But why?
I grabbed the phone and called the police to let them know of the break-in, telling them that I was unharmed (except for a small goose egg on my right temple). Once they assured me they were on their way, I headed upstairs to toss on jeans and a T-shirt, threw a few ice cubes in a baggie and wrapped it in a dish towel to make a cold compress and went back downstairs, holding the ice to my forehead and contemplating the drawer lying askew on top of the desk.
Someone was looking for something they thought was hidden in the shop. And it was important enough to break in and pull things apart to look at.
But why?
And why the sudden urgency? I'd been in and out of town for months, with plenty of opportunities to break into the store while no one was in residence. Was Loretta the keeper of some secret treasure, or first-edition book that hadn't been unearthed yet? Had someone just realized it was here? There was a small section of signed first editions on a shelf near the front of the store. I hadn't researched all of them yet, but I hadn't noticed anything that seemed to be of particular value. There were certainly no Gutenberg Bibles among the collection, which largely consisted of first editions by crime writers (one genre preference Loretta and I had had in common).
I headed back to the desk, stymied, and noticed a scrap of paper on the floor. I bent down to look at it; it was a crumpled receipt from the IGA, from 4:37 that afternoon, for a box of mothballs.
I hadn't bought mothballs. And I hadn't seen the receipt when I went up to bed, either. I made a note to point it out to the police when they arrived.
As I continued to prowl around the store, looking for other things out of place, blue and red lights flashed in the windows at the front of the store. A moment later, the detective who had printed me stepped up onto the front porch with a woman I didn't recognize in her wake; her nametag said A. Ramirez. I greeted her, opening the door and thanking her for coming.
She gave me a cool nod. "Detective Ramirez: You must be Max Sayers. Can you tell me what happened?"
I recounted the events of the previous half hour and led her to the desk, then showed her the broken window.
"Was the door unlocked?" she asked.
"It must have been; whoever it was threw the door open and took off. Someone broke in the other night, too, and pulled back part of the bookshelf; with everything that happened on the beach, I forgot to bring it up."
"You forgot," she said in a flat tone, and took a note. Then she inspected the door. "The window pane is right above the lock, but whoever did this must have had a really small hand."
I looked at the hole in the glass; I hadn't noticed it before, but it was a jagged gap not much larger than an apple. "I see what you mean," I said. "Maybe they used a lever or something?"
"Why not just make the hole a little bigger so you could fit your hand through, then?" she asked. "What time did you hear the glass break?"
"I'm not sure," I said, glancing at my watch. "It must have been about thirty minutes ago. It woke Winston and me up. I was about to go back to sleep when I heard more noise, so I decided to come downstairs and investigate."
"Why didn't you call us right away?"
"I should have," I admitted, "but I wanted to see who it was. And I was afraid by the time you got here, whoever it was would be long gone. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen block, just in case." I told her what had happened when the intruder spotted me, and pointed to the glass paperweight that had slid across the floor, coming to rest next to a display of journals. Then I pulled the bag of ice away from my temple to show her where the paperweight had hit me.
"You're lucky a goose egg is all you've got," she said. "You should probably get that checked out though. Make sure you don't have a concussion." She walked over and picked up the glass paperweight. "No blood, and it didn't shatter."
"My head seems to have absorbed most of the force."
"Mmmm," she said doubtfully. "We'll check it for prints, of course."
"You'll likely find mine and Bethany's," I told her.
"Bethany?" she asked.
"My employee," I said.
"Right." She peered at the swelling on my temple. "You really should go to the emergency room,"
"You're probably right," I said, but I'd decided that unless I started having symptoms other than a wicked headache, it would have to wait until tomorrow. I didn't need a $400 emergency room bill at the moment.
"And the desk was like this when you came down?" Detective Ramirez asked, examining the drawer.
"It was," I said. "And whoever it was pulled part of this bookshelf backing away the other day, too. It's almost like they were looking for some kind of secret compartment."
"Secret compartment?" she asked, her tone dubious. "Are you suggesting someone was searching for a secret treasure?"
"I have no idea," I said. "This house is more than a hundred years old; I don't know most of its history. Maybe someone heard an old story about something hidden inside."
"But the desk isn't part of the house," she pointed out.
"It came with the cottage," I told her. "I don't know how long it's been here; it could be original to the house. Like I said, though, I'm just speculating. I have no idea why someone broke in and started rifling through my store."
"Assuming someone broke in at all," she said.
I blinked. "What are you saying?"
"I printed you when you found a dead body. Since that time, you tell me there was a break-in you conveniently forgot to mention. Now you tell me about a break-in that occurred this evening. You didn't call until after the intruder had left, and the hole in the glass seems small."
"Are you suggesting I manufactured the story?" I asked. "What would I possibly have to gain by saying someone broke into my store?"
"I have no idea," Detective Ramirez said. "Publicity? Maybe to throw confusion into a murder investigation? Make it look like someone was after you, instead of Selectman Parker?"
"How would manufacturing a break-in confuse a murder investigation?" I asked. "I can't even see how those two things might possibly be related."
"The murder occurred behind your store. The supposed break-ins occurred at your store."
"Supposed break-ins?"
"According to you, the intruder wore gloves, so there won't be any fingerprint evidence. You conveniently ‘forgot’ to tell me about the first break-in. Tonight, you tell me someone broke a window to let themselves in, but the hole isn't big enough to put a hand through to turn the deadbolt."
"There's a receipt on the floor that wasn't here when I went up to bed." I pointed to the crumpled bit of paper. "It's from this afternoon, at around 4:30."
"Oh?" she asked. "What's it for? Lockpicks? Safe-cracking tools?"
"Mothballs," I said, blushing.
"Right," she said, squatting down and picking up the receipt with gloved hands. "We'll bag it, but it's hardly incriminating."
"I get it," I said. "You're saying I made all this up. Broke my own window to fake an intruder. Upended my desk drawer and messed with one of my bookshelves. And hit myself in the head with a paperweight."
"It's a theory," she said dryly.
"Then why? What's my motive?"
"I don't know. My best guess is that you believed it might muddy the murder investigation. When in fact," she said, "it's just made me more suspicious."
"Of me?" I asked. "I've been living in town for what... two, three days now? And I'm a suspect?'
"Your dealings with Mr. Parker were less than ideal," she pointed out. "And from what I understand, you invested pretty much everything in this business, and his actions put that at risk." She stared at me, and there was a hardness in her eyes that made my stomach churn. "People have killed for less."
"I am not a murderer," I said flatly, grabbing Winston, who had started to growl at the detective, and hugging him to my chest. "And I did not 'fake' a break-in. Someone was looking for something in my shop. And if you're not going to look for the culprit, then I'll
have to."
"I'd advise you to avoid interfering in the investigation any further," Detective Ramirez said in a cool voice, her eyes stony. "We'll continue the investigation."
"Thank you," I said politely, if coldly. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go and get a cup of tea. You and your team are welcome to a cup if you'd like, and there are cookies by the register; help yourself."
"No thank you," she said in a dismissive tone that sent a chill up my spine.
This woman really did think I'd murdered Cal Parker.
Which meant I had a lot more to worry about than whether or not I owned Seaside Cottage Books.
18
It was almost one in the morning by the time the investigators finally left. I spent a good half hour cleaning up the broken glass beneath the back door, as well as the fingerprint powder that dusted the floor beneath it. Then I shoved the papers into the desk drawer and slid it back into the desk; I was too tired to sort through them now.
One of the officers had helped me tack a board from the back shed over the broken window, but if, as Detective Ramirez claimed, the hole was too small for someone to reach through and unlock the door, somebody was either a skilled lock picker or had a key to the store. In which case, why smash the glass at all?
I'd left the key under the back mat for Bethany from time to time over the past few months, before I managed to get a copy made. Had someone taken it and had their own copy made?
I didn't know how someone had managed to get into the shop, but I did know that I was getting both locks rekeyed the next morning. It was unlikely that the intruder would return after the cops had been all over the place, and nobody had ever broken into my rooms above the shop, but sleep came only in short bursts that night; even Winston had a hard time settling down.
When the sun started peeking through the curtains, I gave up on sleep and put on slippers and a robe. I wasn't ready to face the day, but the day was facing me. I made an extra-large pot from the bag of French Roast coffee Denise had brought me. As the comforting scent of the brew filled my cozy kitchen, I leafed through the recipe book for another cookie recipe to tackle that afternoon (assuming sales would continue to be strong), settling on one for a delicious looking caramel turtle bar, and filling Winston's bowl with kibble and a few bits of grated cheddar cheese from the fridge.
By the time I opened at 10:00, the locksmith and glazier had promised to arrive early that afternoon, and the only sign of last night's drama was the wood tacked over the windows of the back door. It was a busy morning; I'd hoped to have a chance to do some more baking, but with the flurry of customers coming in out of curiosity and need for reading material, there wasn't enough time to nip up to the kitchen.
It was a rewarding morning, though. I introduced the grandmother of a young reader to the Boxcar Children, then helped her slake her interest in Ireland with Tony Hawks’ Round Ireland with a Fridge and the first books of the wonderful Irish mystery series by Erin Hart and Sheila Connolly. We also ordered an Irish cookbook for her, as well as a book on Irish genealogy; she'd come back to pick them up in a week. I gave her two shortbread cookies as a bonus. I sent a visitor who had fallen in love with Maine on her family's vacation home with The Secret Life of Lobsters, the first of Lea Wait's Maine mysteries, and Bernd Heinrich's A Year in the Maine Woods, along with a gorgeous coffee table book on sea glass. By the time I'd sold my tenth book of the morning (The Essex Serpent, a creative magical historical book set in England), I was realizing I had a knack for finding the right book for the right person... just as Loretta had done for me.
As the woman with The Essex Serpent headed for the door, thanking me for my help, I recognized Agatha Satterthwaite marching up the front walk, looking (as my mother liked to say) loaded for bear.
"Good morning," I said as she pushed through the front door.
"You shouldn't be doing business," she said. "This place doesn't belong to you."
"I know you're contesting the ownership," I said, trying to sound reasonable, "and I'm looking into it, but if I don't sell books, I can't pay for the electricity or even groceries."
"You and Loretta stole from me," she complained. "You owe me hundreds of thousands of dollars."
"The whole thing is rather confusing," I admitted. "Why would Loretta claim to own the whole store if she didn't? And why didn't you take it up with Loretta?"
"What was I supposed to do, harass a dying woman?" she spat.
"But she passed a month ago," I said. "Why are you only bringing this up now?"
For the first time, she looked a little less sure of herself. Her eyes darted around for a moment, and then she said, "I had to research things."
"What things?" I asked. "If you knew the will gave the store to both of you, and you had a copy, what more was there?"
"I just... anyway, it doesn't matter when I lodge the complaint," she announced, crossing her arms over her chest. The buttoned-up collar of her gray blouse was so tight it looked like it might be cutting off circulation to her head. "We need this resolved. You need to pay me fair market value for my share of the property."
"If that is the answer, that's going to take some time, I'm afraid," I said. "I put all of my money into the store; I'd have to get a loan, and that's a process." I wasn't sure I could get a loan, but I wasn't going to tell Agatha that.
"You'll need to do it fast. I have a good offer on the property. If you can't match it, then I'll have to sell to him."
"But if I own half the property—and since Loretta signed a quitclaim deed, I do own at least half—then wouldn't I have to approve the sale, too?" I asked. "Besides, you'd have to pay my half of the value, since Loretta sold to me."
Her mouth worked for a bit; I'd flummoxed her. "All I know is you're a squatter. Maybe even a killer. And I demand my money." And then, without another word, she stormed back the way she'd come, leaving me feeling like I'd won at least a tiny victory.
For now, anyway.
But it still didn't get me any closer to getting me off the suspect list for Cal Parker's murder.
19
Bethany showed up at noon, looking pensive.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I've hit a bit of a stumbling block on my mystery," she said. "I know the timing is less than ideal, but would you mind if I announced the store mystery writer's group we'd talked about? I could use some input from fellow writers."
"I've got enough of a mystery myself to contend with right now, with half the town and the police convinced I killed Cal Parker,” I said, "but go for it. Anything that brings people in the door is good in my book." It had been a slowish morning. I'd sold a few cookbooks, a couple of thrillers, and one copy of The Very Hungry Little Caterpillar, and eaten half the cookies myself.
"I'll put the notice on the Facebook page," she said, then hesitated. "There are a few things I should show you, by the way."
"What?"
She pulled up Facebook on her iPad. "You've gotten a few nasty posts from sham accounts."
"Like what?" I asked.
She scrolled to two of them. DO NOT SHOP HERE UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR HEAD BASHED IN, read one, along with BOOKSTORE OWNED BY MURDERER. The posters were named John Eastport and Jane Schoodic.
"Creative," I said with a sigh.
"I've hidden them all, but I had to change the settings on the page so that all posts are approved, and I have to monitor comments constantly."
"Who is doing this?"
"I don't know," she said, "but it's not good for business."
"Maybe we should shut down the page."
"Or, better yet, solve the mystery of what happened to Cal Parker," Bethany suggested. "Any ideas?"
As I rearranged the bookmarks I'd set up by the register—I hoped soon to have crafts from locals to sell, including handmade bookmarks and journals, presuming I remained in business for more than a week—I gave her a rundown of what I knew so far. "It had to be someone at the bookstore that night, since the murder weapon was the flatiron I ke
ep by the door."
"Okay," she said, taking out a pad and a pen. "Meryl Ferguson is high on that list."
"Yes," I said. "She's furious he 'stole' her selectman seat, and thinks he was going to sell out Snug Harbor."
"But is that enough to kill for?" Bethany asked.
"I'm not sure it's typical 'crime of passion' material," I admitted, "but it's enough to keep her on the list. Jared Berland down at the Salty Dog is another possibility; Cal was giving him a really hard time about his business, and I overheard Jared and Sylvia yelling at each other down on the beach. She seemed to think he might have been responsible for what happened."
"Jared does have a violent temperament," she said, tapping her pad with the pen. "I'll put him down. He's got a reputation for potential domestic abuse, too."
"Poor Sylvia," I said.
"I know," she said. "What about Cal's brother Josiah?" she asked.
"I've never met him, but from everything I've heard, he's definitely on the list," I replied as I moved over to the blank book section, straightening the spines. Would anyone ever buy them? I wondered, then banished the thought. "Do you know where I can find Josiah?" I asked.
"I'd recommend the Salty Dog," she suggested. "He likes to go there for Happy Hour and trash talk his brother with the Berlands."
"I can kill two birds with one stone, then," I said. "So to speak. On the other hand, Jared wasn't at the reading that night."
She chewed on the end of her pen. "When did you notice the doorstop missing?"
"Not until the end of the night, I think," I said. "Why?"
"I saw Jared and Josiah walking on the beach behind the store earlier in the day," she said. "They were talking intently. If the back door was unlocked..."
"Are you thinking one of them might have slipped in and stolen the doorstop without anyone seeing them?"
"It's entirely possible; I don't know if the back door was locked, so someone could have come in without our noticing" she said. "We don't know that it disappeared during the signing, after all. We can't rule anyone out."
A Killer Ending Page 12
