Chapter 11 Avery
AVERY
I followed Beck’s directions and continued down Main Street with the bundle of flowers in my arms. They really were beautiful, colorful and fragrant, perfect for spring.
I passed an antique store, a coffee shop, and a bookstore. Across the small parking lot that separated Main Street from State Street, I spotted a hardware store and a tea shop (ironically right across from the coffee shop).
And then I was right on the shores of Hollow Lake, the sapphire water glinting under the sun.
A motorboat sped across the middle of the lake, well away from two sailboats gliding over the waves.
There was a small marina and a series of wooden docks to the left of the road.
On the other side was a boat launch, plus a cute yellow cottage behind a sign that read Finch Farm.
It didn’t look like a farm — there was no barn, no crops — but then I remembered Beck telling me about the duck farm on the lake and it made sense. Peering around the yellow cottage, I spotted several small outbuildings.
Coops? Did ducks use coops like chickens?
I had no idea, but this was apparently the source of the duck eggs that were the bakery’s secret ingredient.
And there was something else: a huge sign on the wild grass between the duck farm and the lake.
Future home of the Lakeside Hollow Gated Community and Country Club
Where modern luxury meets traditional comfort
Brought to you by Hearthstone Development Group
This must be the development Harold Pembroke had been trying to stop before he was murdered. I looked around, trying to imagine a gated community filled with gigantic new homes on the shores of Hollow Lake.
But I couldn’t. Blackwell Hollow was perfect, the lake surrounded by green space that was coveted in the city. Houses dotted the landscape in an assortment of architectural styles: Arts and Crafts, farmhouses, cottages, and more than a few Victorians like Aunt Evelyn’s house.
The gated community would block the view of the water from Main Street. Plus, how would the ducks get to the water with the gated community between the duck farm and the lake?
Sadness descended like a weight on my chest. I’d only been in Blackwell Hollow a day but I could already feel the impact such a massive new development would have on the town. I wouldn’t even be here in a couple months. I couldn’t imagine how Blackwell Hollow’s residents must feel.
No wonder Harold Pembroke had been fighting to keep it from being built.
I studied the sign. Could the new development have something to do with Harold Pembroke’s murder?
Movement caught my eye on the duck farm, and a moment later an old man stepped around the house carrying a wooden crate.
He was in his seventies, with weathered skin and the lean, wiry build of someone who was still active. He touched the rim of his straw sun hat, then continued toward a stack of crates at the front of the house, his rubber boots squelching in the mud.
He set down the crate, then lifted a large bag of duck feed onto his shoulders.
I could almost see the resignation in the sag of his shoulders, and I turned away to head down the path that Beck said would lead to the cemetery.
The sun was dappled as it was filtered through the huge old trees overhead, birds singing from their branches. Ducks quacked on the lake, the distant hum of the lone motorboat droning like a lullaby, and children played on the banks of the small beach that had been roped off from the deeper water.
It was beautiful. Perfect.
But my mind churned.
This was what big developers did. They ruined perfect beautiful places with ugly new things designed to impress instead of provide actual enjoyment. How far along was the lakeside development? If Harold Pembroke had been fighting it, that meant it wasn’t too late to stop it.
I didn’t know why I cared so much. I wouldn’t be here long anyway.
But still.
If Harold had been fighting the new community (why did they need their own community when there was already one right here?), that meant the people behind Hearthstone had a motive to silence him.
I followed the path, Beck’s cookies and Clara’s flowers still in my hand, and wondered if Sheriff Crowe was questioning the people behind Hearthstone.
The path curved under my feet, taking me around a gentle bend in the lake, and the cemetery came into view.
The markers were in assorted heights and styles, but they were all clean and well maintained.
The grass had been recently mowed, there wasn’t a weed in sight, and flowers dotted the gravestones like colorful punctuation marks.
This wasn’t a forgotten graveyard on the outskirts of town. The people of Blackwell Hollow cared about this place.
I started up a grassy hill, following the directions Beck had given me when I left the bakery.
“Up the hill, look for the biggest maple tree, go right, keep walking,” I murmured.
I scanned the names on the markers as I passed, looking for Evelyn’s. I’d been walking for less than five minutes when I found it.
Evelyn Whitaker
Beloved Friend
The date of her birth and death was etched into the granite, and a fresh bouquet of white peonies sat inside a built-in vase at the front of the marker. Someone else had been here recently, someone who knew Aunt Evelyn’s favorite flowers.
“Hi, Aunt Evelyn,” I said, kneeling in front of her marker.
I set the cookies down and untied the ribbon on the flowers. I removed the rubber band around their stems, then started placing the individual blossoms inside the vase with the peonies that were already there.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” I said as I worked. “So sorry I didn’t know.”
A warm breeze drifted in off the water, and a bluebird landed on a nearby gravestone to watch me work.
“You were so good to me even after we left. You never missed a single birthday. I wish I’d done more than write you thank-you notes. I wish I’d called, that I’d visited.”
The vase was filling up, the fresh peonies and dahlias filling out the lush blooms that had already been there.
“You have such a beautiful home, and I love the bakery. Thank you for fixing everything up so nicely for me.”
Another bluebird landed next to the first one as I placed the last stem in the vase, and I looked around, wondering if there was a flock of them nearby.
I opened the box of cookies and placed one on Aunt Evelyn’s grave next to the flowers. “Beck said these were your favorite.”
I broke off a few pieces of another cookie and tossed them toward the birds. They chirped, then flew down to peck at the crumbs in the grass.
“Looks like you have some friends who like them too.”
I sat back on the grass, broke off a piece of a third cookie, and popped it in my mouth. Lemony goodness hit my tongue, a hint of lavender creeping in as I chewed.
“Wow… I can see why these were your favorite.” They were delicious: bright, slightly crunchy, and not too sweet.
Silence settled over the cemetery as I finished the cookie. I wanted to say more, to make Aunt Evelyn promises: that I would take good care of the house and the bakery, that I would take care of the people she’d loved in Blackwell Hollow.
But those would be promises I couldn’t keep. I needed to sell everything and get back to the city.
Except sitting in front of Aunt Evelyn’s grave, selling everything suddenly seemed almost blasphemous.
Several more bluebirds had joined the first two, and I finished breaking up the second cookie and tossed the pieces toward the delicate twittering birds.
And then, all at once, the hair stood up on the back of my neck.
I turned my head, half expecting someone to be watching me. But the cemetery was empty, nothing but gravestones stretching across the grass, the shadows under the giant trees suddenly looking more ominous than welcoming.
And there was something else: the birds were gone. I mean, I’m sure they were still around somewhere, but they were out of sight, their chirping silenced.
The abrupt quiet was disconcerting, the feeling of being watched unshakable.
I rose to my feet and placed the last cookie on top of the first on Aunt Evelyn’s grave.
“Thanks for the visit. Clara says hello, by the way, although it looks like you have plenty of company.” I touched the cool granite headstone. “I’m glad. Thank you for everything.”
The feeling of being watched persisted until I passed out of the cemetery and I found myself walking faster, eager to reach the marina and boat launch where there would be more people.
I dropped the bakery box in a recycling can and retraced my path along the lake. The motorboat had disappeared but the sailboats were still on the water, taking advantage of the breeze, and the boats anchored in the marina bobbed in the water.
When I reached Main Street at the end of the path, my gaze was drawn again to the sign in front of Finch Farm.
I frowned, muttering as I passed, “Where modern luxury meets traditional comfort, my apples.”