With an annoyed sigh, Grammie pushed her hair back with both hands. “Elliot. What’s up?” She set her features in an exaggerated expression of stoic patience. I had to respect her for not kowtowing to the man.
In response, he leisurely studied the yard, his gaze lingering on the flower beds and the robins hopping along the grass. “Lovely day today. Spring is here at last.” He stamped his stick into the ground. “Quite a to-do down in town, wasn’t it?” He thrust out his bottom lip. “They even got a forensic anthropologist down from Orono.”
“From the University of Maine?” I asked. The university’s head campus was in Orono, near Bangor.
His pale eyes flicked over to me. “I suppose.” He turned back to Grammie. “Do you really think it was Star?” His tone was somber. Had he cared for the young woman?
By the way Grammie gnawed her lip, I could tell she was thinking about what to say. “I do,” she admitted. “But I guess it’s up to the police to find out for sure.”
Elliot tamped his stick into the dirt, again and again. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get out of the lease,” he finally said, a sly smile creeping over his chiseled features. “I’d be willing, under one condition.”
Grammie folded her arms and tapped a toe. “And what would that be?”
Encouraged, he moved closer, looming over my tiny grandmother. “I think you can guess.” He jerked his chin toward the road. “You didn’t respond to my last offer for the waterfront land.”
I got it now. Elliot hoped to use our distaste about finding a body in our rental against us, to try to force us to sell him the acreage he coveted.
A beige sedan turned in from the road and drove sedately up the drive, two female heads in the front seat. I didn’t recognize the car but the occupants, women about Grammie’s age, looked vaguely familiar.
Grammie ignored the car as it pulled up nearby with windows open, the women craning their necks in curiosity. “For the last time,” she said with gritted teeth, punctuating each word with a poke to Elliot’s bony chest. Her face was fierce, tense with rage. “I am not going to sell my property.” For extra emphasis, she added, “Not over my dead body. Or yours.”
Elliot drew himself up with a scowl, fists clenched and stick lifted. Before he could say a word, I stepped in. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” My voice was low but dead serious. “After the day we’ve had … after the year we’ve had … bullying a widow?” I scorched him with a glare until he clamped his mouth shut and stepped back. Next I whirled around to address the eavesdroppers in the car. “How can I help you?”
They squawked and babbled like flustered hens until Grammie said, “They’re here for the cupcakes.” She sounded more like her old self now, I was glad to hear. Grammie hardly ever lost her temper but obviously Elliot had pushed her over the edge.
“I’ll be right back.” I stomped off to the house, well, as best I could with my limping foot, and retrieved the plastic container from the mudroom. By the time I made it back outside, Elliot was halfway through the woods. I handed the container through the open window and the passenger took it. “Have a good day.”
The driver backed down the driveway and sped off toward town.
“Oh, Iris,” Grammie said, collapsing into my arms. “I can’t believe I did that.” Her shoulders shook and for a horrible second I thought she was crying. But when she looked up at me, I saw she was laughing. “Poor Mildred and Margery. They must have thought I lost it.”
“Well, sometimes you need to lose it. Elliot is unbelievable.” I squeezed her in a big hug. “Let’s hope that, like most bullies, he backs off now that you stood up to him.”
Grammie gave me a kiss on the cheek before pulling away. “I love you, my dear. I’m going in to get the chicken and dumplings started. Then I might climb up into the loft and look for that trunk.”
“And I am going to check my email and fill some orders.” I said, strolling beside her to the house. “But first, I need to be fortified with another coffee and one of those cupcakes.”
Quincy trailed along upstairs to my office, the back bedroom on the driveway side. I slept in the front bedroom on that side, and Grammie and Papa had renovated the two rooms across the hall into a master suite, including a new, spacious bathroom.
Before settling at my desk, I popped into my bathroom, needing it after two cups of coffee. Grammie had offered to renovate, but I loved the porcelain pedestal sink and clawfoot tub, and even the ancient wallpaper, which depicted flowers twining over a lattice.
In here, I could pretend it was 1920, when these fixtures had been installed, allowing the family to retire the outside outhouse. Oh, I knew full well the past wasn’t always rosy and of course I appreciated modern conveniences. But I enjoyed indulging my nostalgia for times gone by, appreciated their unselfconscious focus on family and home. A lot of people did, obviously, or my business wouldn’t be doing so well.
I usually stood at my computer, so today I propped my knee on a box—the rest and elevation parts of RICE—and got to work, opening the browser to my storefront on a popular crafts site. Quincy, as was his habit, hopped up on the desk to keep an eye on proceedings. As long as he didn’t walk on the keyboard, I was good with that.
The route to my present business had been circuitous but logical in hindsight, maybe. After graduating from the Rhode Island School of Design, I was hired by an up-and-coming home-goods catalog company located in Portland, Maine. For three years, I designed bed and kitchen linens, even traveling to fabric factories to make sure they produced exactly what we wanted. This experience gave me a good grounding in both trends and timeless style, refining my eye for what would sell.
Two things happened at once, both unfortunate. The company downsized and Papa got sick. I moved home and started selling online, beginning with my own collection and the contents of the farmhouse closets.
Today a dozen orders waited my attention, most of them for cute and colorful hostess half aprons with their fifties-housewife vibe. These were so popular I planned to feature them in the store. Hmm. But which pieces should I upload to fill the empty slots? Which inventory should I keep for the store versus sell online?
I had a feeling these decisions would only increase in complexity once the downtown store opened, since I planned to keep selling on the Web too. Maybe I should try to sell things in person first and move what didn’t sell to online, where I could reach a wider group of customers, many with eclectic tastes.
I processed the orders, sent notices that the items would be shipped, and went to the company email. My opt-in newsletter had led to some personal correspondence over the past year, and I thought customers might write regarding the storefront announcement in the last issue.
Sometimes people contacted me with items they hoped I might buy. I’d found some great stuff that way. Are you interested in vintage German flannel sheets? Um, yeah. As with many things, you could buy quality used for less than comparable items new. And then there were the true antiques, where a linen sheet enjoyed by royalty could go for thousands, kid you not.
As expected, a few customers asked about the physical store’s opening date and address. I wrote back that I would be sending this information in the next newsletter as well as posting it on my Web store. How cool it would be to meet these loyal fans in person.
Another text bleated on my phone. Madison again. OMG! Check the newspaper social media page.
The news about Star was out already, had to be. With a heavy heart, I brought up the page and searched for the Blueberry Cove Herald. Here it was, pinned to the top of the page. “Human Bones Found in Downtown Basement Alarm Store Owners,” it read. The byline said Lars Lavely. Lars, who had an unassuming presence with his hipster glasses and thick beard, was an incisive writer, if a little dramatic in the Herald tradition. Many people simply didn’t notice him lurking, to their later shock and dismay. Had he been outside the store with the crowd? Probably.
The article began, “This morning, Blueberry Cove shop owners Iris and Anne Buckley made a grisly discovery in the basement of their new shop, Ruffles & Bows.” I groaned. Anyone searching for the store online was probably going to find this article. Great.
I read on. Since Lars hadn’t interviewed us—yet—he pieced the story together with expressions of shock from Elliot, a nonremark from Anton, and a promise by the forensic anthropologist to identify the age, gender, and, quite possibly, the cause of death for our skeleton. He generously quoted the anthropologist regarding gruesome details of mangled skeletons she had examined in the past.
This was big news for a small town like Blueberry Cove, and any hopes the story would die vanished. Especially when I saw that Lars promised extensive follow-up in the next edition of the Herald, to be published mid-week. And no doubt his feature would be front and center, pushing aside articles about spring cleanup and the latest arguments at Town Hall.
With a groan, I closed the social media page, thinking I really should pack the sold inventory and get it out this afternoon. At least that was something I could control, unlike the rest of my life right now, it seemed.
While I was patting Quincy, a favorite procrastination activity, a new email alert bubbled on the screen. Using the mouse, I clicked on the inbox, thinking maybe we had another order.
I groaned in annoyance when I saw that Lars Lavely was the sender. He must want an interview. I opened the email, hoping I could put him off.
What I read made me gasp and squeeze Quincy so tight he yowled and squirmed to get down. HERE’S SOME ADVICE FOR YOU, the note said in all caps. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. OR ELSE. A clip art image of a skull and crossbones punctuated the hateful message.