Fortunately, my father and Lucille were on their best behavior, and Santiago was a real charmer, even offering to help my dad with a fencing project at our farmhouse when Dad mentioned what he was up to in terms of projects.
“I’m a master with a fence puller,” the sheriff said, and I could almost see my dad swoon.
It was only when we were leaving and Sawyer let Santiago strap him into his car seat again that Lucille leaned over to whisper, “Va Va Voom, Pais." You go, girl.”
The blush on my face could probably have set the sun afire, but fortunately, Lucille distracted Santiago by handing him a cake carrier and saying, “Pumpkin cake with cream cheese frosting. For the department.”
Santiago beamed and immediately put the cake carrier on the car, took off the lid, and ran his finger through the frosting on half of the cake. “Delicious!” he said as he licked his finger.
“Smart man,” Lucille said with a laugh. “Way to claim your portion.”
He winked at her and got in. “See you two at the station,” he said as he pumped the siren. I could hear Sawyer’s laughter all the way through the closed windows.
Dad had offered to come along so that he could drive the van to my house and save a trip for one of us. His presence was going to be a big help, but I also knew he was hoping to “have a conversation” with his only daughter.
Sure enough, we hadn’t even made it out of their neighborhood when he said, “So now you and the sheriff are taking road trips? I thought I warned you about this.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but he was very serious.
I racked my brain, trying to think about what exactly my dad, who never talked about relationships with me, might have said to warn me about dating the sheriff. I couldn’t come up with anything, but fortunately, Dad clarified quickly.
“You really, really don’t want to get involved in police business, Paisley. It’s dangerous, and you don’t really know what you’re doing.”
I took a long, deep breath, mostly to keep from laughing, before I said, “I’m not getting involved with police business, Daddy.” Then, somehow, the next sentence just poured forth like I had no control over my own mouth. “I may be getting involved with a police officer, though.”
Now, it was my dad’s turn to be baffled. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was staring straight ahead with his forehead folded as fully as it could be. “You’re dating the sheriff?” he finally asked.
For the four hundred millionth time that day, I blushed. “Not exactly. I mean, I don’t know. Not yet. Maybe.” I let out a long sigh. “Maybe.”
A smile slowly crept up my dad’s face and unfolded his forehead. “Good for you, Baby Girl,” he said as he squeezed my hands. “Good for you.”
We rode the next few minutes in silence, but then I decided to take advantage of having my dad to myself and ask him a few questions. “Dad, did you ever hear of someone growing pot up by Scruggs Store?”
I could tell by my dad’s lack of reaction that I hadn’t surprised him. My dad wasn’t exactly one of the good old boys of Octonia County, but he knew a lot of things, often because people underestimated him. His good nature and deafness made people think he was stupid or unobservant. My dad was neither.
“I may have. Why do you ask?”
I told Dad about how the stand was still thriving and had obviously been cared for over a long time.
“Makes sense. A couple folks I knew who track native plants for the state ran across the stand a few years back. They decided not to report it to the authorities because they are of the ‘live and let live’ sort when it comes to plants, except invasive species.” He chuckled. “If it had been a stand of Tree of Heaven, though, they would have been out there with chainsaws themselves.”
I joined my dad in laughing. Dad was passionate about plants, including native species, but he found fanaticism about anything, including his beloved trees, to be frustrating. We’d shared many an inside joke about the people who lost their mind over the way kudzu took over swaths of the Virginia countryside but saw no danger in their own wisteria vines or English Ivy, despite the fact that these species spread like wildfire and were just as hard to eradicate as kudzu.
“So it’s possible the stand has been there for more than two years?”
Dad thought for a moment and then said, “Probably. Seems like my friend found the stand ten or fifteen years back.” He shrugged. Clearly this was not his top priority in terms of plant issues.
We finished the ride by chatting about Sawyer’s latest escapades of climbing, which including scaling the interior of the small barn at the farmhouse. I’d had to coax him down with the promise of a lollipop and a marshmallow while I stood below him hoping that by placing my body under his, I’d break his fall and still have be conscious and able to call 911 for help with my own injuries.
When we pulled up at the sheriff’s office, Sawyer and Santiago were already out front, and Saw was holding a case of soda. He was clearly at the limits of his strength, but I could see him struggling to hold on to the Cheerwine box so that I could see him. I jumped out and said, “Sawyer Sutton, you are so strong!! Wow!!”
At that point, he let go of the box, and I cringed as I imagined my small profits pouring down the sidewalk. Fortunately, Santiago was quick and caught the box and set it down as Sawyer sprinted to hug me.
“Mama, I got to run the siren up the highway,” he said as he let me scoop him up. “It was super loud.”
I laughed. “I bet all the cars moved out of your way?”
“They did. They were scared of me.” He grinned and jumped down to dodge around his Boppy’s legs.
“That was really kind of you,” I said to Santiago as he began carrying cases of soda to the van.
“It’s kind of fun for me, too. I don’t usually get to use that thing unless there’s an emergency.” He leaned toward me and mock-whispered, “Just don’t tell the boss.”
“Oh no,” I said as my hand flew to my mouth. “I think he already knows.”
Within a few minutes we had everything loaded, including Sawyer in his car seat in my car. Only the promise of ice cream convinced him that the police cruiser wasn’t his ideal ride home.
Dad headed off toward my house with the van full, and I lingered outside my car, not sure how to thank Santiago for the afternoon. I decided simple was best. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome. And maybe sometime, your dad can watch Sawyer, and we can do dinner?”
I ducked my head and blushed, yet again, but nodded. “I’d like that,” I said before I climbed into the car and felt panic begin to rise. I really liked Santiago, but I wasn’t sure I was ready. I tried to smile as I drove off, but I probably grimaced instead.
By the time we got home, Dad had already begun unloading the cases into the creamery at the back of the farmhouse. Sawyer had insisted since the day we moved in that the big concrete basin that had been used for keeping milk and cream cool was a bathtub, and I knew one day I’d find him back there naked with a hose. For now, though, it was protected from the weather, and until it got cold enough to freeze the drinks, I could store them there. Hopefully by the time we were getting that cold, I’d have sold the merchandise and could soon afford to insulate and run electricity out there to make it a proper storage room.
While Dad and I unloaded the rest, Sawyer scampered around the yard attempting to climb forty-foot cherry trees and threatening to scale the barn walls again. Fortunately, Dad had helped me out by stapling chicken wire along the exposed beams just so I wouldn’t have to act as a human airbag should my son scale the walls like a monkey again.
I left the back door open so I could hear Saw playing and invited Dad in for hot chocolate. “Be in in just a sec. I want to grab something,” he said.
It was just getting cold enough to enjoy my favorite warm beverages, and I knew Dad was a sucker for hot chocolate made with milk and a heap of tiny marshmallows. I knew this because both his daughter and his grandson liked the same.
Dad came in and headed for the couch in the living room, displacing Beauregard unceremoniously from his blanket on one side of the loveseat. I carried our drinks in on a small tray and set them on the antique trunk I used as a coffee table, and then I noticed the piece of countertop on Dad’s knees. “Interesting piece, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Dad held it up in front of him. “I expect you picked it up for the ads, but did you see this?” He pointed to a column of numbers on the underside of the board. I was surprised Santiago and I hadn’t noticed those when we saw the note to Mary, but then, I’d been so enthralled with that find that it hadn’t even occurred to me to look for anything further.
I took the board from Dad and held it up to the dwindling sunlight coming through the window and then made my way over to my office lamp and clicked it on. “It looks like a tally of some sort. Four digits followed by a period and two digits. Dollars and cents?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Dad said. “But underneath the counter where no one would see it?”
I sat down and studied the numbers. Each entry was for a few thousand dollars. I peered more closely at the column and saw, to the left of it a series of four-digit numbers written in the same hand. “Look, Dad. What do those look like to you?”
He stood and came to peer over my shoulder. “It’s hard for me to see, but are you talking about those years written beside the dollar figures?”
“Exactly,” I said. There, written clear as day were the numbers from 1922 to 1999. I let my shoulders fall back against the chair. “These are the years that correspond with these figures.” I was aching to call Santiago and tell him what we’d found, but I couldn’t do that with Dad here.
But I couldn’t ask Dad to leave because we’d just sat down with our drinks. It would have to wait . . . and I hated waiting.
Still, I pushed myself to focus on my dad, talking with him about his volunteer work and the latest baking escapades that Lucille was undertaking. “I’ve had to start skipping lunch just so that I can eat some of what she bakes for me at eleven p.m. If I didn’t, I’d have to get all new clothes.”
I smiled. Lucille was a very good baker, and since my dad wore shirts until they basically disintegrated on his skin, I didn’t think there was any real risk that he’d be seeking out a new wardrobe anytime soon, even if he did gain a few pounds.
After a brief chat, though, Dad was ready to go. He wasn’t a man for small talk, and I wasn’t able to think of a substantial discussion point for us just then. We headed out to find Saw, who was waist-deep in the field next door and waving a stick over his head saying, “Go away, Werewolf.” No werewolf was going to mess with him, that’s for sure.
Beckoned over by that ice cream I’d promised, Saw trotted across the field to the porch so that Dad could give him a hug before pulling out off toward home. Just then, a freight train rumbled by on the other side of our driveway. Some people might think that having a train basically in your yard was a problem. Not Sawyer and me. We loved it, and we were getting to know the conductors, too. Tonight, the man in the engine was the older, black gentlemen who frequently did the runs with the longest trains. Once Sawyer and I had counted over a hundred and eighty cars behind his engine.
Sawyer had already sprinted to the fence as the train approached, and now he was pumping his arm fiercely to get the whistle to blow. He was rewarded soon after with a long whistle and then two short ones, the sound I’d come to think of as our “train ringtone.”
Once the train had passed, Sawyer meandered inside to look for “his cat.” Beauregard put up with Sawyer with about as much patience as one could expect from a cat, and tonight, all rested up from a day at home, he tolerated quite a bit of snuggling while I made us tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches followed by mint chocolate chip ice cream, my favorite and Saw’s, too. But then any ice cream was Sawyer’s favorite. After dinner, Saw busied himself with a toy ship Mika had given him a few months ago.
I took the chance to text Santiago about the makeshift ledger on the board, and he got back to me right away. “Can you send a picture?”
I snapped one and read his almost instant response. “Notice the final figure there.”
The board fit easily on my kitchen counter, so I flipped on the lights and studied it more closely. Then, suddenly, like a bolt of understanding, I saw what Santiago had noticed immediately. “The dollar figures match!!!!” I added as many exclamation points as I thought reasonable for a grown woman.
“You’ve just found the ledger for the cash stash at the store, Paisley.”
“Does it mean something that we have this now?” I replied.
“It might,” he said.
I waited for him to say more, but then I heard a knock on my front door. “You’re quick,” I said when I looked out the glass to see him on our side porch.
“Still on duty for a few hours.” He peeked in but couldn’t see Sawyer. “I don’t have to come in if it’ll make it harder for Sawyer to begin to settle for bed.”
My heart fluttered a little at his thoughtfulness. “Actually, it might get him riled up. Do you mind if I just bring you the counter piece? Then, after I get him settled, we can chat.” I smiled. “I mean, if you’re on duty that late.”
“I am. The next shift starts at ten. Unless your toddler is a night owl.”
“Good gracious, no, not if I can help it.” I glanced at the clock on the stove. “He should be down by eight-thirty. Come in for some hot tea then?”
He nodded and took the board out of my hands. As he turned to go, I said, “Thanks for staying back a bit while Dad was here. I don’t want him to worry.”
“I figured,” the sheriff said with a wink. “See you soon.”
Sawyer gave me a run for my money at bedtime, but given that he bolted around the house for twenty minutes solid before I could get him to lay down, his resistance was mostly spent by the time he was prone. He was out in five minutes flat, and I slipped downstairs and flashed the outside light. I figured that would be enough signal for the sheriff.
Sure enough, in a few moments, he was at the door and then on the stool beside me at the kitchen counter. He had brought the counter piece back in, and we laid it across mine. “Do you mind if I take some more pictures?” he asked.
I laughed. “You’re asking me for permission to take images of something I salvaged from a crime scene?”
“I try to be courteous,” he said as he snapped away. Then he bent close over the board. “You saw the dates, right?”
“I did.” I’d pulled out my notebook and compared the dates on the board to the dates of the Scruggs family. “Looks like Alice started putting money away back when she first inherited the store.”
“Looks like it.” He pointed to the first figure. “She managed to save $85.16 this first year. That’s like three weeks’ wages in that time.”
I stared at him. “And you just happened to know that?”
“No,” he rolled his eyes. “I Googled. Thanks for the Wi-Fi passwords, by the way.”
I smiled and sat down to study the numbers. “There’s cash put in every year until 1999 when the store was abandoned.”
I stopped and pondered the board before grabbing my laptop. I opened the Scruggs family tree and saw what I thought may have been the case: Sheila Scruggs died in 1996, three years before her son. I spun the laptop around so Santiago could see it and pointed to Sheila’s death date. “So Luther was the only one who knew the money was there, and when he died . . .”
“The secret in the cabinet died with him.” The sheriff leaned back and studied the ceiling for a minute. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Berlinda Jefferson had nothing to do with the store? I mean it was her inheritance, too, right?”
I sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.” I opened my phone photo app and scanned through the images of the Scruggs wills that I’d taken the other day, then turned the laptop to face Santiago. “Sheila did leave the store to both of them. Berlinda wasn’t interested though. That’s what she told me.” I pulled my laptop back over. “Plus, she was actually married by the time she inherited the store. Makes sense that she didn’t want to be tied to those hours and all that hard work.”
“Did they grow up in the store?” The sheriff asked as he studied the countertop again.
“No, they lived closer to town. Berlinda told me that her mom hired someone to run the store while she was a schoolteacher.” I frowned and studied the screen. “Still, you’d think her mother would have told her about the money?”
I ran my fingers down the column of years. When Sheila Angelis died in 1996, there was over $90,000 in that cabinet.
The sheriff followed my finger and cleared his throat. “Does seem odd,” he said as he stood up. “I’ll look into this more. Thanks for telling me about it.” His voice was distant, distracted.
“Sure. I wouldn’t want to hold anything back from you, from the police, I mean.” I stood up and carried our mugs to the sink to cover my embarrassment. But when I turned around, Santiago was already heading out the door. “See you later?”
He was almost all the way onto the porch when he turned back with a small smile. “I sure hope so,” he said. I could hear him on the phone as he walked to the car. Something definitely had gotten into his craw about our conversation.
I brewed myself another cup of tea and sat down on the couch with Jonatha Brooke playing softly on my laptop beside me. I needed music to soothe me, but I also wanted the space to think.
We had a stash of cash that no one, even the people living in the house, knew about, a stand of marijuana that had been growing for years, and two murders. It felt like these things had to be connected somehow.
But no matter how many stitches of the central carousel horse I put in place, I couldn’t tie the threads of history together. Eventually, I turned off the music, stashed my sewing, and went to bed to let my subconscious weave the picture together.
The next morning, when an exuberant toddler popped up from where he’d settled in my bed at about 3:13 a.m. and said, “Time to get up,” I had no more clarity about the story of the Scruggs store. But I did have the first line of my story for the newsletter, and that felt like victory enough for the morning.
Before I could sit down to write, though, Sawyer needed clothes and some bacon, and I needed a shower. I got the toddler dressed and set up with his iPad and Bob the Builder and jumped into the shower, which I was able to enjoy for a full five minutes before the shouts of “Mama” echoed through the house. Still, I did manage to rinse my hair, so I counted that the second win of the day.
When Saw ate his bacon, I knew I was on a roll and packed him and Beauregard up for a ride to Saw’s dad’s house. I said goodbye to Sawyer as he sprinted to the sandbox and managed to keep my tears in until I got out of the driveway. It was always so hard to say goodbye, but I knew I needed the break for my mental health and our finances, too. I let myself cry a few minutes and then put on some loud music and danced my way downtown.
Mika and I had come to an arrangement for our Saturdays. I’d do my writing at the store, let Beauregard draw tourists in with his girth and glory in the window, and help out with her customer rushes . . . and she’d keep me caffeinated and on task. By ten a.m., I had picked up chocolate croissants for both of us from the new bakery in town and was sitting in one of her wingback chairs with my laptop.
“The legacy of the Scruggs Store is one of dedication, determination, and devotion.” It wasn’t the most captivating of opening lines, but I figured that my readers would appreciate the sentiment. And I’d already hooked them on the history, of course, since they were already subscribers. This wasn’t some clickbait on social media after all.
The rest of the story of the store poured out of me, from Alice’s original inheritance to Sheila being raised there to Luther taking over for his mom and grandmother and moving back into the house at the rear. It was a story of family strength as well as the tale of a beloved community institution. I had the article written within the hour, and I was thrilled to include a couple photos: the one of Alice and Sheila and a close-up of the top of the countertop with the advertisements featured prominently. I made sure to not show any of the words about the cabinet or the ledger on the back of the board because I wanted to be very careful to keep my word to Santiago about not revealing anything pertinent to the investigation.
Then, I uploaded the images of the various, salvaged items, which I’d snapped quickly this morning while Sawyer played in the yard, and created listings for everything but the counter – since it might still need to be evidence and could benefit from a coat of poly anyway – on my favorite online auction site. Finally, in my newsletter, I added a photo and a link to each of the items and scheduled the article to go out at one p.m.
My work for the day done and the store business still well-in-hand by Mika, who had hydrated me and managed the steady stream of customers without any assistance for two hours, I started my usual work of straightening the yarn and “shelf enhancers,” a term Mika had taken from Ellery Adams’ Secret, Book, and Scone society mysteries, around the store.
I had a system. I started in the back and organized all the yarn in its bins while also moving tchotchkes like candlesticks in the shape of huskies and owl bookends made of cast iron to the place they felt like they most aligned with the yarn. Today, I paired a beautiful copper pie tin with an orange and gold sari yarn and set a beautiful blue glass bud vase against a bin of magenta alpaca yarn.
Mika swore by my system and said she sold more yarn and more whatnots on Saturdays than any other day of the week. I took the compliment and didn’t point out that this was also her busiest day of the week.
Between batches of sorting, I scanned the photos of my inventory of items in the garage to see what I might bring over for Mika to consider selling. We had long ago decided to help one another out without obligation. If I found something I thought she might like, I’d salvage it, share it with her when it seemed appropriate, and sell it to her at a small mark-up if she wanted to add it to her store. If she thought of something or had a customer ask for something she’d like to carry, she’d let me know to be on the lookout. The arrangement didn’t make either of us millionaires, but it did bring us each a little extra cash that could be legitimately written off come tax time. More importantly, it let us support each other’s businesses without putting either of us in financial peril.
I was straightening the bins right at the front of the store and had dumped a pile of pastel cotton yarn on one of the chairs to sort it by color and put it back in its crate with a sense of order when I heard the front door of the shop open. Since Mika was free, I didn’t even look up. But a minute later, I felt a presence standing over me and looked up to see the face of the man who had been on the Scruggs store porch looking at me from about two feet away.
He didn’t look like he was here to pick up some yarn for his latest scarf project. He as glaring right at me.
I smiled, belatedly, and then said, “Hello. Can I help you?” I decided it was best to play dumb. He couldn’t know I knew he was Victor Davison, so I hoped I could play the part.
“You know me,” he said in a low, gravelly voice that resembled the growl of a bear.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I do.” Clearly, my plan was not going to work, but I decided to milk the moment of confusion for as long as I could. I scooped up all the yarn I had been sorting and dumped into the crate before holding the box in front of me like some sort of squishy, soft shield. “Should I?”
“Yes.”
I waited for him to say more, but when he just stood glaring, I glanced over his shoulder and saw Mika with her phone under her chin and her fingers flashing the numbers 9-1-1. I felt a measure better but knew I had to keep this situation under control. “Okay, then. Where should I know you from?” I tried to look casual as I stepped back and sideways to put the bin back on the shelf and shift so that the chair was between us. “The grocery store maybe? The library?”
A low sound came from the man’s throat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that,” I said, hoping I sounded sincere and not just stupid.
“You saw me down at Luther’s old store,” he finally said.
I tilted my head and tried to act like I was figuring out what he meant. Finally, I said, “Oh, you mean the Scruggs store south of town? Oh yes, I’ve been salvaging there, but I didn’t see you there.” I hated to lie, but if it meant not being hurt . . . “Are you with the police? Did you come when I found that poor woman’s body?” Now I was really pressing it, but I had to stall . . . and short of saying, “Oh, you’re the guy growing pot behind the building,” this was the only way I thought I could suggest we had met.
Davison stepped around the chair toward me, and I took several steps back, right into the window ledge. I was out of room to run.
“You know about it.” Davison stepped further forward, and I leaned back and thought about jumping up into the display itself. At least, I fleetingly considered, I could find something to throw and break the window out to run.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to risk glass cuts or a massive bill to cover for Mika because just then Beauregard leaped over my shoulder and right onto Davison’s chest. He sunk his claws into the flannel of the man’s shirt and hung on.
Davison flailed and tried to knock my giant cat off his chest, but Beau just scaled his chest and planted four sets of claws into his shoulders, where Davison couldn’t reach him. I took the chance to run toward Mika, and as soon as Beau saw I was clear, he leapt off and followed Mika and me to the front door. We sprinted out onto the sidewalk, and I ran smack dab into Santiago’s chest.
He pulled me off his body, looked in my face, nodded, and then pushed me aside as he stepped in front of Davison as he barreled out the front door. Despite the fact that he was fifty pounds lighter than Davison, the sheriff stood his ground and said, “Stop. Police. What is going on here?”
Davison looked at the sheriff in his full uniform and let out a long sigh. “Nothing, Officer. I just wanted to talk to Ms. Sutton here, but then her kitty attacked me.”
I bent down and scooped up Beauregard and whispered, “Good boy.” His purr rose up solid and loud in his chest as he rubbed his chin against my fingers.
Santiago looked at me. “Did you order your cat to attack this man?” I could see the smile in his eyes.
“I did not. I have never been able to get this cat to do anything on command. He is, after all, a cat.” I could feel myself starting to shake after the fright, but I burrowed my fingers further into Beau’s fur to steady myself.
“Mika, did you hear any command given for the cat to attack?” The sheriff asked Mika, who stood beside me with her hands on her hips. If looks could kill, Davison would have dropped dead right there.
“I did not. What I did see was this man advancing on Paisley in my store. I won’t press charges, but I would like him to leave.” Mika’s jaw was clenched, and she looked angry enough to follow Beau’s lead and attack Davison.
“Sir, clearly this is a misunderstanding. If you’d like we can talk about it down at the station. Santiago’s voice was completely serious.
Davison said, “No. I’m leaving. He charged around the three of us and stomped down the sidewalk toward a beat-up green pickup truck with the long handles of tools sticking out of the back.
I squeezed Beau tight as I watched Davison’s truck roll down the street. Then, I turned to Santiago and said, “Thank you. You were just in time.”
“Thank your friend there,” he said with a nod toward Mika. “She’s the one who called and told me someone was threatening you.”
I turned to Mika and hugged her, squishing Beau between us, a fact that he seemed to love and hate in equal measure. “Thank you for thinking fast.”
Mika smiled and then held the door open for Santiago and me. We headed toward the chairs at the front, and Mika unfolded another seat for the sheriff before dropping into the wingback across from me. “Man, that was terrifying,” she said as she tucked her arms around her torso.
“It looked scary from what I saw,” the sheriff said. “What did he want?”
I gave Beauregard a good rubdown before laying out my jacket in the window ledge and setting him on it. I planned to give him a can of tuna later as a reward. When I sat back down, I shrugged. “I honestly have no idea. He seemed to want me to acknowledge I knew who he was, but I don’t know why. He just glowered and cornered me.”
“Sounds like he was trying to intimidate you, scare you off,” Santiago said with a frown.
“Well, he did intimidate me, and I am scared . . . but off of what? I’m not a threat to him.” My brain was a little fuzzy as the adrenaline wore off, so I knew I might have been missing something.
Santiago put his hand on my arm, and I felt Mika’s eyes catch that little movement like she was a honey trap and the gesture was a fly. “You haven’t been back to the store have you?”
“You know I haven’t,” I said flatly and watched Mika’s eyes grow wide. I hadn’t told her I was under police protection, so there’s no telling what she thought of that comment. But from the smile on her face, it looked like she was enjoying her thoughts.
Santiago shook his head. “We must be missing something. Clearly, he thinks you know more than you do. Glad we were close by.”
“We?” Mika asked.
I sighed. “I’ve been under police protection for a few days now.” I explained how the murder had been committed while I was at the store and how the sheriff’s office had thought it best that they stay close.
Mika nodded and then her expression turned to a scowl. “So how come you didn’t come without me having to call today?” I could tell she was trying to keep her tone light, but the accusation came through loud and clear.
Santiago cleared his throat and looked at the floor. “The deputy was, er, indisposed.”
I laughed so loudly that Beauregard jumped. “So I was nearly assaulted because someone had to take a pee break?! That’s perfect.” I doubled over in mirth. “I’ve always wondered about that in those stakeouts on TV,” I said between laughs.
“Especially if the officers are women,” Mika said as the post-confrontation relief hit her with giggles. “The pee in a bottle trick doesn’t work as well for us.”
Santiago didn’t succumb to the hysteria like we did, but he did smile and sit patiently while we laughed out the last of our fear. Then he said, “Well, we’re going to keep a closer eye on Davison now. That’s for certain.” He stood and headed toward the door.
“I’ll let the deputy on duty know what transpired, but Paisley, please give Mika my cell number. Both of you call anytime, okay?” He winked at me and went out the door.
I tried to turn away and go back to the bin of pastel yarn that I’d basically thrown into place, but Mika grabbed my arm and said, “Oh no you don’t. You and the sheriff?”
My shrug was half-hearted at best, and within a minute, I was sitting down and telling her about the coffee dates and the drive with him the day before. “I just don’t know if I’m ready, Miks.” Tears welled up in my eyes.
“Then, wait until you do know. That man, if my romance Spidey-sense is still keen, is way into you and wouldn’t want you to do anything until you were sure. He’ll wait, or he won’t. And if he doesn’t, then it’s his loss.” Mika blew me a kiss and wandered to the other side of the store to help a customer pick out yarn for an afghan.
I began to re-sort the pinks from the light greens from the baby blues and yellows. Like cross-stitch, organizing yarn felt calming. It gave me room to think while also giving my body something to do. I wondered if this was why all those knitters and crocheters had those huge yarn stashes – was it therapeutic just to organize them?
I finished that bin and made my way to the final crate of the day – my favorite. Alpaca yarn. I have always had a dream of owning alpacas, and once Sawyer and I were more financially stable, I had a plan to fence off the lower part of our property and put the run-in shed there to use for a couple of those beauties, maybe the ones that were retiring from the competition circuit. Mika knew how to clean, card, and spin fiber, so I figured she could make use of their coats when I had them sheared in late spring. As I sorted the muted blues and browns of the bin, I let my mind travel down that dream for a while.
Finally, with the store all sorted and the end of the day looming near, I settled into one of Mika’s chair to stitch and think. For days like this, I brought along small projects – this time, I was working on a scarecrow with some crows and pumpkins from my favorite Etsy shop for cute patterns, NonStopStitch. The pattern was simple and straightforward, so good for quick sessions on the go.
I had just finished stitching the white pumpkin at the bottom of the design when a familiar voice said my name. I looked up to see Berlinda Jefferson smiling at me. “I didn’t know you did cross-stitch,” she said as she looked over the top of my small hoop.
I tucked my needle into the fabric and stood up to hug her. “It’s my favorite hobby. Relaxes me and gives me time to think.”
“I hear that. I do jigsaw puzzles for the same reason.” She squeezed my arm. “But today, I’m looking for yarn. I have a friend who is ill, and while I should be the one making something for her, she insists that crochet is the one thing she wants to do when she’s stuck in bed.”
I lifted my chin and said, “But don’t you have yarn stores in Richmond?” I glanced over at Mika who was smiling at me. “I mean this one is the best in the State, but—”
Mika cleared her throat.
I smiled. “I mean, this is the best one in the country. But surely there’s one closer to you,” I finished.
Berlinda shrugged. “Oh, there are, but any excuse we have to come back, we take it. George was especially keen to come over today, and I never pass up a chance to come home.” She looked around. “And I love this store. So cozy, and all these knick-knacks are so winsome.”
I grinned. “Where is George?” I peeked out the door to see if he might be waiting in the car.
“He’s up the street at the microbrewery. Yarn didn’t interest him, but their new pumpkin ale did.” She laughed.
“I hear that. Mika, burgers and pumpkin ale after close?”
“You know it,” she said and headed toward the storeroom to get her backstock and fill in the holes now visible from my organizing and from the massive yarn purchase the afghan-maker had made from her heavy-weight yarn.
“Have time to sit?” I asked and pointed at the other chair.
“Sure, for a minute. I was hoping to run into you anyway,” she said.
I smiled, but inwardly, I paused, nervous about exactly why she wanted to see me. “Glad you found me then.”
Berlinda smiled thinly and said, “I actually wanted to ask you not to send out the article about my grandmother, not yet anyway.” She winced as if expecting me to object.
“Oh no,” I said as I looked at the time on my phone. “The email went out about three hours ago. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
A wash of something that looked like fear spread over Berlinda’s face for a quick second before she smiled again and waved a hand. “Not a big deal. I just didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea what with poor Bailey’s murder and all.”
I looked at her a minute and tried to figure out what wrong idea she thought people might get. “What are you worried people might think, Berlinda?”
“Oh, I’m probably being a little too concerned, but I don’t want people gossiping that we were trying to take advantage of the interest in our store, you know, now that we’ve decided not to tear it down.”
“What?! You’re not demolishing it after all. What brought about that change of heart?” I was trying to think about what I would do if people had already started bidding on the things I’d salvaged. It would ruin my reputation if I couldn’t fulfill the orders.
Berlinda must have read my mind though because she said, “Don’t worry, dear. Nothing you salvaged is important. You can keep it all.” She smiled and then studied the back of her hands. “I just couldn’t do it. After talking with you and thinking about what my family had built there, I just couldn’t tear it down.”
I nodded. I loved every old building I went into, and none of them were buildings my family had owned for generations. I couldn’t imagine what that felt like. “I totally get that,” I said.
“So I decided to use the money,” she lowered her voice a bit, “the sheriff found and fix the building up. Make it a convenience store again.”
I clapped with delight. “I love that idea. There’s nothing down that way, and I for one would love to have a place to grab a gallon of milk when I don’t feel like driving to town.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too. Plus, if the county approves, we’ll put in new gas tanks and sell fuel, too. Maybe even open the kitchen back up for breakfast and lunch.” She was glowing even as she talked. She looked like a woman who had made a decision that was bringing her peace.
“Well, you know I’ll fill up at your pumps, Berlinda. I love this. When do you plan to start work?” I was envisioning an article in the local paper if the editor would let me freelance one, a history of the store combined with a grand opening announcement.
“We have to wait until the investigation is closed, but hopefully by the beginning of the new year.” She smiled but then grew serious. “So you don’t think people will think ill of us?”
I shook my head. “Nope, most people wouldn’t think that no matter what I wrote, but I only focused on the history of the building and the objects I found there. Nothing current, so if anyone is going to be accused of taking advantage, it’ll be me.”
Berlinda smiled. “Well, let’s hope that people are just happy to learn, for both our sakes. Glad I found you then. And thank you, Paisley. You inspired me. She stood and walked over to my chair. “I think you may have saved my family’s story, Paisley.”
I felt tears prick my eyes and stood quickly to avoid crying. “Oh, the story would have still been there, Berlinda, but I’m glad the building that goes with it will remain, too.” I walked her to Mika, who was waiting to help with the yarn part of Berlinda’s visit. “You’ll let me know if I can help?”
“Will do, and I do think I’ll need a certain bench maker to come by and help us with some outdoor furnishings. I hope to have live music in the summer.” She smiled.
“Oh, Sawyer is definitely up for the challenge.” I laughed. “I’m his mother, so I can volunteer him.”
After she picked up a dozen skeins of a gorgeous deep purple yarn, I watched Berlinda walk down the street and smiled. My two unexpected visits today couldn’t have been more different, and yet I found myself unsettled by both. Davison’s confrontation was obviously off-putting, but something about the fact that Berlinda was going to restore the store was also troubling me. I couldn’t figure out quite what, though, and I decided to stop borrowing trouble and enjoy a beer and a burger with my best friend instead.
The walk to the brewery was brief and crisp, and I savored every lungful of autumn air. I loved things about every season, but if I had to pick only one, it would be fall, a fall evening particularly. The encroaching darkness, the cool temperatures, the colors in the trees – they all spoke of the things I loved best: a cozy home, a quiet place, and the grandeur of nature all around.
Still, I welcomed the pressure of warm air on my face as we walked into the clattering cavern of the microbrewery. It had been constructed in an old plastic-manufacturing plant, so it had this funky charm that was half old-world and half super-contemporary with abstract glass pendants dangling beside the huge, silver ductwork. I had only been here a couple of times since they opened a little over a year ago because it wasn’t exactly the best place to bring a toddler who, five out of ten times, would still throw his food rather than eat it. But I was glad to be there now.
Mika pointed to a tall table in a back corner away from the kitchen and the TV screen showing some sort of event with a ball. I nodded and followed her through the fans of whatever had just happened with said ball. Sports were great to watch live because of the energy of the crowd and, well, because of the stadium food. But the sport itself . . . I could take or leave. Still, it was fun to see people enjoying something, as long as they didn’t expect me to enjoy it with them.
We climbed up onto our stools and immediately took a look at the beer menu. I had that pumpkin ale Berlinda had mentioned on my mind, but I decided, instead, to go with something I rarely treated myself to, a chocolate stout. The ABV was high, so I would have to take it slow and be sure to eat . . . and even then, I might have to camp out for a couple of hours on Mika’s sofa, but it was worth it to taste that bitter chocolate-ish goodness.
Mika got some IPA that I declined to even try because I could not stand the taste of hops. I did, however, sample the appetizer of sweet potato fries that she ordered, and they were delicious. And when our burgers arrived stacked high with veggies and bacon and sharp, sharp cheddar, I felt myself relaxing in a way that I didn’t often. Parenting a small child was so hard for me, even as I adored my son. I was someone who thrived on conversation and innovation, and parenting a toddler was made up of mostly repeating what Saw said and doing the same things over and over. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but I did look forward to when we could talk more . . . and when I could find a climbing harness that fit him so I could just suit him in up in the morning, teach him how to hook a carabiner to the rigging I was going to attach to every high object at the farmhouse, and watch him go.
Tonight, though, it was just about friendship and good food, and I didn’t have to coax Mika to eat her tomato or tell her when to say excuse me. I did, however, have to put a moratorium on talk of the sheriff and me. I had a lot I wanted to say there, but I wasn’t ready to say it because, well, I didn’t entirely know how I felt all the way.
“Totally get it,” Mika said when I told her I’d rather talk about other things. “Tell me what was up with that Davison guy. Any ideas?”
I chomped down on my burger and suppressed a groan of pleasure at the crispness of the bacon and then sat back to think about what I could say without putting the case in jeopardy. I decided, almost instantly, I was going to tell her everything because, well, she was my best friend and because I needed to talk through things with someone who didn’t short-circuit my brain synapses by being so charming.
“Well, he might be a murderer,” I said. “Or just a drug dealer.”
Mika slowly lowered her burger back to her plate without taking a bite. “Come again?”
I caught her up on Davison’s visit to the store and on the pot situation, and then, with a deep breath, I said, “It’s all really confusing because we found over a hundred thousand dollars in cash hidden in an old pie safe in the store.”
This time, the woman nearly choked on a pickled carrot that was the house specialty. “Did you say over a hundred thousand dollars in a pie safe?”
I nodded. “But you cannot say anything about that to anyone. The sheriff knows, obviously, but no one else except the Jeffersons because the money belongs to them, of course.”
Mika sat back and studied me for a minute. “It doesn’t belong to the woman who lived there, the one you secretly questioned?”
“I didn’t secretly question her,” I said, far too defensively. “But no, apparently since the building was abandoned and Mary Johnson hadn’t lived there in decades, it’s the property of the owner.” I took a sip of my stout and continued. “Besides, I don’t think she even knew it was there. I mean, wouldn’t you have taken the cash when you left if you knew it was there?”
Mika nodded but then paused and looked at her plate for a minute. “But what if she couldn’t take it? I mean what if she wasn’t allowed back in because it was a crime scene.”
I pondered that a moment and decided it was a fair question for the sheriff when I next saw him. “But even if that was the case, wouldn’t you have gone back eventually over the course of twenty years even if you had to sneak in?”
“I suppose,” Mika said, “but didn’t you say she and the Jeffersons didn’t get along? Maybe she felt awkward going back.”
“Is there any amount of awkward that would keep you from going back for a hundred thousand dollars?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Good point.” She ate the last bite of her burger and then picked up her beer. “So do you think she might have finally gone back only to find Bailey Thomas there?”
I stared at my best friend because, well, I had never thought of that. It felt very unlikely that Mary Johnson would wait twenty years to go and get her money, but maybe she had thought it best to leave it where it was lest she should raise suspicion if she suddenly had a bunch of cash. “Like maybe since the building was about to be demolished, she thought this was her last chance.”
Mika shrugged. “Something like that.”
“It’s a possibility.” I added that idea to my mental checklist and said, “But it’s also possible Davison killed Thomas because she found his pot operation.”
“Could be, if he has a pot operation and if she knew about it.” Mika picked up the table card that featured dessert and said, “Split Lucille’s Pumpkin Bread Pudding with me?”
“Lucille’s?” I took the card from her hand, and sure enough, there in the description it said, Lucille’s Bread Pudding is made by local baker, Lucille Nundrum. “I had no idea she was baking professionally. Yes, let’s get one.” I wanted to order one of my own just to support Lucille, but this dinner was maxing out my dining budget for the week as it was. Mika caught the waiter’s eye and ordered our bread pudding and two decaf coffees.
“It seems to me like you have two possibilities for who killed Bailey Thomas – Mary Johnson or Victor Davison. Or it could have been someone who had a beef with Bailey herself.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I thought of that, but the sheriff has pursued that angle pretty hard, and while most of the town didn’t like her, it doesn’t seem like anyone disliked her enough to kill her.”
Our bread pudding and coffee arrived, and I changed the tack of the conversation. “When Berlinda was in your store earlier, she mentioned that she was going to use the money in the pie safe to refurbish the building. I love that . . .” my voice trailed off.
“You love it, but?” Mika said before shoveling a huge piece of pumpkin and bread soaked in cream and vanilla into her mouth.
“It just seems off somehow.” I stretched and tried to get words around the tilted feeling I had about the whole thing. “The money gives them a reason to be able to do it now, but if you had any sense you wanted to keep the building, why plan to demolish it anyway? After all, it’s been falling down for the better part of ten years. They could have torn the building down years ago, or they could have been saving to restore it. But it sounded like this was just out of the blue.”
“Didn’t you say she was inspired by your story? Maybe it’s that simple.” Mika smiled. “You are a great writer.”
I smiled. “Thank you, but is there anything I’d write that would make you sink a hundred thousand dollars of newfound money into a building you hadn’t cared about before?”
Mika shook her head. “No. There isn’t. If I cared about something, I would have been fighting for it all along.” She stared out the window, and I could tell she was thinking about how hard she fought to keep her store going now. Every month, it was barely enough, but that “barely” kept her going. “If I came into the money, I’d definitely build on what I had, but I don’t think the money alone, even with a great article,” she winked at me, “would be enough to get me to do something I hadn’t been inclined to do all along.”
“I think that’s it. If I came into a lot of money, I’d invest it in my business, buy Sawyer a climbing gym for the yard, treat Lucille and Dad for all the help they’ve given us. I wouldn’t start something I had never wanted to start before.” It felt too convenient, this remodeling, but it wasn’t really any of my business. “Still, I’ll buy milk there and pick up a candy bar for a late-night snack when they open.”
Mika raised her coffee, and I clinked my mug against it. “Here’s to late night candy bars and convenient milk,” she said.
“And maybe a side of pot to go with it,” I joked . . . but even as I said it, something about my joke rang a bell. An alarm bell.