by Bree Baker
“Everly!” a woman called as I broke free from the thick of the crowd. I recognized her face from the local news. “Tell me,” she said, hurrying in my direction as a man with a camera on one shoulder trailed after her, “Do you think Mitzi Calgon’s fatal bee stings were an accident or is something foul abuzz here?”
I guffawed. Seriously? News anchor puns at a time like this?
“You’re making a name for yourself as this town’s unofficial gumshoe,” she said. “Will you be looking into Mitzi Calgon’s death as well?”
“No comment,” I said weakly, my scrambled brain trying and failing to make sense of her statement. I was making a name for myself? As a gumshoe? And the local news lady had heard about it? My ears began to ring as I turned for the street and hurried away.
“Will you at least promise to keep us posted?” she called after me. “I hear Mitzi Calgon was a friend of your family. Is that true?”
My steps faltered, but I pushed on.
Her voice grew smaller with each additional word. “Did you know her well? Are you the reason she agreed to join the Bee Loved campaign?”
Grief gripped my chest and twisted my gut as my footfalls quickened, putting space between us as rapidly as possible. Would I be looking into this? Should I be?
Mitzi Calgon was someone my grandma had kept in touch with for more than forty years. For that alone, I owed her my very best efforts at finding justice. Didn’t I?
Chapter Three
I hurried up the front steps of my beachfront Victorian and across the wide wraparound porch to my door. A large, hand-painted C’mon in, y’all sign welcomed guests from the window. The seashell wind chimes that tinkled with each opening of the door let me know when someone new had arrived.
“Welcome to Sun, Sand, and Tea,” my new part-time barkeep, Denise, called from the café across the foyer.
“It’s just me,” I answered, hurrying over wide, white-washed floorboards and beneath a newly added sea glass chandelier.
A dozen lively voices lifted against a backdrop of Beach Boys tunes, and guests filled every seat in the room. Granted, there were only fifteen seats so far, a mix of barstools, bistro sets, and traditional tables, but the place was standing room only. I smiled as I took it in, humbled and awestruck as always. People liked my iced tea shop. Whether they came for the warm beachfront atmosphere, delicious food, or easy vibes, I couldn’t be sure, but I hoped it was a combination of the three.
Business had boomed since I’d opened the café’s doors last year, and it was already time for me to expand. Luckily, the home’s former ballroom was situated just off the café and separated only by an ornately carved arch. I had plenty of space. What I didn’t have was time.
Denise tapped an iced tea dispenser, then slid a lidless canning jar of my grandma’s old-fashioned sweet tea in my direction. “I heard what happened,” she said grimly as I arrived behind the counter. “How are you doing?”
“Not great.” I took a long swig of the tea, letting its sweetness and familiarity soak into my bones.
Denise was Grady’s son’s au pair, and she was fast becoming a friend of mine. I’d originally mistaken her for his inappropriately young wife, but I quickly learned he was a widow. The senator, his deceased wife’s mother, had handpicked Denise to care for her grandson while Grady pulled himself together after the funeral. According to Grady, Denise had been a lifesaver and she’d agreed to stay on, even through their move from Arlington to our little town.
She was young, blond, and beautiful—a quiet, genuine, and unassuming woman, at least on the surface. She’d surprised me last winter by reaching out and offering to help at the iced tea shop while Denver was in school. She said it would be a great way for her to acclimate to the island and meet more folks. I couldn’t disagree, especially since I needed the help, so here we were. I suspected, though, that what folks saw on the surface was only the tip of the iceberg with Denise.
“Better?” she asked.
I nodded. The tea definitely soothed. “It just doesn’t seem real,” I muttered, my ice sloshing in the half-empty jar.
Denise checked her watch. “Maybe you should go upstairs and rest. I can ask the senator to pick Denver up from school for me.”
“No.” I forced a smile. “I’ll be okay, but thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She scanned the tables, probably making sure no one needed anything. “Okay. Then I guess I’d better get going.”
“I’ll walk you out.” I stopped at the front door just as a big black SUV rolled into view. The back window rolled down and the senator circled one wrist outside the vehicle before powering the tinted barrier back up.
Denise pursed her lips. “I guess that’s my ride. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay so you can relax, maybe shower or nap? You’ve been through a lot this morning.”
I smiled at the woman, at least five years my junior, worrying about me. Being an au pair suited her well. “I’m good,” I assured her. “You should go. Hug Denver for me.”
She gave the world around us a long, careful look, then squared her shoulders and marched purposefully toward the SUV.
For the hundredth time, a deep, niggling instinct suggested to me that Denise was far more than she appeared.
I waved to the departing vehicle and hurried back inside to tend to my guests.
The space that was now my café stretched through the entire south side of the first floor, utilizing only about half of my overall square footage on this level. The previous owner had knocked out several non-load-bearing walls, creating a magnificent showcase of space. Now, the newly renovated kitchen flowed seamlessly into the former dining room and gathering area. I’d taken advantage of the wide planked floors and rear wall of windows, making the space home to my new iced tea shop. A little shiplap and wainscoting and it was the perfect seaside escape. I’d worked with a natural palette for décor. Soft shades of cream and tan for shells and sand. Brilliant blues for the sky and sea, with punches of orange and yellow for the jaw-dropping sunrises I observed every morning from my deck.
An enclosed staircase from the foyer provided passage to my private living quarters upstairs, complete with a locking door. The second and third floors were just as big and full of potential. I could probably thank the home’s history as a boardinghouse for my substantial second-floor kitchen. All in all, the home was a treasured piece of the island’s history, and I wished the walls could talk. Maybe they could advise me on which renovation project to take on first, café expansion aside.
I cleared tables, took orders, and kept moving for hours, thankful for every chore that kept my mind off the morning’s atrocities. Still, the busyness hadn’t stopped me from wrestling with Odette’s claim to have been conveniently outside at the time of Mitzi’s murder. Hopefully, Grady would check her cell phone records to confirm, not that she couldn’t have made a call, then left someone on hold while she went to hurt Mitzi, I realized. I hoped Grady would look into that possibility too.
I started as Amelia and Mr. Butters appeared. I hadn’t heard anyone come in.
“Two iced chai lattes, please,” Amelia said, dragging herself onto a stool at the counter.
“And rum cake,” her dad added. “Make mine a thick slice.”
I obliged, then set the offerings before them on the counter. Mr. Butters had changed into his usual cargo shorts and untucked short-sleeve button-down, but I’d never seen him so sad. “On the house,” I whispered.
“How are you holding up?” Amelia asked.
I shrugged. “It was busy when I got here. That helped for a while.”
Amelia pressed the tines of her fork into her rum cake but made no move to raise the bite to her lips. “Now, it’s dinnertime.”
“Yeah.” The menu at Sun, Sand, and Tea was limited. Great for lunches and snacks, refreshing drinks and desserts, but folks normally headed i
nto town for a proper meal this time of evening. “Can I make you guys some food?”
“No.” They answered in unison, clearly satisfied with my most popular dessert.
I’d taken the old rum cake recipe from a handwritten cookbook in my aunts’ archives and featured it on my blog for Valentine’s Day, not knowing the cake would be an immediate hit. Apparently, the baking tutorial I’d created had been too complicated for the masses, so folks just started placing orders. Locals stopped by or called. Blog followers left orders in the Comments section. I’d already shipped four rum cakes out of state and a dozen throughout North Carolina. I was actively considering which of my other recipes would hold up for shipping until I realized I’d have to clone myself if I wanted to bake any more than I already did.
“What do you think we should do?” Amelia asked, dragging me back to the moment. “Those pictures and that note were creepy. They were probably from the same person, and Detective Hays thought Dad’s painting was part of the package.”
Mr. Butters stuffed another hunk of cake between his lips, eyes unfocused.
“Grady knows you didn’t do this,” I whispered, giving his hand a quick squeeze before turning back to Amelia. “We’ll figure it out.”
“How?” she asked, abandoning her fork beside the barely touched cake.
Another familiar face arrived before I could think of an answer for Amelia.
Rose, the documentary’s producer, walked inside with a man I recognized from the production team. She ran anxious fingers through her wild brown hair, then led him to a tall bistro table with a panoramic view of the seaside.
Amelia lowered her chin and whispered, “All those photos from Mitzi’s dressing room were taken on the island, which means she had a stalker here, and I think that person killed her.”
Her dad’s head bobbed in agreement. “We can’t let someone get away with this. Mitzi deserves so much better than what happened today. Tell us what to do, and we’ll do it. Who should we talk to first?”
I leaned closer, contemplating the possibilities. “I’m not sure. Those photos could’ve been taken by anyone. Someone from here, or someone who followed her here. The luncheon was advertised online for weeks. The whole world had plenty of advance notice. I suppose we could start by interviewing the people we know with rental properties, see if anyone has a renter who gave them cause for concern.” Like what? I wondered. A wall covered in photos of Mitzi’s face and a detailed plan to push her into a bee box? Not likely, and there was another, larger hole in that plan as well. “Of course, there’s no rule that says the killer stayed here at all. There are plenty of other towns nearby and on the mainland. The killer could’ve dropped by to do the deed at lunchtime and already be on a plane to Nantucket.”
Amelia slouched.
“Be right back,” I told her, then grabbed a couple of place settings and headed for Rose’s table.
I squared my shoulders and worked up an appropriately pleasant smile. “Welcome to Sun, Sand, and Tea,” I said, setting napkins and brightly colored biodegradable straws in front of Rose and the man. I’d moved to a more environmentally friendly approach to life after finding Lou, the seagull that hung out on my deck, wearing a set of plastic rings from a six-pack around his neck like the world’s most dangerous necklace.
“Can I start you off with some iced tea?” I asked. “I keep twenty flavors on tap, all made in-house by me.”
Rose looked weary. “Sure, and can we see some menus?”
I hooked a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the huge chalkboard hanging on the wall behind my service counter. I kept the daily menu items and tea flavors written there in big chalk letters. Traditional menus didn’t work for me. I needed the freedom to change things up, and I usually worked with whatever ingredients were on hand instead of menu planning and shopping accordingly. The tea flavors were another story and changed less often. Locals had made their favorites clear, so I rarely took those away. I played with the remaining options, always looking for the next big hit.
Rose’s brows rose behind thick bangs and dark-rimmed glasses. “Then I guess I’ll have the iced ginger pear tea and the mango shrimp spring rolls.”
“Perfect,” I said, making note of her order on my striped green pad before turning to smile at the man seated across from her.
“Old-fashioned sweet tea sounds good to me,” he said. “Maybe a few crab stuffed mushrooms…and I’d like to try your fresh berry bowl.”
“Coming right up.” I scribbled his order beneath Rose’s, then paused before introducing myself. “You might not remember me,” I began, lowering my voice and positioning myself between them and the handful of other guests behind me. “I’m Everly Swan. I own this café. I’m Clara and Fran Swan’s great niece. I was there with them today.”
Rose looked ill. “Of course. I’m Rose Long.”
“I remember,” I said. “We met briefly last night when I was decorating.”
She looked me over more carefully then. “Of course. I remember now. Sorry, you look so different. Out of context I guess.”
I smiled, certain she meant out of jean shorts and a sweaty ponytail.
The man extended his hand to me. “Quinn Farris.”
“You two make up the production team,” I said. “Plus a few volunteers.”
“That’s right,” Rose said. “We’re on a tight budget, despite a generous donation I secured after your aunts announced Mitzi Calgon was on board for the voice work. I’m still not sure how they pulled that off. Maybe you really are a magical family.” When I didn’t react, she moved on. “Any money not spent on production can be put directly into honeybee research and protection efforts, so we’re working with a skeleton crew.”
“Do you both work for Bee Loved?” I asked. “Or is your production company a separate entity?” My great-aunts had submitted a video application to Bee Loved, but that didn’t mean Bee Loved employees were the ones making the film. They might’ve only been sponsoring and promoting it.
Rose pressed a palm to her chest. “I do, but Quinn works for Bio-Bee.”
“Bio-Bee?” I parroted, turning to him for further explanation.
“Bio-Bee is a nonprofit start-up,” he said. “I created it with some friends after college. We all wanted to study the American honeybee using science. Not just their anatomy and life cycles, but the intersocial connections and hive hierarchy as well as their impact on earth, human lives, health, and economics.”
“He’s the scientist,” Rose said. “I’m the artist. We met in college. After graduation, I went to Bee Loved and joined a decade-old company selling bee swag with hearts to a substantial social media following. Quinn founded Bio-Bee. Now we get to team up again for an epic encore performance. Me with my creative mind and Quinn with his brilliant one. Two specialties. One goal. Educate the public to save the American honeybee.”
Quinn watched a couple in pirate costumes enter the café, then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I had no idea Mitzi Calgon was so popular. I’ve never seen any of her work.”
Rose shrugged. “I was a film student. I’ve seen everything. She was the only reason I secured such a big donation for film production.”
“What happens to the documentary now?” I asked. “Will it be canceled?”
“No.” Rose lowered her gaze to the table. “I think the show must go on. Right? As long as your aunts are still up to it, we can always find someone else to do the voice work later. We’re here, so we should film while we can.”
Quinn remained silent. Considering the options, perhaps. “We could head home, do some heavy PR work and wait for this to pass, then come back in the fall or something.”
Rose shook her head resolutely. “Making another trip just wastes money. We’re here now. We’ll move forward as planned.”
Quinn’s jaw clenched and released, but he didn’t argue. It was a tough call.
I could see that, and I was glad I wasn’t in Rose’s shoes.
I took my leave and went to greet the pirate couple, then hurried back to the counter to prep the orders.
Amelia and her dad were hunkered around her phone as I filled fresh jars with ice and tea.
“What are you looking at?” I asked, sliding an old-fashioned sweet tea and iced ginger pear onto one tray, a strawberry mint and summer citrus blend on another.
“Town Charmer,” Amelia said, eyes glued to the screen.
“Coverage of the luncheon?” I guessed.
I cranked the timer on my toaster oven, then popped in six mango shrimp eggrolls and a line of pre-stuffed mushroom caps.
“Nope,” Mr. Butters answered.
“Then what?” I asked.
The Town Charmer was our local gossip blog, run by an anonymous but highly informed citizen. Most locals visited the site regularly. We all claimed it was a great resource for the weather and tide schedule, but the continuous feed of questionable and occasionally scandalous articles probably didn’t hurt traffic.
The toaster oven dinged and I collected the food, quickly arranging the eggrolls onto a plate. I fanned them out from the center like a star or flower, then placed a dollop of sweet and tangy dipping sauce in the center. The mushrooms went in a circle on a smaller plate, a pile of finely diced tomato, cilantro, and onion in the middle.
