and flipped the power switch, praying that the strobing light had played a trick on my brain. It hadn’t. My stomach plummeted in shock. The room had been tossed: My tea vessels were overturned. The pantry door was open, its contents spilled onto the counters and floor. Cupboard doors were swung wide, dishes broken and shattered. The flower arrangements Aunt Clara had brought over were crushed on the floor, as if someone had taken the time to grind them into the floorboards.

  I crept inside, crunching over broken glass and pressing trembling fingertips to quivering lips. Why was this happening? My vision blurred with tears and my need for oxygen.

  A pair of birds flew in from the open deck door and helped themselves to the buffet of toppled breads, crumbled sweets, and plethora of nesting materials. Maggie crept into position behind them.

  I turned in a small circle, taking in the chaos. Even my giant menu chalkboard was face down on the floor.

  The cat pounced. Birds scattered.

  I stumbled back onto the porch with a scream lodged in my throat and dialed Detective Hays.

  • • •

  Detective Hays arrived five minutes later, a cruiser with two policemen pulling in behind him.

  I was in the carriage house, huddled near the beach gear, when their vehicles rushed into view. Unwilling to check my freshly burgled house for killers—even if I could have put on dry clothes—I’d unloaded a beach bag instead and wrapped myself in a towel.

  “Everly!” Detective Hays shouted on his way up the front steps, long legs easily taking them two at a time.

  The officers fanned out, flashlights in hand.

  I crept into view with a small wave.

  Their lights trained on my face in an instant, hands jumping to their holstered guns.

  “It’s the homeowner,” one officer said. “Everly Swan.”

  “Hello,” I said shyly. “Yes, it’s me.”

  They dropped their hands.

  “Detective Hays,” I said, pointing cautiously toward my still open door, asking if I could go in.

  “Go on.”

  “Thanks.” I hustled up my front steps. “Hey.” I rounded the doorway on the detective’s heels, out of breath. “Thanks for coming.”

  He frowned. “Where were you?”

  “Just…you know…” I wrapped my arms around my middle, ignoring the odd look on his face and trying to settle my breath. “Hiding.”

  He made a face. “Where?”

  “In the carriage house.”

  His gaze fell to my shoulders, then rose to the top of my head.

  I’d draped colorful sea horse-and-starfish-printed beach towels over my hair and shoulders. “I was caught in the rain on my way home—then this happened and I was afraid to wait inside. I keep beach gear in the carriage house.”

  He closed his eyes for a quick beat, and I imagined him counting silently. He turned away. “Is this what it looked like when you went back outside?”

  Honestly, it looked even worse on sec
ond inspection. “I think so. Yes.”

  He exhaled long and slow. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “No. Just shaken.”

  He circled the room. “Anything taken? Money, maybe? Do you have a cash register?”

  I shook my head. “This wasn’t a robbery, and it’s not a coincidence.”

  He cocked a brow, as if he wasn’t quick to agree. “Did you go into any other parts of the house?”

  I made my most elaborate yeah, right face, then flapped my beach towel covered arms. Obviously not.

  He fought a smile. “Come on.”

  I followed him from room to room, waiting at the door while he checked closets and alcoves before returning to ask the same thing. “Anything missing?”

  The answer was always, “No. It doesn’t look like anyone was up here.”

  “So they focused their aggression on the tea shop.” He gave my living space a long look. “I sure admire that view.”

  The back wall was mostly windows, just like in the café, also with a partly covered deck.

  Below us, the officers’ voices carried through the floorboards and up the staircase.

  I drifted to my bedroom doorway. “Do you mind? I’m soaked.”

  “Nah. Meet me downstairs when you’re ready. I’ll see if the officers found anything.”

  I took my time, drying off slowly as I processed the night’s unbelievable events. Even fresh clothes and some quality time with the blow dryer did nothing to alleviate the residual chill of fear on my skin.

  The officers were gone when I arrived in the café.

  Detective Hays strode across the cluttered floor, surveying the mess.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  He pulled a broom and dustpan from the utility closet. “We clean up. I’ve got all the photos I need, and the report’s been made. You can make a written statement when you’re ready. For now, I say we fix this mess and get you set up for tomorrow. Maybe make a list of the things you need replaced. That goes with the report, and your insurance will want a copy if you’re filing a claim.”

  I deflated against the wall. “That’s it? I write down that someone trashed my café, make a list of broken things, and you’re done? No fingerprinting or evidence collection?”

  Detective Hays rubbed his brow. “The officers dusted for prints on the pantry and cabinet knobs, but the results weren’t great. We’ll hear from the lab in a day or two. It’s the best we can do in a public area like this one.”

  I harrumphed.

  “How many people would you say have touched these things today?” He motioned to the overturned tables, chairs, and tea jars. A thin line of patience threaded the words. “This week? This month?”

  I looked at the disaster zone around me. There had been a dozen guests, plus Amelia, Henry, my aunts and I, just today. Yesterday the group from Kitty Hawk was here. “A lot, I guess. And my aunts did take a group on a tour of the whole house. I don’t know what they touched.”

  He dipped his chin in affirmation. “And whoever did this didn’t go into your private quarters. It’ll be tough, but we’ll try. Okay?” He turned to the open door. “I didn’t notice any signs of a break-in.”

  I took the broom and started sweeping. “My aunts have a key, but they might’ve left it unlocked, or put the key under the mat.”

  Detective Hays looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “You can’t leave the key to your home under a mat. I don’t care where you live. That’s naive at best. Reckless at worst.” He crouched with the dustpan while I pushed piles of broken glass on it.

  “I’m not naive.”

  He puffed out air, but kept whatever he was thinking to himself.

  “This place isn’t always like this,” I said. “I know I sound like a broken record, but I don’t know what else I can say.”

  “Say you’ll keep your doors locked, and no more hiding the key on your property.”

  I ignored him, concentrating instead on the work, glad to have a partner in it without having to tell my aunts just yet. I didn’t have the energy left for that.

  “Sorry I unloaded my life story earlier.” He broke the silence, but kept his eyes on the work.

  I filled the tray, then grabbed a trash bag from the pantry and fanned it into life. “I didn’t mind.”

  He dumped the glass into the bag. “You caught me at a tough time. It was unprofessional and out of character. It won’t happen again.”

  I stopped sweeping, unable to imagine what he was going through and wished, pointlessly, that we could be friends. It would help if he had someone who knew his story. Someone he could talk to.

  Then I remembered there was already someone in his life who knew his story. Probably more of it than I did. “Who’s Denise?” I asked.

  “She’s the au pair.” He crouched near another busted tea jar and waited, dustpan in position.

  I shoved more broken bits into the pan, shocked at his willingness to answer me.

  He rolled sharp gray eyes up at me. “No follow-up questions?”

  “Well, I’m stunned you know what an au pair is,” I said. “I’m downright floored you have one in your service, but no—no more questions. And so you know, folks call those nannies.”

  “Denise prefers au pair.”

  “Ah.”

  We repeated the process of dump and fill until my floors were free of debris.

  He rose to his feet and gathered ruined food from the counters, stuffing that into the bag with the broken glass and dishes.

  I leaned my broom against the wall. Behind the counter I restacked unopened boxes into the pantry. “I’m glad you decided to come here for your and Denver’s fresh start. It’s a great place to grow up. Usually,” I amended.

  “That’s what folks keep telling me.” He went to deal with the fallen chalkboard.

  “That’s heavy. Let me help.” I set the last tin of herbs and spices on the shelf and dusted my palms against my shorts. “I hope it didn’t crack.”

  He slipped his hands under one side.

  I put mine under the other. “On three?”

  His brows pulled together before he raised his eyes to mine. “I hate to ask this because I know it’s going to make you mad all over again, but is there any chance this particular crime is unrelated to the others?”

  “What do you mean? Why would you ask that?”

  He made a pained face. “Two acts of vandalism in one day is a lot of activity for someone who should be laying low and hoping this whole thing blows over unsolved. Every new crime creates the potential to be caught. Any decent criminal would know that. Whoever it was that killed Paine ought to be making his way across the country, not hanging around here messing with a wannabe sleuth.”

  I tried not to get stuck on the insult and concentrated on the larger implication instead. “You think I have two enemies mad enough to threaten me and destroy my business?” I snapped. Was he kidding? “Or maybe this is my doing. I’m a nut creating crimes against myself to divert your attention and make me look like the victim instead of the killer?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it, one thing or the other, and both stink.” I dropped my end of the chalkboard. “I’m a nice lady!”

  The menu slapped against the detective’s feet. “Hey!”

  “I am not the one doing these things, and I don’t have multiple enemies. That’s ridiculous.” I grabbed a rag and took my rage out on the counters and sink, before righting the tables and chairs.

  I forced myself not to look at him.

  “You’re inferring things on your own, you know,” he said. “I’m just gathering information. For example, how was your last breakup?”

  I flipped the final bar stool, shooting him the stink eye. “Why?”

  “Is there any chance that an ex-boyfri
end is behind this? Maybe some former date or a jaded lover?”

  “No.” The word was barely a whisper on my tongue. My only former lover was Wyatt, and he couldn’t have cared less that I’d left him.

  Humiliation colored my cheeks the way it always did when I thought of the way I’d chased a man around the country, giving up everything I cared about to be with him, like a big, blind dodo.

  “Okay.” He relented. “I had to ask. If you think of anyone else who might have a beef against you, let me know. An old rival or nemesis, maybe. Someone less than happy to see you come home. I know you’ve been gone a while, but people can hold grudges. Sometimes they don’t even remember why.”

  “There’s nothing like that for me,” I said, evaluating my progress.

  Aside from the fallen menu board and full bag of trash, the café looked good. I’d have to mop in the morning to be sure no shards of glass lingered on the floor. And I’d need to replace the busted jars and dishes.

  “Come back here and grab this,” he said, moving into position at the chalkboard. “Don’t let go this time. I think you broke my toe before.”

  “You’re wearing steel-toed boots.” I took hold of the massive menu board and counted to three.

  He hefted it back onto the hooks while I helped keep it balanced.

  “Detective Hays?” I blinked at the huge jagged letters etched into the board where my daily specials used to be.

  You were warned.

  “What?” He stepped back once the board was secured. “Well, hell.”

  “Yep.” I stumbled backward until the counter stopped me, grabbing the edge to keep from flopping onto the floor. My second threat of the day. Dizziness swept over me and I blinked.

  Detective Hays took a picture of the message, then tapped his phone screen for several seconds while I debated getting back on my bicycle and pedaling to the safety of the mainland.

  He pushed his phone into his pocket, then poured a glass of ice water. “Let’s go.” He led the way to my covered deck, handing me the water. “Sit.”

  I dropped into my favorite rocker.

  “I’ve got local officers coming to collect your menu board. They’ll run it for prints. I assume you’re the only one who normally handles that.”