The Lies that Bind, page 4
“Nice,” I said dryly. The sea breeze ruffled my hair, and the water lapped the sides of the skiff. Nicholas had a little furrow between his brows and was watching me intently. I held up a finger to let him know I’d fill him in a moment. “So they asked you a few questions. Maybe they’re just doing due diligence,” I said, trying to be optimistic.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “They told me not to leave town. And I heard the word warrant.”
A chill went up my spine. That didn’t sound good at all. “Where did this happen?”
“Sea Beans,” she said, sounding miserable. “They came in and told me they wanted to ask a few questions. It was so embarrassing… and now, if Margaret thinks I killed Charles, there’s no way she’ll sell the place to me. Not that I could manage it from jail, anyway,” she added in a morose tone.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said. “I’m sure there were lots of people who might have wished Charles harm. And maybe they’ll decide it was just mechanical failure.”
“Maybe,” she said, not sounding convinced. “But could you ask Nicholas if he knows of a good criminal defense attorney? Just in case?”
“Of course,” I said. “In fact, we’re about to go get some dinner, but if you need to come over later on, I’m sure he’d be happy to talk with you.” I looked over toward Nicholas, who was nodding his head yes.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Positive,” I said.
“Thank you. You know, yesterday, I wouldn’t have imagined things could get worse. But today…”
“I’m sure it will improve,” I reassured her, hoping I was right.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Nicholas said as I ended the call and put my phone back in my pocket.
“It doesn’t,” I agreed, and filled him in on what had happened.
“So she threatened him in public and was seen near where he died last night.”
“Pretty much,” I said. “Plus, her ex is a mechanic, so she knows a bit about cars.”
“That doesn’t sound good at all,” he said. “I wish I had more faith in the local police, but it’s not exactly Scotland Yard.”
That certainly had been my experience since moving to Snug Harbor.
“We should probably find out more about Charles Carsten,” I said. “Like, who inherits?”
“And did he dump or cheat anyone recently?” Nicholas suggested.
“In the meantime, can you get Denise in touch with a good attorney?”
“I can, but the one I’m thinking of is not cheap. I’ll see if she can cut her rates as a personal favor.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Dinner’s on me.”
“No way,” he said. “You’re trying to get your business off the ground. Once you start your own chain, then you can buy dinner. Save your shekels for your advertising campaign.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive,” he said, and started up the skiff’s motor. “Now, let’s go grab us some lobster.”
I smiled, watching the handsome man I had fallen for twenty-five years ago hit the throttle and turn us toward land. We might not have found old Josiah’s mythical buried treasure, but I was feeling like I’d found a buried treasure of my own right now; one that was far more valuable than any money.
Dinner was marvelous; I had the classic Maine dinner of lobster with drawn butter accompanied by clam chowder and corn, followed with a big slice of blueberry pie, topped off with a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream. We were back at my apartment, sitting on my couch; Winston sat on Nicholas’s lap while he scratched behind his ears, looking like he would be more than willing to go home with Nicholas instead of staying with me. I totally understood the sentiment.
“So,” he said. “Things still going well with Caroline?”
“So far. It’s the first spark of life I’ve seen in her since the divorce,” I said. “But I want her to go to school. I’m worried that it’s a decoy, in a way… something to do to avoid facing college.”
“Has she taken any classes yet?” he asked.
“Nope. She was accepted to UConn, but she decided to defer. I think she doesn’t believe she can hack it. Her sister is knocking her classes out of the park, so I don’t think that helps.”
“One of the downsides of being a twin, I suppose,” he said, scratching Winston’s belly as the little Bichon rolled onto his back and wriggled in ecstasy. “Maybe she’ll find her groove in the store, though.”
“I don’t want her to limit herself.”
“Do you feel you did?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s a tough question. Maybe I do. I always wanted to go to school and get a PhD in English, but then I got married, and then the girls came along, and then it was all about play dates and lunches and library trips… and I kind of lost sight of who I was, and what I wanted.” I shifted on the sofa. “At the same time, though, I’m glad I had all that time with the girls.”
“But it sounds like you lost yourself in there a little bit,” he said gently.
“I think I did,” I agreed. “And now that I’m no longer mother and wife, I’m starting to remember who I was all those long years ago.”
He reached out to touch my hand. “You always did love books,” he said. “You had your nose in one all the time when we were kids. So I think the bookstore is a solid step in the right direction.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If I can make the business work.”
“Let Caroline help you,” he suggested. “It’ll give her a sense of purpose. And she might find she has a talent for marketing… maybe that would give her a direction in school. They have degrees in things like social media marketing these days, I believe.”
“And maybe she could take some classes at the college here?” I said hopefully.
“Maybe,” he agreed. “What’s Bethany doing, by the way, now that she may have the money for school?”
“It’s still tied up in the courts,” I said. “She’s here for a while, at least. I don’t know what I’ll do if she goes… she’s my right-hand woman, for sure.”
“Maybe Caroline can pick up some of the slack.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. I was thankful she was living with my mom; as much as I loved my daughter, my apartment was barely big enough for Winston and me. With Caroline bunking on the couch, it had been way too crowded. “Thanks for talking through this with me,” I said. “I’m not used to having someone to help me figure things out. I kind of got used to doing everything myself. It’s nice having you in my corner.”
“And it’s nice having you in mine,” he said, leaning toward me. A tingle coursed through me as I leaned back, and our lips had just met when someone pounded at the door.
Winston leapt off the couch, barking at the top of his lungs, and Nicholas and I almost knocked heads together.
The moment was definitely gone.
I stood up and walked to the door, where Winston was standing, front paws on the door, barking his head off. I peeked through the curtain; it was Denise.
Winston stopped barking the moment I opened the door and threw himself at my friend, tail wagging. She bent down to pet him and then registered Nicholas on the couch. “I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asked.
“No,” I lied, shooting Nicholas a sidelong glance. “Come on in. We were just talking about Bethany and Caroline.”
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“They’re doing great,” I said. “I don’t know how I’d run this place without them. Come on in and sit down; I’ll pull over a chair from the table and you can sit on the couch.”
‘As long as I’m not intruding…”
“Of course not.” I waved the thought away. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I hate to ask, but if you have a beer… I could use something to calm my nerves.”
“I’ve got Blueberry Ale in the fridge,” I offered.
“I’ll take it,” she said, lowering herself into what had been my spot on the couch.
“Nicholas?” I asked.
“Make that two, if you’ve got them.”
I pulled out three bottles and popped the caps, handing one of each to Nicholas and Denise, then slid a kitchen chair over and sat down with them.
My friend slugged back about half a bottle in one swig and let out a sigh. “That’s better,” she said. “Thanks for letting me come over. My nerves are fried.”
“I’ll bet,” I said.
“I looked into Charles Carsten today,” Denise said. “Obviously someone must have wanted him dead, so I figured I’d see if I could work out who.”
“What did you find out?” Nicholas asked.
“Not a lot, strangely,” she said. “He doesn’t have much of an internet presence. Just a LinkedIn account.”
“That is kind of weird,” I said.
“What did come up?” Nicholas asked.
“He owns a company that runs three Epoch Coffee locations,” she said.
“So maybe Charles was buying the store, and not Chad, after all,” I said.
“Looks that way, although you’d never know it to hear Chad talk. Anyway, like I said, he’s got three stores; the one in Snug Harbor is going to be the fourth. Or was going to be the fourth. Other than that… nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing on LinkedIn, other than that he owns this company. And no address beyond the one in Snug Harbor.”
“How long has he lived there?”
“Two years,” she said. “That’s when he shows up as owning Venture Investments, too. Before that, he just doesn’t seem to exist.”
“That is odd,” Nicholas said.
“He must have money from somewhere,” I commented. “Waterfront property, even if it is on a cliff, doesn’t come cheap.”
“And that antique Bonneville can’t have been cheap, either,” Denise said, taking another swig of her beer.
“Does he belong to any car clubs?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but that might be a good place to start.”
“There’s an antique car meet up every Saturday morning,” Nicholas said. “Right by the Town Green. It might be a good place to start asking questions.”
“That’s tomorrow,” I said. “What time?”
“It runs from eight to ten. We could go together,” Nicholas suggested.
“That sounds great,” Denise said, even though Nicholas had been looking at me when he mentioned it. “Shall we meet there at eight on the dot?”
“Sure,” I replied. “I have to leave by 9:30 or so to get the store ready to open, though.”
“That should be enough time,” Denise said. “And then Nicholas and I can go have breakfast.”
I cocked an eyebrow at Nicholas, who said, “I may come keep Max company and help her open the store. We can pick up some pastries at Sea Beans, though.”
“Sea Beans,” she said grumpily. “I wish I was done with the place.”
“You could always open a competing coffee shop,” I suggested. I have no idea where the idea came from.
“Open a new store? How would I do that?”
“Rent a space, come up with a name, get some tables and equipment… you could create your own coffee shop,” I suggested.
“But where?” she asked.
“Wherever you want,” I suggested. “The store next door is up for lease. Why don’t you call and see how much it would be to rent it?”
“Do they have a kitchen?”
“I don’t remember seeing one—it was a T-shirt store most recently—but it used to be a house, so there must at least be some kitchen space. If not, I’m sure you could talk with a bank and figure out how to put one in.”
“But we’re so far off the main drag,” she said.
I couldn’t argue with that; it had been a problem for me, too.
“It doesn’t have to be next door,” Nicholas said. “It’s certainly worth thinking about. Max was an assistant manager for years, and now she’s her own boss.”
“Assuming I can get sales up,” I reminded him.
“Caroline’s helping you with that,” he said reassuringly. “I’m sure it’ll all come together. You’re still working things out.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking I’d better work things out fast, or Caroline wouldn’t be the only one moving in with my mother. I took another swig of my Blueberry Ale and sighed.
It hadn’t been the best of weeks.
The next morning dawned cool and clear, and white clouds dotted the bright blue sky as Winston and I headed out the front door the next morning bright and early, on our way to the Town Green.
It was only a few blocks, and it was a lovely walk. We’d had a light rain the night before, and this morning everything smelled fresh and clean, the faint scent of spruce and balsam mingling with the salt air whisking off the water. I had finished my first cup of coffee for the day, but my mouth was watering for a muffin from Sea Beans; although Denise had sent me her Blueberry Boy Bait recipe, I hadn’t had a chance to try it out yet.
As I walked up Main Street, I caught an enticing whiff of coffee and something like cinnamon rolls. My stomach growled, oblivious to my budget, and I found myself drawn as if by an invisible string to the short line outside Sea Beans.
I tied Winston up to the bench outside and asked him to be good. He stretched out on the pavers, enjoying the sun on his fur, as I stepped inside the sweet-scented store.
Margaret, the owner, was behind the counter this morning, looking surly. Her dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail, and she wore a Sea Beans T-shirt that looked like it might be older than my daughters. Her skin was creased from years of sun exposure, but evidently she wasn’t as susceptible to her wares as I was; she was trim and lean, with the body of a runner. “Tall skim latte!” she barked to the young man behind the massive chrome espresso machine.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied meekly as she finished with the customer—a woman about my age—and turned to the line. “Next,” she spat out, as if she were a drill sergeant and we were her new recruits. I was guessing she’d taken the loss of Charles—and the sale—pretty hard. But with Denise ready to buy her out, why was she so upset?
The thought irritated me enough I almost turned and left… and then I saw the plump blueberry muffins, their sugared tops sparkling in the case, and all will left me.
She might lack bedside manner, but Margaret was certainly efficient. “What can I get you?” she asked as my turn came up.
“Blueberry muffin and a latte,” I said. “I heard the sale was scuttled; I’m sorry it fell through on you.”
Something flickered in her eyes, and her jaw set a little more; I got the sense her guard had gone up. “That’ll be seven dollars and fifty-one cents,” she said. As I counted out my money and tucked a dollar into the tip jar, she studied me. “Who are you, again?” she asked gruffly.
“I’m Denise’s friend, Max. I’m sure she’d be interested in buying the store from you.”
“I don’t sell to murderers,” Margaret said flatly, then, to the barista, “Grande latte and a blueberry muffin.”
6
“Denise isn’t a murderer,” I said.
“The police don’t seem to agree with you. I’d have been willing to consider selling to her, but I like fair play.”
“Fair play? You promised her the store years ago,” I flared, “and then decided to sell it to some out-of-towner and go back on your verbal deal.”
“It’s business,” she said coldly. “She had the opportunity to meet the offer. She didn’t. I have myself to look after, you know. I don’t have a rich husband to support me.”
“I don’t, either,” I said. “I’m a divorced business owner myself. And I would never treat someone the way you treated Denise.”
“I have a business to run. I don’t have time for this. Next!” she called, looking at the woman behind me in line, whose eyes were as big as the enormous glasses she wore.
I stepped aside, waiting for my drink, which the barista delivered to me a few minutes later along with a bagged blueberry muffin and an apologetic look. “Are you going to be here for a few minutes?” he whispered. “I need to tell you something; I have break in ten.”
“I’ll be outside on the bench,” I said.
“Sugar is on the bar by the door,” he said loudly; Margaret had finished with the next customer and was staring at us, eyes narrowed.
“Thank you,” I said, and walked over to the bar, where I picked up two packs of sugar, a coffee stirrer, and a napkin before heading outside to rescue Winston.
Although “rescue” might not be the right word, since he was being fawned over by two little girls who knew just the right spot behind his left ear. He barely noticed me until I sat down on the bench and opened the bag with the muffin in it, at which point he scrambled to his feet and fixed me with his big brown eyes.
“Just a little bit,” I said, slipping him a small piece of the muffin edge and then doctoring my latte. As I sipped, I glanced back to make sure my spot wasn’t in direct line of sight from the cash register. It was a few yards down from the store; if the barista was concerned, we could always move on to another bench.
I bit down into the blueberry muffin, savoring the crunch of sugar, the tang of the blueberry and the moist crumb, then washed it down with a swig of creamy latte. Margaret might not be the best at customer service, but she knew what she was doing in the kitchen.
I had finished the muffin and texted Nicholas that I might be running a few minutes late when the young barista popped out of the door, untying his apron with one hand and pulling a vape pen from his back pocket with another. He glanced back nervously at the shop. “Can we go down the street a little ways?”
“Sure,” I said, picking up Winston’s leash and tucking the empty bag into a trash can. “I’m Max, by the way. I own Seaside Cottage Books.”
“I know,” he said. “I bought two books from you last week.”
