Live and Let Chai

by Bree Baker

  I tapped my fingers on the counter beside Aunt Clara. “I specifically asked Sam to call if he couldn’t make it. He didn’t call, and he hasn’t made it. It’s almost one thirty. What if he didn’t get my message? What if he thinks I stood him up?”

  “Or,” she said, interrupting my spiral, “maybe Sam got tied up with a client. This is the time of year people start drifting over the bridge and thinking they should relocate to Charm permanently. I’ve known him to show a tourist the same house every day for a week without making a sale. The visitor goes home happy anyway, telling big stories to their mainland friends about the time they almost bought a house on an island.”

  She was right, that did happen.

  “I’m going to call him.” I turned my phone over and dialed. My jaw clenched in irritation. “Voicemail.” I disconnected. “Do you think he’s intentionally ignoring my calls? Why would he do that?”

  Aunt Clara flicked a polite look in my direction. She’d already told me what she thought. “I really don’t know, dear.”

  I dialed Molly’s Market. I had other ways to do things. “Hi, Mr. Waters, it’s Everly Swan. I was just wondering if you’ve seen Sam Smart this morning.”

  Sam’s realty office was right next door to Molly’s on Vine Street, and Mr. Waters took enough cigar breaks on the bench outside the market to know if Sam was in, and how long he’d been there.

  I hung up, feeling provoked. “He says the realty office hasn’t opened today.”

  Aunt Clara stilled, apparently mulling that over. “Maybe he’s been out showing homes.”

  My torturous mind had already worked up a dozen more sinister reasons. He attacked me last night was at the top of my list. “What if it was Sam who hurt me and stole those maps and blueprints? They had his company stamp on them.”

  “I don’t really think Sam is a violent fellow,” Clara said, looking terribly distraught at the idea.

  “I’m calling Grady.” I walked toward the rear deck for some privacy. Aunt Clara thought I was losing it, I could see it in her eyes.

  “Hays.” Grady answered on the first ring.

  “It’s Everly,” I said, “Swan,” I added. As if anyone had ever known another Everly.

  “This isn’t a good time,” Grady said. “Let me call you back.”

  “No, wait!” Now that I had him on the phone, I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject without making it seem as if I’d continued poking into his investigation, when I hadn’t done anything at all. “I was supposed to have lunch with Sam Smart, but he never showed, and Mr. Waters says he didn’t open the office today, so I’m a little worried.”

  “You’re worried about Sam Smart?”

  “I’m worried he might’ve been the one who attacked me, and now he’s fled town to escape Mr. Paine’s murder charge because I had all those blueprints and he knows I was on to him.”

  Grady groaned. “We talked about this already.”

  “I’m not getting involved. I’m only speculating based on previously gathered information.”

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Sun, Sand, and Tea. It’s been a busy morning.”

  “Stay there. I’ll be over later.”

  “Wait!” I said again. “Don’t hang up on me. Aren’t you going to at least say something about what I just told you? Did you know Sam has a slew of fraud and embezzlement charges? I looked him up online last night.”

  “Yes,” Grady snapped. “And I know, not because you told me, but because I’m the detective. And no, I’m not addressing your wild theories, because I’ve got bigger problems right now. I told you this isn’t a good time.”

  I bristled at his awful manners. What happened to the gallant savior I’d had last night? Men. I threw my head back and straightened my spine. “Well, I hope you’ll at least look for Sam when you finish doing whatever it is that’s so important right now.”

  Grady’s breath puffed through the line in long, measured bursts. I imagined him silently counting to ten. “I don’t need to look for Sam Smart, because I know where he is. I’m standing twenty feet from him, trying to get off the phone with you.”

  “Well, if you’re not arresting Sam for murder or for assaulting me, can you please tell him I’ll be at the café all day if he wants to come by?”

  Grady chuckled darkly, his patience clearly at its end. “I would, but he’s floating in his pool. Face down. Right where the gardeners found him before they called me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lou stared at me through the glass door I couldn’t tear myself away from, cell phone still clutched in my hand. He fixed one coal-black eye on my panicked face, seeming to understand.

  Sam Smart was dead.

  I’d spoken to him last night. He’d sat in my iced tea shop handing out business cards and watching the time. So, what had happened to him after he’d rushed off to his “prior engagement” that ended with him face down in his pool? Where had he gone? Had he made it there? Who would’ve killed him? Was it the person he was in such a hurry to see—or someone else?

  I strained my brain, trying to recall Sam’s face at Lucinda’s party, but the night was a little fuzzy due to the nearly incapacitating fear still clinging to my skin. An unsettling chill climbed the back of my neck whenever I gave last night any serious thought. It was a psychological defense mechanism, no doubt, my mind’s desperate attempt to keep me out of the loony bin.

  I took slow, measured breaths and refocused on the café behind me. The sound of gently sloshing tea over ice. The beloved sighs of satisfied customers and the clink-clink of forks and spoons on salad plates and soup bowls. Sun, Sand, and Tea wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t empty, either, and I still didn’t know who the town gossip blogger was, so I couldn’t afford a breakdown. I definitely didn’t want to give any ammunition that could be used to try to sink my ship again.

  Clara met me halfway to the counter, near an empty set of tables. Her worried expression crumbled into despair as I relayed the heartbreaking news.

  “Oh my,” she whispered, rubbing my back as we made our way to the prep area. “This is awful. Two murders in a week. It’s unheard of.”

  Time crawled by until the wind chimes jingled over the front door again, and my heart danced with hope that Grady had gotten away long enough to fill me in on the details of Sam’s death. Plus, I needed my key back—with a lunatic trying to silence me at every turn, I preferred to know where all the keys to my house were.

  Mr. Metz thundered inside, growling into a tiny cell phone pressed to one big ear. Clara’s eyes widened.

  I hustled over to meet him.

  “Today!” he barked, stopping me in my tracks, his voice nearly rattling the windows. “I don’t care how you do it. Just make it happen!” His striped dress shirt was open at the collar, as if his thick neck had popped a button. I tried not to stare at the blue vein pulsating at the side of his throat.

  The other customers gawked openly. I gave them my least terrified smile.

  Mr. Metz dropped his cell phone on the counter with a clatter. Dark stubble covered his ruddy cheeks, and curly black hair peeked through his open collar. “You.” He snapped, finally making eye contact with me.

  “Me.” I did a little wave, hoping he’d heard all good things, and knowing he hadn’t. “What can I get you?” I pointed to the menu board. “Today’s selections are up there, and we have a number of iced teas on tap. You’re welcome to sample before you choose.”

  He scowled. My gaze dropped to a bandaged hand at his side: white gauze wrapped the palm and knuckles, dark spots seeping from beneath.

  Clara sneaked out from behind me and went to stand at my side. “The Old-Fashioned Sun Tea is always a good choice.”

  “Fine,” he growled. “Give me that.” Metz lowered himself onto a stool at the counter and rested his injured hand on the marble.

 
I placed a napkin and straw beside the massive white bandage while Clara poured the tea. “What happened to your hand?” I asked. It hadn’t been injured two days ago when we’d first met.

  I couldn’t help wondering if Sam Smart had any defense wounds when Grady found him.

  Metz’s cheek lifted with a smile that looked more like a sneer. He raised the bandaged hand and made a show of bending and stretching the scraped-up fingers. “I did this bustin’ heads at the job site. Got to keep them in line or they run all over you.”

  “The heads?” I asked.

  Clara nudged me away and pushed the tea toward him on the napkin. “There you are. Enjoy.”

  I shifted nervously. “Can I get you something to eat? Salad? Sandwich? Maybe a light dessert?”

  He looked over his shoulder at the door. “Maybe. I’m supposed to meet someone here.”

  “Who?” The word was out before I realized it might be rude to ask. “I can help you keep watch,” I suggested, hoping to seem less nosy.

  He glowered. “You’re from here, right?”

  “Yes.” I looked to Aunt Clara. If I couldn’t answer his question, she surely could. “Why?”

  “What’s your mayor’s problem?”

  “Mayor Dummy?” Clara asked, hurrying into the conversation.

  “Mayor Dunfree,” I corrected, breaking the name into syllables. “I don’t know him very well,” I admitted, but then something occurred to me. “Is he giving you a hard time about the B&Bs?” Mayor Dunfree had been Mr. Paine’s biggest advocate when it came to petitioning the rest of the town council to keep me from opening Sun, Sand, and Tea. Maybe he had taken up Mr. Paine’s torch for stopping Metz’s renovations on Bay View.

  “Yeah,” Metz groused, bending and stretching his bandaged fingers. “I thought I’d finally gotten rid of all my problems.”

  I stifled a shiver, hoping Mr. Paine and Sam Smart hadn’t been two of Metz’s problems.

  Twenty minutes later, Metz had yelled at two more people via cell phone and taken his tea to go, having apparently been stood up.

  After that, I counted the minutes until closing time. I needed to talk to Grady, and I’d promised to file an official report about last night at the station. The way I saw it, he couldn’t accuse me of interfering with his case when I showed up—I was only going because he asked me to make the report. And if the topic of my workday happened to come up, I might be inclined to mention the angry, injured man who scared the tea out of me every time I saw him.

  • • •

  I called it quits at seven, satisfied that everyone planning to stop in for a glass of tea or a bite to eat had already done so. From here on out, the big winners in town sold ice cream or alcohol. I sold neither, but I could use a little of both.

  Aunt Clara had left a few minutes before six for dinner plans with Aunt Fran, so I was on my own to lock up, change clothes, and head to the police station.

  I didn’t want to be caught walking alone after dark again, so I swapped my sundress for my most comfortable jeans and a flowy maroon tank top, then saddled up on my newly painted bike.

  Each time I tried to think about what I would put in my official statement, my brain went blank and refused to bring anything relevant to mind. Instead, I found myself focusing on why Grady had told me to stay put because he’d be over when he finished at Sam’s place, but he never showed. That just made me mad.

  I decided to think about tea instead. Tea made me happy. Once I got home from the station, I would spend my night prepping a few new tea jugs that could steep in the sun tomorrow. My old-fashioned sweet tea was a favorite, and it made a nice base for several other flavors folks loved, like my Strawberry Basil. If I wasn’t careful to keep plenty in stock, I’d run out. I’d also need a few gallons of black tea for my Raspberry-Mint blend. And maybe just one green tea. I hadn’t decided what to do with that yet.

  I imagined each finished drink in the perfect jar, stuffed with fruit, herbs, and ice. Oh, and I wanted to make an Earl Gray Cocktail, which was basically Earl Gray with a dash of lavender, honey, and fresh-squeezed lemon. I’d stick a sprig of lavender in for aesthetics and pizazz.

  I fell into an easy rhythm as I pedaled and dreamed of customers’ awed faces when they experienced the beauty and simplicity of a perfect iced tea escape. Tomorrow, I’d add some sweets to the menu.

  Police station first, then tea-making.

  But before I could do any of that, I had two stops to make on my promised patrol of Amelia’s Little Libraries. I pedaled toward my first stop, soaking up the gentle warmth of a late spring evening.

  Laughter floated on the breeze as a couple stepped and sank, repeatedly, through the thick, dry sand near public parking. They leaned against one another’s tanned frames to stay upright in their current state of bliss.

  Beyond them, a line of gray-haired men spilled from old pickup trucks parked along the road. Aluminum-framed chairs hung over their shoulders like weird rectangular purses, and tackle boxes, coolers, and fishing poles were clasped in one hand, the rusted handles of little beach wagons pulled along by the other. Their hats were heavily laden with whirligigs and doodads as they made their way to the water’s edge, buzzing with anticipation of the night’s big catch.

  I slowed my pace to a crawl, letting the beautiful twilight view settle in. Before I’d left town, I’d thought of Charm only as a daytime playground, but since returning home, the island had looked different to me in many ways. For one thing, I’d become highly aware of how much folks enjoyed the nights here. At least once a week, there was a bonfire on the beach after dark; sometimes I could see the flames and hear music from my deck. And I knew from personal experience that the ice cream shop stayed busy until well after ten, as did many restaurants and cafés. People had house parties or cruised the main strip along the bay, going nowhere and in no hurry. I’d done many of those things myself, but I’d only thought of them abstractly. Nothing about the island had seemed quite as lovely or extraordinary to me then, the way it did now. I supposed time and life experience had made the difference, peeled away the youthful blinders and revealed a much deeper and more fascinating world that I’d been able to see before.

  I slid off my seat and walked my bike up to the first Little Library. Everything looked perfect. I opened the door and moved a few books around. No sand. A lovely literary selection. My work there was done. I snapped a picture on my phone and sent it to Amelia so she’d know I’d kept my promise and wouldn’t have to make a trip to the boardwalk tonight.

  Climbing back on my new ride with a satisfied smile, I picked up a little speed as I headed for Little Library number two, and I soaked in the warm, salty wind and steady thunk-a-thunk of my tires as they moved over the historic boardwalk. I tried in vain to imagine my mother or grandmother riding her bike in my place decades back. Were they happy then? What would they have thought of me today—would they be proud? Maybe I hadn’t accomplished much yet, but I had hope that I could make them proud in time.

  A pair of boys stood in front of the next library, laughing and looking around suspiciously.

  Suddenly, I remembered that I hadn’t chased away the vandal last night, only frightened a guy who didn’t understand sunscreen or how to care for a burn. “Hey!” I hollered, pedaling faster.

  The boys caught sight of me and started.

  “Hold up!” I called, determined to look seminormal in case they weren’t up to no good.

  The duo turned and fled, banging into one another and toppling two big red buckets of sand onto the boardwalk.

  It was them!

  “Stop!” I screamed, leaning forward over my handlebars and standing up to pedal.

  They only laughed louder and changed direction, diverting from the clean, even boardwalk to a rugged dirt path behind the public changing rooms.

  I gave chase like a small-town superhero until my front tire
hit a loose rock, and I went careening toward the public restrooms. I dropped my bike and floundered, trying to get a footing on solid ground. “Come back here!”

  The boys doubled over in laughter, having stopped precariously in front of a small trench masked by seagrass. They watched while I untangled my feet to regain pursuit. Neither kid was more than fourteen years old and both were rail-thin, with miles of freckles and mounds of wavy, sun-bleached hair.

  I slowed down and limped, feigning an injury and waiting for them to turn away. A moment later they toppled into the hidden trench with dual yelps.

  I took my time closing the distance between us. That ought to teach them to laugh at a lady who’d lived here twice as long as they’d been alive. I braced my hands on my hips and tried not to look as out of breath as I felt. “You guys have filled your last Little Library with sand. Now, give me your names so I can tell your mother, the police, and the owner of those libraries. What you’ve been up to is absolutely rotten.”

  “Yeah, right,” the taller kid said, pulling to his feet. “Give you our names so you can turn us in? What do we look like to you—morons?”

  I held my tongue.

  “Oh snap!” The shorter hooligan popped up beside him. He covered his mouth and raised one knee in a dramatic bout of laughter. “No way!”

  “What?” I asked.

  The boy pointed an obnoxious finger at me. “It’s her, man. She’s the one.” He mimed falling on the ground, laughing hysterically.

  I got the feeling these two weren’t taking my authority very seriously.

  “Noooo.” His friend dragged the word out for five long seconds before offering his friend a hand up. “Shut. Up! For real?”

  “What?” I repeated, more aggressively this time, internally fuming that I’d lost the upper hand.

  They straightened and put on a matching pair of cocky faces. “We saw you get pushed into the marsh,” the first one said.