The Lies that Bind, page 3
“It’s not without its challenges,” I said. “But neither of us are quitters.”
“That’s true,” she said. “And at least nobody’s plotting to murder us,” she added, referring to the conversation I’d overheard earlier.
“That we know of,” I replied. “Do you think I should tell the police?”
She shrugged. “It’s not much to go on, but it couldn’t hurt. We can stop by when we get back to town.”
“And then we make jam?”
“Or pie. Or Blueberry Boy Bait,” she said, glancing at my basket, the bottom of which was not yet quite covered.
“Blueberry Boy Bait?”
“You’ve never had Blueberry Boy Bait? We’re making some,” she declared. “Bring Nicholas a few slices and he’ll be eating out of your hand. Assuming we have enough to work with, that is,” she grinned.
“What is it?”
“I’d say coffee cake, but it kind of transcends coffee cake,” she said, and I was glad to see her dwelling on something other than the purchase of Sea Beans. “Better get picking!”
4
It was a wonderful few hours, and we finished with blueberry-stained hands (and teeth) and enough berries to make not only pie, but the mysterious Blueberry Boy Bait. I’d all but forgotten the body-disposal talk of the morning… and Denise hadn’t mentioned Sea Beans since we really got started.
Once we rolled into Snug Harbor’s quaint downtown, though, the cloud returned. As she drove the jeep past Sea Beans, we both spotted the younger of the two men from the bookstore… Chad. He was leaning back in one of the chairs outside the coffee shop, arms crossed behind his head, looking as if he’d already signed the contract and taken ownership. Across from him was Margaret Keen, the shop’s owner and Denise’s boss and mentor of several years.
“I still can’t believe she’s selling out like this. I want to go talk to them right now.”
“Probably not a terrific plan, but I understand the impulse.”
“She just told me it was an offer she couldn’t refuse,” Denise said. “Enough for her to retire on comfortably. Like I said, it was twice what we’d talked about; there’s no way I can compete.”
“Maybe it’ll fall through?” I suggested halfheartedly.
She sighed. “I doubt it. Did you see him? He looks like he already owns the place.”
She wasn’t wrong. We drove the rest of the way to the bookstore in silence. As the little house with its cheerful roses came into view, once again I was struck by a sense of deep gratitude that Seaside Cottage Books was mine. Even if the roses could use a trim… and there wasn’t exactly a stream of customers beating a path to my door up the curved flagstone walkway.
“Are you going to come in and make that magical coffee cake you were telling me about?”
“I’ve got a few things to do,” she said, “but I’ll text you the link to the recipe.”
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing my basket from the back of the Jeep. “I’ll save you a couple of pieces. Want to come over for dinner tonight?”
“I can’t tonight,” she said, “but soon?”
“Of course,” I said. “Let me know.” I paused with my hand on the door. “You’re not going back to Sea Beans now, are you?”
“I’m thinking about it,” she said.
I sighed. “Just take care of yourself, okay? And thank you so much for taking me berry picking. It was great.”
“Anytime,” she said as I closed the door. She reversed out of the spot behind the cottage and headed up the driveway. I couldn’t help but notice that she turned left, toward town, and sighed as I carried my half-full basket into the shop.
“How did it go?’ Caroline asked as I shut the door behind me. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and she was perched behind the desk with her laptop open.
“I got enough for something called Blueberry Boy Bait, apparently… Denise is going to send me the recipe.”
“Maybe we should give some to Bethany,” Caroline said in a low voice, her eyes sliding toward the back room, where Bethany was standing with a young man I recognized from the library. It was Devin Mattola, the young man who had recently joined her writing group, and from the way the two were looking at each other, I got the feeling Boy Bait wasn’t going to be necessary.
“Good for her,” I said; Devin seemed to be good boyfriend material. And they both loved books. Thing seemed to be turning around for my young friend, I thought with satisfaction.
Now, if only my daughter could find her way.
Sirens woke me that night, wailing as they sped past Seaside Cottage Books and up the road away from Snug Harbor. A crack of thunder sounded as they faded into the distance, and I shivered. Had a lightning bolt started a fire? I hoped not... it had been dry lately, and the last thing we needed was a forest fire.
I was just drifting back off to sleep when the phone rang; it was Denise.
"What's going on?" I asked, sitting up straight. "Are you okay?"
"I am," she said, "but there are about six emergency vehicles up at the big house across the road from me.”
I rubbed my eyes and pulled the phone away from my ear, looking at the display before holding it back up to my head. "It's two in the morning. Do we know someone who lives there?"
"We do," she said. "It's that Charles Carsten.”
"The guy who's buying Sea Beans with his son?"
“That’s the one.”
"Maybe he had a heart attack or something?" I suggested. "I'm sure we'll find out all about it in the morning."
"I'm walking over to find out what happened," she said.
"Denise, the last thing they need is you sticking your nose into things," I warned her.
"I have to know," she said. "Otherwise I won't sleep."
I sighed. "I can't stop you, but I still think it's a bad idea."
"I'll think about it," she said.
"Just go to bed and you'll hear all about it at the coffee shop in the morning. And then you can call me and fill me in." Winston looked up at me, his soulful eyes gleaming in the faint light streaming through the window, and sank his head back down on the blanket beside me.
"All right," she said. "But I have a funny feeling about this."
"Go to bed, Denise," I repeated, and hung the phone up a moment later, just as another peal of thunder sounded and the first drops of rain hit the window pane.
I had barely dragged myself to the kitchen and started the coffee the next morning when the phone rang again. It was Denise. I checked the time: it was just after eight.
"So what's the story?" I asked, cradling the phone between my shoulder and my cheek as I measured the second scoop of coffee and poured it into the filter.
"He's dead," she said. "His big convertible Bonneville rolled right off the cliff onto the rocks with him in it. I saw suitcases on the rocks."
"What do you mean, you saw suitcases on the rocks? I thought you were going to bed?"
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "So I went up the driveway and walked through the trees and looked at where they were directing the searchlights. The car's still down there, but they had to lift him out with a helicopter.”
"So you know he's... gone?" I asked.
"I called the hospital to see if he had been admitted. They had no record of him."
I sighed. "You should have been a reporter," I told her. "So if he is gone, do you think Chad is still going to buy Sea Beans?"
"I hope not,” she said. "I got the impression Charles was the money man.” She sighed. “I do feel kind of bad about it, but then again, Margaret has been promising to sell it to me for years. Maybe this was the universe's way of putting things right?"
I hadn't realized how much the looming loss of Sea Beans had affected my friend; I'd never heard her like this before. "We'll see," I said cautiously. "Even if he is gone, Chad is likely in line to inherit. And even if not, Epoch might partner with someone else, or Margaret might decide she can get more for the shop. Don't count your chickens..."
"I know," she said. "I just... it was so upsetting to see my life plan just kind of whisked away from me like that."
I knew a little bit about what she was talking about. Getting divorced was a lot like that; I was still adjusting to my new reality.
"Are you working today?" I asked.
"I have the afternoon shift. I’m hoping I can talk to Margaret.”
"I'd wait until it's official and you know what’s going on," I advised. "Give her a day or two to process."
"You're probably right," she said. "You always give such good advice."
"And you always do such a good job of following it," I said dryly. "I still can't believe you went up there!"
"Maybe you're right," she said. "Maybe I should have been a journalist." We signed off a moment later, and I threw on some clothes as the coffee brewed. Once I'd taken Winston down for his morning potty break--the grass was dewy with rain, and the moisture made the smell of the beach roses even stronger than usual—I sat down on my little back porch with the view of Snug Island and pulled out my phone. I went to Facebook and typed Seaside Cottage Books, curious to see if we'd gotten any followers since Caroline put up the site.
So far, unfortunately, we still had three: me, Bethany, and Caroline. The picture on the cover photo was adorable, though, capturing the sweet little cottage with its front porch and gleaming windows, the front door open wide revealing a peek of the books within. She'd even found a little illustration of a cottage by the sea as our "profile picture." The content, however, was limited to her first post: Welcome to Seaside Cottage Books! Watch this space!
We were going to have to come up with more than that, I was afraid.
I was taking a sip of coffee when the phone in my hand buzzed; it was Nicholas. I instinctively ran my hand through my hair before answering in a voice that I hoped wasn't a croak; it was still early, at least for me.
"Good morning, Sunshine," he said. “I’m taking the afternoon off, so I was calling to see if you're free early this evening for some treasure hunting and then dinner."
"I'd love that," I said. Although the first three sites we'd visited since cracking the coded journal we'd found hidden in the store's basement had turned out to be a disappointment, it was still fun tracking down the sites on the map and imagining the clandestine activities that must have occurred at each one so many years ago. We’d found some broken glass and a few empty bottles, but nothing of any real value. Still, it was always fun spending time with Nicholas. I was starting to let my guard down a little bit again, learning to relax after several years of coexisting in a strained marriage. It was still strange being romantic with someone other than my husband; every once in a while I had to look down at my left hand and remind myself I wasn’t married anymore. “Let me check with Caroline and see if she’s free to cover the store.”
“How’s that going, anyway?”
“Better than expected, actually. She’s got some ideas about making the business better; for the first time since the divorce, we’re talking about something other than the divorce, and I’m actually seeing some enthusiasm.”
“Good,” he said.
“The downside is, I can’t really afford her salary and sales are running about twenty percent off what I projected,” I said.
“Not so good.”
“Exactly. I’m hoping some of her marketing ideas can really help out. I worry about the store next to me. If it were more of a draw, maybe some of the traffic would spill over to me.”
“I can see that. Make your area a destination. It’s a pretty little place with a nice back deck facing the water.”
“Just like Seaside Cottage Books. It used to be a house.”
“Maybe someone will turn it back into one,” he suggested. “But in the meantime, let’s forget all about that and focus on treasure-hunting. After all, if we find old Satterthwaite’s treasure, you won’t have to worry about book sales!”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I’ll pick you up at four!”
At four o’clock, true to his word, Nicholas showed up at the store. I waved to Bethany and headed out.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked as I climbed into the car next to him.
“Sutton’s Island,” he said. “At least according to my GPS.”
“And how many more of these map locations are there to check out?”
“I’m not sure, but there are a lot,” he said. “At least from my count. I’ve picked the most commonly listed ones first, but that might not be the best plan.”
“They could just be drop-off and pick-up points,” I agreed. “Probably not hiding spots.”
“Well, if nothing else, at least it’s a nice day to be out on the boat,” he said.
He wasn’t wrong. Thirty minutes later, we were heading out from the dock, Nicholas’s little motor boat cutting across the dark blue water. We passed a few moon jellies, and I spotted a seal head popping out of the water, its owner checking us out.
I snuggled into Nicholas as he turned right after leaving the main dock. The air grew colder as we left the mainland, and the boat bumped as Nicholas steered it over the waves. I was glad I wasn’t prone to seasickness.
About twenty minutes later, we approached a small island with a few houses dotting the coast and a long dock that protruded into the water. Nicholas checked his GPS.
“It looks like a spot right next to the dock is our destination,” he said.
“So probably a pick-up point.”
“Let’s check it out anyway,” he said. We tied up a few minutes later and hopped onto the dock, then followed the directions on Nicholas’s GPS app up a slight rise away from the dock to what turned out to be a flat granite rock.
“Probably no buried treasure here,” I said. “Unless they managed to drag a boulder onto it and fill in around it.”
“What are you folks looking for?” asked an old man who was rolling down the one cracked road on an old bicycle.
“Oh, we’re trying to track an old rumrunner’s locations,” Nicholas said. “Looks like this was a dead end.”
“There used to be a shack here,” he said. “This land belonged to the original Suttons; they had their main house up there, but it’s gone now,” he said, pointing up a rise to a bare spot with a few young trees sprouting. “Was a carriage house or storage shed, I’m not sure which, but it was definitely here. You can see the iron bolts where they lashed it down,” he said, pointing to a rusty nub in the grass.
“What did he keep in the shed?” Nicholas asked.
“Rumor has it some of the folks from the mainland stored hooch there… so you’re not on the wrong track after all.” His eyes twinkled. “Probably no treasure, though, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Nicholas grinned at him. “How did you know?”
“People have been searching for his hoard for almost a hundred years now. Nobody’s found it, but we’ve had a half a dozen folks come looking over the years, hoping they can find the X that marks the spot. There’s been talk of a map, but nobody’s found it.”
“I own the house Loretta Satterthwaite used to live in.” It was her ancestor, Josiah Satterthwaite, who was the fabled rumrunner of Snug Harbor.
“You run Seaside Cottage Books now!” the man said. “You sold me an Edgar Allen Poe anthology a few months back.”
“I recognize you now!”
“Edgar,” he said, holding out a wrinkled hand.
“I’m Max,” I said. “And this is Nicholas.”
“Good to meet you,” he said. “I’d invite you to tea, but I’m on my way to the weekly poker game. If you ever want to stop in and talk books, I’m always here!”
“And stop by the shop anytime.”
He lingered for a moment. “Making any more of those turtle pecan cookies?”
I laughed. “Call and let me know you’re coming and I will,” I said. As Edgar rode off to his poker game, Nicholas and I walked around for a few minutes more. The island was sleepy, almost deserted… a far cry from bustling Snug Harbor.
“Well, we didn’t find anything, but at least we know we’re on the right track,” Nicholas said.
“Not if everything in the book is just a rendezvous point,” I replied. “But still, it’s worth continuing to explore.”
* * *
We were just getting back into Nicholas’s skiff when my phone rang. It was Denise.
“What’s up?” I asked as I plunked down onto the bench of the little boat.
“They came to the store and asked to talk to me,” she said.
“Who?”
“The police. They think I killed Charles Carsten.”
5
“You’re kidding me,” I said to Denise as Nicholas looked at me, concern on his handsome face. “He was murdered?”
“I think someone must have done something to his car to make it go off the cliff like that.”
A shiver passed through me. “That’s horrible.”
“I know,” she agreed. “I thought it was just an accident… that maybe he had a drinking problem or something, and passed out at the wheel… but I got the impression they think someone messed with his car.”
“But why you? You’re not a mechanic.”
“One of my ex-boyfriends is,” she said. “We dated for six years, and he taught me a lot about cars… they’ve done enough research that they already know that. And someone told them about the Sea Beans thing, and how angry I was.”
“That’s not exactly a smoking gun. Of course you were angry.”
“One of the neighbors saw me when I went over to see what happened.”
“What was your neighbor doing up in the middle of the night?”
“It’s still a small town,” she said. “Everyone’s nosy, and when there are police cars and ambulances involved, it’s double. I’ll bet it was that Jimmy Witlowski. He’s got binoculars, and spends half his time spying on people with them. I heard he has a telescope in his living room so he can watch women getting in and out of their hot tubs on the yachts in the harbor.”
