Something Wicked, page 11
But what about Rich?
It was so suspicious that he’d been outside looking at the crime scene, but maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me, making him look guilty of something when he hadn’t actually been doing anything wrong.
I would decide when I called whether or not I’d mention Rich, or my little morning run-in with the figure in the overcoat. If I told the detective too much, she was going to start thinking I was inserting myself into the case. Any true crime fan knows that’s a sure-fire way to have the police think you’re suspicious. Sloppy criminals, desperate for attention, love to get involved by offering the police tips or assistance.
Didn’t those same rules also tell me that killers loved to return to the scene of the crime?
Which meant whoever had killed that man might show up at my store any time.
“Stop it,” I scolded myself out loud. I was about an hour away from turning into a tinfoil hat-wearing conspiracy theorist at this point, where I might start believing the whole town was in on it just to scare me into leaving, and that was as crazy an idea as I could come up with.
I was being silly, and I was trying to solve a crime that I didn’t have the knowledge or skill set to solve on my own. I told myself that as soon as I reported what I’d learned about Dierdre to Detective Martin, I was done getting involved with the case and would leave it to the experts to solve.
When the front display cabinet was loaded with goodies, I headed back into the kitchen to put away the dishes I had cleaned last night, prep the daily batch of shortbread, and make a preferably non-magical bread option.
I got the shortbread mixed and packed into its tight rolls, then popped it in the fridge to chill. The scones yesterday had been lovely, and I was betting a batch of the same, but slightly less truth inducing, would be a hit today. I opted for Eudora’s Lemon Lavender blend, knowing the combo of bright lemon rind and floral lavender would taste incredible with a light lemon glaze and partner beautifully with any of our citrus or creamier tea blends.
I got to work mixing the sourdough batter together and decided that while I was at it, I might prep a few proper sourdough loaves for tomorrow. Sourdough bread is definitely a plan-ahead thing to bake, since the dough needs to go through several lengthy rises. I could do the initial rise during work today, then beat it down and let it rise again overnight before baking it in the morning.
We didn’t often sell full loaves here, but I suspected some folks would like the broad slices of bread with honey, or even an avocado toast lunch special if the grocery store had decently ripe avocados. I’d have to check after work.
Filled with absolute delight over the idea of lunch specials tomorrow, I almost forgot to keep an eye on the clock today. The scones were fresh out of the oven, and I had enough time to put the shortbread in and start tackling the new release wall.
It would be a job that would probably take me a few hours, but because the wall was situated right between the tea shop and the bookstore, it was an easy enough chore to work on while we were open.
First thing, though, I needed a blank canvas, which meant finding a home for the almost two-month-old collection of books already on display. I went into the bookstore side of The Earl’s Study, grabbed the handy-dandy library cart, and proceeded to empty six long front-facing shelves of the newest and best … from August.
Some of the titles that I’d seen listed in the most recent New York Times bestseller list I moved to a “New and Noteworthy” table that was a few feet in front of the wall, but the wall itself—according to Eudora—was strictly new releases of any conceivable genre.
If a book was coming out in a given week, whether it was romance, sci-fi, literary fiction, or a long-awaited cookbook from a celebrity chef, it would find its home on this shelf. Eudora didn’t believe in marginalizing genre fiction because she thought it gave readers a reason to put the “guilty” in “guilty pleasure.” In Eudora’s opinion, and mine, there should be no such thing as a guilty pleasure, only things you liked.
In some stores the new release wall could look like a competition for literary awards or display only highly touted biographies, but ours was a bit more eclectic. Since nothing was technically in its long-term home, we could mix and match which titles went where, with no need to stick to author naming or title conventions.
I thought today it might be fun to put them in a rainbow pattern.
Once the older titles were off the front shelves, I pushed the cart back over to the bookstore side, where I hoped Imogen might help me find long-term living arrangements for them. She had been consistent with unpacking the weekly deliveries in my absence, but since we hadn’t been open, she hadn’t bothered to change over the wall, which was fine by me.
It meant I only had this week’s new books to unload, rather than over a month of backstock. It was still a good half-dozen large, heavy boxes that would need to be sorted through, but I liked the idea of a task to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
The timer clipped to my apron beeped at me, to let me know the cookies were now ready to come out of the oven, which was also a sure sign it was time to open the front door. I loaded up trays with the non-magical but still delicious goodies I had prepared and added them to the display case alongside the decadent treats from Amy’s.
With everything in its right place and all my boxes stacked by the new release wall, ready for me to get creative, I switched on the “Open” sign and unlocked the front door. A wave of anxiety hit me the moment I turned the bolt, as I half expected Dierdre to barge in, or perhaps to come face to face with the eerie figured I’d seen that morning during my run.
Instead, everything remained quiet.
We were one of only a handful of businesses that opened as early as eight, so I guessed the first day had been a bit of an anomaly, with so many guests eager to see things—or lecture me—that they’d been early risers. Being open early made sense for us, though, especially with Amy being open early next door.
What went better with a latte than browsing a bookstore?
Of course, I was partial to tea with my books but couldn’t deny that a good bit of caffeine in the morning was usually just what the doctor ordered. I remembered, then, my own delicious latte, which was surely now cold, but I couldn’t let it go to waste.
I recovered the cup from the kitchen and took a long drink. This brew wasn’t her usual chocolate hazelnut blend. The chocolate base was still present, but the flavor was rich and spicy with notes of cinnamon and … was that chili powder?
The latte was indeed cold by this point, but it was still incredible, and I finished it in a few quick gulps, the espresso hitting my system all at once. Riding the high from my latte superpowers, I got the new release wall unpacked in about two hours and met a few more curious townspeople who were either interested in seeing me, or interested in asking about the murder.
Unfortunately, that meant I couldn’t fully forget about it, so by the time Imogen arrived at ten, I knew I had to make a call to the detective.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I said a polite hello to Imogen when she arrived, then begged off, saying, “I just need to make a quick call, okay?”
She didn’t ask any questions and instead immediately grabbed the loaded library cart and set to work finding space for the new books. I’d ask her what her expert opinion on my wall was as soon as I got off the phone with Detective Martin.
I considered taking the call in my office, which would have been private, but decided I needed a bit of fresh air and a break from the store, so I ducked out the back with my cell phone, Martin’s card stowed safely in my apron pocket.
My initial plan had been to sit on the back stoop, but as soon as I was outside, all I could see was the spot where the dead man’s body had been lying, and I couldn’t bring myself to sit there. It just felt weird at this point. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to walk past that place and not see a body.
I dialed Martin’s number and wandered out into the empty lot behind my parking spot, where the dumpsters sat, as well as a fair bit of unattended garbage.
“Detective Martin.” Her voice was cool and calm, even over the phone.
“Hello, Detective. It’s Phoebe Winchester. Um, from the … uh, crime scene?”
Idiot.
“Of course, Ms. Winchester, what can I do for you?”
I explained to her what I’d learned over the past day, trying to avoid any implication that I’d been sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. I emphasized both Dierdre’s claim that she hadn’t known the dead man and also her apparent interest in getting access to the shop’s lease.
“We also spoke to Ms. Miller.”
“Oh yeah, I guess you would have.”
“She failed to mention to us that she had interest in leasing the shop after your aunt died, though. That’s very interesting. Was there anything else you happened to learn?” The way she said learn made it pretty clear she knew I was being a grade-A busybody. Oh well.
I glanced up at the building, to where Rich’s apartment windows faced the back lane. I half expected him to be standing there, watching me. But the blinds were drawn, and the lights appeared to be off.
It didn’t sit right, him being out here last night, but the police had talked to him and clearly hadn’t found a reason to arrest him. Maybe they knew more than I did, and I had to accept that.
I also briefly considered telling Detective Martin about my encounter with the person on my run that morning, but I wasn’t sure what I could say that wouldn’t sound insane. I’m pretty sure a weirdo wearing a coat was following me this morning. I shook my head, deciding some things were just better left unsaid. If I saw the creep again, maybe I’d bring it up, but for now there were any number of explanations that could account for what I’d seen.
“We don’t go around accusing our neighbors of murder.”
“Ms. Winchester?” Detective Martin interrupted my daydream.
“No, nothing else.”
She made a small mmm noise like she didn’t entirely believe me, which is fair because I’m an absolutely dreadful liar, but she didn’t push it. “I appreciate you calling. If you learn anything new or remember anything, you know where to find me.”
I remembered a question before she was able to hang up. “Oh, Detective Martin?”
“Yes?”
“What was his name, do you know?”
“The victim?”
“Yeah.”
She hesitated. “I suppose that’s not top secret. We’ve identified him from his fingerprints, his name was Carl ‘Ox’ Bullock.”
“Ox?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Fitting.”
“You have a good day, Ms. Winchester.” She hung up before I could distract her any longer.
I pocketed my phone and stared at the place where they’d found Carl. Ox. Between the beefy nickname, and her casual mention of finding his identity from his fingerprints, I had to assume Ox had a criminal past. That wouldn’t be too unexpected given that they thought he’d been breaking in when he died.
Still, a criminal past—or even criminal intent—didn’t mean the guy had deserved to die. I played with the necklace Eudora had given me, wishing she’d been considerate enough to leave me a working crystal ball too.
I just wanted to know who in this town was capable of murder.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I mogen and I were kept busy for the rest of the day, with the lemon lavender scones being a big hit and our mystery book table a popular draw for the second day in a row. At four, things were slowing down enough that I thought it might be safe to leave Imogen on her own for the last two hours.
“I can stay,” I offered for about the twelfth time.
Imogen practically pushed me out the front door, shaking her head. “You’re as bad as Eudora, I swear. There’s life outside the shop, Phoebe. Go explore your new town, try out a new restaurant. Do something.”
I wanted to argue that work was doing something, but before I could, a deep, smoke-and-honey voice interjected from behind me. “I can think of a couple good places to eat. If you’re hungry, that is.”
I didn’t even need to turn around, the way my heart had started pounding at the first syllable was the only clue I needed to tell me who was standing there.
“Yes,” Imogen said, clapping her hands together gladly. “Let Rich show you around—he’s the perfect person.” I was pretty sure anyone that would get me out of her hair for the last two hours of her shift would be the “perfect person,” but I slowly turned around, a nervous smile on my face, and looked into Rich’s beautiful amber eyes.
Ugh, why did he have to be so pretty?
“You want to go?” he asked me directly.
No. Yes. No. Maybe? Argh. “Sure.” I couldn’t say no just because I thought there was something fishy going on. And maybe if we were sitting down together, I could get him to open up a bit, and he might spill something he didn’t intend to. It was a bit of a long shot, but if he was involved in Ox’s death, I needed to know one way or another.
We waved goodbye to Imogen and headed down the block, past The Green Thumb, a plant store, and then Owen’s shop, which were both still brightly lit but didn’t appear to have anyone inside. Seeing Owen’s place reminded me I still needed to get myself some comfier shoes and perhaps chat with him about his interest in my shop, but this probably wasn’t the best moment for a detour.
“How are you liking the town so far?” Rich asked.
I snorted out a laugh.
“I suppose that might be a bit of an unfair question given how your first week has been going.”
“Yeah, maybe ask me again in a couple of months.” I silently added an if I’m still here. I couldn’t picture myself leaving, because I had nowhere else to go, if I was being honest, but to say things were off to a rocky start here was quite possibly the understatement of the year.
We walked down Main, which was already fairly quiet in the early evening, and he used a hand at the small of my back to indicate we would be taking a left turn at the next corner. Once again, I was surprised by how comforting and familiar his closeness felt, and scolded myself that I was letting my potential feelings for Rich blind me to any of his possible super-problematic flaws.
But if I was making a habit of trusting my gut, which generally seemed to be a good idea on most days, then maybe I should trust that I liked Rich for a good reason and that my gut was smart enough to not let me fall for a killer.
Your gut also let you marry your ex, I reminded myself. This wasn’t altogether true, though. Even as I’d headed down the aisle with Blaine, something had been telling me loudly that it was a big mistake. And lo and behold, it most definitely had been.
See? Gut check.
I appreciated that Rich let me have my extended moment of internal contemplation, because it must have looked to him like I was quietly off in my own world. Most people got bored with waiting for me to come back on my own when I got lost in thought, either nudging me or repeating their last question, but he seemed content to let me get there on my own.
Three blocks off Main was another stretch of shops, these ones feeling slightly cozier and more laid back than the highly trafficked ones on the main drag. The Earl’s Study would have felt perfectly at home between the yarn shop called Knittin’ Pearl and the charming, witchy, new age shop called New Moon.
I’d had no idea there was a new age shop in town, and part of me wanted to go in and start grilling them about Eudora and whether I was a witch too, and how I could potentially use magic to solve crimes, but I put a hold button on that.
For one thing, the people who ran the shop were very likely not witches, or at least not the same kind of witch that Eudora had been, and I would probably freak them out if I went in demanding too much info.
The other thing was that Rich pointed toward the most enchanting little diner I’d ever seen. A big neon sign on the front read “Sweet Peach’s,” and though it was still early for dinner, not even five, quite a few cars were parked out front.
“Why did I think you’d be taking me to, like, a fancy Italian place or something? I figured you would try to impress me,” I teased.
“Trust me, I am trying to impress you, and if I can’t do that with Peach’s milkshakes and a press burger, then I’m afraid you’ve seen all my tricks.”
We went up the stairs, and the girl behind the counter, in a cute teal uniform, waved us toward a bank of empty booths. “Sit wherever you want—be with you in a sec.” She smiled warmly, but it was obvious she was busy.
Five other tables were filled, mostly with folks I would classify as “seniors,” but also one couple with young kids, probably hoping they could sneak in an early bedtime once everyone was stuffed with burgers.
Rich guided me to a booth with a window that faced the street we’d just come from, so we could see the comings and goings of people at the nearby stores, as well as anyone coming into the diner.
He didn’t bother to pick up a menu, but I wasn’t a regular and needed a bit more time. “What do you recommend?” I asked.
“You can’t go wrong with anything you choose; I have to admit, even their salads are good. But if you come to Peach’s and order a salad, you’re living your life wrong. Cheeseburger. Fries. Milkshake.”
“That sounds like something a teenage boy would order before a football game.”
“No, no. It sounds like what a sensible person who likes good food would order so they can enjoy their evening. And their company.” He smiled at me, and my insides melted like ice cream on a hot sidewalk.
“Well, all right then, consider my arm twisted.”
Our waitress appeared shortly, a pretty Asian girl whose name tag said “Lyla.”
“You guys have a chance to look at the menu?” She glanced over at Rich and rolled her eyes, but in a friendly way. “Not that I even need to ask you, Rich.”
“I’ll have the usual, Lyla.”
“Of course you will.” She didn’t bother writing anything down, and I had to wonder just how often he came here that the staff knew his precise order.
