Live and Let Chai

by Bree Baker

  I tried not to imagine him on horseback. Grady was not a cowboy or a potential love interest. He was my new friend, of which I could use plenty. “Are you buying horses?”

  “No. My family raises and trains them. I grew up in the saddle, and Denver misses his colt. I figured I’d bring him and a couple of our others to Charm. Do you ride?”

  I nodded woodenly.

  “You look pale.” Grady strode to my side and grasped my elbow. “Maybe you’d better let me help you into bed.”

  I made a strangled sound, but followed him to my room and shuffled toward my bed, another thing weighing on my mind. “Grady?”

  He grunted softly.

  “I’m truly sorry about your wife.”

  He waited while I climbed in to bed, sizing me up for another long moment. “I didn’t handle her loss well. Not at first. Not for a long while. That’s why I’m here. When I finally got it together, I realized I had to get out of our house, out of Charlotte. I needed a big change, one that would serve Denver, because nothing else mattered. I might be hurting, but it’s not about me.” The cost of his words was etched in the lines on his forehead. I knew this was information he didn’t give freely, or to anyone he didn’t trust.

  My heart bled for him, and in that moment, the mysterious new detective seemed impossibly human.

  “Get some sleep,” he said, before turning and walking out.

  I stared at the open door behind him.

  He returned a few minutes later with another glass of water, a bottle of aspirin, and Maggie at his feet.

  She leapt onto the foot of my bed and purred.

  “He makes a good guard cat, huh?” Grady said.

  “She,” I corrected, tossing back a couple pills. I downed the water, then slid further under the covers. “And if she plans to stay here often, she’s getting a bath.”

  Maggie hissed. I stuck out my tongue at her.

  Grady gave me a peculiar look. “I’m going to walk through the house, check all the window and door locks, use the dead bolt on my way out. I’ll return your house key tomorrow. I found it on the floor beside you in the foyer.”

  “Okay,” I said sleepily.

  “I’ll patrol the perimeter before I leave, and I’ll send a car to sit watch tonight. No one will bother you while you sleep. That’s a promise.” He slipped into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

  I listened as he walked from room to room, then outside across the wooden beams of my porch. Finally, I heard the engine of his vehicle rev to life and grow quiet in the distance. I was facing dreams of Grady Hays on horseback, and I knew it.

  I would rather have taken my chances with the killer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning was long and slow, bogged down by confusing memories from the night before. The knot on my head reminded me, with every quick twist or turn, of the danger I’d been in. The danger I was likely still in.

  Now that my box of fancy clothes was open, I’d chosen a knee-length, A-line sundress and dug out a pack of those silicon stick-on brassiere cups to avoid unnecessary pressure on my tender ribs. So far, the cups were earning their keep, though I wasn’t sure how. Sorcery came to mind.

  Luckily, the only thing on my schedule today besides the usual café stuff was putting on a brave face, avoiding another tussle with whoever I’d peeved off, and eventually making my way to the police station. Grady had texted me after he left the night before to say I needed to file a formal report about the assault, and he offered to take me to see a doctor. The report would help him with his investigation, but the checkup would ease his mind.

  He’d suggested I spend the day in bed to try to clear my head, but the definition of “clear” seemed extremely subjective this week.

  I’d briefly considered closing the café for a few days while I recovered and Grady, hopefully, found my attacker, but that seemed unwise after the wonderful turnout at my party. No need to risk giving folks the impression something was wrong after spending the whole week trying to prove everything was fine. Besides, perseverance was the key to success, or at least that’s what the poster hanging in my advisor’s office said when I went to drop out of culinary school.

  I stepped back to admire my morning’s work and adjusted the rolled paisley bandanna I’d tied around my head, which struggled to wrangle my hair while hiding my goose egg.

  In ninety short minutes, the thrift-store bicycle had gone from drab to fab thanks to a little love and attention. I’d used the rest of my light-blue spray paint to cover the frame, then stenciled my café logo along the center with some happy pink and yellow flowers where it had once said Schwinn. The braided vinyl basket had cleaned up nicely and the ruined weave was easily righted. The small bin would have to be enough for now, but I had plans to get a larger, metal-framed basket soon. I wove two dozen plastic flowers into the front as a finishing touch. I couldn’t wait to ride it again.

  I patted the newly bleached, bright-white seat and smiled. “You look like my wagon’s big sister.” The revamped Radio Flyer stood at the Schwinn’s side—they were adorable together.

  A soft meow drew my attention to the open garage door.

  “Good morning, Maggie,” I said. “Are you ready for your bath?”

  She arched her back.

  “I’m serious. I don’t need you filling my house and café with sand fleas or anything else. You’ve got to get groomed, pretty lady. Also, thank you for sitting with me until I fell asleep last night. That was nice.”

  She walked away. Story of my life.

  I left the bike to dry in the morning heat and followed the pretty cobblestone path from the carriage house to my home. There was plenty to accomplish before I needed to open the café in an hour.

  I unlocked the café’s entrance door, taking my time at the window to enjoy the heavenly beach view. Families and couples were already out, kites in the air and blankets on the sand. Scents of last night’s storm hung in the already humid air. I kicked sand off the boards, then went to set up for lunch.

  Three cucumbers in to a veggie-chopping marathon, I remembered my lunch appointment with Sam Smart. My knife stilled in the air. I wanted to know what he knew about Mr. Metz, but I didn’t want to be alone with someone who may or may not have recently brained me.

  Also, I’d promised Grady to let my independent investigation go, and I didn’t break promises.

  I dried my hands on a kitchen towel and dialed Sam’s office; voicemail picked up after the fourth ring.

  “Hi, Sam,” I began in my cheeriest voice. “It’s Everly Swan. I was just calling to confirm our lunch plans today. Here’s the thing. I own a café, so I’m not sure why I thought I could get away at lunchtime.” I gave a little laugh. “However, I feel terrible breaking plans last minute, so why don’t you stop in here for lunch again? I’ll fix you whatever you’d like. No charge. Sound good?” There would be witnesses here in case Sam was a murderer. If he wasn’t a killer, then the offer to feed him for free would make up for my changing the plans last minute.

  “If I don’t hear back from you,” I told his machine, “I’ll assume you accept the invitation. No need to call if you’re coming. See you soon. Have a great day!”

  I hung up, praising the sun, moon, and stars for voicemail. That would have been a horrendous conversation to have with a human. What could I have said if he’d insisted on eating at his place or rescheduling for after-hours? “No thanks, I know you’re a criminal and fear you’re a murderer. Let’s only get together in public places from now on.” Hopefully, the quiver in my voice wasn’t as perceptible over the phone as it was in my head, because the entire time I was keeping my voice perky, my brain was imagining Sam on the other side of that dropping curtain at Lucinda’s house or standing in the shadows of my porch, a blunt object poised to swing at my head.

  Shivering from my shoulders to my f
lip-flops, I texted Aunt Clara. She promised to come right over and stay as long as I needed. Aunt Fran would cover Blessed Bee for the day.

  After I washed my hands I got back to menu prep. Hana had brought enough produce to the party to keep me cooking for a week, and I needed to turn some of her greens into meals before they weren’t so green anymore.

  I rolled a pair of lettuce heads on the counter and whacked them through with a cleaver. In my inventory of leftovers and unused ingredients I found enough quinoa to bury myself alive. “Salads it is.”

  Summer soups and salads were personal favorites of mine, anyway, so I counted the insane amount of quinoa as a blessing. I smiled as I wrote the salad and soup names on my new menu board.

  Berry, Arugula, and Quinoa Salad with Lemon-Chia Seed Dressing

  Apple and Arugula Salad with Maple Tahini Dressing

  Chilled Asparagus Soup

  Chilled Strawberry Soup

  And for the guests who somehow managed to not like cold soups and salad, I added two of my almost-always-available café staples.

  Crisp Cucumber Sandwiches

  Salmon Cucumber Boats

  I cleared some space beside the food list and added some big bubble letters with today’s specialty tea flavors, starting with my personal favorite.

  Iced Carolina Chai

  Blueberry Watermelon

  Peach Basil

  Sparkling Mint Lime

  Perfect! I sliced, diced, and pureed until Aunt Clara appeared at the door half an hour later. “Come in!” I rushed over the wide, whitewashed floorboards to hug her, wincing as her arms wrapped around me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I considered lying, but that was a waste of time. “Someone attacked me last night. I’m fine, but I’m officially ducking out of the private eye business. Would you like some strawberry soup?”

  She flung her arms up, hands flailing overhead. “You were attacked?” she wailed. “You should’ve called me. Have you seen a doctor? Let me take you now, or make you a poultice. Oh my stars!”

  I waved her off. “I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor or a poultice. I’m just a little sore. What’s important is that I’m going to keep my curious nose right here”—I poked my nose with one finger—“where it belongs. And focus on making this iced tea shop a huge success.”

  She fanned her face and went to pour a glass of ice water. “Glory.”

  “Promise.” I made a show of stirring my bright pink soup. “This business is my new distraction from Mr. Paine’s murder, my attacks, the break-ins, and every other scary thing I’m done worrying about. In fact, I’m thinking of buying a mini chalkboard for outside the door and more deck furniture. With pillows.”

  Aunt Clara liberated an apron from the metal hook on my pantry door and strapped it around her tiny middle. “This is awful.” She shook her head and took long exaggerated breaths. “You were always interested in facts. From the youngest of ages. You wanted to know why, when, and how about everything. I could hardly tell a story without interruption. For a while I thought you’d become a neurosurgeon or a rocket scientist, something that took a decade of schooling just so you could stuff as many facts into your head as possible.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Rocket scientists don’t really live up to the hype, you know. It’s just an engineering degree.”

  “See?” She raised her eyebrows. “Who else would know that?”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  “I didn’t.” She hip-checked me out of the way, then took over stirring my pureed soup. “Sit down and relax. I’ll do this.”

  I moved on to tossing salad ingredients into an extra-large serving bowl. “I appreciate you coming, but I really am fine.”

  “I’d do anything for you,” she said. “I love you very much, you know that, right?”

  “Of course I do. I love you too.”

  She returned her attention to the soup. “I wondered a little. Since you were nearly killed last night and didn’t call me. It leaves room for doubt, and I think maybe my efforts as an aunt are failing.”

  I shut my eyes so they wouldn’t roll. Clara was a truly gentle soul, but the downside with that was that her feelings were perpetually being hurt by someone—far too often, me. “I didn’t not call. It just never crossed my mind.”

  She made a gasping sound, then touched the pad of one thumb to the corner of her eye.

  “Don’t cry,” I pleaded. “I was confused afterward, but Grady checked me out and put me to bed. He wouldn’t have left if I needed more help. He secured the house, and I fell asleep. I honestly didn’t have another clear thought until this morning.” If she counted four fifteen as morning, when I woke up with all sorts of crystal-clear thoughts, mostly designed to scare me to death.

  “I just wish you’d called me or Fran to take care of you, that’s all. When you push us away, it makes me think you don’t trust us to help you, and then I worry I’ve done something to cause a rift.”

  I abandoned my salad prep to wrap her in my arms. “I trust you both implicitly. If Grady hadn’t shown up, I might have called you. I can’t honestly say, but if I didn’t, it wouldn’t have been meant as a slight.” I didn’t know what would’ve happened if I’d woken up on the floor by myself. I hadn’t even realized I was attacked until Grady told me.

  I rested my head on her shoulder. “I’ve made a mess of my return to Charm.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “I have. First I hid away from everyone because I had so much guilt for leaving and shame for the epic way I tanked that adventure. Then all of this happened. It’s no wonder people felt iffy about me.”

  She patted my puffy hair. “I promised Hazel I’d take care of you. I just want to make sure I’m living up to that.”

  My eyes stung at the sound of Grandma’s name. “I should’ve been here when she died. I never got to say goodbye.”

  Aunt Clara kissed my head. “You said goodbye when you left, darling. No one could have known she wouldn’t be here when you came home.”

  “I should have visited more often.”

  “She understood. More than any of us, really. After all, she left Charm once too.”

  I snapped upright, peeling myself away from Aunt Clara’s embrace. “What?”

  “Her and your mother both. Your particular line of Swan women is filled with rebels. Even my mother was a bit of a tart. She didn’t leave Charm, but I hear some of the women around here wished she would have.” Clara nodded, a slow smile creeping over her face. “Fran and I always admired our sister for being brave enough to go.”

  I took a few steps back to process. My mind raced with questions. Why had no one ever told me this? Why hadn’t Grandma? “Where did she go? Grandma, I mean.”

  “Hollywood.”

  “Hollywood!” Good grief! A gigantic smile stretched my lips.

  “She always had a flair for the dramatic and a desperate love of cowboys. Back then western television shows were all the rage: The Cisco Kid, Maverick, Gunsmoke. She said she wanted to be an actress, or at least get a job on one of those shows. She told our mom that being a part of something that grand was a life experience worth having. Even if it meant upsetting her for a while. Hazel was gone more than a year before she came back, and she was awful at keeping in touch while she was away. Who knows what she was up to all the way across the country. Well,” she paused, “we know a little about what she was up to. She got to be an audience member on the The $64,000 Question, and she came home pregnant with your mother, so.” Aunt Clara tipped her head left and right, a small, prideful smile on her lips. “Her adventure wasn’t a total bust. Without that side trip down life’s path, we would never have had your mother, or you.” She crept forward to set her soft palm against my cheek, then hooked some flyaway hair behind my ear.

  The concept rocked my already shaky idea of who I
was. Every story I’d heard of Swan women before that moment was to say they toed the line, played according to the rules of silly legends, and accepted their confined fates. I was more like my grandma than I’d ever realized. The warmth of pride filled my chest, for grandma’s decision to challenge what she was told, and for my mom’s and mine as well. I imagined it was infinitely harder to leave when they had. Times were tougher then, money tighter, transportation options fewer. Today I could be in L.A. before dark. I couldn’t begin to imagine how Grandma had gotten there or how long it had taken her to save the money to go.

  Clara unloaded the dishwasher. “Fran and I think your grandfather was an actor named Jack Randall, but your grandma would never say. He went by Allen Byron for a while too. Very popular cowboy. She had a thing for chaps and spurs, I guess. Anyway, after all those years of being a Hollywood cowboy, he just falls right off his horse one day during a shoot. Dead.” She snapped her fingers for effect. “Hazel wore black for a month. She claimed they were only friends, that he was the nicest actor in Hollywood, but he died suddenly at thirty-nine, and she was torn up over it. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

  I stored that information in the back of my reeling mind. Aunt Clara’s stories always had a way of messing with my mind. She gave the perfect blend of provable fact and questionable theory.

  The wind chimes jingled over my door with the arrival of my first customers. I’d have to think more about my possible television cowboy grandpa later.

  “Welcome to Sun, Sand, and Tea,” I said, rounding the counter to greet my guests. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Business was steady from eleven until one. Everyone seemed satisfied with the menu options, and a few out-of-towners thought it was magnificent that I changed the menu from day to day and totally at will. I served while Aunt Clara cleaned. The process was a gloriously simple dance. Summer soups and salads climbed higher on my favorites list as I filled orders in seconds. The no-prep, no-wait scenario was something my guests seemed to like too.

  By one fifteen, I was coming off the high of victory and feeling a little miffed. Yes, I’d had a successful day, proving the well-attended grand opening hadn’t been a fluke, but Grady still hadn’t shown up with my key, and Sam had stood me up.