The Last Resort in Lost Haven

by Penny Plume

  Garrett shrugged. “You can get feisty. Maybe she chewed with her mouth open or kept changing the channels.”

  “Seriously? You want to bring that up now?”

  “Nah, I’m just yanking your chain. You touch anything in there?”

  Jenna looked back at the café. “I touched the door handle, before I knew she was dead. That’s it, I think.”

  “Mm. What’s up with them?”

  Garrett didn’t look down the sidewalk, but he meant the other shop owners, who had moved as a mass of wide eyes and nervous hand-washing about two steps closer.

  “We were supposed to have a meeting,” Jenna said. “Ingrid wanted to talk about Kavanaugh.”

  Garrett’s eyebrows went up. “Kavanaugh? You think…?”

  “I don’t even want to say it out loud, in case it isn’t true. He’d ruin me.”

  Garrett scanned the Main Street storefronts, all the way down to her Welcome Shoppe and the other owners huddled there. “Isn’t he doing that anyway?”

  Jenna sipped a warm mug of tea in her reading nook. The other shop owners watched her closely, as if waiting for her to suddenly hurl the mug and begin her inevitable breakdown from the trauma of finding Ingrid’s body.

  Instead, she got a scoop of the lemon bars and started eating it.

  Lawrence glanced around, fiddled with a non-existent piece of lint, and said, “Soo, what did good ol’ Garrett have to say?”

  “He said to come down here and wait.”

  “For what?”

  Jenna shrugged and said around a mouthful of lemon bars, “For him to question us, I suppose.”

  “But why?” Sherri said. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “Just doing his job,” Jenna said. To Lawrence: “Great bars, by the way.”

  Belma scoffed.

  Jenna said, “Do any of you know what Ingrid was going to tell us at tonight’s meeting?”

  “I told you—” Belma started.

  “Yes, that you think she’s going to sell. Wait, you thought she was going to sell. Ingrid is all past-tense now, huh?” Jenna thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “Anyway. We were messing around before, gossiping. This is serious. Why did Ingrid call this meeting?”

  Everyone looked at everyone else. No one said anything.

  Jenna said, “Guys, somebody may have killed Ingrid because of it. If you know, or think you might, you could be in danger.”

  Wilford’s bushy white eyebrows twitched as he looked around the circle. Lawrence pursed his lips and squinted, thinking hard, while Belma’s mouth hung slightly open. Sherri clutched Mr. Wolfie to her chest and whispered something into his vibrating ear, then nodded.

  “I don’t know why Ingrid called the meeting,” she said, “but I know who does.”

  Sherri didn’t want to say at first. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. Especially him.”

  “Him,” Jenna repeated. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say it’s Bart Kavanaugh.”

  Sherri’s eyes popped. “Please, you can’t tell him I told you anything.”

  “You haven’t,” Lawrence said.

  Sherri turned sly, nodded. “Right.”

  Jenna said, “Can you call him? Ask him to come down here?”

  “I suppose…He doesn’t really like to come around the shops—he has a name for Main Street: Stain Meat.”

  Wilford frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sherri said, “but he thinks it’s hilarious.”

  “Will he come?” Jenna asked.

  “I usually go visit him…” Sherri said.

  Belma perked up. “Tell him something is wrong with your car.”

  “My car? Why?”

  “Aw,” Lawrence said, “so precious. Because he bought it for you, sweetie, and probably cares about it more than you.”

  Sherri started to protest: “He did not—”

  “Everybody knows,” Lawrence said.

  Sherri looked around the circle. Everyone nodded.

  “No one’s judging you,” Belma said. “If somebody wanted to buy me a Beamer, I wouldn’t say no.”

  “How about a one-way plane ticket to Antarctica?” Lawrence said.

  “How about we have two murders tonight?” Belma shot back.

  Lawrence gasped in horror and reluctant admiration.

  Jenna put a hand on Sherri’s knee. “Don’t tell Bart about Ingrid when you call. I want to see his face when he finds out.”

  “Why?” Sherri said.

  “I hate to say it, but I think there’s a chance he already knows.” Jenna looked at the rest of the group. “You guys, if the Kavanaughs had something to do with Ingrid’s death—especially Harrison—the resort plans are done. Main Street will be safe.”

  3

  It was a ten-minute drive from the Kavanaugh estate up on the hills overlooking Lost Haven. While they waited for Bart, Jenna stuck her head out the shop’s front door and looked up the street toward the Sanctuary Café.

  Garrett’s cruiser was still parked outside. A flashlight beam spilled through the windows and swept across the tables and chairs out front. Jenna thought about Garrett in there, alone with the corpse, his first murder investigation…

  “I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder.

  There was no one else on the street. She hurried to the café and saw Garrett inside, standing in the middle of the room and turning in a slow circle. He poked the flashlight beam into the corners and under tables as he turned, like he was watering shadows with it. The door was open a few inches.

  “Garrett?”

  He jumped, just a tiny bit, and Jenna felt a strum of satisfaction. “Jenna, dang it, you need to go back to your store.”

  “I will, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine. Now…”

  “What?”

  Garrett played the beam across the front windows, making sure Jenna was alone. “You think it’s okay for me to turn the lights on? With fingerprints and all?”

  “Probably not,” Jenna said. Then, trying to keep the concern out of her voice: “Are you going to collect that stuff? The evidence?”

  “Heck no, I called the state police and they told me to sit tight and wait for their crime scene team.”

  Jenna relaxed. Garrett was great at giving tickets to city drivers from Chicago and breaking up wrestling matches outside the bars along the lakeshore, but he couldn’t boil pasta without checking the internet first.

  “Maybe you should come out of there,” she said.

  “Yeah, I just wanted to make sure whoever did this—if it was anybody—isn’t still in here, hiding or something.” He crept to the door and slid through, careful not to touch anything with his bulky gun belt.

  Jenna waited for him among the outdoor tables. “What do you mean, if it was anybody?”

  “If she was murdered. Maybe she just fell.”

  “Fell?” Jenna said. She realized there was disappointment in her voice, so she hurried to cover it up: “That would be good, huh?”

  “Very good,” Garrett said.

  Jenna nodded. It would be good, safe, and…boring. She felt terrible for thinking it, then even worse because she didn’t actually feel that terrible.

  “So do you need to come down and question us? I have some of Belma’s salted chocolates.”

  Garrett brightened. “Oo, the dark ones?” He looked down the street, then at the door of the café, considering. “Shoot, I can’t, I gotta stay here and control the scene until the state crew shows up. Probably makes us look bad if they come with all their sensitive equipment and there’s a raccoon or something wandering around the body.”

  “I’ll save some for you.” Jenna fought the habit of standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek before she left.

  Garrett knew it, watching her with that sideways grin just starting to pull as she turned and walked away. She was almost to Belma’s door when Bart Kavanaugh swung around the corn
er of the Welcome Shoppe. He’d parked on a side street, even though every spot on Main was empty. He saw her coming and stopped with a hand on the door handle.

  “Hey, Jenna Jenna.”

  “Bart.”

  He was about her height and stocky, easing over the line into pudgy. He’d played some sports with Garrett but didn’t have the natural talent or desire to work—just his father’s money, influence, and a town small enough that it didn’t cut anybody from the squads.

  He waved down to Garrett and said to Jenna, “What’d you do now?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.” She gave him a quick scan, looking for swaths of blood across his two-hundred-dollar shirt or matted in his receding hair. No such luck. He wasn’t even carrying a bloody hammer, pipe, or frying pan.

  So it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  Bart went straight back to the nook, didn’t say hello to anyone, and asked Sherri, “What happened to the car?”

  “Nothing,” Sherri said.

  “Don’t tell me nothing. What’d you do, back into a Prius or something? That’s not your fault, they’re too quiet.”

  “No, I didn’t do anything, really. It was a…fib.”

  “A fib?” Bart looked around at the faces. Belma and Lawrence were barely suppressing smiles while Wilford looked slightly sorry for the young man.

  Bart said, “If this is a surprise party, it sucks.”

  “Please, grab a seat,” Jenna said. “Help yourself to the snacks.”

  Bart took a chocolate caramel and squinted at the tray. “What happened to the lemon bars?”

  “Nothing,” Belma said, “that’s the way they’re supposed to look. Just like they taste.”

  Everyone looked to Lawrence for a retort. He shook his head. “I don’t want to get murdered next, so I’m not sassing anybody until this is over.”

  Bart stopped mid-chew on the caramel and tried to frown. “Murdered? What are you people talking about?”

  Sherri stood up. “Honey, come sit.”

  She pulled Bart onto her chair and sat on his lap, then nestled Mr. Wolfie in hers. The small dog kept rooting around in Sherri’s hands until he found Bart’s, then licked furiously until Bart flailed him away and tried to hide his hands again.

  “I can get another chair,” Jenna said.

  “Why?” Sherri asked.

  She let it go. “Bart, something terrible has happened, and we wanted you to hear it from us. In case, you know. It involves you.” This was true—Jenna did want Bart to hear it from them so she could gauge his reaction. If he assumed it was out of compassion, well, there was some of that too. Probably.

  Bart said, “Is this still about Sherri’s car?”

  “Mother of pearls,” Lawrence said. “It’s a good thing you’re rich.”

  Belma checked her watch. “Thirty seconds. A new record for your no-sass policy.”

  “Alas, it cannot be contained,” Lawrence lamented.

  Jenna cut them both off and told Bart, “This isn’t about the car. Ingrid Gallagher is dead.”

  Bart froze with his tongue working caramel out of his teeth. “Huh?”

  “She’s dead. That’s why Garrett is at the café right now—he’s waiting for the crime scene crew to show up.”

  “She’s right up the street?” Bart said. He glanced back at the front door, eyes wide, as if zombie Ingrid would be shambling through at that very moment.

  Jenna squinted at him. Bart was either very smart or very stupid, and she found it hard to tell the difference right then.

  “How’d she die?” Bart said.

  Jenna shook her head. “We don’t know yet. But there’s some blood.”

  “Oh, man. I gotta tell Dad.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. Jenna said, “Is he around?”

  “I just left him. He’s back at the house, talking with the lawyers and contractors about finally tearing these old buildings down.” He dropped that into the group like a stone, unaware or indifferent about what it meant to them.

  “Was this a long meeting?” Jenna asked.

  “Yeah, all afternoon. I just about died of boredom, all the contract and legal talk. I was glad to get out, even if Sherri messed up the car, but this…I gotta call Dad.”

  He stood up, almost dumping Sherri and Mr. Wolfie onto the table, and pulled his cell phone out.

  Jenna said, “They were close? Your parents and Ingrid?”

  Bart paused, thinking about it. “Nah. They did the same parties and stuff, like the yacht club, but that’s just because our families both go way back. She and my dad might have dated about a hundred years ago, but my old man got around, so…”

  “Please tell him we’re all very sorry.”

  “For what?” Bart said.

  Jenna blinked. “For the loss of his friend?”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Bart snorted. “Ingrid was being a huge pain in the butt with his resort—most of that meeting was about how to get around her so he could start demolition. He’s gonna be thrilled.”

  Bart moved toward the front of the shop to make his call. Jenna could hear his voice, but the words were just a low mumble spiked with a few high notes.

  Sherri looked after him, her mouth pulled into a sad smile. “Poor Bart.”

  “There’s nothing poor about Bart Kavanaugh,” Wilford said.

  Sherri turned back and whispered, “It’s just…he’s always trying to impress his father, and Harry is very hard to impress. Maybe this will do it.”

  “Telling him about a murder?” Jenna said.

  Sherri considered that for a moment, then nodded. “It’s an odd family.”

  She left to check on Bart, leaving the others to contemplate just how odd the Kavanaughs must be. Lawrence poured himself more coffee, upending the carafe until a few drips proclaimed the need for more.

  “On it,” Jenna said. She checked the tea—still plenty left—and carried the empty carafe into the narrow area that ran the width of the shop behind the back wall. The room served as her office, kitchen, and warehouse, and was stacked with boxes of Lost Haven souvenirs. A tiny bathroom was tucked against one wall along with a closet that hid the furnace and water mechanicals.

  She filled the coffee pot from the sink, recalling the times Ingrid scolded her about it during the Main Street meetings. She always brought her own coffee and wouldn’t even refill it with Jenna’s.

  “I use pure, filtered, ionized mountain water for all my beverages,” she’d say. “Anyone who can’t taste the difference shouldn’t be drinking it.”

  Jenna watched the impure, unfiltered, non-ionized—and free—water fill the pot, then dumped it into the coffee machine. She would miss Ingrid, but that was for later. Right now she needed to figure out what the Kavanaughs were up to. If they were responsible for Ingrid’s murder, and now the path was clear for Harrison’s resort, then—

  “I thought you might need some help.”

  Jenna clenched every muscle and nearly threw the coffee pot.

  Lawrence took a hasty step back, his hands flying up. “Not the face!”

  “That’s twice tonight someone’s scared the heck out of me,” Jenna said. She eased the coffee pot into the machine and hit the start button. “Three times, if you count Ingrid, but that wasn’t her fault.”

  “Sorry,” Lawrence said, “I wasn’t sneaking around on purpose.”

  Then he glanced back at the door to the shop, and Jenna knew that’s exactly what he was doing. He stepped closer and lowered his voice.

  “Just between you and me, if Bart is involved with Ingrid’s death, I wouldn’t be shocked if Sherri were too.”

  Jenna frowned. “Sherri?”

  “Think about it. Sherri is always talking about how she needs more space for her stupid beach store, and before all of this resort drama came around, Bart was going to co-sign a loan to buy out Ingrid’s café. They were going to knock down the wall and expand.”

  “He did? What did Ingrid say?”

&n
bsp; “She laughed in their faces,” Lawrence said. “Pretty much the same thing she did to old man Kavanaugh when he came around with his resort pitch. And I heard the blueprint for the resort includes a big, juicy chunk set aside for Sherri’s new store.”

  The coffee machine burped and sighed.

  Jenna said, “Why didn’t I know about this?”

  “Oh sweetie,” Lawrence said, “our petty gossip can’t possibly hold a candle to your precious books. You gaze at them during our meetings like Belma looks at butter.”

  “Nooo…” Jenna said. But it was true. The books called to her, waited for her, and just about everything else was an interruption. The fact that other people were aware of it made her feel a bit embarrassed, and more than a little guilty.

  Lawrence glanced back at the door again. “I’m just saying—we need to keep an eye on Sherri, and watch what we say around her. This is just between you and me.”

  He patted her shoulder and walked away, humming to himself and stopping once to peer into a box of driftwood remote control caddies and shudder.

  Jenna carried the full carafe out of the back room. It was getting close to ten, the front windows showing the soft yellow light of the street lamps and peeks of the lights scattered along the walking paths in Lilac Park.

  The rest of Lost Haven was either asleep or easing in that direction, but she had a feeling her shop was going to be awake and busy for a while. When she got to the nook, however, it was empty except for Wilford.

  She put the coffee on the table and said, “Where is everybody?”

  “I’d like to say they’re calling friends and family to hear their voices and express their love,” Wilford said, “prompted by this tragic event that proves just how fleeting life can be.”

  Moved by this, Jenna put a hand to her chest.

  “But they’re just gossiping,” Wilford said. He flicked a thumb toward the front of the store. Down the rows, Bart and Sherri were whispering together, Belma was mumbling into her cell phone, and Lawrence was texting someone, the mad grin on his face bathed in harsh light from his screen.

  “Well,” Jenna said, “I’m not a bit surprised to see you here. You’re above that.”