Once upon a seaside murd.., p.1
Once Upon a Seaside Murder, page 1
Once Upon a Seaside Murder
A BEACH READS MYSTERY
Maggie Blackburn
For Bob, with love and gratitude.
Acknowledgments
I totally agree with Hildy—readers are the best people. I’m honored to be a part of your community. Thank you for reading my book.
A very special thanks to my editor Terri Bischoff and my agent Jill Marsal. I’m thrilled to have you both in my corner. Thank you to Rachel Keith, copy editor extraordinaire. Special thanks to Kathleen Chrisman for beta reading.
Thanks to my daughters, who egg me on, listen to my stories and ideas, and make me proud every day.
In gratitude,
“Maggie”
Chapter One
Even though Hildy Merriweather’s heart was pagan, she loved Christmas.
It thrilled her to tell anybody who asked why it didn’t conflict with her Goddess-loving pagan ways. “As we practice Christmas today, it has very little to do with the birth of Christ. In fact, the Christmas tree, the holly, all of it, has pagan roots in the solstice. As far as historians can tell, Christ was born in April and his birthday was tacked on the solstice celebration as a sneaky way of getting pagans to convert,” she’d say, and then she’d offer you the best vegan brownie you’d ever eaten. Disarming? Yes. But that was Hildy—Summer’s mother—and she was all peace, love, and stardust. But she was gone.
Summer drew in a breath as she walked in the sand. The sound of the ocean had always soothed her, ever since she was a child. Christmas without her mother … she didn’t know how she’d get through it. But get through it she must.
It was one of the busiest times of the year for Beach Reads, the bookstore her mom had left to her. Still on sabbatical and considering her options for now, she was back home running the bookstore she’d always despised as a child and young woman.
She didn’t quite hate the store anymore. Life was full of surprises—and she’d had plenty since she’d been back on Brigid’s Island. She now knew who her biological father was; she also now knew her half brother and half sister, though they’d been out of the country for many months. She was expecting them to return to the island any day now.
Summer lifted her face to the rising sun and turned back to her home, the one she’d grown up in, a pink beach cottage with turquoise shutters, its rickety porch swing swaying in the breeze. Early-morning calm and peace filled her. This time of day was the only time Summer had to herself. How had her mom run a bookstore, raised her, and made sure everything was taken care of around the house? Hildy wasn’t an organized person. But she got it all done.
Summer walked up the path. Her mom’s parrot, Mr. Darcy, was in the window watching for her. The African gray provided interesting company. Summer’s cousin Piper was back at work, her Aunt Agatha was busy with her volunteer work, and her niece Mia was in school—until tomorrow; then she planned to help Summer with the Christmas shoppers. People were living their lives, without Hildy. Which was as it should be. Life went on. But Hildy’s death had changed Summer forever. Sorting out the emotional debris might take the rest of her life.
When she entered the house, Darcy waddled over to her. He liked to exercise in the morning, so she’d let him out of his cage earlier. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”
He flapped his wings and turned around a few times.
“Silly bird,” she said. “Time to go back in your cage. I’m off to Beach Reads.”
She bent over and held up her arm, and he stepped onto it. “Good boy.”
“Treat!” he squawked.
“Of course.” She placed him in the cage and offered him a treat, which he accepted.
She found her bag and readied herself to drive to the store, as the forecast was calling for rain. She didn’t mind a summer rain, but a winter beach rain could be unpleasant.
Her keys were next to the box. The box. Her half brother, Sam, had given her a box of letters, cards, and photos of his father and Summer’s mom. She’d yet to open it. It seemed so personal … Was she ready to see her mom as a young, crazy-in-love woman? Maybe soon. Not this morning.
Twenty-minutes later, Summer opened the door to Beach Reads. The scent of patchouli greeted her as it always did, no matter how much anyone cleaned or how much time had passed. It was as if her mom’s favorite smell permeated the walls, creaky wooden floors, bookcases, and overstuffed chairs. But as she walked deeper into the store, the smell of brewed coffee replaced the patchouli, along with cinnamon and peppermint. Poppy, Hildy’s trusted assistant, now Summer’s, must be here.
“Yoo-hoo!” Summer called, walking into her office and finding an empty room. “Yoo-hoo!”
“We’re in the back!”
We?
Why were people gathered in the storage room?
“Hey.” Marilyn bounded into the office. One of Summer’s mom’s best friends, spiky-haired Marilyn sported wildflower tattoos and often said she wouldn’t rest until every part of her body was a flower.
“What are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too,” Marilyn said, as Poppy came along.
“I’m sorry. Good morning. What’s going on?”
“We were back there searching for a banner, and man, we found this very interesting stuff,” Marilyn said, placing a box on Summer’s desk, her tattoos peeking out as her shirt sleeve slid up her wrist. Marilyn was an active Mermaid Pie Book Club member. She also was a librarian.
Summer could only imagine the space in the back. She refused to enter it, certain there must be spiders lurking in the cracks and crevices. No matter how much therapy and medication she tried, arachnophobia ruled her life. “Did you find what you were searching for?”
“No.” Poppy glanced at her watch. “We were looking for a banner that says, ‘Have a Cozy Christmas.’ It’s for the cozy mystery event. Maybe we can search more tomorrow. It’s almost time to open.”
“Okay,” Marilyn said. “Same place and time?” She turned to go, then back to Summer. “When you get a chance, you should look through that box. There’s a scrapbook full of newspaper clippings. If you don’t want them, I’ll take them to the library to archive.”
Summer placed her purse on the chair. “Why would I want them?”
“Because they were Hildy’s,” Poppy chimed in, her blue eyes wide as saucers. Poppy reminded Summer of a young Goldie Hawn—not just physically but also personality-wise.
“Mom had a scrapbook with clippings?” Summer opened the flap of the box. Her skin tingled. It wasn’t like her mom to clip newspaper articles and paste them in a book unless the articles were about her daughter.
“Evidently. I gotta run. Should I turn the OPEN sign on when I’m leaving?” Marilyn reached for her bag and jingled her keys, a habit she seemed to enjoy.
“You may as well,” Poppy said. “The register is ready.”
After Marilyn left, Poppy turned to Summer. “You might not want to read that stuff.”
“Why not?”
Poppy hesitated. “A lot of what’s in there is about an unsolved murder that happened a long time ago. I don’t know why Marilyn finds it interesting. There’s nothing interesting about murder. Not to me. Not anymore.” She blinked several times as if holding back tears.
Summer’s stomach clenched. Murder wasn’t her favorite subject either. She’d stopped watching any crime shows. She hadn’t read any true-crime or murder mysteries lately. She didn’t listen to the news or read newspapers anymore. When your mom had been murdered, the subject lost all its appeal.
Chapter Two
Summer set the box aside.
After turning on the computer, she updated Beach Read’s blog. They’d gotten in several new books that customers had suggested. Deep in concentration, she jumped when someone said her name.
“Sorry, love, didn’t mean to scare you.” Aunt Agatha reached over and embraced her with her long arms. “I thought I’d stop by to check on you.”
“And the store, right?”
Agatha wasn’t fooling her. Summer knew how concerned her mom’s sister was about the Beach Reads legacy continuing.
Agatha’s pageboy haircut moved when she nodded. “Things look great. Very Christmasy. I love the tree made of books. And I’m so glad you’re continuing the book drive for kids. I saw the article in the paper.”
Summer’s mind flashed to the reporter who’d interviewed her. Yvonne Smith had gotten several details wrong in the article. It didn’t surprise Summer at all. She was in her grade at school and she was always a bit strange. Not only that, but she tried to break her and Cash up at one point, making up some wild story about Summer and a football player. She was an attention-seeking goofball.
She turned her attention back to Aunt Agatha. “Thanks. Are you coming to the cozy Christmas event?”
“Maybe.” Agatha eyeballed the box.
“Marilyn and Poppy found it in the storage room.”
A white-gray eyebrow lifted. “The storage room? I’d forgotten about that place.”
Something about the hush in her voice sparked Summer’s curiosity. “Did you all have secret sex club meetings back there or something?”
Agatha guffawed. “Right. Honestly, Summer, I have to wonder about you sometimes.” She fiddled with her scarf. “Our sex club meetings were always held at your house.” She laughed and elbowed her niece.
“That’s hilarious,” Summer said. “Sit down. Can I get you coffee or tea?”
Her aunt took a seat. “No. I can ’t stay long.” She reached for the box and pulled it to her lap, losing control of it in the process. It fell over, its contents spilling all over the floor. “Damn!”
She leaped to her feet and crouched over to gather what had fallen.
Summer made her way toward her aunt. As they picked up various scraps and papers, Agatha paled. “What is all this? Why would Hildy keep these?”
Summer sighed. “I don’t know. Poppy said it’s clippings and such about an unsolved murder.”
Aunt Agatha’s long, manicured fingers ran over an old scrapbook. “What’s this?”
Summer shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But you know Mom. She was a woman who could keep secrets.”
“Humph. Ain’t that right.” Agatha cracked open the scrapbook and scanned the pages. She lifted her face. “I remember now. I remember your mom’s fascination with this case.”
Summer frowned. “My mom’s fascination with a murder case?”
“I know. It doesn’t sound like Hildy at all, does it?”
“No.” Hildy hadn’t talked of negative things. She eschewed bad energy.
“But now that I know who your biological father is, it makes sense.”
Summer leaned toward her. “What do you mean?”
“The murder victim worked for the Bellamy family,” Agatha said. “Your father’s mother, I believe. Or maybe it was his grandmother?”
Summer’s interest was suddenly piqued. She hungered for more information about her dad’s family. Sam and Fatima, her half brother and half sister, had introduced themselves, then left the island. They had business in the Middle East. They had been here on the island for years and she didn’t know it. Of course, they went to private schools and ran in completely different circles than she and her family. She couldn’t wait to get to know them.
And yet she was also nervous. She had no idea what these people were like. All she knew was that her mom had loved Omar, their father. And in true Summer Merriweather fashion, she’d set aside all the emotions she could be feeling. She’d also set aside any notion of research into her new family. She needed to unpack this slowly.
“I know you must want to know more about them. I do too,” Aunt Agatha said. “I remember bits and pieces about them over the years. But your mom … well, she never opened up to me about any of it.” She looked off into her own distance.
Poppy stuck her head into the office. “I could use help.”
“Oh!” Summer stood. “I’ll be right there.” She turned back to Agatha. “We’ll have to talk about all this later. Duty calls.”
“I really need to get going anyway. I’ve got things to do for the Christmas charity ball. Are you sure you’re not interested in attending?”
Summer would rather stick needles in her eyes. Nor was she excited about the events she’d been hooked into—the cozy mystery event and the Mermaid Pie Book Club’s annual Christmas Secret Goddess party. “I’m happy to buy a ticket. But you’ll never catch me in a ball gown.”
Agatha laughed as they walked out of the office into the bookstore proper. She wrapped her scarf around her neck. “It’s getting colder by the minute. Don’t like the winter at all. Neither did Hildy.”
Hence Summer’s name. She’d always hated her name, just like she’d always hated the bookstore. But these days she didn’t have the energy to hate anything.
Now that I have you, I get Summer all year long, Hildy used to say.
“Well, I’ll see you later.” Aunt Agatha turned and hugged her.
Summer sank into the embrace. It was the next best thing to Hildy’s.
When her aunt had gone, she headed toward the register to give Poppy a break, walking by the books stacked into a Christmas tree shape. And she almost smashed into a man who was turning to face her.
Her heart jumped into her mouth. Cash. The man she’d left at the altar fourteen years ago stood like a sturdy oak in front of her. She hadn’t seen him since. Her face heated. She’d run off like a coward.
And he looked good. Very good. He’d stayed here on the island, married six months after she left.
He nodded. “Summer.”
“Cash. Can I help you?” The room stood still, as if the books and walls, wreaths, and people stopped in their tracks and watched them. Watched the years tumble away. Summer concentrated on breathing, keeping her cool, as her heart pounded against her rib cage.
His lips moved. Still thick and full. “I have a list.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “My daughter is quite a reader. She’s thirteen, and all she wants for Christmas is books.” He shifted his weight. “Guess I could’ve ordered online, but I like to support this place. Always have.” His eyes took in the space. “Not quite the same without her.”
Summer blinked back a tear. She’d not cry here in front of Cash. “No.” She swallowed. “Can I see the list? We’ll get your daughter—”
“Bess.”
“We’ll get Bess all taken care of for Christmas.” Summer glanced over the list. One typical YA book, a very popular one, and then there were several mysteries along with Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet. She clutched her chest. “Shakespeare?”
He grinned, shook his head. “Yeah. I don’t know what we’re going to do with her.”
“Follow me,” Summer said. One thing she’d given herself and the people of Brigid’s Island in the past few months was a Shakespeare section. Yes, off in a corner. More like a nook. In fact, a sign hung above it: Bard’s Nook.
It was a bookcase full of Shakespeare titles, next to an overstuffed chair, with a print of Shakespeare on the wall. Her eyes met Cash’s. He grinned, aware of her own passion for Shakespeare. How it had all but consumed her as a teenager. How she’d railed against the romances her mom adored. “How about that?” he said.
How about it, indeed.
Chapter Three
Summer left Cash to browse the Shakespeare section. Hovering wouldn’t be cool. No customer liked it, especially not Cash Singer.
She’d imagined running into him many times over the years. And the incident had turned out to be undramatic. No yelling, no sobbing, and no running into each other’s arms and embracing. Her stomach tightened. She was in the wrong. She should’ve told him all those years ago how she was feeling instead of running off. She’d never regretted her decision to not marry him, but she’d often regretted the way she’d managed it. Coward. Summer Merriweather. Mom was so right about me.
But Summer was unlike her mom, and her cousin Piper, for that matter. It took her a while to process things, and sometimes she needed to run away to do it. That had always bothered Hildy. How had her mom gotten to be so brave? Why were they so different in this way?
“Holly Jolly Christmas” played in the background as Summer marched to the register. She refrained from rolling her eyes. She was so tired of Christmas music.
“I need a bathroom break,” Poppy said.
“Well, I’m here.” Summer straightened the mermaid-Santa pins on display at the register. A local woman made them, and sales were brisk. Summer wouldn’t wear one if it were the last available piece of jewelry on the planet. But customers loved them.
A customer approached with an armful of books. “Where can I find the newest J. D. Robb?”
“The mysteries are upstairs, and it’s all alphabetized by author last name.”
“Thanks.” She headed toward the stairs.
The upstairs of the bookstore had always been Summer’s favorite space. She remembered when her mom had had it built. How proud and happy Hildy had been the day it opened. More books, overstuffed chairs, and mermaid paintings than any young girl in love with Shakespeare needed. But the balcony? The balcony was another matter indeed. She’d loved to sit at one of the café tables beneath the umbrella, reading, while the sound of the waves surrounded her. She’d always wondered where her mom had gotten the money for expansion—heck, she’d always wondered where she’d gotten the money for the bookstore.
A line was forming—more customers. Summer struggled to concentrate while checking them out. Her mind wasn’t what it used to be before her mom died. Small tasks like this were harder than they should be. And yet, as much as Summer wanted to retreat to bed, she wouldn’t allow herself. Must keep moving. Mustn’t stop and dwell on loss. On anger. On regrets.
