Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CADEN
“We’ll get this processed as quickly as we can,” Sheriff Briggs says as a deputy uses tweezers to drop the casing into a clear evidence bag.
Isla did it. I’m still swimming in shock. When she came racing into the house shouting my name, I had no idea what was going on. She had to say casing about six times before it all clicked together.
This whole time, the evidence has been right there in Mom’s shed.
My siblings are gathered on the terrace: Alistair blinking in the sunlight, clearly hungover; Daisy in her pajamas; Finn and Von looking as polished as they always do. Even when she’s wearing jeans, Von looks like she’s about to head into court. I think Finn might actually sleep in those button-down shirts he always wears.
Dad called the sheriff and in record time, cop cars were descending on the house. I bet Sheriff Briggs wanted to show Dad he’s taking this seriously. About damn time.
“I can’t believe they missed the goddamn casing,” I mutter to Isla as Dad talks to the sheriff.
“To be fair, it was really hard to find,” she murmurs back. “I didn’t even see it at first.”
I wrap my arm around her. “I think you missed your calling in life as a detective.”
“Oh no,” she says. “That’s way too much pressure. I’ll stick to baking, thank you very much.”
Dad has some curt words to give the sheriff before he and his men leave. Probably as mad as I am that they’ve missed this all these years. Then he turns to Isla.
“It appears I have yet another reason to thank you, Ms. Davenport,” he says.
Isla tucks her hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “I want this case solved too. The whole town does. We all loved Marion.” Then she adds, “And it’s just Isla.”
My father nods. “Isla.” He turns to me. “Briggs said we’ll have to be patient again.”
“I’m sick of being patient,” I say.
“You and I both. Don’t worry. Your sister will be on them.” We glance up where Von is pacing the terrace, talking emphatically on her phone. She sees us and mouths, I’ve got this . I give her a thumbs up.
“In the meantime,” Dad says, “I’ll get Roger on the phone. Start arranging the event for the announcement.”
“Why don’t you come to Magnolia Day, Dad?” I say.
His eyebrows knit together like the words are foreign to him. But I’m feeling jubilant. Isla and I are together, at long last. I get to move Everton in a sustainable direction. And this is a real lead, not some weird letters. This is hard evidence .
I feel like celebrating.
“Mom loved Magnolia Day,” I say. “And you never once came. It’s fun. There’s good food. Daisy is running the Everton booth. Come on. Take a break from work for one second.” I pause, then add, “It was Mom’s favorite day of the year besides Christmas.”
Dad shifts on his feet and clears his throat. “Perhaps I will stop by for a minute between meetings,” he says.
That’s about as good as I could expect.
“Okay,” I say with a grin. Then I turn to Isla. “Let’s get started on those croissants.”
“Don’t these look delicious! Harold, look at these macarons.”
A woman wearing a big floppy hat and a frilly pink blouse is poring over the selection of macarons at Isla’s booth. It really does look like a cozy, eccentric parlor for tea. The drawers of the old dresser have been boarded over and pulled out so that they’re stacked like tiers, each one featuring a different treat. Macarons spill out of lacquered jewelry boxes, with neatly packaged assortments tucked into the old walnut chest for sale. Bakewell tarts perch on a side table next to the rocking chair and croissants gleam under a glass case on the credenza. Focaccia is placed at various spots, like paintings—Isla made each loaf with a garden effect, using onions, tomatoes, bell peppers, asparagus, caramelized onions, and herbs to create stunning images on the fluffy bread.
“I’ll take two boxes of the Earl Grey ones,” the woman is directing to Isla, while I ring her up on my phone. “And one box of raspberry lemonade.”
“We’re almost out of the raspberry lemonade,” Isla mutters as the woman pays and leaves, happily munching a macaron. The festival is packed with locals and tourists alike, and Isla’s booth is nearly as crowded as Dev’s, which is always the fan favorite.
“These are wonderful,” a portly man in a polo shirt says, examining a focaccia. “How much?”
“Twenty-five,” I say.
“I’ll take two.”
I ring him up.
“Do you have a bakery?” a woman in tortoiseshell glasses asks Isla.
Isla ducks her head shyly. “Oh, no, I just bake for my family’s bed and breakfast. It’s called the Thorn and Rose.”
“Well, I know where I’ll be staying next time I come out to the North Fork,” the woman declares. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a box of peanut butter and jelly macarons and one of those heavenly ham and gruyere croissants.”
“It’s a shame you don’t have a location of your own.” A pointed voice makes me turn. The woman peering at the macarons in the jewelry boxes is definitely a New Yorker. She wears clothes that are simple but I can tell they’re high end. Her shoes are Gucci. She wears her dark hair in a severe bob, her lips painted scarlet, a tennis bracelet glittering on her wrist. She looks like someone Von’s firm might represent.
Isla does not notice any of this. She smiles at the woman like she’s any other customer and my heart melts a little.
“Maybe one day,” she says. “I’ve got to save up some money first.”
The woman peruses the selection of macarons. “I’ll take a box of the blueberry basil,” she says. As I ring her up, she opens the box and takes a bite. Her eyes pop, then roll back in her head as she moans, quickly dispatching the rest of the morsel.
“These are the best macarons I’ve had outside of Paris,” she says.
Isla beams as my chest pinches with pride. “Thank you.”
“Do you do catering? These would be perfect for my luncheon next week.”
“Oh I?—”
“She does,” I say, stepping in before Isla can undersell herself. “If you leave your contact information, we’ll get back to you with a pricing sheet and details. Her website is undergoing a revamp but it will be up and running soon.”
The woman hands me her card. “Please be in touch,” she says.
“What do you mean my website?” Isla hisses as soon as the woman leaves the booth.
“I’ll get Alistair on it,” I tell her. “He’s got web designers on speed dial. Isla, this is great. You start with catering—you can use the Everton kitchen. We’ve got all those appliances sitting around gathering dust.”
“There’s not a speck of dust in that kitchen.”
“Okay, but you know what I mean. You start with catering, you save up, then you open your own bakery.” I would buy her a bakery in a heartbeat, but I know that’s not what Isla would want. “It’s your dream. This is just the beginning.”
I see it take shape in her mind’s eye, see the images whir behind that bottle-green gaze. Watch the excitement build.
“Caden!” she squeals, launching herself into my arms.
I nuzzle against her hair and breathe in her scent. “I’m so proud of you.”
She pulls back to look me in the eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Yes, you could have,” I say. “But I’m happy I get to help.”I cock my head. “That woman reminded me. I owe you a trip to Paris.”
Isla laughs. “One thing at a time.”
“Can we still fly first class?” I tease.
“Only if you drink cheap Bordeaux with me on the Pont des Arts.”
“Deal.” I lean down to kiss her.
“Oh good,” a voice says, breaking us apart. I turn to see Mrs. Greerson grinning like the proverbial cat. “I knew you two belonged together. I could feel it in my bones. Got a sixth sense about things like that.”
“Sure, Mrs. Greerson,” Isla says.
“Don’t sure me, child. Now, I’ll take two of those almond croissants and a box of Bakewell tarts if you please.”
As Isla packs up the order, I look out at the booths that dot the green. Dev and Reggie have their hands full at the Grater Good booth while Daisy pours tastings of Everton wines at my family’s booth. I see a familiar figure in the crowds and my eyes widen in shock as my father turns and meets my gaze. He’s got an ice cream cone in one hand and his face is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen it.
He raises the cone to me like a toast. I smile and nod.
A gentle breeze carries the scent of the bay across the grass. Children fly kites by the water, or run around chasing each other, or wait in line to get their faces painted. Eric Kim is handing an iced coffee to the woman who wants Isla to cater for her, and Joni Lewis is wrapping up a bouquet of local wildflowers for a waiting customer. I take it all in, this place that is my home, this festival that my mother loved so dearly. She would have been happy today.
I allow myself to be happy too.
“Hey,” Noah says, rushing over to me. “The sheriff sent me to tell you.” Isla comes over to join us. “The casing is a 9mm. We’ve finally got a caliber.”
A wave of dizziness takes me.
“This…this is…” I don’t have the words.
“But that’s not all.” Noah grins. “There’s a fingerprint.”
“What?” Isla gasps.
Noah nods. “We’re sending it to the FBI lab. They have this new technology that’s pretty good at lifting prints off casings. It should take about a week but hopefully, this jerk is in the system. We’re so close, Cade.”
I’m stunned. A fingerprint. Concrete proof. At last.
Isla wraps her arms around my waist and pecks my cheek. “So close,” she echoes.
I scoop her up and kiss her. This day, this moment, this entire summer feels like one big victory. My future, once so bleak and empty, now shines brighter than the afternoon sun.
And with Isla by my side, I feel like I can face whatever comes next.