A Killer Ending

by Karen MacInerney

  "I can't wait."

  6

  I spent the next hour at the register, too busy to think too much about the contested deed or the permits or my ex-husband or Scooter Dempsey. Well, almost too busy. Sales were remarkably good that first night; we moved a lot of Kirsten's books, along with a smattering of other books, mainly from the front display table Bethany had put together, and I asked Kirsten to sign stock so that we could continue featuring her books for folks who couldn't make it to her reading. As uncomfortable as it was knowing that she was my ex-husband's girlfriend, I was grateful to her, and I couldn't say I disliked her.

  Although I wasn't going to come out and say I liked her, either.

  "This was so fun!" she gushed as she signed a book, looking up at me from long-lashed eyes. Ted stood a few feet behind her, looking like he wasn't sure what to do, and my mother was watching all of us as she pretended to rearrange napkins on the snack table. Bethany had just dished out the last of the punch to a few stragglers and had promised to take over the register until close. "I think you're going to have a great little business here," Kirsten said. "Theodore tells me you're interested in writing mysteries, too!"

  I glanced at him with a stiff smile. What hadn't he told her about me? "I've thought about it," I confessed.

  "Well, you absolutely should. I know it never seems like the right time, but you just have to dive in there, you know? I mean, just like you did with the store here, and look how well that's turning out!"

  Considering the conversation I'd had with Cal Parker a few hours earlier, I wasn't so sure how well it was turning out, but I wasn't going to share that with Kirsten. "I'll think about it," I said.

  "You should start a mystery writing group. That's how I got my start in the business. It would be fun, and bring people into the store, too!"

  I hated to admit it was a good idea, but it was. "You may be right," I admitted. "I'll talk to Bethany about setting something up."

  Kirsten finished signing the last book with a flourish and added it to the stack. "I know the bookstore is about to close for the evening, and I was wondering: would you like to join Theodore and me for dinner? I feel like I already know you, but I'd love it if we could be friends."

  I stole a glance at Ted, who looked like he'd rather spend a few quality minutes in an electric chair than go to dinner with his ex-wife and his new girlfriend. I shared the sentiment, so I declined. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm so wiped out from the launch that I think I'm going to clean up, take a bath, and collapse in bed." I smiled at her. "I appreciate it, though, and enjoyed meeting you. Thanks again for coming out; it really made a big difference."

  "My pleasure. Anytime!" she said, getting up and smoothing out her tight skirt. "Theodore, do you have my bag?"

  "Right here," he said, producing it like a dutiful Sherpa. He'd done the same for me so many times over the years. And now he never would again. The grief shot through me again, suddenly, taking my breath away, realizing that what we had for so long, as imperfect as it was, was finished now.

  "Well, we're off. Theodore tells me that the Lobster Thermidor at the Chart House is divine. If you change your mind..."

  "Thanks," I said, "but perhaps another time."

  "Of course," she responded. "Thanks again. And it's a beautiful little store you've got; I wish you all the success in the world."

  "Likewise," I said feebly.

  "Good to see you," Ted said awkwardly, then walked over and gave me a wooden-feeling hug. He still smelled like Old Spice and Tide laundry detergent, and again, the smell brought back a cascade of memories and feelings. "Take care of yourself," he said.

  "You too," I told him, and watched them walk out of the store, Ted holding the door for his new flame. They were halfway down the front walk before he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

  "That certainly was a grand opening," my mother said, putting a hand on my shoulder; she'd joined me without my noticing. "Are you doing okay?"

  "Not exactly," I confessed. I told her what Cal Parker had said, and her eyes widened.

  "Oh, Maxine. That's not good news. What are you going to do about it?"

  Find someone more supportive to talk to, for starters, I thought but didn't say. "I should probably look at the letter he said he sent."

  "Probably," she said. "But you can't do anything about it tonight. Why don't you look at it first thing in the morning? And if you need an attorney, I understand Nicholas specializes in real estate law."

  "That's right," I said.

  "I saw you talking with him tonight," she commented. "I always thought he was a cute boy when you were a kid, but now he's a handsome man."

  "He is," I agreed.

  "I'd still love it if you and Ted got back together, of course," she said. "Not right now, obviously, but once the glamour of being with a gorgeous author wears off, I'm sure he'll realize how much he misses you."

  Wow. I didn't even bother responding. "We should probably get the rest of the cookies cleaned up," I said, changing the subject.

  "I don't think there are any left to clean up," my mother said. "They just loved my coconut cookies. I'll leave you the recipe if you like."

  "Thanks," I said mechanically.

  I spent the next hour cleaning up. People had managed to stash napkins and plates in the most interesting places; a few children had liberally decorated Blueberries for Sal and Make Way for Ducklings with crumbs and spilled punch, and the antique flatiron I used as a doorstop had somehow vanished into thin air. I got things in as good order as I could before I gave up, double-checked that all the doors and windows were locked, then grabbed the letters I'd been avoiding from the desk and retreated to my box-infested quarters above the shop.

  There were several ads, a few bills, and two letters I dreaded opening.

  Still, I had to face them, so I took a deep breath and opened the first envelope. It was from Board of Selectmen of the Town of Snug Harbor, telling me that it had come to the town's attention that I had done renovations without permits and that I would need to have the place inspected if I wanted to continue doing business. The deadline? Two weeks, or else I'd have to shut down the shop and/or pay hefty fines. Cal Parker hadn't been making that up, alas.

  The other was from Scooter Dempsey, Esq., who evidently had managed to somehow get a law degree in addition to putting together a development company since last we'd met. The letter was on behalf of Agatha Satterthwaite, and informed me that the property did, in fact, not belong to me, and that I would need to reimburse Agatha for half of its appraised value I planned to continue doing business. He then went on to suggest that a portion of my receipts might be on the line as well.

  It was even worse than I thought.

  I read the letters a second time and then jammed them back into their envelopes. What was I going to do?

  Nothing, right now. I just needed to deal with it in the morning.

  I did a cursory and (in retrospect) pointless teeth brushing, changed into PJs, and with Winston snuggled in beside me, ate cookies and read a James Herriot book before turning off the light and trying to go to sleep.

  Trying being the operative word.

  And it wasn't just because I was listening for sounds of another break-in downstairs.

  After all, how can you sleep when your ex-husband just turned up with a glamorous author; you've been told your business doesn't really belong to you; and the town council is trying to shut you down when you’ve only just opened?

  I finally gave up at around six a.m., having drifted into light off-and-on sleep. Mostly off. Light was leaking in through the curtains, brightening my bedroom; I got up and made myself a cup of coffee, then tossed on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, leashed up Winston, and slipped on my tennis shoes. Maybe getting out for a walk would help dispel the cloud that had settled around me ever since I found out about my legal problems.

  The air was cool and crisp and kissed with salt as I opened the door, the morning sun bright and full of promi
se. I took a sip of coffee from my thermal mug and locked the door behind me, feeling my spirits rise already.

  I took Winston first up Cottage Street to Main Street, watching a few shop owners sweeping their front porches and getting ready for the day; the smell of bacon wafted to my nose, and the nasturtiums and lobelia in their planters glowed like jewels in the sunshine. The sky was blue and clear, and the sea breeze played with my hair as I walked past the ice cream store, and then the coffee shop where Denise had told me she was manager—it was pretty much the only thing open at this time of day, and seemed to be doing a brisk business. I glanced inside, but didn't see her; since I already had coffee, I walked on. From the card Nicholas had given me I remembered his address as being on Tourmaline Street; I took a detour off Main Street past the post office to the small, white-timbered house bearing the sign “Waters and Powers, Attorneys at Law.” I hoped my mother was right and he'd have some ideas for getting me out of any legal entanglements.

  On the way back to the bookstore, I passed the sand bar and cut down to the beach, listening to the lap of the waves against the rocks and shells as I searched for sea glass

  A gull cried ahead of me. I looked up; somebody had left a pile of clothing on the beach, and the rising tide was starting to tug at it. I walked toward it, planning to pull it further up on the beach so I could come back down with a trash bag later, when I realized with a shock there was a hand bobbing up and down with the waves.

  Winston began to growl, straining at the leash.

  "Sssh," I said, and shortened the leash as I approached the body, hoping whoever it was might still be alive.

  He wasn't.

  And now I knew where my missing flatiron had gone.

  It was embedded in his skull.

  7

  "Oh, no," I breathed, recognizing Cal Parker.

  It was hard to believe that the same man who had almost yanked my arm out of the socket last night, very much alive, was now dead in the surf behind my store.

  I reached for my phone and called 911, trying to quell a wave of nausea as I reported what I found. I couldn't stop looking at his pale face, eyes now open and unseeing, the water playing with his dark hair. A crab came and investigated his hand while I gave details to the dispatcher; I shooed it away.

  I hung up the phone and hugged myself, still looking at the body. He was wearing the same clothes I'd seen him in last night—khakis and a blue-plaid shirt, with a navy windbreaker.

  I examined him further, looking for anything else that might point to the identity of his murderer. Because it was definitely murder. You don't read about people committing suicide by beaning themselves in the head with a flatiron.

  There was nothing obvious, although I found myself wondering where his phone was. Then, as the water shifted his jacket, I spotted what looked like a phone sticking out of the back pocket of his pants.

  Still holding Winston on a short leash, I used Cal’s jacket to pull the phone out. It was still functional; when I hit the button, some text messages popped up. One, from an anonymous number, at just before midnight. "Don't back out. We can fix the chatter. I've got it in the bag; I promise it'll work." And then, a few minutes later: "Please... just let's meet like we talked about." A third one from a DeeDee saying, "I'm so sorry we quarreled. I love you. I shouldn't have said anything." And a last one, at 1:32 a.m., again from DeeDee, saying, "Where are you? I'm worried. Please call."

  I tucked the phone back into his pocket and stepped away from the body, looking at the flatiron. Someone must have taken it from the bookstore yesterday.

  Had it happened during the signing?

  And if so, who had taken it?

  Since it seemed like half the town had been at the bookstore, it was going to be hard to narrow down.

  Unless someone had nabbed it before the grand opening.

  As I tried to remember when last I had seen it, a siren sounded from up near the store. I turned around and looked up as two paramedics jogged down to the beach carrying a stretcher.

  I just hoped they'd also called the coroner.

  The police showed up not long after the paramedics, and within minutes, the beach was turned into a crime scene.

  "You found the body?" a detective with brown, bobbed hair, a sharp chin and eyes that seemed to miss nothing asked me, a pad and pen at the ready. Her nametag identified her as R. Decker.

  "I did, right before I called 911," I informed her.

  She asked my name, jotted it down, then asked, "Did you know the victim?"

  I nodded. "I met him at the grand opening last night. I spoke with him briefly."

  "The grand opening? You mean the bookstore?" she asked, tilting her head toward Seaside Cottage Books.

  "Yes. I'm the new owner."

  "Huh." She wrote that down, then asked, "What did you talk to him about?"

  "He... well, told me that I needed permits for the renovations I'd done, and that I needed to get the place inspected and approved within two weeks."

  "That sounds kind of threatening."

  I shrugged. "He suggested that maybe we could make a deal."

  "Make a deal? How do you mean, exactly?"

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Did you meet him to talk about it?”

  "No," I said. "I closed up and went upstairs for the rest of the night. Other than taking Winston out for a quick walk."

  "When was that?"

  "I'd say nine or so? I didn't leave after that."

  She took down a note.

  "And the object that was used in the attack," she said. "Had you seen that before?"

  "I had, I believe."

  "Where?"

  "It functioned as a doorstop on the first floor of the bookshop." I shrugged. "But half the town was there yesterday. Any number of people could have taken it."

  "When did you last see it?"

  "I remember seeing it yesterday afternoon."

  "Before the opening."

  I nodded.

  "But during the opening?"

  "To be honest, I wasn't looking," I said. As I spoke, someone began photographing the body.

  "Anyone else you know of who might have wished Cal Parker harm?" the detective asked, taking notes as she spoke.

  I shook my head. "Like I said, I only met him yesterday."

  "Not an auspicious meeting, though," she said. "What time did he leave the store?"

  "I'm not sure. We closed at nine, but the last time I saw him must have been around eight."

  "And did you see him afterwards?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  "May I ask your whereabouts last night?"

  "Like I said, I finished cleaning up the place, then went up to my apartment and went to bed."

  "Your apartment is above the shop?"

  "Yes."

  "Can anyone else vouch for your whereabouts?"

  I looked down at Winston, who had moved close to my leg, as if he knew I was under threat. He cocked his fluffy white head at me. "Only Winston," I said.

  "Winston's your dog?"

  I nodded.

  "Do you have anything in writing regarding these permits?"

  "I have a letter from the Board of Selectmen," I said, "but I don't see what this has to do with what happened to Cal Parker."

  All she said was, "Can I get a copy of that?"

  "Of course," I said. "I'll make one today and get it to you."

  "Actually, I'll have the original, if you don't mind."

  I hesitated. I suspected she needed a warrant to go and get it, but I didn't want to look as if I wasn’t cooperating. "No problem," I said, "I just need to make a copy of it. I need to talk to an attorney and find out what my options are, and I'd like to have all the paperwork in order."

  "It seems to me that with Cal out of the way, maybe you won't have as much difficulty keeping the business going?"

  "Cal wasn't the one who claimed to own half the store," I pointed out. "All he wanted to do was talk to me about permits, I t
hink."

  "Right," she said, writing that down. "Who did you buy the place from? Loretta Satterthwaite?"

  "Yes," I confirmed. "It's her sister, Agatha, who is claiming she still owns half the property. At least according to Scooter."

  "Did it seem to you that Agatha was driving the effort to reclaim the property? Or someone else?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I just know that Scooter and Cal both seemed to know what was going on."

  She touched the cap of the pen to her cheek and gave me a thoughtful look. "You don't have plans to leave town anytime soon, do you?"

  "No," I said. "I just moved here the day before yesterday."

  "Good," she said. "I think that's all for now, but I'll be wanting to talk to you again—and if you wouldn't mind being fingerprinted?"

  "Of course," I said. "Although if the thing that killed Cal was from my shop, you're going to find my fingerprints on it. I know I've moved it more than once since I bought the shop."

  "Even so," she said. "Why don't you go get that paperwork, and I'll have someone take your prints."

  "Got it," I said, and with Winston at my heels, I turned away from the detective and the body on the beach, hoping that my stay in Snug Harbor wouldn't involve time behind bars.

  8

  When ten o'clock rolled around and I turned the sign at the front of the store to "Open," I was on my third cup of coffee, but the caffeine didn't seem to be helping much. After my interrogation, I'd showed the papers to the detective and had my fingerprints taken; despite multiple scrubbings, I couldn't get the ink off my fingers, which meant every time I looked down at my hands, I was reminded of what had happened—and of the fact that I was now a suspect in a murder case.

  Since the flatiron was gone, I substituted an owl bookend I had brought from Boston, and tried to distract myself by watering the geraniums on the front porch and putting out some of the new stock that was still in boxes in the storage closet.

  I really wanted to go upstairs and start putting my apartment to rights—I was feeling very out-of-sorts and discombobulated—but Bethany wasn't coming in till the afternoon, and someone had to woman the store.