Chapter 11 #2
“You’re new to Cider Cove, right?” I change tack, hoping a less direct approach might yield more information—or at least a skeleton or two, metaphorical or otherwise. Sometimes the scenic route through a conversation gets you to more interesting destinations than the highway.
“Relatively.” She nods. “I moved here about six months ago. I needed a fresh start after...” She hesitates. “After some family issues back home.”
“How did you meet Heath?” I take a bite of my cupcake, the sugar web dissolving instantly on my tongue.
Oh my word! My eyes close involuntarily—pure bliss that briefly makes me forget we’re discussing potential murder motives.
How am I just now indulging in these? I picked a fine time to try to shed some baby weight.
“I met him right here, actually,” Buffy says, gesturing around the bookstore.
“Sea Beans and Books hosts the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club meetings every month. It has for years, apparently. When I took over managing the shop, I decided to keep the tradition going.” She gives a faint smile.
“It’s good for business, and I’ve always been fascinated by the unexplained. ”
And it helped to keep an eye on him, her thought cuts through, sharper than the previous ones and I nearly choke on my latte.
“Are you okay?” she asks as genuine concern replaces that guarded look she’s been sporting.
“I’m fine,” I manage, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin. “It just went down the wrong pipe.”
A crash from across the store interrupts our conversation, followed by a familiar voice exclaiming, “Oh, sugar honey iced tea!” Georgie’s version of swearing when she’s trying to maintain some semblance of public decency.
Both Buffy and I turn toward the commotion to see Georgie standing amidst the ruins of what was once an elaborate display of Halloween-themed books.
Dozens of volumes lie scattered around her feet, and the decorative cardboard cemetery that had housed them now resembles actual ruins.
The young employee she’d been flirting with stands frozen in horror, clutching a copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies as if it’s a shield.
“I was just trying to reach that steamy werewolf romance on the top shelf,” Georgie explains to no one in particular, attempting to reassemble the display and only succeeding in knocking over a second, smaller arrangement of ghost story anthologies.
“I should probably...” Buffy begins, half-rising from her chair with the resigned expression of someone who’s dealt with her fair share of customer-related disasters before.
“No, stay,” I say quickly. “She does this kind of thing so often we’ve started a betting pool on how long she can go without destroying property. I think Mom just won this round. I’m so sorry, by the way.” I can’t help but cringe as I say it .
As if summoned by the mention of her name—or possibly by some maternal instinct that alerts her when Georgie’s about to cause an international incident—Mom appears from the children’s section with Ella now awake and peering curiously from her arms.
Mom surveys the scene with the resigned expression of someone who has witnessed this particular brand of chaos many times before. Poor Ella has no idea how long into the future chaotic scenes exactly like this will inevitably stretch out.
“Georgie,” Mom sighs, “this is why we can’t have nice things.”
“It’s not my fault,” Georgie protests, attempting to stack books into a precarious tower.
“These shelves are arranged in a way that defies both logic and the average human reach. Besides, James here was going to help me.” She winks at the employee, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, possibly including a tax audit or a root canal.
The things I do for a potential date, Georgie thinks as she frowns my way. He’s not even my usual type. Too young, too nervous, and I’m pretty sure that’s a Star Wars tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve. But beggars can’t be choosers in a town this size.
“I’ve got it,” James finally says, finding his voice and gently taking the books from Georgie’s hands. “Really, it’s no trouble.”
“Are you sure?” Georgie bats her eyelashes with the subtlety of a fire alarm. “I feel just terrible about this mishap.”
No, she doesn’t, Fish thinks from her perch on a nearby bookshelf, having somehow escaped Georgie’s destructive literary grasp.
She’s about as remorseful as I am when I knock things off counters.
Which is to say, not at all. Sorry, Bizzy.
She gives a tail wag my way and I wave back before turning back to Buffy, who’s watching the scene with a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“Sorry about that.” I cringe. “Where were we?”
“You were asking about Heath,” she reminds me with a pointed look.
“Oh right.” I nod. “I understand if this is difficult, but do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt him?”
Buffy’s eyes drop to her mug and her fingers trace the rim. “Honestly? Plenty of people. Heath had a knack for making enemies. ”
“Anyone specific?” I press on because plenty of people isn’t exactly helpful when you’re trying to narrow down a suspect list.
She hesitates for a moment. “Hammie Mae, for one. They’d been arguing about her property for weeks.”
“Her property?” This is news to me, and potentially significant news given that property disputes have motivated more murders than unrequited love and jealousy combined.
“The blueberry farm,” Buffy explains. “Heath was representing some developer who wanted to buy a portion of it for vacation homes or something. Hammie Mae wasn’t interested in selling, but Heath kept pushing.”
That’s what he told you, at least, she thinks to herself as she casts a glance out at the ongoing literary cleanup operation. The thought carries just enough doubt to make me wonder what other version of the story might exist.
“And then there’s Hazel, of course,” she goes on. “They were constantly at each other’s throats about the club’s direction. Hazel wanted more publicity, more drama. Heath wanted actual scientific methods and credibility.”
“What about you?” I ask quietly because sometimes the most important questions are the ones people least want to answer. “Did you and Heath part on bad terms?”
Her expression clouds over like the sky before a storm. “Let’s just say it wasn’t amicable.” He threatened to expose everything . Her thought comes through clear as a bell, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He said he had proof.
“Proof of what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Buffy’s head snaps up, her eyes widening. “Excuse me?”
I suck in a quick breath as I realize I said those words out loud. “Sorry, I meant—proof that you were right? About the club’s direction, or...?”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I have the distinct impression she’s trying to read my mind, not the other way around.
“No,” she says finally. “We just had different ideas about where the relationship was going.” She glances at her watch and stands abruptly. “Look, I’m sorry, but I should get back to work. My break is almost over. ”
“Of course,” I say, rising from my chair as well. “Thank you for taking the time to talk.”
“No problem,” she says, but she doesn’t bother to smile. “Feel free to browse as long as you like. We just got some new mystery novels that I think you might enjoy.”
Buffy walks away, and I can’t help but shake the feeling that I’ve just had a conversation with two people—the polite, slightly shy bookseller who serves pumpkin spice lattes and someone with secrets dark enough to kill for.
Mom approaches with Ella, who has apparently decided that my arms are the only acceptable location for her immediate future. It’s a decision I can relate to since Jasper’s arms are usually my preferred location during stressful situations, too.
“Thank you,” I say as I scoop up my daughter, and Mom leans in close.
“Learn anything?” she whispers.
“More than Buffy intended, I think,” I reply just as quietly. “Where are the four-footed among us?”
“Outside with Georgie,” Mom says. “After the Great Book Avalanche, I thought it best to remove the chaos generators from the equation. I bribed the pets to keep an eye on her.”
“Good move.” I nod, bouncing Ella gently as she begins to fuss. “Let’s join them. I need some fresh air to process what I just heard.”
We make our way toward the exit, and I glance back at Buffy who happens to be helping another customer find a book. She looks up and catches my eye, something unreadable passing across her face.
Mom follows my gaze and nods at the woman. She knows more than she’s saying, she thinks to herself. That girl has complicated backstory written all over her.
For once, I couldn’t agree more. And if my instincts are right, Buffy Butterwick might just be the key to unraveling the mystery of Heath Cullen’s murder, assuming I can figure out which parts of her story are fact and which are carefully crafted fiction.
After all, we are in a bookstore. And everyone here seems to be an expert at making up stories.