Chapter 1 #2
“Best friend,” he scribbles. “How did she get my number?”
I nod at his sandwich scrap, half hidden in the cafe’s biodegradable takeout container. “Don’t you order takeout from her cafe every day?”
With a sweep of his hand, the sandwich lands in the trash. “I’ll ask the questions here.” He clears his throat. “For the record, what is your occupation?”
I narrow my eyes. “You know what I do. I’m just down the block.”
“For the record,” he says, nodding to the recording.
“‘For the record’ must be your favorite phrase. Ever hear of a ‘broken record’? That’s what you sound like.”
Elliot issues a highly bothered sigh. “Just answer the question, Miss.”
“I own Crystals & Sundry.” I square my shoulders.“It’s a gift shop.”
“Define ‘sundry.’”
“You bought a candle just a month ago. For your mom’s birthday, right? Strawberry Champagne, one of our bestsellers. Did she enjoy the gift?”
Detective Frost frowns. I’ve noticed he does that a lot. It’s on the tip of my tongue to advise him to stop or he’ll get premature forehead wrinkles. You know, Dectective. Leonardo DiCaprio had a baby face once and now look at him. Something tells me that wouldn’t go over well.
“Just answer the question,” he says.
“Do we have to–”
The no-nonsense look he shoots me would make a grown man shrivel and a red-blooded woman melt. I clear my throat. “Fine. I have one hundred varieties of candles and the odd crystal.”
“What—”
I raise my hand, halting his next question.
“I know what you’re thinking. I stock more candles than crystals.
Ergo, the store should be called ‘Candles & Sundry.’ There was a great crystal shortage during the winter of my grand opening.
Candles are so easy to make. And it’s not like I confine my wares to just crystals and candles.
I sell gifts. Many gifts. Cuckoo clocks, snow globes, and other bits and bobs. ”
Elliot has the confounded expression of someone who just got sucked into a tornado and came out the other side. He yanks off his hat and rakes his hand through an enviable mop of raven-black hair. “Define ‘bits and bobs.”
“Ornaments. Greeting cards. Macrame plant hangers. Knitwear. Imported chocolates. When I’m able to acquire them, I sell the odd crystal.” I take a deep breath, waiting for him to jot down every item. “Is this really necessary? Listing out everything I sell?”
“I’m building a criminal profile,” he says without glancing up from his notes.
“What?!”
Elliot underlines (quite brutally, mind you) an item on the list. “Let’s backtrack. What do you mean by ‘the odd crystal’?”
“I’ve acquired a giant amethyst geode and other such rocks from my trip to Sedona last spring. Other than that, I make candles shaped like crystals. That’s all.”
He refers to his notes. “And yet your store is called ‘Crystals and Sundry,’ but you mostly sell candles.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Yet you have, and I quote, ‘A giant geode and a few rocks.’”
Air quotes? He’s actually doing air quotes? “Look, I already told you. The Great Crystal Shortage of 2021 took me for a ride!”
“We are not in 2021, are we?” Elliot pauses, meeting my eye. “Surely the Great Crystal Shortage should have corrected itself in the three plus years you’ve been in business.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.” My right leg begins to jimmy on its own. “Establishing a foothold in the crystal business takes time. You have to know the right people. There are relationships to form—”
Elliot, furiously scribbling, pokes his head up. “Palms to grease?”
I stiffen. “What are you implying?”
“Look, Ms. Lo,” he rolls up his sleeves, “as you’re the first suspect in this unfortunate crime—”
“A crime done to me! I’m the victim!”
“That’s what they all say,” he mutters. “Let me get to the point: you wouldn’t happen to be…” He arches a sooty eyebrow. “Making crystals in the back room?”
A rush of heat surges to my cheeks. “What are you insinuating? That I’m cooking crystal meth in the backroom of my candle shop?”
His face is an unreadable mask. He jots something down in his notepad. “Interesting…”
I lean forward. “W-w-what are you writing?”
Obviously, I’m not the guilty party here, so why do I feel guilty? How is it possible that he’s made me feel like I’ve got something to hide? I wipe my damp brow.
The action did not go unnoticed by Detective Frost. “Hot?”
“Thirsty, actually.” I attempt to swallow. The back of my throat is as scratchy as sandpaper. “Can I have some water?”
He scribbles on his notepad, his keen gaze settling over my flushed face for a beat. And even though he doesn’t say it, I can hear his voice in my ear, “Interesting…”
Suddenly, he stands up and strides toward the mini fridge in the corner, hands me a bottle of water without missing a beat. He watches me finish the bottle in three gulps, monitors me as I wipe the droplets from my mouth.
Sated, I collapse back in my seat.
“Nervous?”
“Not especially.”
“Dry mouth and cold sweats are a sign of withdrawal. You wouldn’t happen to be sampling your own supplies?”
I leap to my feet, almost toppling my chair.
“Detective Frost! I’m a respected member of this town.
I run a business of repute! I’m part of the council.
For five consecutive years, I’ve been awarded the keys to Mapledale.
I’m running for mayor in this year's election and I have it in strictest confidence that I’m likely to win. Do I look like a meth addict to you?”
Elliot studies my face, his gaze traveling down to my…
Dare I say it?
My heaving bosom.
Look, I’m aware that I’m huffing and puffing, my cheeks flushed with indignation. I’m turning red, but I still have control of the situation. My appearance is the opposite of ‘strung-out drug addict.’ I’m the clear-skinned, wide-eyed, best dressed picture of wholesomeness.
I know I’m a model citizen.
I’ve spent thirty-three years following a straight and narrow path to molding myself into a model citizen.
My childhood bedroom is a shrine to all my awards: homecoming queen, prom queen, valedictorian, senior class president, varsity tennis champion. I haven’t won the Mapledale mayoral election yet, but I have a gut feeling the win is in the bag.
I’d been training to become mayor all my life. How dare this guy insinuate that I’m breaking bad in the backroom of my gift shop?
The only thing I have in my backroom is a thoroughly stocked wall of wrapping paper.
I’m offended in every way a person can be offended.
I’ve never hated anybody in my life. Actually, hate is a strong word. Hate is an emotion I’m not capable of. Let me retract. I’ve never disliked anyone in my life. There’s never been a cause to dislike anyone because no one, not friend nor stranger, has ever disliked me.
No one has ever questioned my character before. My character is beyond reproach.
Am I saying I’m starting to dislike Detective Elliot Frost?
I think I am.
“You’re a mean person,” I blurt out.
He blinks, surprised by my sudden vitriol. “I’m a mean person?”
“The meanest person I’ve ever met. And you know what else?”
A weighted pause. “I’m afraid to ask,” he says.
“Your Yelp reviews were right. You’re a real jerk.”
“A jerk?” he repeats, nonplussed.
I respond with a curt nod. I’m not taking it back. “A massive jerk.”
And then, amazingly, his lips, which had been a rigid, unfriendly line until now, twitches. “I see,” he says, and immediately bows his head. Must be a defense mechanism against verbal abuse.
I can’t see his face under the brim of his baseball cap, but I suspect he’s withering under my dressing down. Maybe calling him a massive jerk was too harsh?
Oh no. His shoulders are shaking. Is he sobbing? Did I make him cry?
At last, he pokes his head up. The light catches the unmistakable gleam of tears. One tear, actually, but if you were to ask me, one tear is enough to contain a river of hurt.
I clasp my hands over my mouth. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that. I have a temper and sometimes I forget my manners. You’re not a jerk. Well…” I tip my head to the side, “you’re not a massive jerk.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he says.
“Worse than ‘jerk’? I can’t imagine.”
Suddenly, his mouth curls into a lopsided and surprisingly charismatic smile. “Trust me.”
I’m struck dumb and speechless. This was the first real smile I’ve seen from him this evening, the first smile I’ve seen from him ever, and it lit up his face with warmth.
I’ve always thought the growly newcomer was cute, but now I see that he’s beautiful and capable of compassion.
A little compassion from a beautiful stranger and a shoulder to cry on is what I need right now, but Elliot breaks the moment by glancing down at his notes.
The magic vanishes.
His stern mask returns. “Would you say, Ms. Lo, that you enjoy attention?”
“I … I what?”
“Attention,” he repeats. “Do you enjoy it?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re running for mayor of Mapledale.”
I frown. “I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I can change this town for the better. Really clean it up.”
“Clean it up from what? There’s no litter on the streets. No crime to speak of. Your case is the only crime I’ve encountered since I’ve moved here. I may be new here, but even I know Ivan Thornberry’s been mayor for eight years now.”
“A term that long sounds like a dictatorship to me,” I mutter. “Look, Ivan’s done fantastic things during his reign, but I think Mapledale is ready for fresh blood and new ideas.”
“Ready for you, you mean.” He glances at his notes. “So you enjoy the attention. Lots of attention.”
I choose my words carefully. “I don’t mind being in the public eye, if that’s what you’re implying.” I study his profile more carefully. Then it clicks. “Wait… You think that I staged the crime or did the deed myself because I’m attention hungry?”
Elliot shrugs, taking a mental tally of my reaction. “Are you?”