On the way back to the bookstore, I passed the sand bar and cut down to the beach, listening to the lap of the waves against the rocks and shells as I searched for sea glass
A gull cried ahead of me. I looked up; somebody had left a pile of clothing on the beach, and the rising tide was starting to tug at it. I walked toward it, planning to pull it further up on the beach so I could come back down with a trash bag later, when I realized with a shock there was a hand bobbing up and down with the waves.
Winston began to growl, straining at the leash.
"Sssh," I said, and shortened the leash as I approached the body, hoping whoever it was might still be alive.
He wasn't.
And now I knew where my missing flatiron had gone.
It was embedded in his skull.
7
"Oh, no," I breathed, recognizing Cal Parker.
It was hard to believe that the same man who had almost yanked my arm out of the socket last night, very much alive, was now dead in the surf behind my store.
I reached for my phone and called 911, trying to quell a wave of nausea as I reported what I found. I couldn't stop looking at his pale face, eyes now open and unseeing, the water playing with his dark hair. A crab came and investigated his hand while I gave details to the dispatcher; I shooed it away.
I hung up the phone and hugged myself, still looking at the body. He was wearing the same clothes I'd seen him in last night—khakis and a blue-plaid shirt, with a navy windbreaker.
I examined him further, looking for anything else that might point to the identity of his murderer. Because it was definitely murder. You don't read about people committing suicide by beaning themselves in the head with a flatiron.
There was nothing obvious, although I found myself wondering where his phone was. Then, as the water shifted his jacket, I spotted what looked like a phone sticking out of the back pocket of his pants.
Still holding Winston on a short leash, I used Cal’s jacket to pull the phone out. It was still functional; when I hit the button, some text messages popped up. One, from an anonymous number, at just before midnight. "Don't back out. We can fix the chatter. I've got it in the bag; I promise it'll work." And then, a few minutes later: "Please... just let's meet like we talked about." A third one from a DeeDee saying, "I'm so sorry we quarreled. I love you. I shouldn't have said anything." And a last one, at 1:32 a.m., again from DeeDee, saying, "Where are you? I'm worried. Please call."
I tucked the phone back into his pocket and stepped away from the body, looking at the flatiron. Someone must have taken it from the bookstore yesterday.
Had it happened during the signing?
And if so, who had taken it?
Since it seemed like half the town had been at the bookstore, it was going to be hard to narrow down.
Unless someone had nabbed it before the grand opening.
As I tried to remember when last I had seen it, a siren sounded from up near the store. I turned around and looked up as two paramedics jogged down to the beach carrying a stretcher.
I just hoped they'd also called the coroner.
The police showed up not long after the paramedics, and within minutes, the beach was turned into a crime scene.
"You found the body?" a detective with brown, bobbed hair, a sharp chin and eyes that seemed to miss nothing asked me, a pad and pen at the ready. Her nametag identified her as R. Decker.
"I did, right before I called 911," I informed her.
She asked my name, jotted it down, then asked, "Did you know the victim?"
I nodded. "I met him at the grand opening last night. I spoke with him briefly."
"The grand opening? You mean the bookstore?" she asked, tilting her head toward Seaside Cottage Books.
"Yes. I'm the new owner."
"Huh." She wrote that down, then asked, "What did you talk to him about?"
"He... well, told me that I needed permits for the renovations I'd done, and that I needed to get the place inspected and approved within two weeks."
"That sounds kind of threatening."
I shrugged. "He suggested that maybe we could make a deal."
"Make a deal? How do you mean, exactly?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Did you meet him to talk about it?”
"No," I said. "I closed up and went upstairs for the rest of the night. Other than taking Winston out for a quick walk."
"When was that?"
"I'd say nine or so? I didn't leave after that."
She took down a note.
"And the object that was used in the attack," she said. "Had you seen that before?"
"I had, I believe."
"Where?"
"It functioned as a doorstop on the first floor of the bookshop." I shrugged. "But half the town was there yesterday. Any number of people could have taken it."
"When did you last see it?"
"I remember seeing it yesterday afternoon."
"Before the opening."
I nodded.
"But during the opening?"
"To be honest, I wasn't looking," I said. As I spoke, someone began photographing the body.
"Anyone else you know of who might have wished Cal Parker harm?" the detective asked, taking notes as she spoke.
I shook my head. "Like I said, I only met him yesterday."
"Not an auspicious meeting, though," she said. "What time did he leave the store?"
"I'm not sure. We closed at nine, but the last time I saw him must have been around eight."
"And did you
