Chapter 11
T he interior of Sea Beans and Books wraps around us like a literary hug—warm, comforting, and smelling of freshly printed pages and cinnamon.
Halloween has clearly staged a takeover here, with paper bats dangling from the ceiling on nearly invisible fishing lines, making them appear to flutter with each draft from the door.
Either that or the local bat population has developed a serious reading habit.
Miniature pumpkins crowd the checkout counter, their faces ranging from adorably goofy to surprisingly sinister.
String lights in orange and purple cast a festive glow over the bookshelves, and a collection of ceramic witches rides broomsticks along the top of the display cases, presumably commuting to their day jobs in retail.
Buffy stands before me in her dark green sweater, a question in her startlingly blue eyes that suggests she’s either genuinely curious or calculating how quickly she can escape this conversation.
I notice now that her cheeks are dusted with freckles so faint they’re almost imperceptible unless you’re standing close enough to count them.
She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear and waits for my response with the patience of someone who’s dealt with plenty of indecisive customers.
“Actually,” I begin, remembering why we came here in the first place, “I was hoping we could chat for a minute? About last night?”
She winces and her eyes flicker with something I can’t quite read. The human face is capable of such micro-expressions that sometimes even my mind-reading abilities can’t keep up with the emotional gymnastics happening beneath the surface.
“Oh,” she says, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “Of course.” She casts a glance at the old-fashioned clock on the wall behind her. “I’m actually due for a break. Can I get you something to drink? Maybe something sweet to go with it?”
“That would be great,” I nod, grateful for the offer. “Whatever you recommend.”
“The phantom pumpkin spice latte is our specialty,” she says with a small smile. “Extra whipped cream?”
“Is there any other way to have it?” I reply, and she laughs—a genuine sound that momentarily transforms her face into something lighter and far less guarded.
It’s clear coffee and books are her love language—and quite possibly whipped cream. I like her better already.
While Buffy prepares our drinks, I scan the store for Mom and Georgie and quickly spot them both. Mom has settled into a rocking chair in the children’s section with Ella dozing in her arms while she reads quietly from a picture book.
Georgie, on the other hand, has managed to corner a young male employee near the romantic fiction section.
The poor guy can’t be more than twenty-two, and Georgie leans against the bookshelf like the man-eater she is.
The employee’s face has turned roughly the same shade as the Spooky Reads signage, which could be from embarrassment, terror, or the unfortunate realization that he’s key to some geriatric fantasy.
Georgie is a pro at making men blush, I’ll give her that.
She looks my way and winks. He thinks I’m his grandmother’s age, her thought floats to me across the store. Little does he know, I’m more of a cougar than a granny. I am Georgie, hear me roar. And wait till he sees my bite.
I stifle a laugh and turn my attention back to Buffy, who is now loading a tray with our drinks and what appears to be two cobweb cupcakes, the spun-sugar decorations glistening under the shop lights like edible Halloween jewelry.
The presentation is so artful, it almost makes me feel guilty about planning to inhale them in approximately thirty seconds.
“Follow me,” she says while doing her best to balance the tray. “There’s a cozy spot by the fireplace where we can talk without being disturbed.”
I follow her through a maze of bookshelves to the back of the store, where a stone fireplace dominates the wall. It’s not large, but the cheerful flames dancing within cast a warm, flickering light that makes the small seating area feel like a private retreat.
Two oversized armchairs upholstered in worn leather flank the hearth, with a small table between them. The mantel above is decorated with more miniature pumpkins, interspersed with vintage-looking leather-bound books and brass candlesticks holding black tapers.
Buffy sets the tray down and sinks into one of the chairs, motioning for me to take the other. I settle in, accepting the steaming mug she offers. The whipped cream wobbles precariously, topped with a sprinkle of what the menu calls grave dust, but is actually glorious cinnamon and nutmeg.
A commotion from across the store draws our attention momentarily. Sherlock has positioned himself protectively near Georgie, standing at attention like a furry security guard.
I’m going to protect Georgie from these books. He gives a soft woof with all the seriousness of a dog who truly believes literature is a potential threat. They might fall on her head!
That’s more or less a given at this point.
And I’m going to protect the books from Georgie, Fish counters from her higher vantage point. Someone has to preserve civilization around here.
As if sensing our conversation is about to begin—or possibly drawn by the scent of cupcakes, because let’s be honest, that’s a powerful motivator—both Fudge and Skittles trot over to join us by the fireplace.
The two dogs make an adorable pair—Fudge with his bright white coat that makes him look like a furry cotton ball with legs, and Skittles with her ginger-colored curls that catch the firelight like spun copper.
I reach down to scratch Fudge’s ears while Buffy does the same for Skittles, and for a moment we look like a perfectly normal gathering of dog lovers, not a suspicious interrogation disguised as coffee time.
“Hello there, Skittles,” I coo at the oversized cutie, who responds with the kind of tail wag that suggests she’s either very friendly or plotting world domination through strategic charm deployment. Probably both.
“Oh, you have Fudge!” Buffy exclaims, and her eyes immediately well up as she scoops the little Westie into her arms like she’s reuniting with a long-lost friend.
She plants a kiss on his black button nose, and he responds by licking her face silly while his little tail wags away at warp speed—a canine love-fest that’s either genuinely sweet or an excellent cover for emotional manipulation. “He’s such a sweetheart.”
Buffy settles him on her lap, continuing to stroke his fur with tenderness and care.
“I’d offer to keep him, but my landlord hardly tolerates Skittles.
I had to beg and offer an extra hundred dollars a month in pet rent.
” She glances down at her labradoodle with obvious affection.
“She’s my baby, though. I’d do anything for her. ”
The genuine emotion in her voice catches me off guard. Honestly, this doesn’t sound like someone callous enough to commit murder, but then again, I’ve learned the hard way that loving dogs doesn’t automatically grant you a get-out-of-jail-free card.
I bet most of history’s monsters probably went home and cuddled with their pets, too.
There is something about watching a person with animals, though.
It’s like catching a glimpse of their unguarded self, the version that exists when no one is watching.
And Buffy’s unguarded self seems genuinely tender.
“Yes, I’m happy to keep Fudge until I can find someone close to Heath who could take him,” I say, watching as the little Westie settles contentedly in Buffy’s lap.
“Or in the event that doesn’t happen, I’ll be happy to make a home for the furry little cutie.
He and Sherlock are already becoming fast friends.
” I’ll leave Fish out of this for now as I slice her a look.
A moment of silence thickens the air. “Speaking of doing anything for someone you care about,” I transition carefully, “that’s actually why I wanted to talk.
About Heath, specifically. I understand you were close? ”
Her eyes do that flickering thing again, and it’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.
“We were,” she says as her voice softens. “For a while, at least.” She turns her mug in her hands, watching the steam rise in wispy tendrils. “It ended about two weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. Breakups are hard enough without adding murder to the mix. “That must make this even more difficult for you.”
“Difficult is an understatement. It’s complicated,” she admits, not quite meeting my eyes in the way people do when they’re about to reveal something they’d rather keep buried.
“Heath was charming when you first met him, but he could be...” She trails off, searching for the right word like she’s flipping through a mental thesaurus of diplomatic ways to say my ex was a nightmare .
“Difficult?” I suggest.
“Moody,” she decides, which is probably the polite way of saying emotionally unstable with controlling tendencies.
“One minute, he’s the most supportive person you’ve ever met.
The next, he’s digging into your past like he’s looking for buried treasure.
Or skeletons.” And he found mine . Her thought comes through crystal clear, sending a chill down my spine despite the warmth from the fire.
“What do you mean?” I press gently. As much as I’d like to solve this case and get back to changing diapers, I know for a fact these things can’t be rushed.
“I had nothing to hide.” She shakes her head as if trying to dispel an unwanted memory or convince herself of the fact. “He just had a way of making everything about him. Even other people’s stories.”