Prose & Poison, page 4
part #1 of Cafe Prose Mystery Series
I bit the side of my lip. “Well … maybe,” I admitted, my mind flashing back to the books thrown from shelves, drawers wide open, paperwork splayed on the desk. “But the autopsy will let you know for sure,” I rationalized.
Peter scratched at the back of his head. “That’s just the thing. My Aunt Charlotte has refused to allow an autopsy.”
I stepped back. “What do you mean, refused?”
“Well … she is so broken up over this, she doesn’t want a drawn-out process. It could take weeks to get the results, and Aunt Charlotte prefers to lay Grandfather to rest as soon as possible.”
I shook my head, so many questions swimming around. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Talbot,” he said, his eyes locking with mine. “For some reason, despite whatever juvenile tumult you apparently caused our family years ago.” I winced at his use of the word juvenile but softened once seeing the taunting smirk on his face. Peter continued, “Grandfather expressed to me how much he trusted you. He’d told me he wanted your opinion on a new book acquisition, yet he never discussed with me what that book was.”
“I was to meet him at the estate when I found him … dead.” I sighed. “He asked,” I paused. “More like lured me here to appraise that mysterious rare material.”
“That sounds like Grandfather.” Peter’s blue eyes turned darker. “Did he mention in your phone conversation what new item he had acquired?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t.”
“Hmm.” Peter nodded and then got to the point. “Well, I’d like you to help me figure out who killed my grandfather and what rare document, book, what have you, that person killed him for.” He smiled weakly then looked toward his cobalt BMW in the driveway. “I must get back to help my aunt, but please, please, just think about it.” In an unexpected gesture, Peter leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Thank you, Talbot.”
I nodded imperceptibly and closed the door, propping my body against the frame. Help him? How could I possibly help him? I mean, sure, although Kevin claims Harold’s death was natural, a little part of me felt that maybe Peter’s theory had some merit.
Ugh. What’s a girl to do?
Back in my hometown for less than a day and I’d already met the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, annoyed the Chief of Police, and discovered a dead body.
Welcome to Willow Creek, Talbot.
Chapter 4
The next morning, there were a few things I needed to take care of before meeting Aunt Tilly at her cottage for breakfast.
First, I called my boss in D.C. to let him know I’d been delayed in Pennsylvania and couldn’t return to the library until Harold Ellerton’s funeral passed. Surprisingly, the conversation could have been worse. Bradley Cooper (not the gorgeous actor one, but the mid-50s, slightly overweight, balding one with halitosis and an eye for young redheads), my boss and the director of appraisals at Library of Congress, was less than thrilled, but he did tell me to take my time and return by Wednesday. I don’t know what spurred the kindness, but I’d take it.
I’d slept on Peter’s question from last night and realized I couldn’t get involved with this Harold Ellerton possible murder thing. Sure, the book nerd in me was intrigued by his mysterious rare material, if there was even one at all. If Harold truly was killed, I did, indeed, want to see justice served; it was me who found the body, after all. But I had a life, albeit a work-driven one, in Washington. I couldn’t get sucked into Willow Creek’s drama.
I only packed enough clothing for one night, so I pulled on the jeans from yesterday and then scoped out what mom had placed in the drawers of the dresser to the right of the bed. Jackpot! Drawers full of long and short sleeved t-shirts with the Willow Creek’s Trojan emblem, matching hoodies, and Ralph Lauren sweaters sat in the first drawer. Below that were flare and corduroy jeans from my early 2000s high school days. I rummaged through the rest of the drawers and settled on a gray zip-up hoodie I’d worn at least half the days of junior year.
Typically my shoe of choice would be either something with a heel or wedge sole — a non-negotiable for my vertically challenged self. Because I was A) going casual with the hoodie and B) using my old bicycle for transportation, I settled on the running sneakers I’d packed. I braided the front pieces of hair that hung in my face and pinned them behind my ear, certain of one thing — wearing my hair down was not conducive to windy bike rides in Willow Creek Valley. I glanced in the mirror, satisfied with my sporty attire, and got on my way.
I peddled to the end of Maple, made a right and continued for two blocks, made one more right on Chestnut, and parked my bike outside Aunt Tilly’s quaint cottage. An elm tree shed its fall leaves in the front fenced-in yard, and piles of red, orange, and yellow foliage fluttered in the crisp breeze. Unlike the Victorian-inspired homes making up the 12-city-block streets of Willow Creek, Aunt Tilly’s diminutive cottage, with its violet exterior and blue awning, stuck out like a sore thumb — a bit like the vibrant and colorful Aunt Tilly herself. “Marches to her own drummer,” my Mom always says.
I turned the brass handle on Aunt Tilly’s front door and stepped right into her entryway. “You really should lock your doors, Aunt Tilly,” I called and quieted at the end of my sentence as two voices sounded from the kitchen.
“Why aren’t you more excited for me, Matilda? Now I have an even better chance at re-election,” the man’s voice spoke.
My aunt let out a strained laugh. “Samuel — he’s dead. It’s just not the right time to be celebrating.”
The man sighed. “As usual, Matilda.” It grew silent until he spoke again. “You are right.”
I heard the smacking sound of two mouths kissing and cringed.
I need to get out of here. And fast.
Aunt Tilly giggled as the smacking continued. More kissing. “Stop it, Samuel. Talbot will be here any minute for breakfast.”
The man, who I knew now was Samuel, groaned. “Shall we continue at my place tonight?”
Ewwww.
I backtracked toward the front door, dodging boxes filled with costumes and props for A Midsummer Nights Dream. I planned to escape and then announce my second arrival so loud they were sure to hear, when the hem of my jeans caught the bottom of my sneaker. “No!” I yelled, as I fell sideways, tumbling into Aunt Tilly’s wrought iron coatrack. I toppled to the ground, the rack falling behind, barely missing my head on its way down. “Ugh,” I huffed, pulling Aunt Tilly’s pink jacket from my chest.
Aunt Tilly and a man I didn’t recognize stared at me with mouths agape.
I smiled awkwardly. “Um … hi guys.”
The man offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. “And you must be the lovely Talbot your aunt has told me so much about.”
He slid a box back against the wall, giving me time to take in his salt and pepper hair, green eyes, and tan skin. Just the sort of good-looking older gentleman Aunt Tilly would go for. “Mmm hmm. I am.”
Aunt Tilly played with a tendril of hair. “Talbot, this is my friend, Mayor Samuel Moore.” Bright pink lipstick smudges dotted Samuel’s cheek. Friend my butt.
Samuel placed a tentative arm around Aunt Tilly as she put a hand to her blushing cheek. “I hear you’ve had some excitement since you’ve been back, Talbot,” he said.
“That’s one way of saying it,” I responded with a forced laugh. “Definitely not the warm welcome I’d expect to receive in Willow Creek.”
Mayor Samuel Moore grabbed his hat from the floor. “I bet. And what brings you home?”
I played with the sleeves of my hoodie, not wanting to explain the whole your-aunt-is-sick-get-home faux text from the man I’d found dead. So I decided on, “Just in for a visit.” I looked out the window overlooking Aunt Tilly’s backyard. “Beautiful scenery this time of year.”
“Very true.” His eyes darted from my aunt and then back to me. “Now,” he said, sitting the bowler-style hat atop his head. “I should let the two of you catch up.” He leaned over and pecked Aunt Tilly’s cheek. “My place for dinner, then?”
She smiled warmly at him. “Of course.”
“Nice to meet you, Talbot.” Mayor Samuel Moore took my hand in his. “Every bit as lovely as Matilda let on.”
“Thank you,” I chirped.
I stared at Aunt Tilly in silence as Mayor Moore’s footsteps grew quieter and then stopped, the door shutting behind him. “And what, may I ask, was that all about?”
Aunt Tilly’s cheeks blazed as red as the flowing skirt she wore. She helped me pull the coatrack from the floor and then flipped her wrist. “Oh … it’s nothing. Samuel and I have just been seeing one another for a few months.” The innuendo-like tone she placed on the word “seeing” made me chuckle.
“Well, it’s nice to see you with someone your own age,” I teased, recollecting Aunt Tilly's first husband (a theatre director twenty years her senior with a penchant for men), her second (a bartender from Brooklyn seventeen years her junior), and husband number three (a self-proclaimed award-winning author whom she married when he was eighty-three.) Hubby three had died just four weeks after their marriage and left her with … well … nothing. Turns out his claim to fame was winning a poetry contest in 1976. His actual means was moonlighting as a, oh, what did he call himself? Oh yes. A seasoned gentleman caller.
Aunt Tilly led me through the maze of theatre set pieces and costumes and into her kitchen. The room screamed Matilda Eleanor Hepburn, with its sunshine walls, fire engine red cabinets, and slate countertops. About two dozen commemorative musical plates lined the ledge above her cabinets, depicting playbill artwork from The Phantom of the Opera, Chicago, and A Little Night Music to West Side Story, Rent, Wicked, and her current favorite — Hamilton.
“Have a seat,” she said, pouring fresh-squeezed orange juice into a wine glass. She held a bottle of champagne in her other hand. “Mimosa to forget your troubles?”
I glanced at the Hello, Dolly! clock above the sink. 7:45. Oh, Aunt Tilly. “I think I’ll wait a few more hours.”
“Suit yourself!” Aunt Tilly poured herself a drink which consisted of a splash of orange juice and a deluge of champagne. “Did you get some rest last night, honey? After — you know?”
I took a sip of the tart juice and puckered my lips. “A bit. But it took a while to fall asleep.” I’d been up half the night, tossing and turning as the scene in Mr. Ellerton’s study played over and over again in my head. The other half, I’d been thinking about Peter Ellerton — if I’d help him. If I’d kiss him. I shook away the thought. I was heading back to D.C. in the next few days. There was no need to be distracted by the extremely handsome grandson of the man I’d found dead.
“Nothing a nice breakfast can’t cure.” Aunt Tilly raised her glass for a toast.
“Thanks, Aunt Tilly.” Our glasses clanked together.
She sat down a plate of wheat toast, mashed avocado, sprouts, and the only part I was semi-excited about — a banana. Matilda Hepburn was an extremely talented actress, and the perfect aunt, but when it came to cooking, she was pretty much the worst.
But there was one thing she could do well in the kitchen – mix a drink. She’d been known to make a fantastic Moscow mule in her New York days.
Aunt Tilly clapped her hands together. “Now let’s talk about anything except that poor old dead man. Tell me how your work’s been going?”
I choked down some dry toast and began. “It’s been okay.” And that wasn’t a lie. Although I loved what I did, working with some of the world’s most significant books in the most prestigious library in the nation, things at work had been stressful lately. “My boss, Bradley,” I uttered his name in disgust, “terminated a woman in our department last month when she asked for extended leave after the birth of her child, which means my workload has picked up the past few weeks.”
“Job security, my dear.” Aunt Tilly raised a tattoo-lined eyebrow.
“Even so, it has been a bit slow lately. But I’d like to get back to D.C. as soon as possible. There are many eager appraisers in the industry just waiting to snag my job, and I don’t want any reason for Bradley to come after me next.” Bradley Cooper was a good ol’ boy who was “promoted within” when he couldn’t cut it in the Library’s Education Department. He’d be happiest with a team of men working for him. “Equal opportunity my butt,” I muttered, surprised at how bitter I became when talking about him. I loved my job, really I did, but I was ready to move into a greater role and out from under Bradley’s control.
Aunt Tilly poured herself more champagne. “Oh, Talbot. You’re driven, hardworking, darn good at what you do. Aaa-nd,” she paused for effect, sticking her index finger in the air then tapped the tip of my button nose. “Beautiful, just like your aunt. They’d be foolish to ever let you go, dah-ling.”
I took a bite of banana. “I’ve missed you, Aunt Tilly.” I gestured to the sub-par meal in front of me. “Missed this.” Awful culinary skills or not, I spoke honestly. “I wish you hadn’t forsworn all cities and would come for a visit.”
Aunt Tilly sat down her fork. “I’m here now. That chapter of my life is closed, my dear Talbot.” She pinned a blonde braid back in place behind my ear. “Now what’s the next chapter of yours?”
* * *
I pondered Aunt Tilly’s question as I hopped on my bike. “What’s the next chapter of yours?” What was the next chapter of mine?
I was on my way to Café Prose when I decided on a whim to take the longer, more scenic route on the edge of town that followed the twists and turns of the Elm River. The fall foliage on the trees lining the bank of the river to my left rustled in the breezy morning air. “Ah choo!” I sneezed, no longer accustomed to the pollens of south-central Pennsylvania.
“Morning!” two college-aged joggers called through heavy breaths as they passed by.
“Hello,” I chirped back. Coming my direction, a group of four older women walked briskly with matching hoodies that read “Willow Creek Walks”. Small weights were strapped to their wrists. “Good morning!” they called cheerily. Gosh – I’d never get a greeting like that from passersby in the city.
I waved at the women, sent a smile, and followed the paved trail around a slight bend, spotting the red covered bridge up ahead where the Willow Creek Creek and Elm River met. Suddenly my hands shook violently on the handlebars. The river’s bank, just under the bridge, was where they’d found my father just over twenty years ago.
I swallowed down the memories, averting my eyes from the waters’ merging, and crossed over the dark red footbridge that spanned the length of the creek, roughly twenty feet or so. The wooden planks creaked and moaned under my tires as I peddled faster and popped out on the other side.
I’d ridden the perimeter of the east side of town and turned right onto the main street – Willow – that ran me through the center of town.
I passed through town square and parked my bicycle in front Café Prose.
My stomach groaned. Even though I’d just had breakfast, I was absolutely starving.
“I thought you were eating with Tilly this morning,” Piper called as I walked into her shop. “Not that I’m complaining or anything!”
I sat at the stool and my stomach grumbled even louder this time. “Blueberry-orange muffin and the largest coffee you have. And fast!”
Piper opened the pastry case and pulled out the biggest muffin in the bunch. “Oh!” Her eyes widened, realizing why I needed more food. “What did she feed you this time?”
I fake-retched. “Avocado toast.”
Piper turned up her lip. “Gross.” She placed the fresh-from-the Stick of Butter Bakery’s-oven muffin with honey butter in the space in front of me.
“This is more like it.” I bit into blueberry goodness and then swallowed it down with a sip of strong, almond flavored coffee.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps clamoring on wood came from the stairs to the loft. “Is this Talbot?” Amanda, Piper’s new employee squealed. She scurried toward me, her dark brown messy bun bobbing with each shuffle. Amanda wore yoga pants, a t-shirt that read Book + Cat = Happiness, and a pair of rainbow Converse with lime green shoelaces. She pushed up thick-framed glasses that magnified her hazel eyes. “I saw you come in yesterday but didn’t realize who you were until Piper told me, and then I was so bummed I didn’t get to introduce myself because I could use a fellow book-loving person in this town.” Amanda took a breath. “Amanda Benson, bookstore assistant at your service.”
I giggled at her enthusiasm. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so excited to meet me.” I was truly flattered. “But why exactly are you so excited to meet me?”
Amanda pushed her glasses up her bulbous nose using the tip of her yellow-painted pointer finger. “Well, I always dreamed of one day working for the Library of Congress. They always have the best exhibitions. I used to visit as a kid, and when I turned twenty-two, I vowed to visit once a year every ear. Twenty years going strong — and I haven’t missed an exhibit.”
I did the math in my head. That made Amanda 42 — a young 42. I had to squint to see the crow’s feet around her eyes and hated to admit my thirty-three years weren’t as forgiving. I looked back to my coffee before the envy read across my face.
“I mean, who wouldn’t love to be surrounded by books all day long?” Amanda looked to Piper. “Not that I’m not surrounded by old books here or anything, because I am and I love it.” She took a breath and continued. “So I do love the Library of Congress, and my absolute dream is to see the vaults across the street at the —,” she cut herself off. “My goodness,” she said, raising a hand to her cheek. “I’ve been rambling on and on about nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense at all,” I assured her. “Two of the best research facilities in the world right next to each other. A book lover’s absolute dream, for sure.”
