A Call for Kelp

by Bree Baker

  I stared at the phone screen, certain that calling Grady was no use. He would only tell me what he wanted to tell me, and if he wanted to tell me something, he would’ve called. The icon for my new livestream app caught my eye. Ryan was apparently right about my followers wanting to see me bake in real time because I’d only made one short video, and I’d accumulated several dozen followers.

  I pressed the icon and jumped at the sight of myself in selfie mode. My cheeks were pale, my lips were bare, and my mascara had migrated to the hollows beneath my eyes. No wonder the café had emptied fairly quickly after Denise had gone. I looked like an extra from a zombie movie. But I needed to add another video to my feed or followers might drop me before I’d ever really gotten started.

  I made a trip to the café’s small bathroom and splashed water on my face to work the remnants of melted makeup away. The look didn’t suit me, but plenty of Mitzi’s fans wore the dark smudged makeup intentionally, choosing to imitate her look from the movie’s infamous death scene. After visiting enough fan sites, it had become clear that Blackbeard’s Wife was real for her superfans, and Mitzi Calgon was merely a character she played outside that world. Much scarier than my creepy undead appearance, if anyone asked me.

  I rubbed goose bumps from my arms as I recalled the amount of personal information in the folder stolen from my gazebo. What if the Canary had crossed the bridge from obsessed superfan to delusional stalker and had given me the file to throw me off his tracks? What if he’d regretted the decision once the moment had passed, and he’d wanted the file back? How could I be sure he hadn’t retraced his steps after running away from me, then followed Quinn and me to my aunts’ house? He might’ve worried that I’d recognized his voice from that night in my gazebo and wanted to scare me into shutting up.

  I ran a tinted bee balm gloss around my lips and rubbed a wet paper towel under each eye, then finger-combed my hair before checking my image in the camera again. Not great, but Ryan said people wanted to know I was real. They wanted authentic and imperfect. Well, I didn’t know two words that could describe me better. “Here it goes,” I whispered, hovering my thumb over the little Go button.

  I squared my shoulders and worked up a smile. “Hey, y’all,” I said to the camera, forcing pep into my voice and hoping to look like less of a hot mess. “I’m back with some good news. I’ve raided the official Swan Family archives and returned with lots of ideas for our next bake-along. That’s right,” I said, pausing for effect. “A bake-along. As in I’m going to work with you in real time, and we’re going to make something unbelievably delicious together. So, press your aprons and prep your cookie sheets, then stay tuned!”

  I held the smile, undecided where to go from there. I wasn’t ready to bake. Hadn’t even chosen a recipe. But it was too soon to cut the live feed. Some folks were probably just tuning in. “Since we’ll be working together,” I said, off the cuff, “I’ll select a few possible recipes and create a poll on my blog. The recipe with the most votes will be the one we work on next.” I nodded, the smile becoming genuine as a new realization settled in. My followers and I were slowly becoming an online baking community.

  “Until then,” I said, another bout of improv erupting, “you might like this trick I learned from my great-aunts. I call it salad on-the-go and it’s great for a quick, healthy snack or lunch. Easy to pack for a picnic or take to a covered dish.” I hurried to my fridge, camera bobbing in my hand. “Hang on.” I propped my phone against a row of clean mason jars, then grabbed an armload of ingredients and spun back to line them on the counter.

  “Ready? Take some sturdy romaine hearts and line them up.” I arranged a row of leaves in the camera’s view, then popped the lids off several containers of chopped veggies. “Add diced tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, and anything else your leaf can hold, then sprinkle on the feta cheese, drizzle with dressing, and enjoy.” I lifted a gluttonously overfilled romaine leaf, feeling smart and fancy. Then I winked obnoxiously at the camera like a cheesy commercial actress. The ingredients toppled down the front of my shirt before I could take a bite, splatting against my chest and plopping on the floor while dressing slid into my bra.

  I bit back a curse as my eyes found the still-streaming camera. I forced a smile, snatched my phone off the counter, and crammed my thumb against the End button without saying a proper goodbye to anyone out there watching my personal humiliation.

  I wiped the veggies off my chest and floor, thankful the bulk of falling foods had hit my skin instead of my shirt. I wouldn’t need to change, but I’d be picking olives from my cleavage for days. I wet a rag and rubbed it against the material of my shirt, removing physical evidence of my faux pas. If only I could delete the livestream…or at least edit my idiocy from the end.

  No more impromptu streaming! I was far too clumsy and ridiculous for a live feed. I required editing.

  The front door opened, and I froze. It wasn’t time for my aunts to come, and I’d turned the Closed sign over. “Hello?” I called, tucking myself behind the half-open bathroom door, phone in hand for quick emergency dialing.

  “Everly?” Denise’s voice relieved me to the core.

  I released a gust of held breath and felt my head go light.

  “Why are you closed? Is everything okay? It’s not even six,” she said, stepping cautiously through the archway, her back angled to the wall so that the entire café before her and the foyer behind her would be visible or in her periphery. The calculated move struck another nerve in me, and I watched her with deep curiosity.

  “I’m here,” I said softly, stepping into view.

  Her posture changed slightly, becoming more natural while clearly still on alert.

  I wasn’t sure where Senator Denver had found Denise, but I would’ve bet my family recipes it hadn’t been with any kind of actual childcare organization.

  “Everything okay?” she repeated.

  “Mm hmm. Just getting through the day,” I said. “My aunts are coming for dinner, but the café was empty so I decided to close early.”

  “I don’t blame you,” she said. “You need a little time for yourself. It’s been a bad week.” Denise made a lap around the room, pretending to look out the windows while her gaze traveled over every square inch of the café. “I’m glad your aunts are coming.” She peeked behind the counter, then opened the pantry and shut it. “Have you seen my sunglasses?” she asked casually.

  “No.”

  She headed into the former ballroom and I followed. When she turned back abruptly, we nearly collided.

  “Find them?” I asked.

  She smiled, looking significantly more at ease. “I guess I’ll check my car again. How about you? You want to talk about it?”

  “About losing your sunglasses?” I asked.

  “No. Your morning,” she said. “You’ve been on my mind since I left today.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Really.”

  Denise moved around me to peer through the nearest window. A moment later she turned and marched purposefully back toward the foyer. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I think I’ll go check my car for those glasses.”

  “Okay.” I dragged the word out, wondering if she realized how hinky she was behaving. “I guess I’ll walk you out.”

  “Nope.” She lifted a flat palm in my direction like a traffic cop, then smiled sweetly. “I’ve got this. You probably have lots to do before your aunts arrive. I’ll leave you to it, and I’ll just see you tomorrow.”

  I nodded in silent agreement, but curiosity pulled me along in her wake. I watched as she jogged down the porch steps and turned for my gardens. “Well, what do you know?” I said. “There are my aunts now.” I waved an arm overhead in greeting as they moved up the boardwalk in our direction.

  Denise smiled and waved when they approached, then rushed us all inside while she brought up the rear. “I just had a wonderf
ul idea. I’ll serve dinner so Everly can get off her feet and visit.”

  I let my aunts pass me in the foyer, then turned back to Denise as she approached the open front door. “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay for dinner, but you don’t have to serve us. We’re off the clock. Join us. Be my guest.”

  Before Denise could respond, Ryan popped into view on the porch behind her, waving a Chatsworth-Vanders for Mayor sign in one hand and wearing a goofy grin on his face. “Put your hands up,” he said, lifting the opposite fist in the air.

  I didn’t have time to read the sign before Denise spun on him, cranking his arm behind his back and smashing him facedown with grace and precision. She pressed one knee into his back, and Ryan made a gurgling sound as the breath left him.

  “Holy yikes!” I yipped, falling onto my knees beside them. “It’s Ryan,” I said, latching onto Denise’s arm. “It’s okay.”

  He sucked air as she shifted off him.

  Denise’s face turned dark shades of red as Ryan flopped onto his back and lifted the sign. An enlarged photo of Mary Grace and Chairman Vanders centered the blue border. Their joined hands lifted, showcasing her giant engagement ring beneath the stupid slogan Hands Up for Progress.

  “Put your hands up,” Ryan said, a pained smile on his face, “for progress.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Denise offered a hand to help him up, but Ryan’s narrow-eyed expression clearly stated, I’ll pass.

  She took a step back. “Right. Of course.” Her cheeks glowed scarlet as she moved down the steps.

  Ryan stretched to his feet, then helped me up.

  My mind was too busy sorting the blurred images of Denise flattening a man twice her size to think of getting up on my own.

  I stared at her as she retreated. The hairs on my arms stood at attention. “Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked.

  “College,” she said swiftly, well-practiced. Her feet hit the ground, and she took a step backward. “Mandatory self-defense training, freshman year. I guess it took.”

  Ryan chuckled, dusting himself off. “I guess so.”

  My aunts moved onto the porch with us, looking puzzled. “What happened?” Aunt Clara asked.

  I kept my eyes on Denise, unwilling to be distracted. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me where you went to college,” I said. “Was it in Virginia?” I hated to be rude or pushy about personal details, but now that the proverbial can of worms had been breached, I might as well get it open.

  She released a long breath, shooting another remorseful look in Ryan’s direction. “I’m really sorry. I get jumpy when men tell me to put my hands up. That’s all. I should go.” She turned and left before I could pose any follow-up questions, but I was certain she hadn’t perfected a full-body takedown during freshman self-defense training.

  So why had she lied?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ryan joined my aunts and me in the café. I handed him a bag of frozen peas for whatever body parts might be hurting, then turned to my aunts, who looked a little shell-shocked.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming to dinner.” I wrapped my arms around them and squeezed.

  Aunt Clara patted my cheek. “We would never miss a chance to visit with you.”

  “Or eat your dinner,” Aunt Fran added, wiggling free to assess my expression. “How are you feeling? And what the heck just happened on your porch?”

  “I’m edgy and a little sore,” I said. “Also, I think Denise is a trained spy or assassin of some sort hired to act as a nanny unless the need to protect her charge arises, at which time I’m mostly certain no one will ever see that person again. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  Aunt Clara’s mouth fell open.

  “I can see it,” Ryan said, arranging the peas over his shoulder.

  The trio followed me to the counter. I went around to the business side and found a pair of aspirin for Ryan in the first aid kit I kept on hand.

  Aunt Fran made her way to the tea dispensers. “I’ll pour the drinks. You make the food. I’m starving and not in a very good mood.”

  “Deal.” I pulled supplies from the cupboards and refrigerator. “How do scallops and asparagus sound?” Hopefully good because I didn’t have a backup plan or the brainpower to think of one. My mind kept replaying Ryan being flipped off his feet. It was emotionally confusing because I liked seeing shock on his smug face for a change, but I hated that he’d been hurt, even if it was only a little.

  Aunt Fran set two full jars of tea on the counter, then turned back to fill two more. “Anything you make sounds like heaven,” she said.

  Aunt Clara and Ryan each grabbed a barstool and added their agreement.

  “How are the rum cake orders coming?” Aunt Clara asked. “Are you still taking orders?”

  I grimaced. “No.” I’d removed the Order button from my website while I was online researching for the Mitzi case. “I’ve got my hands full until Grady catches this killer and my life gets back to normal. After that, I’m thinking of only making rum cakes available seasonally, like the holiday cookies.” I loved the added praise for my work and exposure for my brand, but I was only one person. Even with Denise helping at Sun, Sand, and Tea most mornings, I barely kept up with my life. I couldn’t afford to hire more help, and the small savings I’d accumulated needed to go to home repairs or expansion efforts.

  Fran rubbed my back. “You’ll figure it out.”

  I hoped she was right and changed the subject before I got depressed. “Were you guys able to get any good footage for the documentary today?” I asked my aunts as I prepared and heated my pans.

  “Some,” Aunt Clara said, “but it was hard to concentrate on Rose’s directions after what happened to you. Our hearts just weren’t in it.”

  I smiled. “I’m okay, but thanks for worrying about me.” I tossed scallops into a heated pan to brown and ran the asparagus under cold water. “How did things go before I was locked in the archives?”

  “So-so,” Aunt Clara said. “Rose spent a lot of time prepping her free help on what was expected of them.”

  Aunt Fran took the stool beside her sister and rolled her eyes. “It was a lot of wasted time if you ask me.” She set the next pair of iced teas on the counter, one in front of each of us. “Rose is more interested in the fans’ reaction to Mitzi’s death and their appearance here than she is in saving honeybees. It’s as if she doesn’t even care that they’ll all be gone soon if we don’t do something to help them.”

  Aunt Clara patted her sister’s arm. “I’m sure Rose will get to that part of the filming soon,” she said, not looking sure at all. She turned her gaze on me, brows high.

  “Was the store as crowded today?” I asked, assuming she wanted a new subject. I didn’t blame her. Aunt Clara and I did our best to avoid uncomfortable topics and situations. Aunt Fran usually let us.

  “The store was fine,” Aunt Fran said flatly. “I want to know about you.”

  “Me too,” Aunt Clara said. “And don’t say you’re fine again,” she added before I could get the words out.

  I settled the asparagus into an empty pan, then loaded the scallop pan with butter to brown. A monsoon of thoughts and emotions raged through me as I turned the asparagus and added the lemon cream sauce I’d whipped up earlier while reading online.

  “Well,” Aunt Fran pressed. “Tell me you have some kind of lead on Mitzi’s killer.”

  “What?” My eyes widened and I craned my neck for a look at her, while trying not to burn my meal. “I thought you didn’t want me to get involved.”

  “We don’t,” Aunt Clara said.

  “But we know you,” Aunt Fran said. “You’re involved and you’re in danger. Now, we don’t care who finds this lunatic as long as they do it fast and you aren’t attacked again.”

  I exhaled a sigh of relief, and Ryan lifted a thumb
s-up in my direction. “I feel the same way,” I said. “I spent most of the afternoon doing online research. I read everything I could about Mitzi’s ex-husband, Malcolm Pierce, and his daughter, Odette. Then I read a bunch of fan sites. It was interesting but I didn’t learn anything useful.”

  Aunt Fran got up again. She came around to help me plate the scallops and asparagus. “You’ll find something. You always do, and we’re here to help if you need us.”

  “Me too,” Ryan said. “Don’t forget what an excellent team we make.”

  “We were never a team,” I said. “We were both captured while investigating the crime individually. It was kind of a train wreck.”

  “Individually,” he said. “That was the problem. This time we’ll avoid all that mess and work together from the start.”

  I removed the pans from the heat and gave them each a little shake to keep the contents from sticking. “Have you had a chance to review the photos you took in Wyatt’s office?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “At least fifty good shots.”

  “And?”

  Ryan cleared his throat. “I didn’t see any obvious clues, but now that I have the photos, I can refer to them as things come up.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Uh huh.”

  Aunt Fran lined the counter with dishes. I followed with the scallop pan, shoveling tender, buttery morsels from my pan onto the waiting plates.

  “Everything smells delicious,” Aunt Clara cooed as the scents filled the room. “You are a truly gifted chef.”

  “Thanks.” I savored the compliment and allowed it to fill my sails. Much as I enjoyed food, compliments about the food I made were my true sustenance. A single praise like hers would buoy me for hours. “Tell me more about Rose and the taping. Do you think she’s still making the honeybee movie?” I left the thought unspoken, but wondered: Could the whole thing have been a guise to raise money for the film she really wanted to make—a documentary on the aftermath of a celebrity’s murder?