A Call for Kelp

by Bree Baker

  Something heavy scraped the floorboards outside the door.

  “Aunt Clara? Aunt Fran?” I peeked around the bookshelves, unsure what I’d heard or what it meant. “Anyone there?”

  My phone buzzed with a text and I swiped it to life, heart hammering and throat painfully dry. Another unknown number lit the screen. Another image of a honeybee.

  Bee smarter or bee sorry.

  A low buzzing caught my ear, and I spun to face the window. Two honeybees bumped the glass from inside, crawling along the pane.

  Breath caught in my throat, and my stomach flipped.

  Mitzi’s swollen face and unseeing eyes flashed in my mind, and I made a run for the exit.

  I reached the short flight of steps in three panicked leaps, then climbed them in one. I turned the knob and slammed against the unmoving door. Tears stung my eyes as I wiggled and twisted the knob. Something was blocking the door. Holding me inside.

  I screamed as a bee buzzed past my head.

  Honeybees were everywhere. They crawled near my feet and hovered over my head—swooping and zipping through the shrinking space. Fear heated my body from the inside out. Panic stole my breath.

  Someone had dumped a bunch of bees inside the room with me, and they’d blocked the door so I couldn’t leave. Panic overtook me as I pounded my palm against the door and screamed. “Help! Help me! Please!”

  A bee flew into my hair, and I lost my balance on the old wooden steps while swatting it away. I tumbled off and collided hard with the floor. Tears rolled hot and heavy over my cheeks as the bees zigzagged overhead. I didn’t know how many there were, but I felt them on me. In my hair and on my clothes.

  I was locked in a giant bee box, just like Mitzi.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thirty minutes later, I sat on a chair in the kitchen with my head between my knees, occasionally brushing invisible bees from my arms, face, and hair. It had taken what seemed like forever, but eventually reason had broken through my mortal fear and I remembered the cell phone in my pocket. I didn’t need to scream and pound the door and roll on the floor like a nut. I could sit up and dial help.

  I’d dialed Grady.

  He told another cop to call my aunts. I’d caught him at the office and refused to let him hang up, just in case I didn’t make it out alive. The bees had begun to gather on the window, but whoever had dumped them into the room with me could easily have something else planned, after all.

  Thankfully, nothing else had gone wrong, and the next voice I’d heard was Aunt Clara’s. She and Aunt Fran had only beaten Grady to me by a matter of minutes, which was saying something, considering he’d been at the station when I called and they’d been in the yard.

  The kitchen hummed and rattled around me now, awash in a flurry of activity. My great-aunts alternated between fussing over me and making sure the unexpected house full of people were all feeling welcomed. I measured my breaths at the table where three late-arriving superfans of Mitzi’s awaited their turn in questioning. Apparently, Rose had offered a second shift of fans the opportunity to work on the documentary for free. The additional fans had shuffled in after I’d planted myself in a chair, and I didn’t bother looking up to greet them. My face was almost certainly puffy and red from fear and tears. The little makeup I’d bothered with was probably smeared from my chin to my forehead, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet anyone’s eye like this, or to care about being rude.

  I stared at the five pairs of shoes accompanying mine beneath the table. I recognized Rose’s trendy red Converse and Quinn’s hipster rubber-soled moccasins. The others were new: two sets of white run-of-the-mill sneakers and a pair of black boots.

  The front door opened and closed continually behind me as local law enforcement and crime scene personnel buzzed in and out. There was only one reason that releasing bees indoors would bring a crowd of uniforms. Grady believed the person responsible for this was also responsible for Mitzi’s death.

  I peeked in the direction of a familiar voice speaking with Aunt Clara. A kind and attractive EMT named Matt Darning finished the proffered cup of tea with a wink and sincere smile. He leaned against the wall and turned his attention to me, stubbornly refusing to leave until I let him look me over. I hid my face in the crook of my arm on the table, not quite ready to deal with the inevitable. Matt had helped me last summer when I’d been attacked at my home following a wedding/murder combination, and he’d visited Sun, Sand, and Tea a number of times since. His sandy hair and soulful brown eyes gave him the look of someone who should be on a surfboard instead of wearing a stethoscope, but he did both well.

  “Mr. Pendle?” a man asked.

  I rolled my cheek against my arm and peered up at the officer standing beside our table. Brayden Castle gave me a reassuring nod when our eyes met. In high school he’d been a cocky upperclassman who hadn’t given girls like me the time of day. Lately, however, his job had required him to help me on a number of unfortunate occasions. Karma, am I right?

  “I only have a few questions,” Brayden said to someone seated opposite me. “Then you can call it a day.”

  ‘What?” Rose said. “We can’t call it a day. We were just getting started.”

  “Ma’am,” Brayden said calmly, “if you turn that camera back on inside this house, I will take it from you. This is an active investigation following the invasion of a family’s home. This is not fodder for your film.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered, feeling distinctly more confident. I didn’t hide my face again, but I lacked the energy to lift my head or straighten my posture.

  The chair across from mine scraped over aged floorboards and a familiar little man met Brayden at the end of the table. “Burt Pendle?” I asked, suddenly putting the name Brayden had called with the face before me. “We met at the bookstore. You’re a friend of Mr. Butters.”

  “Yeah, so?” He seemed startled and a little wary.

  “So?” I repeated, forcing myself upright in the chair. “What are you doing here?”

  He lifted his palms and shoulders in an exaggerated silent response.

  “Right this way, Mr. Pendle,” Brayden directed.

  Leave it to an attorney not to answer my question, I thought. Hopefully, Brayden would have better luck.

  I swallowed my pride and scanned the other faces at the table but only recognized Rose and Quinn. Rose had a death grip on her camera, though it was on the table instead of at her eye for a change.

  Quinn leaned on his elbows. “I swear this whole project is cursed. We need to go home, regroup, and make a new plan.”

  Rose spun on him. “We’re not going home. We might have to turn this bee thing into a true-crime film, but we aren’t leaving.”

  “The film’s not cursed,” I said, hung up on the way everyone had to default to that word. “Someone’s trying to force me to stop asking questions about what happened to Mitzi. Nothing more.”

  Rose swept an open palm in my direction, eyebrows high, gaze locked on Quinn. “See?”

  Aunt Clara strode into view with a water pitcher and refilled the glass I’d drained after emerging from the archives. “Feeling any better?” she asked, her voice as soothing as any balm.

  I took the glass and drank greedily. “A little.”

  Brayden released Mr. Pendle and called for the next free laborer to meet him in the sewing room/campaign headquarters for questioning.

  Mr. Pendle tipped his hat at me on his way out the door. “Take it easy, Everly,” he said. “Be safe.”

  I shuddered at his word choice.

  Ryan passed Mr. Pendle in the doorway. “Hello, all,” he sang, a peppy little kick in his step.

  I rethought the reason for my chill. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He feigned offense. “Checking on you, of course. I came straightaway once I heard what happened.”

  “
How can you possibly know about this already?” I asked.

  “I was at the nature center when I saw your detective and a pair of cruisers tear out of there.” He winked. “I followed. I took the liberty of checking the property lines while the chaos died down in here. You have a beautiful garden.”

  “Why, thank you!” Aunt Clara beamed and pulled him to the table. “Would you like something to drink? I’ve ground fresh coffee and lots of organic leaves for teas.”

  “Coffee sounds wonderful, thank you,” he agreed.

  “Everly?” Grady’s voice cut through the white noise to my ears.

  I sprang upright, nerves strung tight. “Yes.” Had he found something? A clue about who’d done this? A culprit? A killer?

  He cast a questioning look at Ryan, who’d crossed the room behind Aunt Clara to help with the coffee.

  I hurried in Grady’s direction and nearly launched into a tackle hug.

  He took my hand before I could embarrass myself and pulled me into a small parlor in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, then closed the door.

  A half dozen really good reasons for closing the door rushed to mind. My favorite possibilities included a proclamation of his earnest romantic feelings for me, an encore of our Christmas kiss, and a request to check my body for honeybee stingers. I hadn’t been stung, but I was willing to let the man check.

  He moved his back to the door and crossed his arms.

  I followed his gaze to Matt Darning and his EMT tackle box. “Jeez,” I said, equal parts relieved and disappointed none of my wishes had come true. “Really? An ambush?”

  “Absolutely,” Grady said. “After what happened to Mitzi, there was no scenario where you left here without a medical evaluation.”

  I flopped onto the velvet Victorian settee at the room’s center and waited while Matt opened his medical supply kit and knelt before me. “I’m fine,” I told him.

  “You look great to me,” Matt said, taking my hand in his and checking my pulse. “But the detective insists, so we should probably do what he says.”

  I flicked a glare at Grady, catching his gaze on my hand in Matt’s.

  “Never a dull moment with you,” Matt said. His smile was endearing, even if his words weren’t. He pressed a stethoscope to my chest. “Your heart’s racing. I suppose I can’t blame you there. How many fingers am I holding up?” He waved a peace sign before my eyes and winked.

  “Two.”

  “Did you hit your head when you tumbled down the steps?”

  “No.”

  “Twist your ankle?” he asked.

  “No.” I slid another heated gaze in Grady’s direction, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. “You told him I fell down the stairs? I told you that part in confidence.”

  Grady shrugged.

  Matt probed my head with skilled fingers. “No bumps. Any tender spots?”

  I pulled away from him. “I told you, I’m fine.”

  Matt nodded. “I believe you.” He pulled a two-pack of aspirin from his pocket and uncapped a mini bottle of water from the medical kit. “You’re in good shape. No signs of serious injury or concussion. That’s going to win me a lot of money back at the station. I knew you could make it another month without injury.” He laughed as he offered the water and pills.

  I stared, unsure if he was kidding but unwilling to ask in case he wasn’t.

  “You did fall, though,” he said, “so once the adrenaline works its way through your system, you’re probably going to be a little sore.”

  I took the pills and downed the water.

  “If you get home and anything changes or you have a question, call me.” He handed me his card, then closed his supply kit.

  Grady rolled his eyes and opened the parlor door.

  “Do you really think they take bets on my well-being at the station?” I asked Grady as Matt vanished into the hall.

  “I’d rather not guess,” Grady said, looking down the hall in the direction of the archives before closing the door. He made his way to me on the settee. “Your family library is pretty amazing,” he said. “I’ve never seen books as old as that outside a museum, or known anyone with such strong ties to their lineage. People spend thousands of dollars trying to trace their family histories. You’ve got it all documented in one room.”

  “I’m lucky,” I said. “Speaking of luck,” I segued lamely, “have you spoken to the Canary or located the folder that was stolen from my gazebo?”

  Grady shook his head. “No.”

  “I saw him today,” I said. “He was on the boardwalk by the Little Library near public beach access. I called out to him and he ran away. I have no idea why.”

  Grady ran his fingers along his jawline. “When I find him I’ll ask.”

  “Thanks.” I deflated against the uncomfortable back of the antique love seat. “Have you spoken with Odette again or Mitzi’s ex-husband?”

  “Yes,” Grady said. “Turns out they’re both in town and staying at the inn on the bay.

  I straightened. “Her ex is here? Why would he come to Charm? When did he arrive?” Before or after Mitzi’s death?

  “He says he came to support the project and after what happened, he’s not leaving without her. Apparently, he funded the documentary so he’s feeling some grief-induced guilt. As if the show might not have gone on without his money and therefore she would still be alive.”

  I shook my head at Grady. “He didn’t fund the project. An investment group gave Rose the money.”

  “Yeah. His investment group,” Grady said.

  I stopped to ponder that. “He funded the project that brought her here, then he followed her. Odette could have let him in through the back door, and he could have killed Mitzi to get his hands on the whole of her estate before the divorce was final.”

  Grady stood, all hints of concern for my well-being gone. “Stop.”

  “I’m just giving you something to think about,” I said. “Don’t you agree it’s weird that the man who’s had her tied up in court for months over division of assets flew across the country to support her in a small voice-over project?”

  “Leave this alone, Everly,” Grady warned. “You’ve had two threats in four days, and I’m only one person. I’m spread too thin to keep an eye on you and solve this case while trying to protect everyone else I care about.”

  “What?” My ears rang. Did he just say everyone else he cared about? As in he cared about me? Possibly as more than a citizen whose safety he was sworn to protect?

  I took a moment to enjoy the swell of pride and possibilities in my chest—until another idea shoved its way past the first. “What do you mean, you’re trying to protect everyone you care about? What’s going on?”

  He averted his eyes and gripped the back of his neck.

  I went to join him near the door, crossed my arms, and peered up at him. “You just said we need protecting, Grady.” I waited for his cool gray eyes to find mine. “From what?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I walked home from my aunts’ house in a huff, declining Grady’s offered ride after he’d refused to elaborate on why he thought we were in danger. Denise must’ve heard about it from him or sensed my mood because she didn’t press the subject when I told her everything was fine. I’d stayed busy prepping menu items and refreshing the teas while she was there to tend tables, but once she’d gone, everyone in the café began to look vaguely dangerous. Any one of them could’ve killed Mitzi and locked me in a room with bees. The notion made me sweat, so I called it a day around four thirty.

  I flipped my sign to Closed the minute the café was empty, then tried to breathe. Whoever had trapped me in the archives was either incredibly bold or incredibly desperate. I wasn’t sure which was worse. The culprit had marched into my aunts’ home while multiple potential witnesses were right outside. That kind of behavior took a
lot of nerve or a seriously powerful motivation. I supposed that getting away with murder was plenty inspiring, but I couldn’t help wondering if there was more to it.

  I grabbed my laptop and read everything I could find about Malcolm Pierce, his marriage to Mitzi, and his businesses. His web presence was split; half of his social media profiles were private and the other half were clearly run by members of his company and used for marketing. Frustrated with my inability to find anything to support my theory that he’d killed his wife to cut through the red tape of divorce, I switched gears and went through Odette’s social media. Denise was right about Odette’s extensive online profiles. She’d documented her travels, parties, shopping, and everything she’d eaten for the last ten years in great detail, usually with photos. Every additional post made her life appear more impossibly glamorous and increasingly surreal, like a montage from a movie.

  I stopped on a set of pictures taken on the island. One contained her frowning face beside the Welcome to Charm sign. She’d edited the photo with a hot pink squiggle through the word Charm and the word Mayberry finger-drawn above it. Other recent photos included gorgeous scenery with captions complaining about the lack of traffic and abundance of elbow room on the beach. She wasn’t impressed with our small population, lack of couture clothing shops, or nightlife, either. I fought against the irrational urge to respond to her posts with all the reasons Charm was wonderful. I assumed the effort would be lost on her, and I’d be revealed as the cyberstalker I was.

  I set the laptop aside and checked my phone for messages. Grady had promised to call if he found a lead on who’d locked me in the archives. I didn’t have any messages, but my thoughts moved quickly to Grady’s strange and worrisome comment about protecting the people he cared about. From what? And why? My temperature rose in remembrance. What kind of person says something like that, then refuses to elaborate? Was it possible that Mitzi’s killer was threatening him too? Trying to stop everyone from looking too closely at the murder? Perhaps suggesting Grady’s family was in danger if he didn’t leave the investigation alone?