by Bree Baker
I sidestepped the duo, trying not to wonder why she was clinging to Vanders’s arm and whether or not it was a hostage situation on his part.
Vanders had been the town’s head councilman for ten years before our mayor was killed last Christmas. Now he was filling the role until the fall election, when Mary Grace planned to run against Aunt Fran for the job.
Mary Grace lifted her lips into what was probably intended as a smile but came off more like a snarl. She thrust a large white envelope in my direction.
“No, thank you,” I said, uninterested in whatever she was selling.
“Everly Swan!” she snapped, stamping one foot and glaring. “I’m trying to be nice. Now, take this darn thing!”
Nice? I nearly laughed. Mary Grace wasn’t nice. As a child she’d spread the rumor that the real reason my dead mother wasn’t around was because she’d left me to become a circus clown. The day her family left the island, I nearly threw a party. Grandma stopped me, or it would have been epic.
I returned Mary Grace’s seething gaze. “I don’t want it,” I said, confident in the decision.
A moment later, curiosity reared its ugly head. “What it is?”
“It’s a wedding invitation, of course,” she said.
“Whose?” I asked, baffled.
“Mine,” she scoffed, craning her head back to look up at Chairman Vander’s smug face. Mary Grace shook her head as if something was unbelievable.
She was right. I was having a hard time believing anyone would marry her. I opened the envelope and skimmed the fancy font. “You’re marrying Chairman Vanders?”
She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Where have you been? Under a rock?”
I considered the tall man at her side. “Blink twice if she’s holding you against your will,” I whispered.
“Very funny,” Mary Grace deadpanned. “We’re having a destination wedding, then a formal reception when we get back. We’re on the gift registry at every shop in town to make gift selection more convenient.”
“Always thinking of others,” I said, a touch of sarcasm in my tone.
“You’re welcome to bring a plus-one to the reception, if you can talk anyone into it,” she said before breaking into obnoxious laughter and dragging her man puppet away.
I gawked until they were nearly out of sight, then eyeballed the closest trash bin, wondering if I could make a clean basket or if the envelope would touch the rim going in. Ultimately, I decided to hang onto the invitation. My aunts were highly likely to attend the ridiculous party, obviously contrived to gain gifts, so I’d go with them. There was strength in numbers, after all. Plus, if we didn’t go, it might look like we were boycotting or being petty. And since Aunt Fran and Mary Grace were opponents in the upcoming mayoral election, there could be trouble. I should be present to mediate a confrontation or call the police if needed.
I turned back in the direction I’d been headed and crossed the road toward Blessed Bee. The line was out the door again, so I decided to try the bookstore first, then double back to check on my aunts.
Amelia was tidying shelves near the register when I ducked inside. She smiled when she saw me. “Perfect timing. I need to talk to you, and I think most of our crowd finally went in search of food.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Hungry?”
Her stomach growled at the mere mention of sustenance. Luckily, I’d anticipated that.
“You still like my fruit salad and croissants with jam, right?” I asked, lifting the bag in her direction.
“Bless you,” Amelia said, taking the bag behind the counter to unpack it. “You are a goddess.”
“I try.”
Mr. Butters crossed the room with a broad smile. “Tell me that’s a Philly steak on a hoagie bun with loads of melted Swiss.”
“Nice try,” I said. “I heard all about your doctor appointment last month. You have to watch your cholesterol.”
He shot his daughter a grouchy look, then popped the top on a take-out box. “No one will serve me a hamburger in this town now.”
Amelia grinned. “I made a few calls.”
Mr. Butters dunked the pointy end of his croissant into the little container of jam, then bit into it with gusto. Paint speckled the backs of his hands and the cuffs of his rolled shirt sleeves, hanging loosely around his forearms.
“Have you been painting?” I asked.
“All day,” Amelia said, answering for him as he chewed. “Once potential buyers realized he wasn’t going to make any replicas of the painting he gave Mitzi, they started asking for similar pieces with dates added to his signature so they can prove he painted them while the investigation is going on.”
“And they’re all asking that I don’t recreate their commissioned works so they can own a one-of-a-kind piece as well,” Mr. Butters added, finally swallowing the hunk of croissant. “I’ve gotten more orders this morning than I’ve had all year, and these buyers are willing to pay top dollar. I hate the circumstances, but when you’re an artist, you’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot.”
“How hot is it?” I asked. “Have the police been in touch since the luncheon?”
“Yes,” Mr. Butters answered softly, then finished the croissant with a crestfallen stare. “I’m not supposed to leave town, and Detective Hays suggested I speak to an attorney in case he finds a problem with my alibi or timeline on the day of the murder. I’ve spoken to Burt Pendle about it. He says I shouldn’t say anything else on the topic without him present.”
I set my hand on his briefly and gave it a pat. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help.” I knew firsthand what it was like to be accused of murder in Charm, and living under Grady’s scrutiny as a suspect was the pits. I turned my attention to Amelia. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about when I walked in?”
She bit her lip and nodded. “There’s more. Dad wasn’t with Wyatt and me the entire time after we entered the nature center that day.”
“What?” I yipped. “Why not?” Tension wrenched the tightly bunched muscles along my shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“We forgot. In all the confusion and commotion, it just slipped our minds,” Amelia whispered.
Mr. Butters hunched over the counter and stuffed the end of a second croissant into his mouth. “I forgot my reading glasses in the car,” he said forlornly. “I wanted to be able to read the program, so I ran out to grab my glasses. When I came back, Wyatt and Amelia weren’t in the hallway, but it only took me a minute to find them.”
“We were in the big storage closet near the restrooms,” Amelia said. “Wyatt’s organizing the space to make room for his materials on the wild horses, and he came across some old children’s books he thought I might want for the Little Libraries,” Amelia said. “I agreed to pick them up after the luncheon, but you know how that went. Anyway, we were only there a minute. When we walked out, Dad was in the hall, and we all met up with you a few minutes later.”
I let my head drop forward with a groan. “That’s the exact time frame when Mitzi went missing.” I dragged my chin up and fixed my gaze on Mr. Butters. “I don’t know how long it would take to see Mitzi and drug her, then drag her into the bee box behind the curtain, but would you say you were alone long enough to have done that?”
His shoulders rose to his ears and his face went sheet white. “Maybe?”
I pressed the heels of my hands to my closed eyes. “Surely someone saw you going to get your glasses. The parking lot was full of fans who should be able to provide you with an alibi.” I dropped my hands away to see his face when I didn’t hear an answer.
Mr. Butters raised his brows. “Sure. Lots of folks saw me. I had to wade through the crowd to reach the car, but no one spoke to me, and I was dressed as Blackbeard. With a beard and hat and everything. Just like dozens of other people.”
&nbs
p; I stifled a deeper, longer groan. “It’s going to be fine. What did Grady say?”
The Butterses exchanged a long look.
“You told Grady,” I stated, willing the words to be true.
Amelia stepped closer to her dad and linked their arms. “Not yet. We wanted to talk to you first. You know him better than anyone, and we know this makes Dad look guiltier. Giving a false statement. Withholding information. It’s going to make a bad situation worse, and it was an accident.”
I jerked upright and scanned the room for listening ears. “Shh,” I whispered. “That’s the sort of thing that can be overheard and mistaken for a confession. Call Grady.” I motioned to the phone on the desk. “Make sure he doesn’t hear it from anyone else. It’s not great that you didn’t tell him sooner, but if you explain it to him, he’ll understand.”
Mr. Butters nodded. “We just remembered at breakfast this morning. We were rehashing everything we heard and saw, hoping for a clue to help him find the killer.”
I pointed again to the desktop telephone beside the register. “Tell Grady.”
Mr. Butters lifted the handset.
Amelia released her dad and returned to her meal. She forked a pile of diced fruits and eyed me, tipping her head toward her dad. “I can’t listen to that conversation without developing an ulcer. So, what’s going on with you? Any luck sorting through all that paperwork Skeet gave you?”
“Who’s Skeet?” I asked.
“I refuse to call a grown man the Canary,” she said. “I demanded his real name. Turns out it’s Skeeter Ulvanich. Skeet for short.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not sure that’s any better.”
She shrugged. “Did you read the file?”
I gave a long sigh, shored up my nerves, and relayed my recent ambush for her. “So,” I wound the story down, “I was hoping to talk to the Canary about who might’ve wanted the file badly enough to come after it, scare me half-to-death, and take it from me.” I gave the sprinkling of shoppers a careful scan. No signs of the Canary. “Any idea where he is?”
Mr. Butters disconnected his call, then turned to us, scratching his head. “I had to leave Detective Hays a voicemail.
“It’s okay,” I assured. “He’ll call back or stop by.”
“Have you seen Skeet?” Amelia asked her father.
“Not since he left here yesterday.”
“Any idea how long he’s staying in Charm?” I asked.
“Can’t say,” Mr. Butters said, stuffing another wad of croissant between his lips. “A couple of days, I’d guess.”
“Was he in town when Mitzi died, or did he come after he heard about her death?” I asked.
Mr. Butters gave a helpless shrug and an apologetic smile. “I’m not sure.”
I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from screaming in frustration. “I only have a couple hours before Denise has to pick Denver up from school, and I have to take over at the shop. I need to find him before then, if possible.”
Mr. Butters chewed slowly. “If he’s still in town, he’s probably out collecting clues or evidence. He’s a snoop by trade, right? Maybe check the location you’d be right now if you were investigating too.”
“I am investigating,” I said. “I’m here and he’s not.”
Mr. Butters thought about that for a second. “Well, he probably wouldn’t be looking for himself like you are. So, where would you be if you weren’t looking for him?”
Amelia laughed, then dipped a piece of croissant into her jam. “Dad said probably.”
I sighed. “If the Canary has ever gone looking for himself before, I don’t think I want to know.”
“Maybe talk to Ryan,” Amelia suggested. “He knows everything about Mitzi. He was studying her life for weeks before coming here to interview her. Since that opportunity vanished, he’s been out there nonstop, trying to break the case.”
I puffed my cheeks in defeat. “Fine. I’ll look for Ryan.”
She beamed. “Great, and since you’re headed out…” She reached under the counter and produced a massive shopping bag of books. “Will you fill the Little Libraries on the boardwalk for me? I’m having trouble getting away from this place, and I’m sure the Little Libraries are in serious need of fresh books by now. If you can fill them today or tomorrow, I would owe you forever.”
I dragged the heavy bag off the counter and over my shoulder. “Okay, but don’t get too happy about me teaming up with Ryan. You seem to like him for some reason and the last time he and I worked together, it didn’t end well.”
I turned on my toes and headed out. Now I had two men to locate before school let out.
Chapter Ten
I made my way into Blessed Bee with a fifteen-pound bag of books on my shoulder and fought my way to the register. Surprisingly, and unlike yesterday, Aunt Clara and Aunt Fran were chatting alone. None of the dozens of shoppers were in line to make purchases. Instead, the shoppers were gathered around Rose, who was taping interviews with locals and Mitzi fans.
I counted my blessings for the chance to squeeze my aunts without an audience, then dropped the bag of books on the counter before circling around to hug them. “How are you?” I asked. “I’ve missed you.” I reveled in the feel of their thin arms around me and the scent of their perfumes in my nose.
Aunt Fran was first to break the hug. She pulled back for a look into my eyes. “I think the better question is how are you?” I’d called my aunts early in the morning to recount the uglier points of my night.
Aunt Clara rubbed my back and stroked my hair. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Aunt Fran didn’t look happy at all. “I hope to high heavens that detective of yours catches whoever’s doing this before you get hurt again. It’s ridiculous that you consistently find the killer before he does.”
I laughed. “If you mean that I consistently bumble into the killer’s clutches while Grady follows legal channels to prepare a case and make an arrest, then yes. That is ridiculous.”
Aunt Fran narrowed her eyes.
I changed the subject. “So, what’s with all the interviews?” I motioned to Rose and her crowd of anxious interviewees.
“She’s taking advantage of all the unexpected people,” Aunt Clara said. “Asking folks questions about bees, testing their knowledge on various aspects. She says it will help her home in on which topics need to be covered most thoroughly in the documentary.”
“Mostly, she’s trying to convey that honeybees aren’t killers,” Aunt Fran said.
The memory of Mitzi in the demonstration box returned unbidden, and I did an involuntary full-body shiver in response.
“I’m eager to start filming footage for the actual documentary,” Aunt Fran continued. “All the production team has done since that nightmarish luncheon is tape the crowds and do mass interviews like this.”
Aunt Clara reached for her sister. “The crowds won’t last forever. I’m sure all these nice folks have real jobs and family responsibilities they’ll need to get back to eventually.”
I gave Rose a long look. She seemed happy, enthusiastic even. Was it possible that she’d drugged Mitzi in an attempt to create hype around the film? It was hard to imagine the pretty brunette as a cold-blooded killer, but the drive to succeed had made many people do things they wouldn’t normally. The drugs would have been enough if Mitzi had lived and made a spectacle of herself. Any scandal involving Mitzi Calgon guaranteed national coverage. “Do you know when you’ll begin filming?” I asked my aunts.
“Tomorrow,” Aunt Fran said. “We’re supposed to take a walk through our gardens and visit our hives before we come to work.”
Aunt Clara’s face lit up. “You should stop by for breakfast. We’re serving pancakes to the crew before the walk.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “I wanted to take a look in your archives any
way. I’ve run out of easy-to-demo recipes for my blog.” I checked the time on my watch, then hoisted Amelia’s bag of books onto my shoulder. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll be there for breakfast.” I kissed Aunt Clara’s cheek, then Aunt Fran’s, before hustling out the door.
The books were heavy and my time was limited, but I was still hoping to find the Canary before I headed home. Mr. Butters said I should check wherever I’d be if I was investigating. That was a no-brainer.
Twenty minutes later, I flashed my annual pass at the nature center welcome desk. The midday sun and stifling humidity had drawn sweat from places I didn’t like to think about and plastered my hair to my cheeks and neck.
I pretended to look at nature displays while catching my breath after the half-mile speed walk, making my way toward the rear hallway of private offices. If I was caught by the center’s security, I planned to claim I was innocently looking for Wyatt.
The hall was quiet. A flimsy line of crime scene tape ran across the partially open doorway. “Knock knock,” I whispered, hoping no one would answer. When no one did, I peered down the hallway in both directions. The door wasn’t sealed, so someone must’ve been working on the crime scene. So where were they? I set the bag of books outside the door and ducked under the tape. Mr. Butters was wrong. The Canary wasn’t here. But since I was, it couldn’t hurt to have a quick look around as long as I didn’t touch anything.
I stole a pen from the mug on Wyatt’s desk and used it to poke around. I’d learned that from watching Grady. This way, I wouldn’t get my prints on anything.
From what I could see, Mitzi’s things had been removed, presumably relocated to the police station’s evidence locker. What remained was a sparse and tidy office. I hooked the pen in the handle of a desk drawer and dragged it open. Nothing interesting inside. I repeated the process, uselessly wishing I’d come across the letters from my grandma that Mitzi had promised to me.
A creaking sound nearby turned my limbs to stone.
My eyelids fell shut, and I listened hard for the sound to come again.
