"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
