A Call for Kelp

by Bree Baker

  “Rose, the documentary lady, says it’s ‘crazy good.’”

  Amelia made a throaty sound of disagreement, then puffed air into her long blond bangs. “I don’t mind the extra sales, but the reason behind them is creeping me out. Half of these people are looking for books on local legends, Blackbeard, or the Outer Banks in general. I’m nearly out, and I can’t get more without wiping out some other independent bookstore in the next town.”

  “Do it,” I teased. “Spread the good fortune.”

  Charm was one of many small towns on the smattering of barrier islands most people called the Outer Banks. My aunts, Amelia, Mr. Butters, and I simply called it home.

  “I guess if we’re looking for a silver lining,” I said, “at least having all these Mitzi fans in one place means it should be easy to get the scoop on what was going on in her life before yesterday. If she had a stalker before she got here, surely one of these people heard about it.”

  It seemed reasonable to assume that any fan motivated enough to make an impromptu trip to Charm following Mitzi’s death was dedicated—and hopefully knowledgeable.

  Amelia turned her attention to the cash register, where her dad seemed to be holding court. “I know who we can ask. Come on.”

  I followed her to the front of the store and hugged Mr. Butters before turning to the group gathered in front of him.

  “A thousand dollars,” a short man with a white beard and black bandanna said, as if I hadn’t interrupted them. “Make it just like the one from the news.”

  Mr. Butters lifted his palms. “I told you. That was one of a kind. I won’t make another.”

  The little man stroked his beard and turned away to confer with the other men in the group.

  Amelia leaned closer to me. “These guys are from the fan club Dad belongs to that I told you about. They caught sight of Dad’s painting on the news and tracked him down to request a few for themselves.”

  “A thousand dollars for one painting?” I asked.

  “Make it two thousand,” the white-bearded man said. “With your signature.”

  Mr. Butters shook his head, congenially. “I won’t do it. Not for any price. Out of respect for Mitzi. Maybe you can purchase hers somehow.”

  The potential buyer twisted his mouth into a knot.

  “So they all know each other?” I asked Amelia. “From online?”

  The little man turned and gave me a slow appraisal. Recognition lit in his eyes. “You’re the Nancy Drew.”

  Amelia laughed.

  “I’m not a Nancy Drew,” I said. “I’m an iced tea shop owner. What about you?”

  He passed me a business card. “Burt Pendle, attorney at law.”

  I examined the card. “Have you known Mr. Butters long?”

  “Too long,” Pendle said. “He used to be agreeable. Now he won’t take two thousand dollars for one painting.”

  Mr. Butters grinned. “Burt and I have been in the Mitzi Calgon Fan Club since Blackbeard’s Wife released. Back then the newsletters were mailed on paper and delivered by a postman.”

  Mr. Pendle laughed. “Sometimes the breaking news had already changed twice before we received our copies.”

  “Nowadays we get email updates and text alerts when something happens, but those are few and far between,” Mr. Butters said. “Mitzi’s been retired a while now. Not much activity on the news front. Until yesterday,” he added gravely.

  Grady had also called Mitzi “retired.” I couldn’t help wondering if that was the only reason she’d kept to herself lately. “Could there have been something else causing Mitzi to avoid the public eye?”

  The men looked at one another, then at the group around them. Their collective gazes settled on a tall man in a black cape, boots, and gloves.

  The man nodded slowly as he stepped forward. “Indeed. I have information confirming the arrival of several anonymous letters and poems in the weeks preceding Mitzi Calgon’s death. However, the letters weren’t the reason for her notable absence these last few years.”

  “What was the reason?” I asked.

  Mr. Butters cleared his throat and extended his hand in my direction before sweeping it toward the tall man in black. “Everly Swan, meet the Canary.”

  The tall man extended a gloved hand to me. The black leather coordinated seamlessly with his dark pants and billowing cape. I wasn’t sure if he was in costume or normally dressed this way, but he looked more like a crow or an actor portraying Jack the Ripper than a pirate. With a name like the Canary, there was no telling what he considered normal. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  “You too,” I agreed, though that was yet to be determined. “So, you kept tabs on Mitzi?”

  He nodded. “It’s my life’s work.”

  Well, that was sad and exceptionally creepy. “How so?”

  The Canary produced a thick manila file from beneath his cape. The cover was tattered along the edges, obviously well-worn and handled often, with a wide rubber band fitted around its middle. “It’s my job to know what’s going on with her first. Sponsors pay for that kind of information.”

  “And you’ve been doing this a while?” I guessed. I knew firsthand how difficult it could be to develop an online following. I couldn’t imagine what it would take to stand out in the virtual crowd and secure sponsors for my content.

  “I discovered the Blackbeard’s Wife franchise in high school and instantly became Mitzi Calgon’s biggest fan. I learned everything I could about her, and the hobby became a business. Now I run the single largest Mitzi admiration society on earth with hundreds of thousands of members worldwide. I keep insiders close to the source at all times, but they aren’t there for gossip. They’re there to keep track of her well-being. If she ever needed us, we’d be ready to step in.”

  I pursed my lips, wondering if he saw the irony in that statement. Where had he and his worldwide admiration society been yesterday?

  “You say you keep insiders close to the source? Is Mitzi the source?” I asked. “If so, how do you manage to have someone near her all the time? That seems impossible.”

  He grinned mischievously. “Very few things are truly impossible. To answer your question, I keep a member of our society in her employ at all times. A driver, dog walker, gardener, maid, pool boy. You name it. There’s always someone.”

  “And your insider can confirm the delivery of other recent letters like the one she received yesterday?” I asked.

  The Canary nodded assuredly. “The letters began shortly after a public announcement was made about her involvement with this project.”

  “So the two are related,” I guessed.

  He shook a long finger at me. “Correlation doesn’t necessarily indicate causation, so we can’t jump to conclusions.”

  I crossed my arms. “Any idea who the notes could’ve been from?”

  “Her ex-husband is my best guess,” he said quickly and apparently without thought, though I suspected he’d given the matter plenty of thought long before I’d asked. “The divorce didn’t go his way, and he’s mad. Also, Mitzi kept his daughter from another marriage on as an assistant, but she cut him off completely. That had to sting.”

  I rocked back on my heels, dumbfounded by the unexpected information. “Odette?” The standoffish assistant was Mitzi’s ex-husband’s daughter?

  The Canary raised his brows, clearly pleased with my reaction to his scoop. “Surprised?”

  “A little.” More like wholly confounded. “I met Odette yesterday. She didn’t seem very upset about what had happened to Mitzi. I assumed they weren’t close or that Odette was new to Mitzi’s team.” A stepdaughter was the complete opposite of that theory. They had to have known one another well. If Odette’s father didn’t feel he’d gotten his fair share in the split, that was definite grounds for hard feelings. Maybe even murderous feelings.


  “There are plenty of others with a grudge against her,” the Canary said. “When you’re an icon like Mitzi Calgon, claws tend to come out on the jealous and the petty.”

  I suddenly wondered if the man had chosen his unusual code name because canaries loved to sing, and he couldn’t seem to stop. “Anything else I should know?”

  He handed the thick file to me. “Everything you need to know is right in here.”

  A collective hush rolled around us, drawing my attention away from the folder and the man.

  Onlookers had gathered near, much like the crowd I’d unintentionally drawn at Blessed Bee.

  This time, I couldn’t run. Not without thanking the Canary for entrusting me with his collection of secrets. “I’ll get the file back to you as soon as I can,” I vowed.

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. I have all those details and more saved on the cloud and various hard drives. Digital is the only way to go these days. Paper is far too destructible.”

  I slid the rubber band away from the folder and opened the file. Pages of documentation on Mitzi’s schedule and outings were collected inside. Her orders at restaurants, the lengths of time spent in various salons and shops. Photographs of vehicles coming and going from the gate to her home. Newspaper articles, online printouts, and paparazzi style snapshots were stacked several inches deep. I lifted my gaze to the Canary, simultaneously thankful and somewhat afraid.

  What sort of man saw this level of privacy invasion as any way to live? How had he made it acceptable in his mind? What differentiated him from Mitzi’s stalker?

  The Canary reached for the open file and flipped it shut. Keeping one hand on mine, he drifted closer, his steady gaze locked tight. “Not here,” he said, his voice low and thick with warning. “Too many eyes. Too many ears.”

  I nodded, unable to find my tongue.

  The Canary dipped his mouth to my ear and whispered softly, “Personally, I think her killer was a fan.”

  Chapter Seven

  I tucked the file of newfound treasures under one arm and shook the Canary’s hand, then excused myself, letting Amelia and Mr. Butters get back to work. I had another hour before Sun, Sand, and Tea opened and approximately forty minutes before Denise showed up to work. I planned to make good use of those minutes.

  Outside, the sun was bright and already warmer than it had been when I’d left my house. That was spring in Charm—brisk mornings and cool nights with days in between that made you think summer had already arrived.

  I picked up the pace, both to push myself physically and to get home as soon as possible. I could cool off while I sorted the papers inside my new folder. I’d only gotten a brief look while I was in the bookstore, but there didn’t seem to be any method to the madness. Just jumbles of old and new information mixed with photos from the past forty years. I wouldn’t be able to get my head around the mass of information until I’d organized it a bit. From there, I’d weed out the irrelevant and focus on details that could lead to naming Mitzi’s stalker. I couldn’t help wondering if she’d reported the other letters she’d allegedly received to her local police department. If so, could Grady reach out to someone there for more information? I wasn’t sure how to make the suggestion without appearing to meddle. Then again, sharing the things I’d learn from the contents of the folder might be worth ruffling a few of Grady’s feathers.

  I swung my hips, pumped my arms, and lengthened my strides into a speed walk. The folder lay securely against my forearm, held in place by my tightened grip. My heart pumped wildly as I sped over the historic, sun-bleached boardwalk. I checked my watch and gauged my estimated arrival time. If I sorted the file’s materials until Denise arrived, I could sneak in a little reading when I went upstairs to change for my day. The trick would be to keep the file hidden from her view. It was better that Denise didn’t know what I was up to. She might be tempted to tattle to Grady, and I didn’t need that right now. I wanted to be the one to tell him about the folder—preferably after I’d had time to read it, since I suspected he’d take it from me once he knew it existed. Luckily, I was making good time toward home and would have a chance to get started before she arrived.

  “Hey, Everly!” Denise called from several yards ahead, where her path intersected with mine.

  I started, then groaned inwardly. So much for my alone time.

  I forced a bright smile and reduced my speed. No need to hurry now.

  It was strange how often I ran into Denise these days. We’d barely spoken for several months after she, Grady, and Denver had moved to Charm. Then, suddenly, she began popping up everywhere. I had made a mental note at Christmas to reach out to her more, thinking she might not have any friends here or may have regretted relocating to an island with limited romantic opportunities. Before I had the chance to follow through, she came to see me about a job. Now I rarely went a day without bumping into her. If the community weren’t so small, I’d have thought she was following me.

  “You’re running really early,” I said.

  “Yeah.” She lifted a disposable cup between us and gave it a shake. “I saw the food trucks when I took Denver to school, so I gave myself time to stop for a lemonade on my way to work. Check out their logo.” She turned the cup until the words Fresh Squeezers came into view. Below that, two hands squeezed a pair of grapefruit-sized lemons. “Is it just me, or is the logo a little bizarre?”

  I laughed. “A little. Yes.”

  Denise fell easily into step when I finally reached her. “What do you have there?” she asked, eyeballing the folder I’d been gripping to my chest and planning to hide.

  “Files,” I said, thankful for the simple truth. I wasn’t any good at lying and whenever I tried, my guilty expression gave me away. “I’m not sure how busy we’ll be today with all those food trucks available,” I said, quickly changing the subject.

  Denise wrinkled her perfect nose. “Yeah, right. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re kind of big news right now. I think there’ll be plenty of customers for you.”

  I felt my lips curl downward. “Some guy at the bookstore called me a Nancy Drew.”

  Denise snorted delicately, wrapping thin fingers over her mouth and nose afterward. “I always liked Nancy Drew.”

  Who didn’t? But Nancy was young and rich. She had a driver’s license and spoke French. We both liked to cook, but my ability to see a clue and instantly understand how it fit into a criminal’s endgame was nil. Nancy was brilliantly written.

  Maybe my life needs a better writer, I mused.

  “Have you learned any more about Mitzi’s death?” Denise asked.

  “Not yet,” I said, feeling the folder in my arm grow heavier. “Have you?”

  “No, but Grady was in his study half the night after he left your place. I thought something new might’ve come to light.”

  “Grady told you he’d been to my place?” I asked, my interest piqued. Exactly how much did Grady confide in her? Their relationship was a constant conundrum to me. A beautiful young woman, living with a ruggedly handsome lawman, sharing the responsibilities of raising his child and running his household. How had nothing romantic ever come from it? Or had it? How would I know if it did? Would I want to know?

  Denise’s breezy expression slipped slightly but refreshed in a heartbeat. “I don’t normally ask him where he goes. It was just that he’d left so abruptly and seemed so upset. I worried something bad had happened, maybe another attack or worse. I was glad to hear he’d been doing some normal detective work for a change.”

  “He hasn’t been doing normal detective work lately?” I asked.

  Her smile widened a moment and she shot a quick sideways look in my direction. “You got me,” she said, but she didn’t offer to elaborate. “Nothing new for you, then?” she asked. “With the case, I mean.”

  “Not yet,” I said carefully, wondering why sh
e’d press the subject, a strange new sensation taking hold. Maybe I was being paranoid or the intensity of the past twenty-four hours had caught up to me, but I was suddenly unsure if Denise was making casual conversation or spying on me. And if so, was she spying for Grady? I opened my mouth to ask her directly, but a shadowy figure came into view on my front porch and temporarily stole my breath.

  The silhouette was long and lean as it stretched upright and moved down the steps into the sunlight. “Howdy,” Wyatt said in a low, teasing drawl. He removed his wide-brimmed Stetson and pressed it to his chest.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Wyatt met me halfway up the gravel drive and pulled me into a hug. He kissed my cheek and rubbed my back before releasing me. “Just checking in.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and surprisingly, I meant it.

  Six months ago, I would have kicked stones at him for touching me so casually after breaking my heart, but these days Wyatt and I were working on a new kind of normal. Platonic friendship.

  Wyatt shoved long, tan fingers into the front pockets of his jeans as he looked at Denise. “Miss Cheveraux,” he said, brilliant blue eyes twinkling.

  She scanned him, unmoved. “Why are you waiting on Everly’s steps? And what happened to your arms?”

  The bruises I’d noticed yesterday were darker now and more profound. I’d asked the same thing and he’d blown me off. Considering they barely knew one another, she was sure to get the same…

  “Rodeo,” he answered.

  I lifted and then dropped my palms. “You realize I asked you the exact same question yesterday?”

  “You had enough to worry about yesterday,” he said.

  “I decide that,” I grouched. “Not you.” I marched stiffly up the front steps to unlock the door.

  Denise followed with Wyatt close behind. “You’re training for competition again?” she asked. “I thought you worked full-time at the nature center now.”