A Killer Ending Page 8

  As Winston investigated the curb lining the road, I found myself wondering about the driver of the sleek, expensive car. Was she the woman who had threatened Cal the night before? If not, why was she at the house? I'd have to ask Bethany and Denise if they knew who she was... or who Cal had been seeing. One of them, I couldn't remember who, had said he had dated multiple people. Had one of his girlfriends found out about another?

  There was one thing I could say for Cal Parker: he certainly seemed to have had a lot of people angry at him before he died.

  I walked home slowly, passing several cute and sleepy houses before I was back in Snug Harbor proper, I relished the colorful shop windows and the gorgeous planters, which were overflowing with jewel-like orange and red nasturtiums, white and crimson geraniums, and vivid purple lobelia. As Winston sniffed at a particularly lovely container garden in a whiskey barrel, I made a mental note to add some plantings to the barrels of geraniums at the front of the shop; a few more pops of color would make the already adorable shingle-style building even more enchanting.

  As I passed the Snug Harbor Suncatchers store, entranced by the brilliant stained-glass creations that twirled in the morning breeze, I caught a glimpse of myself in the empty store window across the street and winced. I hadn't looked in the mirror before I left the store; I'd scrunched my hair up in a ponytail when I was standing behind the register, and now a big chunk was standing up in a lump on the left side of my head. Thank goodness I hadn't seen anyone I knew yet... not that I knew that many people in Snug Harbor these days anyway. But I had just reached up to fix that hair lump when around the corner appeared Nicholas, who was staring down at his phone and carrying a paper cup of coffee with Sea Beans' logo.

  Or had been, until he ran into me.

  As we collided, his coffee cup jolted out of his hand, covering both of us in warm, milky latte.

  "Oh my gosh... I'm so sorry!" I said, my hand still in my lumpy hair and my T-shirt now covered in coffee, which thankfully was no longer piping hot.

  Nicholas was also covered in coffee, but unlike me, he was wearing nicer clothes—khakis and a green button-down shirt, both of which were now liberally splotched. To my relief, he grinned at me, then bent to retrieve my travel mug.

  "Why are you sorry? We both ran into each other."

  "I just wasn't paying attention," I said, about to tell him I was checking myself out in the store window across the street, then catching myself just in time. Something about the way he looked at me made my face heat up. I suddenly realized I still had an enormous hair lump on the top of my head. I yanked the rubber band out of my hair and attempted to fluff it nonchalantly, wishing I'd taken five minutes to at least glance at myself in the mirror before heading out the door.

  "Me neither," he said. "I just got a text from a client, and should have been watching where I was going instead of attempting to type with my thumbs. I'm just thankful you weren't a Suburban."

  I laughed. Speaking of texts, I hadn't heard from my girls in a while, and I had some questions to ask them. Like, about why nobody had mentioned my ex was dating K. T. Anderson, glamorous bestselling author extraordinaire. Although it wasn't a fair question; that really was his responsibility to share, not theirs, now that I thought of it.

  "I heard you had a bit of a surprise this morning," he said. "I'm sorry you were the one who had to find him."

  "Cal Parker? Yeah. It was a bit of a shock," I admitted.

  "You and your canine companion found him on your morning walk? That’s what the Snug Harbor grapevine is saying. Which isn't entirely to be trusted, although at least they didn't have you toting along a wagon filled with monkeys."

  "A wagon full of monkeys?"

  "Sometimes a bit of embellishment happens as news travels," he said. "I also heard that the cops printed you."

  I held up my still stained fingertips. "They did," I said.

  "Not the best welcome back to town, is it?"

  "No," I said. "And you don't know the half of it." I told him about Agatha Satterthwaite's claim.

  He sighed. "That's got Scooter written all over it."

  "Speaking of Scooter..." I blushed, thinking of the rumors he had spread about me all those years ago.

  "Ancient history," Nicholas said shortly, before I had a chance to say another word, and gave me a tight smile. "Did you do a title search when you bought the property?"

  "Uh, no," I said sheepishly. "Loretta and I kind of managed it as a personal transaction, to cut agent commission costs."

  He grimaced. "That's not good news."

  My heart sank. "Is there anything I can do? My understanding is that she owned the place outright, or I never would have bought it."

  "She signed a quitclaim deed?"

  I nodded.

  "So you at least own half of it," he said. "Presuming the will split the property between them."

  "That's good news, right?"

  "It's not the worst-case scenario, anyway. But Agatha would still own the other half."

  "Great," I said.

  He looked down at his shirt and pants, and then glanced at his phone. "I hate to run, but I probably should head home and change; I've got a meeting in thirty minutes."

  "Oh... I'm sorry to hold you up."

  "No worries," he said, with the lopsided grin that had captured my heart back in eighth grade. "I'll see what I can dig up on your case," he added as he picked up his coffee cup and deposited it into a nearby trash can.

  "I really appreciate it," I told him. "See you soon." I started back on my way with Winston.

  "Oh, and Max?" he called after I'd moved on about ten steps.

  "Yes?" I asked, whirling around.

  "I'm glad you're back in town," he said, and my heart turned over in my chest.

  By the time I got home, my heart rate had almost returned to normal, and as I opened the door to my still-boxed-up kitchen, I was caught between floating on cloud nine and falling into a pit of despair. It was a weird place to be.

  I'd just finished changing out of my coffee-stained clothes and fixing my hair in the mirror (still a big lump, much to my embarrassment), when my cell phone burbled in the back pocket of the jeans I'd recently changed out of. I managed to pull it out of the pocket and answer it just before it went to voicemail. It was my daughter, Audrey.

  12

  "Mom?" she said, voice tentative.

  "Hey, Audrey," I said. "How's the summer job treating you?"

  "Fine," she said. She was interning at a local non-profit, I knew. "I talked to Dad last night," she said cautiously.

  "Oh?" I asked.

  "Yeah. He mentioned you two, uh, ran into each other at the store's grand opening."

  "We did," I confirmed. There was a moment of silence.

  "Sorry I didn't tell you," she finally blurted. "It's just... I didn't want to get in the middle of it, and it's so awkward, and I don't know what I think, and..."

  My heart melted, and I sat down on the foot of my unmade air mattress, sinking almost all the way to the floor. I eyed my real mattress, which was propped up against the wall, and vowed to make at least some progress in my living space that evening. "It's okay, sweetheart. We're all finding our way through this. I understand how awkward it must be for you."

  "You do? Really? It's just... I don't know what to do. I mean, she's nice and all, and Dad seems happy—they're like high schoolers, oh my gosh, I shouldn't have just told you that—but it's so weird!"

  My heart twisted a little, but I reassured her. "I get it," I told her. "It's weird for me, too. But we both love you so much, and I really am glad he's doing okay." Even if he was now going by Theodore.

  "I just felt so bad meeting her and not telling you about it... I feel like such an awful daughter, and…"

  "No." I stopped her mid-sentence. "You don't need to get involved in what happens between Dad and me. That's our job," I said.

  "Really?"

  "Really," I said. "And that goes for your sister, too."
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br />   "Thanks," she said, and I could hear the relief in her voice. "She's mad, but she really does love you; I think she'll come around."

  "Thanks," I said. "Is everything going okay for her?"

  "It is," she said. "She's just… adjusting. Is my puppy doing okay?" she asked, changing the subject.

  "Winston is great," I said, looking down at his smiling face. "We just got back from a walk."

  "I'll bet he loves all the new smells." She knew our little dog well. "I miss him so much. How did the opening go?"

  "Fine," I said.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "What? Nothing."

  "I know better than that. Spill it. Is it what's going on with Dad?"

  "No," I said, truthfully. "It's just some bureaucratic red tape, is all."

  "Bureaucratic red tape?"

  "I'm sure I'll get it worked out."

  "Whatever it is, it sounds bad. Are you sure you're okay?”

  "It'll be fine," I said lightly, even though I wasn't sure it would be fine at all. But Audrey had enough on her plate right now; between coping with our divorce, figuring out how to be a college student and holding down her first job, she didn't need to be pulled into my drama. Although if they cuffed me and threw me in jail for murder, she might not have a choice.

  Stop being dramatic, I chided myself; from what I knew of Cal, stronger suspects were thick on the ground. I'd only just met the man yesterday. I'd only been angry at him for 12 hours before I found him dead. Plenty of other people had evidently been mad at him for years.

  Audrey spent the next ten minutes telling me about her job, and the weekend trip she was planning with friends, and I felt my heart swell with love and pride. She'd been a shy but super-bright girl, and I loved watching her not just come into her own in school, but finally learn to make and nurture friendships. "It sounds like things are going great, Audrey."

  "They are. Oh, and I met someone," she added, off-handedly. That was a first; she hadn't had any apparent interest in dating all through high school, and I'd never heard her mention anyone since starting college.

  "Really?" I asked. Love appeared to be in the air for everyone but me, I thought. Then the image of Nicholas' lopsided smile floated into my thoughts. I banished it. "Who is he?" I asked, returning my focus to my daughter.

  "His name is Blake," she said. "He's pre-med. We met at a coffee shop, and he's taken me out to dinner three times. I think you'll like him."

  "I'm sure I will," I said. "I'd love to meet him when you're ready."

  "Of course," she said. "Hey... I've got to go, but thanks for talking. I love you. And I hope you get whatever it is worked out."

  "I love you too, Pumpkin," I said, and hung up with a smile on my face. I might not have gotten my marriage right. I might not have gotten the purchase of Seaside Cottage Books right. But my kids were all right, and that meant more to me than anything.

  By the time Winston and I made it down to open the bookstore the next morning, I'd deflated and folded up the air mattress, maneuvered my mattress onto my bedroom floor, made it up with fresh sheets, and emptied two boxes of kitchen stuff. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

  Downstairs, as Winston curled up in his bed, I turned the shop sign to OPEN and picked up the stack of papers that had been delivered to the front porch that morning. As I set the string-tied bundle on the counter, the above-the-fold headline caught my eye: LOCAL SELECTMAN FOUND DEAD: FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED. Below it was a picture of the beach behind the bookstore, the peaceful scene marred by yellow crime scene tape and men and women in uniform. No sign of the body in the picture, thankfully.

  I reread the headline and shook my head. Suspected? I thought as I pulled the top paper out from the bundle and spread it on the desk. How else did someone end up with a flatiron embedded in the back of his head if not foul play?

  I scanned the article, dismayed to find my name in the second paragraph. "He was discovered by Maxine Sayers, new owner of Seaside Cottage Books. Parker had recently threatened to issue the business owner a citation for operating improperly."

  I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. Had the journalist who wrote the article just drawn a link between Cal Parker's death and me? I glanced at the byline—Frieda Appleby—and read on. "Parker was recently elected to his position on the board of selectman, replacing longtime incumbent Meryl Ferguson. His take on town governance has been hotly contested, and his pro-development approach has already seen pushback from longtime locals." Like who? I wondered as I kept reading. Not much more of interest in the article, other than to say that he was survived by his ex-wife, Gretchen Parker, and a brother, Josiah Parker, who was named as a "local fisherman."

  No mention of anyone who might have been drinking champagne with him in his bedroom, unfortunately. But the article did mention that local authorities were investigating the case as a homicide.

  I groaned and leaned back in my chair, my eyes falling on the copy of Letting Go I'd arranged on the shelf to the left of the front desk just two days ago.

  Easier to say than do, for sure.

  Bethany arrived at one o'clock after what had been a busy morning. I'd placed another book order with the distributor for my summer-themed kids' book display, selected a few books for the orders that had come in online (I was still figuring out the web site my friend Ellie had insisted I get designed), and sold a nice mix of fiction and nonfiction to a number of customers... enough to calm some of my fears about not being profitable enough to survive. Although I still had bigger fish to fry, namely whether or not I owned the building.

  I also had to say a lot of "I don't know" to the curiosity-seekers who pretended to browse, then accosted me at the counter with questions about Cal Parker before drifting out the door.

  "How's it going?" my young assistant asked.

  "Well, murder is apparently good for traffic, if not business," I told her.

  "I was thinking of putting together that mystery writers' group, but I should hold off on it," she fretted.

  "I'd be more worried about that if one of us had actually committed murder," I told her. "The 'free cookie with every purchase' thing seems to be working, but we're getting low on cookies; can you hold down the fort while I head upstairs and whip some more up?"

  "Of course," she said.

  "And then I have some... business I have to take care of in town."

  "I'll look after everything," she said.

  I thanked her, then went upstairs and calmed my nerves by clearing the counters and assembling the ingredients for a batch of brown sugar shortbread cookies. As I creamed the sugar and butter together, I found my eye drawn to the rocky shoreline behind the inn. The bar connecting Snug Harbor to Snug Island was covered over by water, but I could still make out the shallow beach beneath the soft waves. An osprey wheeled overhead before circling down to its nest, which looked like a huge bundle of twigs at the top of a half-dead spruce tree on the far end of Snug Island. I was hoping to track down my binoculars soon so I could check for baby ospreys; when I went downstairs, I needed to check the Audubon guide for breeding and fledging times.

  As the osprey settled onto its nest, I added flour and salt to the bowl of creamed sugar and butter, then sprinkled brown sugar on a sheet of wax paper, my eyes drifting once more to the beach outside the window. I had just finished rolling the dough in the wax paper and popped it into the fridge when I spotted a woman walking the beach—not near the waterline, where the finds usually are, but further up the shoreline, in an area that was above the tide mark. Something about her was familiar, and there was a furtive aspect to her movement that caught my attention. After squatting down to peer at something on the ground, she turned, staring up at the shop from behind dark glasses before resuming her scan of the beach. As I watched, she stooped and plucked something that resembled a scrap of paper from the rocks, looking at it for a moment before tucking it into her pocket, then glanced up at the store and hurried back the way she'd come.

 
; Abandoning my cookies, I opened the door and rushed down the stairs outside. I got to the end of the walkway and ran onto the beach just as she slipped through the woods several dozen yards down the beach. She wore a black hooded jacket and jeans, along with large sunglasses that obscured her face. I hurried after her and found the narrow path she'd gone up between two large houses. I followed her all the way to Cottage Street, but by the time I got there, she had either ducked into another building or gotten into a car. Although I stood there for a few minutes, scanning passersby, there was no sign of her.

  Still thinking, I headed back to Seaside Cottage Books. Was the woman I'd seen just someone out for a walk on the beach, stooping down for a piece of sea glass? Was it the intruder of a few nights past?

  Or was it Cal Parker's murderer?

  I had been able to tell it was a woman by the flare of her hips; but who? Cal’s ex-wife Gretchen? Or the mystery woman from Windswept? Someone had texted him about meeting him; I didn't want to tell the police I'd seen the text, but I knew he'd been late to something. Was it a rendezvous at the beach, or something else? And if she had picked up a piece of paper, was it something that the investigators had missed?

  The wheels of my mind were still turning as I returned to my cookie baking. Odds were good the woman wasn't coming back—she appeared to have found what she'd been looking for—but my eyes kept drifting to the shoreline as I washed the bowl and started a batch of raspberry meltaways; I'd let them bake while the shortbread chilled. I mixed up the sweet vanilla batter and dropped rounds onto two cookie sheets, then made the buttery raspberry filling while the cookies baked in the oven. Finally, when the buttery cookies had cooled enough, I sandwiched them with raspberry cream filling, arranged them on a cake plate, and glanced outside one more time before heading downstairs to the shop, Winston at my heels.