by Chris Ward
‘She’s going to bury us,’ Grace said. ‘Jason has to win, and he has to win in the café’s brand t-shirt.’
‘The one with the old man on it?’ Jason asked.
‘It’s a seal. And no, not that one.’
‘The crabs one?’ Jason sniggered as Joan’s fist flicked out to crack him on the arm.
‘No, the other one.’
‘What other one?’
Grace grimaced. ‘The one I’m still working on.’
‘We’ve got like, two weeks?’ Joan said. ‘Why don’t we all just give up and drink away the rest of the summer?’
‘Because this is important.’
‘To you, yeah.’
Grace looked at Jason. ‘And to him. And to Blue Sands. And to you, and the café, and everything.’
‘How do you figure that?’
Grace glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll tell you at work. Come on, let’s hurry up because I want to grab a surf after this is done.’
‘You’re keen, aren’t you?’
Grace smiled. ‘I’ll concede the bike race to Jason, but I’m damned if I’m not winning the surfing competition for myself.’
Jason shrugged. ‘I’m one of the judges. I reckon it’ll be flat calm anyway.’
They decided to start their practice race from just past the Singing Rock. Jason pushed Joan about halfway up, from where she could see both the starting point and the finish, then walked back down to Grace and climbed onto his bike.
Joan, holding a stopwatch over her head, shouted, ‘One, two, three, go!’
Grace went off hard, knowing she had to push Jason if she was going to help him beat Mike Anderson. To her surprise, though, she found herself quickly pulling away as he struggled to keep up. The twice-a-day surfing sessions she had recently been doing had improved her fitness, and she found a burst of adrenaline as she thought about Daniel, wanting to exorcise him from her mind.
Only as they reached the last corner before the top did she start to lose ground. Jason came alongside her just as they crossed the official finish line. Giving each other a high-five, they freewheeled their bikes back down to where Joan was waiting.
‘Practically a dead heat,’ Jason said confidently as Grace gave him a scowl. ‘It could go either way.’
Joan held up the stopwatch. ‘It’s going one way, Mike Anderson and Sophie Baker’s way. You’re forty-seconds off Anderson’s best.’ She pointed down the hill at the Singing Rock. ‘One more time.’
Jason went as white as the sea foam. ‘Seriously?’
Joan grinned at Grace. ‘You drag me out of bed to watch you two sweat your way up a hill and you think I’m letting you off after one little ride? You gave me the stopwatch; that makes me coach. Get back down to that rock now.’
‘Joan—’
‘You will address me as Coach, sir, until I say we’re done.’
‘But—’
‘You’ll do it twice more for showing dissent. Move.’
‘Yes, Coach. Sir.’
‘Yes, Coach, sir.’
As Grace followed Jason downhill, she heard Joan laughing. ‘Twice more and you can both have an ice-cream on the house.’
Jason glanced at Grace, then looked back at Joan. ‘Jo—uh, Coach … a large?’
‘No, a small. You’re in training. But if you break eight minutes on the next climb I’ll make it a big small.’
Grace was almost too tired to surf, and with only half hour to catch a few waves before starting work, she nearly gave up. However, having seen a couple of decent sets rolling in during her arduous hill training, she ran back to the chalet to get her board, just in case.
To her dismay, by the time she got to the beach, the only waves to be found were out on the reef by Sharker’s Rock.
With no time to get out there and back before starting work, she sat down on the foreshore to watch the one surfer who had bothered to go out. As he cut and turned with effortless skill, it didn’t take her long to realise she was watching the Masked Surfer, even if his van was nowhere to be seen this morning. With a couple more weeks of practice, she reckoned she’d have the measure of any of the other local surfers, but this guy was on a different level. He would ace the competition without a doubt, but there had been no one on the list whom she didn’t recognise either as local or a known talent. Perhaps competitions were below him.
But what about … girlfriends?
She didn’t want to act all fan-girl, but as he caught one last wave and then paddled in to the beach, she saw one possible way to help herself get over Daniel Woakes. She waited until the Masked Surfer had almost reached her before standing up and offering a smile of greeting.
‘Nice waves,’ she said.
He paused, looked about to say something, then just smiled beneath his mask and walked on. Grace felt like he had blown her out. She was still sitting and staring after him, her face smarting with embarrassment, when he turned back.
‘I enjoyed the ice-cream the other day. Thanks.’
Then, with a smile, he turned and walked off, leaving Grace staring at his departing back, her mouth agape. As she watched him cross the promenade to a small car park where she saw that his van was parked at the back, she could only give a little shake of her head. Then, feeling like an idiot but unable to control herself, she stood up and shouted, ‘What flavour did you have?’
She thought he hadn’t heard her. Then, just as he reached his van, he turned back and shouted, ‘Honeycomb. My favourite.’
28
Ice-cream mystery
Joan gave an exasperated sigh. ‘We sell hundreds of ice-creams,’ she said. ‘We’ve shifted two tubs of honeycomb in the last week. I mean, how am I supposed to remember everyone I served?’
Grace was adamant. ‘It’s the key to the mystery. Why don’t you have security cameras?’
‘We do.’ Joan pointed at a little CCTV camera hanging from the ceiling at the far end of the shop.’
‘It doesn’t work. It’s not even plugged in.’
‘I know that, and you know that, but potential shoplifters don’t.’
‘It’s still not much use, is it?’ Grace thumped her hands against her thighs. ‘Come on, think. I remember serving two to a kid yesterday. I mean, he could have given it to someone waiting outside.’
‘Lawrence Beattie always has honeycomb,’ Joan said.
Grace shook his head. ‘He’s way too tall. And he has a different accent.’
‘Maybe he gave it to one of his kids.’
‘They’re too young.’ Grace clicked her fingers together. ‘I have an idea. We need to be vigilant, but, you know, it’s hard when it’s busy.’ She leaned down under the counter and searched through a box of odds and ends until she found what she wanted. Holding up a sheet of paper and a pen, she said, ‘Every time anyone orders a honeycomb ice-cream, make a note of it on this piece of paper. If it’s a local, write their name. If not, try to engage them in conversation, or follow them outside and try to see where they go.’
‘So basically stalk them or hit on them?’
‘Be subtle.’
Joan sighed. ‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to achieve with this.’
Grace frowned. ‘No, neither am I. But it’s important.’
‘Why?’
‘It just is.’
Outside, the Suncrust Pasties van pulled up, and Steve Hedge climbed out. He went around to the back of the van and unloaded several boxes, which he then wheeled in through the door on a trolley.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘A bit of a scorcher out, today, isn’t it? I imagine you’ll be busy this afternoon.’
Joan glanced at Grace. Then, with a scheming smile, she looked back at Hedges. ‘Thanks, Steve. Do you want an ice-cream for the road? On the house.’
Hedges lifted a bushy eyebrow, then scratched at a sideburn. ‘Really? Don’t mind if I do.’ He set the trolley down and leaned over the ice-cream freezer.
‘What flavour would you like?’ Joan said
.
Hedges frowned for a moment as his eyes flicked over the display of flavours on a sign beside the ice-cream freezer. Then, giving them both a sly grin, said, ‘I’m partial to a bit of honeycomb.’
‘Admit it, Grace, he’s the right height.’
Grace, carrying an open box of Mars Bars, retreated towards the café in order to escape the latest round of badgering that had been going on all morning. ‘Stop playing around. There’s no way it’s Hedges. For a start, why would he hire a transit van? He’d just show up in a Suncrust Pasties one.’
‘You’re looking for holes in the evidence, Graceful. The Masked Surfer is clearly Hedges. You have the hots for Hedges. Just admit it.’
‘Just shut up.’
‘Excuse me?’
They both looked up to see a plump middle-aged woman leaning over the counter. ‘I’m from Sunny Days Out in Cornwall. The blog? I’d like to get a free sandwich lunch set in exchange for a positive review.’
Joan frowned. ‘A what?’
‘A review.’
‘I’m sorry, we don’t—’
‘Yes, we do!’ Grace said, leaning in front of Joan. ‘Come through to the café and I’ll find you a seat.’
A couple of minutes later, after Grace had sat the woman down at their best corner table near the window and given her a menu, Joan waved her behind the shop counter. ‘Grace, what’s this about?’ she said in a low voice so the woman—currently the only customer in the café—wouldn’t hear.
‘I’m just trying to get you a little more business,’ Grace said.
‘Sunny Days Out in Cornwall? Never heard of it.’
‘It’s a prestigious blog site. They do yearly awards.’
‘Is that so?’ Joan pulled her phone out of her pocket and wheeled around the counter. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. I just need to go up the street and steal a bit of Sophie’s Wi-Fi.’
‘You know the password?’
‘I figured it out. “Number One.” Smug old mare.’
‘Young lady? I’m ready to order!’
Joan lifted an eyebrow. ‘You’d better go and feed our food critic. A quid says she orders the prawn sandwich, since it’s the most expensive.’
Joan was glaring at Polly Biggins, the lady from Sunny Days Out in Cornwall, as she stuffed lumps of chocolate cake into her mouth.
‘I should take this out of your wages,’ she said to Grace. ‘She has nine blog followers. Nine!’
‘And they might have nine each, and so on….’
‘I appreciate the effort, so I’ll let you cook me dinner as punishment instead. Oh no, here comes trouble.’
Ethel Dottington, who had been eating a ham sandwich on a corner table with Gerald sitting at her feet, came over to the counter.
‘Excuse me, but I heard that lady mention that her cake was included in the lunch set. I’d like to know why I wasn’t offered a lunch set when I ordered.’
Joan grimaced. ‘Because we only just started doing them.’
‘Isn’t that against trading standards? Perhaps I should write a letter to the Western Morning News—’
‘What cake would you like?’ Grace said quickly. ‘Chocolate, cheesecake, or caramel shortcake?’
‘Cheesecake,’ Ethel said.
‘The most expensive,’ Joan muttered under her breath.
Grace forced a smile. ‘Certainly.’
‘And I’d like another coffee, since you’ve been giving that lady free refills.’
‘Free refills are only on tea,’ Joan said.
‘What’s the difference? It’s all just flavoured water.’
‘Free refill coming up!’ Grace said.
‘I should think so.’ Ethel lifted up a dog’s bowl. ‘And while you’re at it, can you fill this with water for my Gerald? Wash your hands first, please. If you get any coffee grains in it I’ll never get him to sleep.’
Grace forced another smile. Joan, who had wheeled back out of view of the café counter, was making circular motions with her fingers next to her ears. As Ethel went back to her table, Joan said, ‘Mum won’t need to sell up come September. At this rate, by then we won’t have a business left.’
‘Three honeycombs, please.’
‘Certainly.’
The grey-haired man stood back as he waited for Joan to serve him. Grace, standing by the café counter, tried to catch Joan’s attention, but Joan was pointedly ignoring her. Three days of scribbling down notes and they were no closer to figuring out who the Masked Surfer might be. And Grace’s constant pestering for information on whoever even vaguely fitted the description was starting to drive Joan mad.
As the man carried the three ice-creams out of the shop, Grace hurried over to Joan. ‘Why were you ignoring me? Who was that?’
Joan laughed. ‘Don’t worry, that’s not him.’
‘I know, he was far too old. But he bought three. Who did he give them to?’
‘Graceful, you really need to ease up on the panic. That was Frank Davis. Don’t you remember him from school? He was the drama teacher.’
‘I dropped drama after the second year.’
‘Ah, I forgot.’
‘Wait a minute. Frank … Davis?’
‘Yeah, Paul’s dad.’
‘Paul….’
‘He was in your class at school. He works in the village library owned by his family, remember? It’s not going to be him, is it? He probably couldn’t lift a surfboard, let alone use one.’
Grace ran around the counter and peered between the racks of buckets and spades out of the window. Frank Davis had carried his ice-creams across to the promenade, where Paul was waiting with an older woman whom Grace guessed had to be his mother.
Grace gave a little shake of her head. There was no way. Paul just didn’t have the build for it. But he was about the right height, and some wetsuits were pretty thick.
‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s Paul.’
‘It’s more likely to be me,’ Joan said, laughing. ‘Come on, Graceful, back to work.’
29
Suspicions
Daisy was taking up the entire sofa as she snored, so Grace was forced to perch on the edge as she showed Mrs. Oldfield the draft of her latest design.
‘So, what’s this, then, dear?’
‘Can’t you tell?’
Mrs. Oldfield looked pained. ‘Well, no, not really. That’s some kind of fish?’
‘It’s a shark.’
‘And it’s holding hands with a….’ Mrs. Oldfield looked up. ‘What is this, exactly?’
‘It’s the Mourning Lady. The shark is holding hands with the Mourning Lady.’
Mrs. Oldfield fixed her with a firm stare. ‘May I ask why?’
‘It’s a bond. Like a circle.’
‘And whatever does this have to do with the Blue Sands Café?’
‘It’s supposed to represent friendship and connection.’
‘But why would a shark be friends with a historical figure that may or may not have even existed? I get what you’re trying to express, but, to be frank, you’re not doing a very good job of it.’
Grace sighed. ‘I’m doing my best.’
Mrs. Oldfield patted her on the arm. ‘Stop trying so hard. You’re overcomplicating things. Logos and emblems are supposed to be simple.’
‘It is simple.’
‘You call that simple? No wonder you dropped art at school.’
‘I didn’t drop art. I just sat at the back.’
Mrs. Oldfield gave a smile that took Grace right back to the classroom. ‘Well, somebody has to. We can’t all drive on the roads. Someone has to build them.’
‘Do you have any ideas?’
Mrs. Oldfield lifted an eyebrow. ‘This is your design, so it must be your idea. Think about what you’re trying to express. Think about why you came back to Blue Sands, what the café means to you, and what it should mean to others. Then, express that in a simple logo. Bring it back to me and I’ll do the rest.’
‘Well, you’d best get on your bike and hurry up.’
After her chastening at the hands of Mrs. Oldfield, Grace stopped into a little café for lunch and then headed for the library. She was nervous about bumping into Paul, whom she was now convinced was the Masked Surfer, but at the same time she really wanted to know how her blog search was going, and even though she’d discovered that if she sat outside the pub at night she could get just enough Wi-Fi signal to use her phone. The first time she’d tried it she’d almost bumped into Isabella, who liked to go out for midnight jogs along the promenade after the pub had closed, and always spent some time outside on the patio stretching and warming up.
Paul was sitting behind the desk as she entered. Wearing spectacles, outwardly he looked as far from the Masked Surfer as it was possible for a person to get. As she stared at the curve of his jaw and the width of his shoulders hidden beneath a plain sweater, however, she became more certain than ever. He was Clark Kent, obvious to everyone watching, hiding Superman behind the flimsiest of disguises.
‘Hello, Grace,’ he said, looking up, and looking a little nervous at the same time. ‘How are you doing?’
As he glanced down at his stomach and made a point of adjusting his sweater, she realised she was staring.
‘Um, good,’ she muttered, wondering why the butterflies in her stomach wouldn’t leave her alone. ‘I just need to use the net.’
‘Sure, go ahead.’ He smiled. ‘If you can find a free computer.’
With the skies clear and temperatures close to thirty, the library and its connected museum were empty. Grace had seen only Paul’s car parked outside, which had made her even more nervous, because it meant he wouldn’t be busy. Sooner or later, they would have no choice but to talk.
For now, though, her nerves got the better of her, and she hid herself away in a computer cubicle. To her excitement, Polly Biggins had posted a review of the Blue Sands Café on her blog. Giving both the food and the staff five stars, she had shared it to her Instagram account, where it had picked up three likes, and one comment from someone called Bobsworkaccount: “Sounds nice.”
