by Penny Plume
“Did you park in the alley?”
Bart snorted. “Probably should have, save you some embarrassment. But no, it’s right there. The Jeep.”
Jenna blinked. The Jeep was a new model, not more than two or three years old, shiny black with mean-looking knobby tires and a chrome brush guard. A bank of round lights stood at attention along the roll bar above the windshield.
“Junker?” Jenna said.
“I used to tear up the dunes with it,” Bart said. “It was fun, for about a week. Air conditioning sucks though. But Cabo had a good point—if somebody tries to cut your brakes again, just steer this baby into the wilderness and crank up the radio. Only terrestrial and Bluetooth though, no satellite. Like I said: junker.”
Jenna was still trying to take it all in. “Cabo said that?”
Bart frowned. “About the radio? No, I said that. Just now.”
“I heard him,” Sherri said.
Jenna shook her head. “Never mind. Look, this is really nice of you all, but I can’t accept it.”
“Hey,” Bart said, “it’s a piece of crap, I know, but it’s still a step up from your piece of crap, even before you took it off-roading and through a wall. Can you drive a stick?”
“Yes,” Jenna said, “but no, Bart, it’s too nice. I’d be nervous about scratching it or getting it dirty or dropping a French fry between the seats. It’s just too…nice.”
Bart seemed confused. “Look, I get you’re probably in shock, so you’re not supposed to make sense. Here are the keys.”
He lobbed them in a short arc and Jenna had to catch them to avoid being struck in the chest. There were two keys, the ignition and a smaller one that she assumed went to a built-in storage box or the glove compartment.
Wait, did Jeeps even have glove compartments? Wasn’t it a requirement to have rough, calloused hands that smelled like horses and surf wax before you could own one? If so, how did Bart get his?
The keys were on a small silver chain looped through an oblong piece of bright blue foam, a tiny floatation device should the keys fall overboard during a drunken yacht party.
Did she have to go to drunken yacht parties now?
This was getting out of hand.
A group of three older women pushed through the door and stood gazing at the wind chimes hanging from the ceiling before the gravity of free samples pulled them further into the store.
Bart said, “Babe, you ready?”
Sherri walked over and gripped his arm with her free hand. “You’re still coming with me, right?”
“Yes, jeez, let go.”
Sherri turned to Jenna. “I don’t want to be in my store alone.”
“Smart,” Jenna said. “Whoever killed Ingrid—and tried to kill me—is still out there somewhere.”
Sherri’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Oh, right, the murderer. I was talking about Ingrid’s ghost being right next door.” She shivered. “I have a few of the girls working in the store right now, and if I walk in and they all have white hair, I’ll tell you what: I’m moving to Florida.”
“We’re not moving to Florida,” Bart said.
“Maybe you’re not. I am.”
He sighed. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Sherri touched Jenna’s hand on her way out. “Oh, I have a professional question. One business owner to another.”
Jenna thought: If she asks me about exorcists…
Sherri said, “Do you think it would be rude to move some of my beachwear display into the café windows?”
Jenna wasn’t sure she’d heard that right. “The Sanctuary Café? Ingrid’s café?”
“Not anymore,” Bart said to his phone.
“Sherri, no,” Jenna said. “I mean, yes, it would be incredibly rude. Offensive, even. And it’s an active crime scene. You can’t even go in there, let alone move stuff around and drag your mannequins in.”
“I don’t see how bikinis can be offensive,” Sherri said. “Unless, you know. You don’t shave. And I wouldn’t mess anything up. Heck, I’d even sweep some of that sand out. Have you peeked in the windows? It’s getting bad.”
“Sherri, just…no. For too many reasons, you can’t do that.”
Sherri’s bottom lip popped out. Then it started to tremble.
“What’s that?” Jenna said. “What’s happening? Are you pouting?”
Bart looked up from his phone and assessed the situation. “Ah, man.”
“I just want a nice big display,” Sherri said. “It’s for the shoppers, not me.”
“I know babe,” Bart said. To Jenna: “Nice going.”
“Are you serious right now?” Jenna said.
Bart steered Sherri toward the door. “Come on. We’ll grab some dinner at the Marina Grill. The waiters will flirt with you, the waitresses will flirt with me. It’ll be great.”
Sherri sniffed—actually sniffed—and glanced over her shoulder at Jenna. “I’ll ask Harry about the display. He understands business.”
Jenna thought: Maybe dying in a car wreck was the easy way out.
For the rest of the afternoon Jenna helped customers and chatted about where they should go for dinner, the best places to watch the sunset, why the macaroons were all gone.
Every now and then she gazed through the front windows at the Jeep to make sure it was still there, still real. Once, when no one was in the Shoppe and the sidewalk was empty, she ran out and touched one of the knobby tires, ran a hand along the water-resistant upholstery, and tried the horn. It was loud, bordering on obnoxious, and she ran back into the Shoppe before anyone saw her, giggling the whole time.
All the while, her mind worked through the events from the night before—had it really only been last night when she’d found Ingrid’s body? So much had happened since then.
She kept an eye on everyone who came in, scanning for suspicious strangers, or worse, suspicious friends. No one tried to lure her into the back alley or walked in wearing a thick trench coat to conceal a shotgun, pitchfork, or other lethal tool.
Belma stopped by to check her samples. Her arms were covered in flour and the front of her mint chocolate hair was matted to her forehead with sweat. The rest had flecks of butter in it.
“Still alive, huh?” she said.
“Yep,” Jenna said. “You?”
“Nope. I’m a zombie.” She dumped a few milk chocolate peanut butter cups into a nearly-empty bin and frowned at the coconut flakes mocking her from the bottom of Lawrence’s macaroon basket. On her way out she stopped in front of the counter. “When your car was totally out of control, did your life pass before your eyes?”
Jenna thought about it. “No. I was too busy swearing and steering.”
“Huh. I wonder if it still counts as a near-death experience.”
Jenna was taken aback. “Near-death? I haven’t thought about it that way.”
“Well, you did nearly die, right?”
“I suppose so. I’ve just been focused on, mm, other things.”
“Like what?” Belma said.
If Jenna told Belma she was trying to find Ingrid’s killer and save Main Street, it would be all over town within ten minutes. Not the best way to keep it a secret from Detective Olson.
She said, “Oh, you know. Everything.”
Belma nodded. “Well, everything doesn’t really matter if you’re a hot wet stain on your dashboard, does it?”
Jenna winced. “Jeez, Belma.”
“I’m just saying. Garrett and that sweet hunk of detective Olson stopped by and asked me about your car, if I’d seen anyone messing with it. I didn’t. They also said whoever tried to squish you into a sardine can is probably the same person who killed Ingrid.”
“They told me the same thing,” Jenna said.
Belma kept going. “So I says to them, ‘Why would someone try to kill sweet little Jenna?’ They don’t know, or won’t say. So I figure this crazy person is trying to kill all of us, wipe out the Main Street shop owners. And I ask myself, who would want to do th
at?”
Kavanaugh, Jenna thought.
“Lawrence,” Belma said.
Jenna blinked. “Huh?”
“I told you about his bakery, and sure enough, it’s right there on that stupid model in Kavanaugh’s den. Lawrence wants that resort built, like right now.”
“Belma,” Jenna said, then stopped. If she spilled about Lawrence’s alibi for Ingrid’s murder—that he was actually at Kavanaugh’s meeting at the time—it would only confirm what Belma suspected. And it would tip her off that Jenna was assembling facts, putting the story together.
“Belma, what?” Belma said.
“I don’t think Lawrence has it in him to be a killer.”
“Have you ever tried to sneak a peek at his cherry turnover recipe?”
“No…”
“He has the metal box wired into the electrical system. Shock you right off your feet. No joke.”
Jenna didn’t want to get into how Belma might know that. “Still, cutting my brake cables? I just don’t see Lawrence doing something like that. And he was two drinks in before he could have slipped away to do it—by that point he couldn’t even play pool right.”
Belma considered that for a moment. “I will say this: When you came crashing through the gate in front of us, and he quit snoring long enough to see what was going on, he was genuinely surprised. And peeved, because you woke him up.”
“Well,” Jenna said, “I’m sorry?”
“So he’s either a really good actor, or he was so drunk he forgot he tampered with your car.”
“Or he didn’t do it,” Jenna said.
That didn’t seem to fit into Belma’s reality. Her brow furrowed and she gnawed at a thumbnail as she drifted toward the front door, mulling this new scenario in which Lawrence wasn’t a cold-blooded killer.
Jenna said, “Belma?”
Belma stopped and turned.
“Were you surprised to see me come crashing through the gate?”
Belma smiled. “Sweetie child, if I knew the first thing about cars, do you think my van would be a pile of rolling crap? I couldn’t tell a brake cable from a tire iron.”
Jenna smiled back, relieved. “The look on your face when you slammed on the brakes—now that would have been great acting. And I just thought of something else. If you cut my brakes, you probably would have left after me. You know, with me almost smashing into your van and all.”
Belma looked at the ceiling, playing it through. “You’re right. I hope I would have been that smart, anyway, but I hadn’t thought about it. Huh. Guess I’m not ready for murdering just yet.”
She opened the door and got halfway out.
Jenna said, “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight? Nothing. Why, you need a ride somewhere? I don’t want you borrowing my van…”
“No,” Jenna said, “I think we should stay here, at the shops. Or hang out together somewhere. If someone is trying to wipe out Main Street, it’ll be harder if we aren’t solo, easy targets. And to be honest, I was freaked out last night at home, alone, and that was before someone actually tried to kill me.”
Belma nodded. “Good thinking. I’ll come back down here after I close. We’ll figure out what to do then.”
Jenna felt something loosen in her chest, a tightness she hadn’t realized was there. “Perfect. I’ll tell the rest.”
Belma was skeptical. “Even Lawrence?”
“Belma, if he is the killer—or if anybody else on Main Street is—what are they going to do? Massacre all of us and be the last one standing?”
She didn’t seem convinced. “If anybody whips out a chainsaw, I’m not gonna try to save you. I’m out the nearest window.”
“I understand.”
Belma nodded and left.
Jenna checked the time: 7:48.
Close enough to eight to start shutting things down. She got the broom and hit the front corners first, whisking the ever-present sand out of the nooks and crannies toward the back of the shop.
Sticking together was a good idea.
Not just for safety, which probably should have been her primary motivation.
But it wasn’t.
As Jenna swept, she kept a running list of the questions she wanted to ask the other Main Street owners. Wilford wasn’t a suspect any longer, and Lawrence was innocent unless he was working with Kavanaugh to clear the way for the resort.
That left Belma and Sherri. And Bart, she supposed, though he wasn’t a shop owner.
Even if none of them had killed Ingrid, they still might know something. And that included Wilford and Lawrence.
Jenna shook her head and kept sweeping. She needed to start writing this down so she could keep it all straight. The thought of compiling all the evidence and facts into a historical record for the town calmed her a bit—the sound of a pen rolling across paper, the gentle vibrations from the swoops and lines. Adding punctuation was like a tiny martial art.
The nook beckoned. And it would be good to jot some quick notes to make sure she didn’t forget any of the details—heck, it might even help her figure out what she didn’t know, which was probably a book all by itself.
One thing she did know: She would find the killer.
Hopefully before they had another chance to murder her.
7
Jenna finished closing the shop by eight fifteen. The sun was dropping toward the top of the marina, which reminded her of how The Lost Haven Resort would block every sunset until the end of time, which made her mutter some comparisons between Kavanaugh and various horse rear-ends.
She locked the front door behind her and waved to a few families walking through Lilac Park, then strolled past Winkle’s Fine Chocolates & Sweets. Belma was behind the counter, ringing up what looked to be the last sale of the night for a teenage couple holding hands.
Jenna stuck her head in. “See you next door in a few?”
“Gotta clean up, then I’ll be over. Don’t get killed.”
The teenagers shared a wide-eyed look.
“Ha ha,” Jenna said, trying to play it off as a joke.
Belma nodded seriously at the couple and drew a finger across her throat. So much for that.
Jenna tried Wilford’s art gallery, but the door was locked. The spotlights in the front windows were on along with some soft security lighting inside the space. She rapped a few times on the glass and waited, heard no one walking across the wooden floor or calling to wait just a moment.
Ingrid’s body thudded into her mind. The scenario was nearly identical, and Jenna peered through the glass door for any corpses waiting to be discovered. There was a long, dark lump halfway across the gallery floor with a white blob at one end that could be Wilford’s face.
Jenna wasn’t carrying the jangling anchor of all the other shop keys and briefly considered going back to get them. She certainly didn’t want to find another body, especially Wilford’s, but if he was in there on the floor, if he needed help…
If he or someone else was setting a trap, waiting to bash your head in…
She slipped her phone out and hit the flashlight icon, took a slow breath, and pressed the phone against the glass so the beam would cut into the gallery.
The dark lump was a collection of rubber tire fragments with a white headlight at one end.
Art, apparently.
She let the breath out and went back to Winkle’s, where the now-pale teenagers held massive chocolate cupcakes with mousse frosting. The treats were completely forgotten as the stunned kids listened to Belma.
“…detective said her head was almost completely gone. Brains everywhere. Oh, and this one here, she nearly drove through town with her car on fire, setting the whole town ablaze. We could have all burned to death.”
The couple turned to Jenna with their mouths open.
“None of that is true,” Jenna said.
A sharp crack filled the shop as Belma swatted at a fly with a damp towel, making the kids jump. She sneered at the fat bla
ck insect as it flew away, untouched.
“Yeah, this killer means business.”
Jenna said, “Belma, have you seen Wilford?”
“Not for a while. You think he’s dead?”
Maybe, Jenna thought. But the teenagers seemed on the verge of tears, so she said, “What? No, I wanted to tell him to come over to the Welcome Shoppe.”
“I’ll tell him if I see him. Unless, you know…” Belma waited for the teenagers to look at her. “His head is gone.”
Lawrence was leaning in the doorway of his bakery eating a massive croissant and scowling at the sun as it dipped toward the lake. A large flake of the croissant was stuck to his cheek, and he either didn’t know or didn’t care.
His eyes slid to Jenna. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover this late in the day.”
Jenna suppressed a smile. “Hey, look on the bright side—it’s almost bedtime. You can sleep it off and wake up fresh as a daisy.”
“Ug, daisies. Don’t make me puke again.” He mashed another bite of the croissant into his face, showering the doorway with thin, tan snowflakes.
“Belma’s going to come hang out at the Shoppe when she’s done closing. You should too. We need to look out for each other until this is over.”
“You mean keep an eye on each other?”
Jenna frowned. “That’s the same thing I said.”
“Mm, slight difference.” He reached inside the bakery and came back with a bowl of melted butter and chocolate, dipped the croissant in it and took another bite. “Is this a sleepover? Should I bring my footie jammies?”
“You can stay as long as you like. Especially if you bring some of those croissants.”
Lawrence shook his head, lamenting. “Jenna, I think this town is finally getting to you. Ulterior motives, manipulation, false friendships to get what you want.” He wiped a non-existent tear from his eye. “I’m so proud.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Fine. I’ll bring milk too—these puppies could soak up Belma’s bathwater.”
