Chapter 3
They headed towards a short line of buildings that were perched along the pavement near the sandy shoreline. This was one of the less popular beaches. In fact, many people didn’t really consider it a real beach because it was so small. Despite its general lack of usability, it had always been a favorite of Abigail and her friends. It was a central point where everyone could get to easily and there had been a pizza bar, café, and bookshop there. Technically, the stores were more interested in the foot traffic that came from the tourist attractions nearby than the beach but they did at least acknowledge the beachgoers by having a second door and outdoor seating.
Bee disappeared into the café after getting Abigail’s order, leaving her to choose their table. There were almost no other customers; it was a weird time just after the morning rush but before lunch. Even though tourists were starting to flock into town now that the weather was warming up, it felt quieter than it had when she was a kid. The café had obviously changed hands a few times since she was last here. There was no sign of the original ‘Fuller Coffee House’ owned by the Fuller family she’d gone to school with, but there was a spot on the wall where she could make out ‘Bean Life Beach Life’ behind the faded paint. The newest shop seemed to be going for something more traditional. Enameled metal chairs and mosaic tables were scattered about and bright red flowering plants decorated the little area. A pale violet wooden sign on the wall stated ‘Poppy’s Specialty Coffee’ and somehow the bright red flowers painted on it didn’t clash with the pale purple at all.
Though the table itself had changed. Abigail chose the one located where she and her friends had always sat—to the left of the door so they could see everyone coming and going from the other stores and who was coming down the road from the rest area where Bee’s food truck was currently parked.
How many times had she drawn this place? Abigail wondered, itching to pull her little notebook out but knowing she’d left it at home.
“One latte, and a macaron,” Bee said, placing a coffee down in front of Abigail.
“Oh, I didn’t...”
“Trust me, you want one of these,” Bee said, “Poppy usually sticks to coffee, but when she’s in a baking mood, she makes these, and they’ll ruin you for other macarons.”
“Sounds like a terrible decision if I want to continue eating other macarons...”
Bee looked at her seriously, “having a thousand bland macarons is not as good as having a hundred perfect ones.”
“Perfect?” Abigail said, peering at the shiny little cake dubiously, before noticing that Bee had three on her plate.
“Trust me,” Bee said.
Popping the cake into her mouth, Abigail prepared to be disappointed but as she bit down on the crisp hard shell, a delicious chocolate flavor filled her senses before a tart raspberry ganache burst into the scene with a sweet and tangy profile.
“Oh... My... Word,” Abigail said, slowly speaking in between careful chewing, “you’re one hundred percent right...”
Bee looked very pleased with herself, “I know. Poppy knows, she sells out whenever she does it.”
The three on Bee’s plate had become two.
“So, what’s this secret wall safe you lured me here with?” Bee asked, sitting back, and sipping her coffee.
Abigail took a sip of her coffee and cleared her throat before telling Bee a slightly edited account of the past few days. To her credit, Bee was a great listener—not something that Abigail would have guessed about her from their first few meetings. She sat and nodded, reacting but not interrupting, until eventually Abigail finished the tale.
“...and so I’ve basically just been dealing with the massive implications this may or may not have on my entire childhood and memories of my dad...”
Bee nodded. “Yeah... That’s... Yeah, look, I’m not going to lie, that’s not an easy thing to do. What was your dad like, in your experience, I mean, not all this...”
Abigail smiled and shrugged. “He was... Well, a little stereotypical Dad, you know? Maybe more reserved than dads on TV but he was a businessman who does business things, wears a tie, has a briefcase, reading glasses he lost around the house so just read the newspaper two inches from his face.”
The peal of laughter from Bee was light and far more girlish than Abigail had expected from her.
“My dad was kind of similar.”
“Yeah? I remember my dad being very serious, except for when he wasn’t,” Abigail continued, “he always made me feel listened to and considered what I’d said. Then sometimes he’d do silly things, like he found a novelty mug at an airport one time that had that coating on it that disappeared when it got hot. He bought it for me because it said ‘when the coffee-o-meter is full, you may speak to me’, and he thought that was hilarious.”
The women shared a laugh and Bee shook her head, “see that’s the opposite of my dad. He was silly and carefree all the time—except for when he was serious.”
Her face fell a touch and Abigail quickly moved to change the subject.
“Dads are hard... I mean, why was my dad hoarding print offs of files that clearly were not supposed to be printed? Why was he taking photos from a secret surveillance camera in his office? Why leave it there, and why hide it so badly?”
Bee shrugged, “are you sure it’s his stuff? Maybe he gave the code out to renters, you know, to keep their cameras or whatever in... And maybe the same person who did the weird redecoration decided to just cover up the shelves instead of demolishing them first... I’ve seen people take out bathroom walls to re-do the tiling or whatever and they’ve found whole shower units just drywalled away... Are any of the pictures him?”
“No... But the papers are from his company,” Abigail said.
“What did he do?”
“Accountant.”
That piqued Bee’s interest, “really?”
“Yeah... Why?”
“Oh, just that there was a big money laundering thing here—maybe your dad was keeping records as evidence?”
Abigail’s stomach flipped—money laundering!?
“What? How didn’t I know about this?” Abigail laughed, trying to cover up her internal reaction to the suggestion, “I grew up here but you know this stuff better than me! What were they money laundering for?”
She smiled, sipping her coffee, “you were a teenager, I got interested in true crime in my twenties. Plus, it’s hard seeing what’s right in front of you. From what I’ve read, there was a pretty significant crime ring that used the beaches to land and exchange illegal goods. There were a couple of people busted for it about fifteen years ago.”
“That’s after we left...”
“Right, sure,” Bee said, “Maybe your dad just forgot about it? Then when the decorator did what they did...”
Abigail felt her stomach twisting. He might have forgotten some old paperwork—but she was certain he wouldn’t have forgotten about a gun. She made a non-committal noise and changed the subject.
“What kind of illegal goods? Like drugs and stuff?”
Nodding as she popped the second macaron in her mouth, Bee paused before answering, “a couple of the reports were of drugs coming in from Central America, up the coast, and farther north. Mostly black market pharmaceuticals rather than straight up illicit drugs, guns a few times, but other stolen goods too or weird stuff you wouldn’t think was illegal. Like exotic pets, fancy car stuff, and old antiques that were probably stolen a hundred years ago so they’re not on any legit auction house register...”
“Huh... Those are weird,” Abigail said. “Is there any other local crime stuff you think is interesting?”
“I guess it depends on what you find interesting,” Bee replied, “there was an unsolved murder about a decade ago, but it was probably accidental. Some guy got locked in a walk-in freezer that had a broken emergency catch and froze to death. There’s the usual number of drownings—considering how many beaches there are around here. Then there’s a real old one—sixty or so years ago—a woman poisoned her husband’s health shake. She managed to get it ruled as accidental death—she was this perfect housewife with two perfect kids and her husband was apparently known for storing random things in unlabeled bottles...”
“And she thought the arsenic was garlic powder?” Abigail asked, her jaw hanging open.
“No, actually she said she thought the pure peppermint essential oil was the latest thing he had been given by his naturalist,” Bee said with a laugh, “he was a bit obsessed with alternative medicine—it was the sixties after all.”
Abigail pulled a face, she hadn’t even known peppermint oil could kill you.
She knew that she should be asking Bee more about the stuff she knew but, despite the clawing discomfort in her stomach, she was actually enjoying getting to know her better.