"It's a theory," she said dryly.
"Then why? What's my motive?"
"I don't know. My best guess is that you believed it might muddy the murder investigation. When in fact," she said, "it's just made me more suspicious."
"Of me?" I asked. "I've been living in town for what... two, three days now? And I'm a suspect?'
"Your dealings with Mr. Parker were less than ideal," she pointed out. "And from what I understand, you invested pretty much everything in this business, and his actions put that at risk." She stared at me, and there was a hardness in her eyes that made my stomach churn. "People have killed for less."
"I am not a murderer," I said flatly, grabbing Winston, who had started to growl at the detective, and hugging him to my chest. "And I did not 'fake' a break-in. Someone was looking for something in my shop. And if you're not going to look for the culprit, then I'll have to."
"I'd advise you to avoid interfering in the investigation any further," Detective Ramirez said in a cool voice, her eyes stony. "We'll continue the investigation."
"Thank you," I said politely, if coldly. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go and get a cup of tea. You and your team are welcome to a cup if you'd like, and there are cookies by the register; help yourself."
"No thank you," she said in a dismissive tone that sent a chill up my spine.
This woman really did think I'd murdered Cal Parker.
Which meant I had a lot more to worry about than whether or not I owned Seaside Cottage Books.
18
It was almost one in the morning by the time the investigators finally left. I spent a good half hour cleaning up the broken glass beneath the back door, as well as the fingerprint powder that dusted the floor beneath it. Then I shoved the papers into the desk drawer and slid it back into the desk; I was too tired to sort through them now.
One of the officers had helped me tack a board from the back shed over the broken window, but if, as Detective Ramirez claimed, the hole was too small for someone to reach through and unlock the door, somebody was either a skilled lock picker or had a key to the store. In which case, why smash the glass at all?
I'd left the key under the back mat for Bethany from time to time over the past few months, before I managed to get a copy made. Had someone taken it and had their own copy made?
I didn't know how someone had managed to get into the shop, but I did know that I was getting both locks rekeyed the next morning. It was unlikely that the intruder would return after the cops had been all over the place, and nobody had ever broken into my rooms above the shop, but sleep came only in short bursts that night; even Winston had a hard time settling down.
When the sun started peeking through the curtains, I gave up on sleep and put on slippers and a robe. I wasn't ready to face the day, but the day was facing me. I made an extra-large pot from the bag of French Roast coffee Denise had brought me. As the comforting scent of the brew filled my cozy kitchen, I leafed through the recipe book for another cookie recipe to tackle that afternoon (assuming sales would continue to be strong), settling on one for a delicious looking caramel turtle bar, and filling Winston's bowl with kibble and a few bits of grated cheddar cheese from the fridge.
By the time I opened at 10:00, the locksmith and glazier had promised to arrive early that afternoon, and the only sign of last night's drama was the wood tacked over the windows of the back door. It was a busy morning; I'd hoped to have a chance to do some more baking, but with the flurry of customers coming in out of curiosity and need for reading material, there wasn't enough time to nip up to the kitchen.
It was a rewarding morning, though. I introduced the grandmother of a young reader to the Boxcar Children, then helped her slake her interest in Ireland with Tony Hawks’ Round Ireland with a Fridge and the first books of the wonderful Irish mystery series by Erin Hart and Sheila Connolly. We also ordered an Irish cookbook for her, as well as a book on Irish genealogy; she'd come back to pick them up in a week. I gave her two shortbread cookies as a bonus. I sent a visitor who had fallen in love with Maine on her family's vacation home with The Secret Life of Lobsters, the first of Lea Wait's Maine mysteries, and Bernd Heinrich's A Year in the Maine Woods, along with a gorgeous coffee table book on sea glass. By the time I'd sold my tenth book of the morning (The Essex Serpent, a creative magical historical book set in England), I was realizing I had a knack for finding the right book for the right person... just as Loretta had done for me.
As the woman with The Essex Serpent headed for the door, thanking me for my help, I recognized Agatha Satterthwaite marching up the front walk, looking (as my mother liked to say) loaded for bear.
"Good morning," I said as she pushed through the front door.
"You shouldn't be doing business," she said. "This place doesn't belong to you."
"I know you're contesting the ownership," I said, trying to sound reasonable, "and I'm looking into it, but if I don't sell books, I can't pay for the electricity or even groceries."
"You and Loretta stole from me," she complained. "You owe me hundreds of thousands of dollars."
"The whole thing
