A Killer Ending Page 2

  "Become a booming success and feature my first book," Bethany said, "and we'll call it even."

  "Of course," I said, grinning at her. I had total faith in Bethany; she was smart, enthusiastic, dedicated, and one of the hardest workers I knew.

  I glanced around the store, which was picture-perfect and ready for opening, with pride and anticipation mixed with a little bit of anxiety. After all, everything was riding on this venture. I'd spent the last twenty years taking care of my daughters, running a home, and working part-time at one of Boston's independent bookstores, Bean Books. Now that I was single again, I needed to be able to take care of myself, and after being out of the workforce for two decades, my prospects in corporate America were rather limited. Besides, I couldn't envision spending the next twenty years in some oatmeal-colored cubicle answering phones and doing filing, which was pretty much the only option available for someone with my work experience.

  With real estate prices in Boston, there was no way I could pay my rent with the salary that Ellie, the owner of Bean Books and a dear friend, was able to pay me, even though she had offered me an assistant manager position. When Ellie told me Loretta was ill and might be looking for someone to help run Seaside Cottage Books—or even take it over for her—something inside me responded. I'd always fantasized about owning my own bookstore and living in a small community, and I wasn't getting any younger. Did I really want my obituary to say "She always wanted to own a bookstore but never got around to it"? No matter what happened, I was glad I'd gone after what I'd always wanted; and Ellie had been a terrific cheerleader and consultant during my moments of doubt.

  Winston seemed to approve of the new digs, too; he'd settled down into the dog bed I'd put beside the old desk I was using as a counter, looking content for the first time that day. Or at least relieved to be out of his crate. I knew the demand for dinner would be coming soon, though.

  "Mail is in the top drawer of the desk—there were a few things that looked important, so I put them on top of the stack—and I shelved another order of books that came in today," Bethany informed me. "There was a new one from Barbara Ross in the order, so I put it in the New Releases display."

  "Perfect," I told her.

  "I'm going to head home for dinner," she said. "But I'll be back tomorrow. If you need help unloading, I can ask my cousins to come give us a hand tomorrow morning."

  "That would be a massive help; there's no way I could get that couch up the stairs on my own, much less the mattress. I can't thank you enough!"

  "See you in the morning, then. I can't wait!"

  "Text me when you get home, okay?'

  "I will," she promised.

  I watched through the front window as Bethany climbed onto her bike and turned right on Cottage Street, keeping my eyes on her until she disappeared from sight. Her house was only a few blocks away. I knew Snug Harbor was safe, but I also knew I wouldn't sleep soundly unless I knew Bethany had gotten home okay.

  Once a mother, always a mother, I suppose.

  "Let's stretch our legs," I suggested, grabbing a leash from the passenger seat of the car and clipping it to Winston's collar. With a glance back at the house—and the U-Haul I still had to unload—we headed down the grassy trail to the water, pausing to inspect a few raspberry bushes with berries hidden under the yellow-green leaves, Winston straining at the leash and sniffing everything in range. Berries I would pick and put into ice cream sundaes, into muffins... I had so many things to look forward to this summer. Beach roses filled the air with their winey perfume, the bright blooms studding the dark green foliage.

  Winston romped happily toward the water, smelling all the grass tufts, only slowing down and treading carefully when we got to the rocky beach. The tide was halfway out, and Winston was staying close beside me. Even though the waves in the harbor were minimal, he'd been swamped by a rogue wave once, and had had new respect for the ocean ever since. As we walked, I scanned the dark rocks mixed with flecks of brown seaweed, searching out of habit for sea glass. I found two brown chunks, doubtless the remains of old beer bottles; a couple of green shards; and two bits of delicate pale green that must have started life as Coke bottles; and I was about to turn back when a glint of cobalt caught my eye. I scooped it up and rinsed it off; it was a beautiful, deep blue shard, my favorite color and a lucky find. I tucked it in my pocket and walked up the beach, my stomach rumbling. What I really wanted to do was go to one of those restaurants up the street and indulge in a lobster dinner, but I was on a tunafish budget, so a homemade sandwich would have to do.

  I grabbed the overnight case from the back seat of the SUV and climbed the back stairs to the apartment porch, Winston in my wake. Then I unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on the light with my elbow, and smiled. It was cozy, sweet, and... in a word, perfect.

  In the back of the little house, with a gorgeous view of the harbor, was the living room, whose natural-colored floors and white walls (painted by me) looked fresh and bright, even in the evening. Although the furnishings currently consisted of nothing more than two folding chairs and a dust mop, I could picture how it would be once I brought in my white couch and coffee table, with a big blue rag rug against the golden floor.

  The kitchen was small, but cozy, also with wood floors and white walls, with a card table I'd gotten at the second-hand store in the corner. I'd outfitted the kitchen with odds and ends from my kitchen in Boston, including a toaster oven I'd been meaning to throw away for years, a coffeemaker that had been state-of-the-art in the late 1990s, and stacks of white and blue plates from Goodwill. I plopped down my overnight bag, released Winston from his leash, and grabbed a loaf of bread I'd put in the freezer the last time I was here, tucking two slices into the toaster oven and fishing in the small fridge for cheese. A bottle of cheap but not entirely undrinkable Prosecco sat in the fridge door; I'd bought it in anticipation of this night.

  I slapped a slice of cheddar cheese on each piece of bread, then hit "toast" and retrieved a jam jar from the cabinet. While Winston watched, I popped the cork on the Prosecco and filled the jar. Then, jam jar in hand, I walked into the living room and surveyed the view from the kitchen window, which overlooked the harbor.

  The sandbar connecting Snug Harbor to Snug Island had been almost swallowed up by the tide, and two late seagulls picked through the broken shells at the water's edge. Two sea kayakers were heading out from the island, paddling toward Snug Harbor, probably anxious to get back before total darkness fell. The sky was rose and peach and deep, deep, blue, and the first two stars twinkled in the cobalt swath of sky.

  I looked down to where Winston stood behind me, looking up at me expectantly, head cocked to one side. "To new beginnings," I said, slipping my companion a piece of cheese before raising my jar in a toast, then sipping the fizzy Prosecco. "We made it."

  As I spoke, I noticed a furtive figure slipping out of the trees and creeping up the path to the house. Then it paused, and I could see the pale oval of a face looking up at the lit window. As if whoever it was had changed their mind, he or she hustled back into the trees, melting into the shadows. Beside me, standing at the glass door, Winston's hackles rose, and he growled.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms for the second time that night—this time, not in a good way. "It's okay," I reassured the little dog, hoping to reassure myself at the same time. "Whoever it is is gone."

  As I spoke, the smell of burning toast filled the air. "Drat," I said, and I hurried back to the kitchen, where the edges of the toast had blackened.

  I pulled it out of the toaster and onto a plate, burning myself in the process, and cut off the edges with a butter knife, then sat down at the table with my sad-looking toasted cheese sandwich and a jam jar of Prosecco, still wondering who had headed up the path and changed tack at the last minute.

  Whoever it was was gone, I told myself as I bit into my sandwich. And I had other things to worry about.

  Like unpacking the truck.

  And prepar
ing to have all of Snug Harbor descend on my fledgling bookstore in less than 24 hours.

  It was almost midnight by the time I curled up with Winston snuggled into the crook of my arm. I hoped it was my last night sleeping on an air mattress, but with my crisp blue and white percale sheets, fluffy blanket, and soft pillows, it wasn't exactly a hardship. Besides, it was lovely being able to see the stars out my window; and to open the window and hear the lap of the water against the shore and the breeze in the maple tree next to the house, instead of Boston traffic in the distance.

  I read one of Lee Strauss' charming Ginger Gold books until my eyes started to droop. Then I reached to turn off the lamp I'd set up next to the head of the mattress and burrowed into the covers, lulled to sleep by Winston's steady breathing and the soothing sound of the ocean.

  Until a crashing sound from downstairs woke me up.

  2

  Winston and I jerked awake simultaneously, both sitting up in a near panic. Winston stood at attention, issuing short yippy, anxious barks. I shushed him, listening; sure enough, there was another clunk, from somewhere below me.

  My thoughts sprang to the skulking figure I'd seen behind the shop earlier. Had someone broken in?

  The moon had risen as I slept, illuminating the room enough so that I didn't need to turn on a light. I grabbed my bathrobe from the hook next to the door and wrapped it around me, tiptoeing toward the bedroom door. Winston watched from the mattress, no longer barking but whining anxiously. Evidently, he wasn't quite brave enough to join me.

  I grabbed the dust mop, edged over to the door to the stairs, and took a deep breath. Then I unlocked the door, yanked it open, and turned on the light. "Is someone down there? I'm armed," I announced, stretching the truth just a tad.

  There was a shuffling sound from downstairs, then footsteps. I caught a glimpse of movement; a moment later, I heard the back door creak open and slam shut.

  I closed the apartment door and locked it, and hurried to the back windows. Sure enough, a flashlight bobbed down the path, right where I'd seen someone earlier that day. Winston joined me, growling quietly, as I watched it disappear. Then, still holding the dust mop, I unlocked the door and headed downstairs, Winston a safe ten steps behind me, still growling.

  It was weird being in the store knowing someone had just left. I headed to the back door first; it was shut, but unlocked. I opened it; there was no splintering on the door frame, or any sign of forced entry. Did someone other than Bethany and me have a key? I wondered. When I'd bought the place from Loretta Satterthwaite, she'd turned over the keys, and I hadn't had the doors rekeyed. Maybe one of the former employees had a copy.

  But why would they be breaking into the store?

  At first glance, nothing looked any different than it had when Bethany and I walked through. The desk appeared untouched; nobody had been rifling through the drawers, thank goodness, and the table Bethany had set up in the front room was still pristine.

  Something had fallen over, though. I’d heard it.

  But what?

  I found it in the back room.

  Someone had dumped the books off one of the shelves Bethany and I had neatly organized in the Nature section and started to pry the back of the bookcase away from the wall.

  If they were looking for a cavity of some sort, they were out of luck; the only thing behind the shelf was wallboard.

  I touched the splintered wood of the bookshelf and cursed under my breath, then stooped to retrieve the books that had been thrown to the floor—several were favorites by Rachel Carson and Bernd Heinrich. It bothered me that someone would treat books with such disregard, but I reminded myself to be thankful that the damage wasn't worse. A few had bent covers, but most were okay, and I replaced them carefully on the shelf. I'd have to get someone in to fix the back of the shelf, but thankfully the books covered the worst of it; there was only a small pulled-back area visible above the books on the left end of the shelf.

  After I finished rearranging the shelf, I tapped around the other shelves, listening for a hollow sound, but heard nothing suspicious. Then I walked through the rest of the shop, tapping on walls, looking for more damage, and wondering why someone had broken into my shop to pull back a bookshelf.

  Had they been looking for something hidden?

  And if so, what?

  The next day went by in a whirlwind. Bethany's cousins, Shane and Ernest, came by and helped me unload the U-Haul, leaving the formerly empty apartment riddled with boxes and furniture, including my bed, which I'd disassembled for the move and which now lay in pieces on the bedroom floor.

  As Shane and Ernest manhandled a queen-sized mattress up the exterior stairs, I turned to Bethany, who was bundled up against the morning chill and sipping coffee out of a heavy pottery mug. "Have you had any issues with anyone breaking in?" I asked her.

  "What?" she asked, her young brow furrowed. "Not that I know of... why?"

  I related what had happened the night before.

  "That's terrifying," she said. "Did you see who it was?"

  "No," I said, "but whoever it was seemed to have a key; the back door was unlocked."

  "I've had a few things move seemingly of their own accord the last few months, but I put that down to forgetfulness—or you being here when I wasn't. Nobody's taken a crowbar to anything, though. Are you sure the door was locked?" she asked. "It's easy to forget."

  "I wish I could say I was," I admitted, "but I don't specifically remember actually locking it." I sighed. "I should probably have everything rekeyed." I didn't want to spend the money, but I didn't want to have to reassemble my bookshelves, either. I did a quick Google search on my phone, left a message for the first local locksmith that came up, and then started hauling boxes up the stairs.

  The U-Haul was unloaded in record time, leaving me with a thicket of boxes to sort through. The apartment could wait, though; not only did I have to return the U-Haul, but there were still preparations to be done for the grand opening. As soon as Shane and Ernest left, each with an envelope of cash and some home-baked cookies, I headed out to drop off the U-Haul. It was almost 2:00 before I returned to the store. Bethany was already there, wearing an "I LOVE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE" T-shirt and cleaning and setting up chairs she'd found in the storage shed out back; we'd need them for the author reading.

  It was an hour before opening when I began putting out cookies and setting out cups and plates, satisfied that I'd gotten everything else about as clean and fresh as I could. Bethany was doing a few last-minute errands while I made the punch and set out the treats. When I had arranged the cookies—I'd included my favorite lemon bars, several dozen of my specialty double-chocolate-chip cookies, and three batches of jam thumbprints—added the last bottle of soda to the punch bowl and filled the percolators with ground coffee and water, I collapsed into the chair behind the big antique desk. Winston, who had spent the day busily running around supervising, sank into his dog bed beside me, looking exhausted. My eyes drifted to the top drawer; Bethany had said there were some important-looking letters in there, but I hadn't gotten around to looking at them yet. I was sure many of them were bills I should probably make myself face, even if that was the last thing on the planet I felt like doing right now. I sighed and steeled myself for what was in the drawer.

  As I reached for the handle, there was a knock at the front door. I looked up in surprise to see my mother, her long gray hair swept up into a loose bun and a cheerful smile on her round face.

  "Welcome to Snug Harbor, sweetheart!" she said, pulling me into a one-armed perfumed hug (the other hand was holding a bag) as I opened the door. My mother had a camp on Crescent Lake that she'd taken to staying in full-time a few years back; it was where I had spent many summers as a girl. My daughters had practically grown up there, spending every school vacation canoeing off the dock and catching fireflies, then coming in for root beer floats and jigsaw puzzles. Once Ted and I separated, I went on a week-long trip to the Gray Whale Inn on Cranber
ry Island, Maine, with my boss and old friend Ellie as I tried to figure out what to do next; it was there that I found out about Loretta's situation, and both Ellie and the delightful innkeeper, Natalie Barnes, encouraged me to look into taking over the store. I'd then spent a few weeks at my mother's camp, losing myself in the Agatha Christies that still lined the bookshelves, and drinking hot chocolate on the dock while reflecting on my new circumstances and trying to decide if becoming a bookstore owner was the right thing to do.

  After a week of thinking, I'd ventured out to find Loretta, who told me that Seaside Cottage Books was indeed for sale, and that she'd love for me to take over the store. When she and I came to a number that almost exactly matched my settlement, it seemed like a sign from the universe that this was where the next chapter of my life was meant to unfold. My mother, of course, was delighted that I was relocating to Snug Harbor, although she hadn't yet come to terms with the fact that Ted and I were no longer married. I knew she fostered hopes that our expired marriage would one day be resuscitated.

  "Thanks, Mom," I said as my mother released me from her scented hug.

  "Here are some lemon cookies," she said, proffering a Tupperware container. "I figured you could use extra."

  "Thank you!" I said.

  "I made a batch of your favorite coconut cookies, too; they're in the back of the car. I'll go get them." She marched down the steps to where her green Subaru was parked, then opened the back door and pulled out a second big Tupperware container. "I thought I'd come early in case you need a little help," she said as she closed the car door and headed back up the walk to the store.

  "Thanks," I said half-heartedly, trailing her up the porch steps and into Seaside Cottage Books.

  She stopped as the door opened. "Oh, wow, Maxine." My mother was the only person on the planet who still called me Maxine; I'd been Max since junior high, and I preferred it that way. "The place looks terrific." Her eyes crinkled into a smile as she turned to me and said, tenderly, "Loretta would be thrilled."