Murder on Mustang Beach, page 17
“I’m a bookseller here in town.”
“At the bookshop just down the street?”
“That’s right. The MotherVine. Cattail’s one and only.”
“I haven’t been yet, but I’m a big reader. Once I get settled . . .”
I crouched closer, balancing the pitcher on my knee. “What do you like to read? I always like to know that about people.”
She held up the novel. The cover showed a warrior brandishing a sword at the edge of an evil forest. The image went right along with her high-fantasy-themed Instagram posts.
“I don’t read much in the fantasy genre,” I said. “I’d love to hear your recommendations, actually.”
“Anytime.”
“Right now, though, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About fantasy books?”
“About real life. Can you tell me anything about your experience Sunday morning at the martial arts dojo? If you’re up for it, that is.”
Heather frowned down at the book. It seemed as though I’d lost her before I even started. But then she looked me square in the face, her lips pursed determinedly. “Let’s go out front,” she said.
43
On the porch of the Casa Coquina, palm-leaf ceiling fans stirred the fresh scents of rosebushes. We walked to the far corner, where a small plaque proclaimed, this section of the porch lovingly supported by standish furniture. A few years ago, in order to raise money for mudslide victims back in his hometown, Turo held a naming contest. And rich old Pearleen Standish, unapologetic reader of Three Hot Scots, promptly elbowed all other potential sponsors out of the way. She never missed a chance to attach her name to philanthropic causes.
Heather and I selected two high-quality Standish rockers. “How did you know I worked out at the dojo that morning?” she asked as she got settled. “You another detective?”
“Just a concerned citizen. Did you know Seth Goodnow?”
“The dead guy? Oh—” She pressed her fingers to her lips. “You’ll have to excuse me. Turo’s margaritas really pack a punch.”
“It’s okay. Seth was murdered Sunday morning, and his body was found in the dojo. Can you describe the scene? What the mood was, who said what to whom, things like that.”
“The mood was pretty basic, I guess. One thing stands out. There was kind of a beef-head guy who wanted the guy in charge to spar with him. He wasn’t having it, though. He said he needed to supervise.”
I leaned toward her. In my mind’s eye, I saw Cooper offering Toby a face cage. I saw Toby begging off as kindly as he could. “What was Cooper’s reaction?” I asked. “When Toby said no.”
“He just went on doing his burpees and his step-ups and his shadowboxing, grunting and groaning the whole while. I was over in the corner, practicing my kata.”
Kata, I knew from Toby, was a Japanese term for solo choreographed karate moves. A series or flow you go through, imagining an opponent, in order to build muscle memory. “Who else was there?” I asked.
“The guy that was killed? Seth? He didn’t seem like he worked out much. Didn’t know what to do. Paced around a lot and occasionally threw down a plank pose.”
“Did he and Cooper interact at all?”
“Only to give each other nasty looks.”
“And a fifth person was there. Right?”
“The police insisted on a fifth person too. But I swear, it was just the Toby guy, the guy who died, the gym-rat guy, and me.”
“And a woman with the initials D.S.”
“I told the police and I’ll tell you: I don’t know anything about a D.S.”
“But D.S. signed in just minutes after you. According to the sheet, anyway.”
“What do you want me to say?” Heather shrugged.
“But you were seen speaking with another woman. Do you know that lying to police can lead to formal charges?”
“There wasn’t anyone else there. Honest. I left first, around seven forty-five. I have no idea what went on inside that building after that.”
“Why did you leave before the full hour was up?”
“I had to shower and meet my Realtor. I’m house hunting. I can’t very well live in the Casa Coquina the rest of my life. Too bad. Turo’s cooking is incredible.” She fished an ice cube out of her glass, rubbed it across her forehead, and popped it into her mouth.
She was lying. She had to be. But what about? My pressuring her hadn’t gotten anywhere; might as well go for more of a good-cop approach. “I was in the market for a new place to live myself,” I said, sliding back into the rocker. “But not for very long. I gave up as soon as I realized how brutal it is out there. Are you looking to buy or rent?”
“Either. Can you believe the housing situation here on Cattail? At this rate, I’d roll out a sleeping bag on someone’s living room floor.”
“You’re that desperate, huh.”
Glaring, she crunched her ice. “Are we through here?”
* * *
• • •
Heather excused herself so she could freshen up before Turo summoned his guests for supper. Only a few moments later, as I was walking down Queen Street, movement caught my peripheral vision. In the alleyway next to the B and B, the hood of a parked car had popped open. It was a Tesla, pulled up next to Turo’s new charging station. The sunlight gave the cream paint job an opalesque sparkle. Under the hood wasn’t an engine but a front trunk. A frunk. While it was big enough to hold several suitcases, the only thing inside this frunk was a standard-size manila envelope. Heather Westerly approached the Tesla, carefully picked up the envelope, and pulled out a stiff sheet of paper. A document? A photograph? She feathered her fingertips over it, top to bottom. Her expression was that of an adoring mother to a newborn baby.
I ducked behind a rosebush, using it as camouflage as I tried to make out what was on the paper. But I couldn’t see anything, so I decided to try a different tack. “Hi again,” I said, sidling up to the gate. “What ya got there?”
With cartoonish quickness—I imagined a whooshing noise—Heather hid the paper behind her back. “None of your business,” she said.
44
Antoinette dangled Tin Man’s red harness. “Walky? Walky-doo with Scuppy-poo?”
Tin Man was nestled in his poof on the stairs of the MotherVine. He opened one amber eye, shut it, and curled his tail over his nose.
“Guess he needs a rest day,” I said.
In her office, Antoinette swapped out the cat harness for her baseball cap with the MotherVine logo. She crammed the hat over her curls to cute effect. “Be back in an hour, to help you close up,” she said.
After she’d gone, I texted Toby.
Can you hang? I’m at the MotherVine for a while, working. Would love to see you though.
He thumbs-upped my message immediately, so a few minutes later, when the door opened, I expected to see him.
But the two people who came into the bookshop weren’t Toby.
* * *
• • •
Ivy O’Neill patted her daughter Cadence’s hair, which had been divvied into two lumpy pigtails. “Someone has been begging to come here all day,” Ivy said.
“I’m so glad you stopped in,” I said.
“Cade saw this place when we drove by earlier, on the way to the doughnut shop. I told her that nice lady we met on the beach this morning was the owner, and she squealed. Didn’t you, Cade?”
“Oh, I’m not the owner,” I said with a smile. “I just work here.”
“Cade, tell Miss Callie where you want to work when you grow up.”
Cadence’s ears took on a tomato-red hue. She studied her Crocs, which were plastered with book charms.
“She wants to work in a bookshop,” Ivy said.
“Fantastic.” I crouched down so that I was eye level with the girl. She lifted her chin but didn’t quite meet my gaze. Her shyness was palpable. Her goodness too. “What do you like to read, little miss Cade?” I asked.
No answer came, even after Ivy poked her daughter’s arm.
A flash of silver poured down the stairs. Tin Man trotted over as if he sensed the need to spring into furry action. He was an eleven-pound superhero crisis counselor. Meowing, he began swiping his chin against the girl’s shins. I gritted my teeth—not everybody likes cats, and from what I sensed about Cade, she was the kind of child who might react poorly to surprises.
To my relief, though, she erupted in giggles. Giving Tin Man a few gentle pats, she glanced up at me and said, in a sweet voice just a notch above a whisper, “The Mysterious Benedict Society.”
“Right this way,” I said. A few days ago, after Ivy had mentioned that book, I made sure Antoinette had the series in stock.
Cade and Tin Man followed me to the children’s area. Ivy hung back, flipping through a magazine. I sensed she still had one eye on her daughter and was praying for a positive social encounter.
“So,” I asked Cade, “which book do you need?”
“The second one.” She buried her face in Tin Man’s fur. “We can’t have a cat because we have a greyhound and greyhounds chase cats.”
“Maybe someday you’ll have a cat. You never know. And as long as you’re here in Cattail, you can come visit Tin Man anytime.”
“Tin Man, like from The Wizard of Oz?”
“Just like that. Technically he’s called Tinnakeet Man. The grapes growing out back are Tinnakeet grapes, and Tin Man loves them. But grapes are bad for cats, so he’s not allowed to eat them. He sneaks one every now and then, though.”
“I’m not allowed to eat candy,” she whispered. “But I sneak it sometimes.”
“I won’t tell,” I whispered, handing her book two. “What’s your favorite thing you’ve done here on vacation?”
“Crabs.”
“You mean looking for them at night? With flashlights?”
“They’re totally iconic.”
Chasing ghost crabs was a favorite activity of Cadence-aged vacationers. If you shine a light on a crab, it becomes stunned, and you can get a good look at it. I always considered it kind of cruel, but no harm came to the crabs and they resumed their regularly scheduled crustacean activities just as soon as the humans were done harassing them.
A copy of The Legend of Rosie Beacon faced outward on a low shelf. Cadence snatched it up. “I want this one too.”
“Excellent taste,” I said.
Back at the checkout counter, I mentioned Tin Man had an Instagram account. This news delighted both mother and daughter, and within a few seconds, Ivy was a follower. Together they tabbed through Tin Man’s most recent posts. Photos I’d taken of books around town, and of Tin Man himself, trying to scratch his chin on a spike of lavender, or striking a sphinx pose in the bay window. “Isn’t he just a sweetie pie?” Ivy cooed over Cade’s giggles. They were thrilled to pose with him. Cade picked him up and squeezed him and Ivy bent her head to be in the frame. I posted it with the caption, Greetings, darlings. The MotherVine is the cat’s pajamas. Won’t you paws in? Free cuddles, free grapes, and the most paw-some selection of new and used books on the Banks.
“We agreed on just one book, Cade,” Ivy said when she noticed her daughter gathering up a few hopefuls. In addition to the mystery and The Legend of Rosie Beacon, Cadence had selected My Awesome Field Guide to Rocks and Minerals.
She made a whiny noise. “I really, really want all three of them.”
“We can’t buy every book in sight,” Ivy said. I couldn’t help but chuckle. My mother had told me the same thing in these very stacks many times.
“Can I get two? Please?”
“Two. Not three. Two.”
“I want to read this so bad,” she said, eyeing the Rosie Beacon book. “But I love rocks.”
“Do you collect them?” I asked.
“So far, I have thirty-one rocks and minerals. Not with me. They’re all at home. Schist, granite, pumice, milky quartz, and gypsum are my favorites. I have a rock tumbler too.” She explained the process of placing rocks into a barrel with some special stuff called grit. You switch on the motor and go to bed, and when you wake up the next morning, you have smooth, polished stones.
“Wow,” I said. “That sounds super cool.”
Cadence skipped off to put the Rosie book back where she’d found it and ended up settling into one of the beanbag chairs. She was turning the pages of yet another book. Ivy tipped her chin in her daughter’s direction. “I told you before that Cade sometimes has a hard time socially. Her therapist wants Dominick and me to encourage her to have new experiences, but it’s hard, and—I guess what I’m trying to say is—thank you.”
“Oh, I didn’t do anything,” I said. “Thank the MotherVine. It brings out the best in people. How’s Naomi been?”
“A combination of really strong and a complete wreck.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I said. Even though I had been imagining what it must have been like, waking up every morning and having to readjust to the fact that your husband of mere days had been murdered.
“I picked this out for her just now.” Ivy showed me a book. I recognized the cover’s pointillist ocean-at-night scene. It was the grief book I’d almost selected for Naomi myself. “What do you think?” she asked. “Should I give it to her?”
“Absolutely.” I got out some gift-wrapping supplies. “It’s very thoughtful of you. Have you had any more drama from Cooper?”
“He’s an oaf. But he’s harmless. In a way, I feel kinda bad for him. He’s been trying to shake the Neanderthal stigma for years.”
“Is that so?” I hadn’t observed much effort in that vein. But maybe Ivy knew something I didn’t.
45
Toby arrived bearing hummus and cheddar wraps he’d made himself, packed with sliced green tomatoes from his garden, still warm from the sun. Paper napkins tucked into our collars, we sat behind the checkout counter, chatting whenever I wasn’t ringing up sales. It felt natural and safe. The kind of everyday moment a couple that’s been together for decades might share. As if the pall hanging over Cattail had been swept away. For the moment, anyway.
“Favorite color?” Toby asked. “Wait—we’ve covered this already.”
I laughed. “We’ve covered everything already. We know everything there is to know about each other.”
“Your favorite color is blue.”
“And yours is black,” I said. “Sunrise or sunset?”
“They’re both amazing. But if I had a gun to my head?”
“Sunrise?”
“Right on.”
“Me too.”
“The promise of a fresh new day? Can’t beat that.”
Laughter drifted in from the back patio. A large party had gathered there, several vacationing families with teenage children. We heard the scraping of iron on pavers—they were returning the chairs and tables to their original spots. Antoinette often commented that the MotherVine had the best customers in the world, and I had to agree.
After they had gone, wishing us a great night as they slipped through the door, a fifty-something woman came over, tumbling an armload of cozy mysteries onto the counter. I recognized the authors’ names: Lorna Barrett, Ellery Adams, Amanda Flower . . . “I promised myself I’d stop at one,” the woman said.
“I promise you that’s a promise you won’t regret breaking,” I said as I stacked the books inside a large paper bag stamped with the MotherVine logo.
When Toby and I were alone, I plucked an onion slice from the wrap and munched on it. I didn’t want to bring up the murder, but I had a positive spin to share. “Guess what I found out today. From Seth Goodnow’s widow.”
He dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “You talked to her?”
“I did. And she confided in me that Seth kept that old receipt as a reminder of the kind of person he no longer wanted to be.”
“Huh.”
“It’s true. He came here, to Cattail, for his honeymoon, and was surprised to learn that you lived here, that you worked here. And he went to Cattail Family Martial Arts with the intention of apologizing to you.”
“Really?”
“For some reason, he must have clammed up. And then . . .”
Toby didn’t say anything more on the subject, but something like acceptance flitted across his face. He’d long ago made inner peace with Seth Goodnow. But maybe the knowledge of Seth’s regret somehow made Toby’s retroactive forgiveness a little easier. As he offered Tin Man a nibble of cheese, the corner of his mouth curled into a sort of grateful half smile.
“What?” I asked.
He leaned in and kissed my cheek. The gesture caught me off guard, and I found myself sitting perfectly still.
As he leaned in again, a tingle zipped up my spine. This was it. This was going to be our first real kiss. Right here in the MotherVine, mutual onion breath and all, Tin Man purring at our elbows.
Just as our lips were about to come together, a loud vibration buzzed. My cell phone rattled against the counter.
Antoinette.
“I should get this,” I said.
“Of course.”
Answering, I barely got out a hello when I heard my boss’s voice. “Have you closed up?”
“What’s wrong, Ant?”
“Do you have any shoppers in there with you?”
“It’s wound down. Just me, Tinny, and Toby at the moment.”
“Good. Your uncle and I are on the way. In the meantime, shut the door. Lock yourselves inside.”
46
Here,” Toby said, guiding Antoinette to a papasan chair. “Sit.”
Looking pale, Hudson collapsed into the other papasan. Toby and I exchanged a glance, silently agreeing not to press them for details. They’d talk when they were ready. Toby filled a bowl with water and set it down for Scupper, then filled two mugs with cold water, which he handed to Hudson and Antoinette. I got a small clip fan from the office, attached it to the magazine rack, and set it to oscillate.
