Murder by the Seaside Read online

  “It’s good to be here.” Clouds of fresh baked waffle cones rimmed in chocolate and the scent of greasy burgers loomed over me. The perfect mixture of sweet and salty. A taffy machine twisted and pulled pink strips of heaven nearby. I was ten years younger standing there. All good things came from the Tasty Cream. I took a long pull on the best milkshake ever made. It took effort to get Tasty Cream shakes up the straw, but they never disappointed. “What was Sheriff Murray in such a hurry for?”

  “Hard to say. He’s been something lately.” She leaned across the counter conspiratorially. “Being sheriff isn’t easy when your deputy’s a doofus.”

  I snickered. Deputy Doofus. Not long ago, Sheriff Murray owned that title.

  Mrs. Tucker lifted a rag onto the countertop and made large wet circles over the glass countertop. Her heavily freckled skin reflected in the glass. The freckles almost made her seem tan, though the woman never made it outside before sunset. She always said she preferred people to nature anyway. “I imagine we’ll all know as soon as someone figures it out.” She tilted her head toward the knots of patrons outside.

  Claire anchored her clutch under one folded arm and hefted the fries into her hand. She never let go of her shake.

  I snagged a fry from Claire’s basket and groaned. Mrs. Tucker’s fries were delicious. The seasoning made my mouth water. I thanked Mrs. Tucker, and then Claire and I moved through the door onto the sidewalk as the crowd shoved its way back inside. From the looks on their faces, no one knew anything. Yet.

  “I can’t believe I’m home again. Trapped on an island with my parents.” I started down Main Street on autopilot. “We should say hi.”

  “Listen, you got your master’s degree for a reason. You’ve got a plan. Put that plan to work for you. Patience Price, Family Counselor. The only counselor on this little piece of heaven. You can’t beat that for cornering a market.” She shoved a fry into her mouth and moaned. Mrs. Tucker could season a fry with the best of them.

  “I made flyers.”

  “I know. What I don’t know is how you’re going to make up with that hunky ex of yours. Excuse me, but you never mentioned that Adrian was smoking hot. My high school heartbreak was lanky with braces, some serious acne issues and Bobby Brown hair.”

  “I have no intention of making up with Adrian. Besides, this island is big enough for the both of us. No need to complicate things. I told you he abandoned me to play football, right? He can’t be trusted. Adrian Davis has always looked like that, and he knows it.”

  By the harbor, we passed the bronze pony statue. A tiny picket fence kept tourists at bay these days. Island kids had hundreds of pictures of the pony, near the pony, on the pony, under the pony. My friends and I spent senior year coming up with the most ridiculous pony possibilities. The varsity volleyball team got a hundred thousand hits on YouTube after an interview with the pony. They dressed it in a photo-shopped gown and a few of the dimmer lightbulbs performed some raunchy dance moves in the background.

  Claire looked at the statue without comment. She was too focused on Adrian. “Mmm-mmm-mmm.” She sucked on her milkshake. “At least tell me you left an opening to slide back in with him.”

  Let’s see...what did I remember from the incident? Vanilla ice cream melting against his face and slipping across his lips as a crowd of catty high schoolers laughed and pointed. A combination of humiliation and fire had prompted me to jam the cone into his chest after I pried it from his face. After that, my broken heart caused me to crush it against the new leather seats of his convertible. Not my proudest memory.

  “No. No room for sliding.”

  We continued walking. Tugboats bleated on the shimmery blue water that reflected a perfect sky. Seagulls squawked at fisherman, demanding their share of the day’s haul, and a comforting layer of brine tinged the otherwise clean and flower-scented air. All these things spelled h-o-m-e. Houses on the harbor and along the causeway were newer than the rest. The few original homes were weathered to almost black. Along the inner roads, most homes dated back to the eighteen hundreds. Bed-and-breakfasts spilled purple flowers from barrels onto sidewalks. Signs on every corner boasted the home’s age and owner’s surname. History mattered on Chincoteague.

  The town slogan was Relax, You’re on Island Time Now. Growing up we joked the island was its own time, stuck somewhere that other places never were. Kids dreamed of leaving home to see the big world. I made it as far as Norfolk. Frankly, Chincoteague was better.

  “I can’t believe you kept this place from me until now. This island has everything. Hot guys. Good food. What’s not to like?” Claire slowed her pace. “Except your apartment. Did the ice cream lady say your apartment hasn’t been rented in decades? Ever ask yourself why that is?”

  “Islanders think it’s haunted.” I shook my shake cup, shifting the ultra-thick ice cream inside.

  “Haunted.” Claire stopped short, looking as if she might not accept any future invitations from me.

  “Island stories.”

  “I’d like to hear that one.”

  “We have lots of stories here. Small town, long histories, creative minds.” I nudged her forward.

  “Alright then, Miss Secret Pants. Tell me about how your mom’s a psychic.”

  I stopped to wave my arms overhead. “Ta-da.” The silhouette of a hand-painted pony stared back from the plate-glass window before us. Wind whipped off the water, swinging the store sign on its hinges above me as I struck my best here-we-are pose.

  “The Purple Pony.” She pulled her glasses to the tip of her nose, read the sign and looked me over. “What on earth is a purple pony?”

  “My parents’ shop, of course.”

  “It sounds a little like a strip club.”

  “If only.” I wrenched the door open and waved Claire inside.

  “Holy sh—”

  “—ut up.” I bumped her with a hip and smiled. A million candles and patchouli scented the air. Flower garlands roped through the wooden rafters. Twinkle lights stretched down to greet us. The little bell over the door brought my mom floating to the counter.

  “Patience Peace Price. I thought you’d never arrive.”

  Claire coughed and choked. I made a point of never mentioning my middle name. This was why.

  I gave my mom the stink eye and moved to the counter. “We got a late start. This is my friend Claire.” I pulled in a lungful of air. The counter smelled of herbs and incense. The calming twang of Indian sitar music drifted from hidden speakers. Home sweet home.

  “Nice to meet you, Claire.” Mom bowed in Claire’s direction. “We’re so proud of our Patience. Embracing a new beginning. Forging her own path.” She folded her hands in prayer at her chest and closed her eyes. We looked alike. Sort of. I’d never stand in prayer for no reason, but we shared the same round face, sandy hair and giant brown eyes. The similarities ended there.

  “Peepee!” Dad’s deep voice sounded nearby.

  Claire jumped.

  I cringed. As if a name like Patience Peace Price wasn’t enough to saddle a girl with. The nickname killed me. Why not Pat?

  Dad sat up from a bench not six feet away.

  “Daddy.” My heart leapt at the sight of him.

  “Is that a candle in your ear?” Claire pointed her cup in his direction.

  “I’m candling.” Dad popped the candle out and dug in his ear with a white cloth. “It removes toxins.”

  “The Hopi Indians did it,” Mom offered.

  “Uh-huh.” Claire looked at me for help.

  I shook my head. They had their own drummer. I’d never heard the tune.

  This was why I didn’t go into detail about my family. I might’ve been born with the only sane genes in the pool. My folks were sweet and harmless but a lot to take in all at once. Mom wore her sun-streaked hair in a long, loose
braid. It reached past her waist. Sometimes she put flowers in it, sometimes a pencil. Her long, flowing skirts were handmade. By her. Her peasant tops were older than me.

  “We missed you.” Mom ran a soft palm over my cheek.

  “I missed you too.” I dug in my oversized hobo for the envelope I’d stashed there. Thanks to an efficient last day of work, I managed to print a couple dozen flyers for my new counseling business. “Care if I leave these here?” I stacked them on the counter next to Dad’s handmade soaps and a henna bracelet display.

  “What’s this?” She examined the flyer. A small, sympathetic smile appeared on her lips. “Honey, you’re never going to get islanders to go to a counseling practice. Everyone would know, and no one wants to be known as the one who needs therapy. Maybe you could work here. You can read cards for us.”

  “Tourists love that.” Dad looped an arm around my waist. “Did you lose weight?”

  “No thank you. I have a master’s degree. In counseling. It’s my dream job. I refuse to believe no one will come. There aren’t any other counselors on the island.” I reached up to knock a bead of wax from my dad’s jawbone.

  “Why do you think that is?” Mom tilted her head.

  “I can’t read cards for a living. I’d have to sell my organs to pay off my student loans.” Images of me in Birkenstocks and handmade dresses flashed through my mind. A line of tourists waiting to know their futures as told by me, a self-proclaimed, type-A personality who didn’t believe in Tarot any more than she believed in Santa Claus.

  “People do that,” Dad confirmed. “On eBay.”

  “What? Sell their organs?” The possibility he could be right sent a shiver down my spine. “Ew.”

  “You can leave anything you like on our counter,” he said. “Chase your dream, Peepee.”

  “Thank you.” I turned.

  Claire seemed to be enjoying the show. Like a spectator at a live performance of an insanity circus. She fingered through a display of Purple Pony T-shirts, but her eyes focused on us.

  “Alright, guys, I’m going to finish moving in. Then I’ll take a walk and look for some office space after dinner.”

  Claire turned in a slow circle. Crystals reflected rainbows over the shiny hardwood floors. A waterfall of beads separated the retail area of the store from the back room and more private reading rooms. The look on her face was priceless. Her lips parted. Her neatly arched brows pinched. Probably meeting my parents raised as many new questions about my personality as it provided answers.

  “Be careful,” Dad warned.

  Muffled sirens complained in the distance. “There’s something going on around here.” Mom moved her eyes around the store ceiling slowly.

  “Like what?” I looked back and forth between my parents. The sheriff had been in quite a hurry to get somewhere.

  “We’re not sure. The Pony’s been dead today.”

  Sure enough, the store was empty for the first time that I could recall. People loved The Pony. My parents’ shop was a hot spot. Locals came for advice on chakras and star alignment, love and gambling. My desire to help people started at The Pony—I just hoped to help in a different way. No patchouli required.

  The front door swung open. We all jumped.

  “What are you all doing standing around in here?” Maple Shuster, the local scuttlebutt personified, blocked the doorway, holding the door wide with one hip. “Brady McGee is dead. Someone bashed him on the head and left him at the marina.”

  “Oh dear. That’s awful.” My mother shuffled around the counter. She eased Maple onto a bench where people normally tried on moccasins or shoes made from cork and bamboo. “Can I get you something?”

  My father appeared with a glass of water before Maple could answer.

  She sipped and came around to a more coherent, less frenzied state. “That’s delicious. It’s helping already. Thank you.”

  It was sugar in tap water. Something my dad passed off as mystical and medicinal. I couldn’t fault him. I’d seen sugar water cure everything from nerves to nightmares. People were strange.

  “What else did you hear?” The words tumbled out of me. I couldn’t believe someone had been murdered. Jaywalking was the worst thing I’d ever heard of happening on the island. Once in a while a couple of tourists got into a fight, but nothing like murder. I knew Brady McGee—not well, but well enough. He had a reputation for being hard, sharp-tongued and crude. His family moved to the island my sophomore year of high school. He was a senior and usually in trouble for fighting. Adrian had warned me to steer clear of him, saying Brady wanted to make a place for himself in our little town by showing people he was tough. I’d felt sorry for him after that. Worst logic ever. People crossed the street to avoid him. If he hadn’t changed his attitude in the past ten years, the list of locals with an ax to grind was probably lengthy.

  Maple’s eyes widened with dramatic flair. She leaned forward on the bench and lowered her voice, as if she was about to tell the best campfire story of her life.

  I held my breath in anticipation.

  “I heard Adrian Davis killed him. The sheriff questioned him this morning. When he went back to bring him in on charges, Adrian ran.”

  “Ran?” My folks and I spoke in unison.

  “Ran. Adrian is on the lam.”

  The words twisted and whirled in my mind.

  He hadn’t been out jogging. He was on the lam.

  For murder.

  Chapter Two

  After another thirty trips up the stairs, my legs gave out and so did Claire. She promised to come back and see me on the weekend. We’d text all week as usual. That wouldn’t change, even if the rest of my life was in upheaval.

  After she slid out of my new world in her shiny blue Volvo, I puttered around my new place, unable to decide what to do. The sun settled into the harbor beyond my windows, casting lavender and rose shadows over the world. A mountain of boxes rested beneath the window frame. I had no desire to open another box. My fingers were pruny and red from cleaning. I’d set up what mattered hours before. My laptop and printer stood on the kitchen counter, and the bed was made. Tomorrow I’d start again, but right now the rumble in my tummy said it was time to pay another visit to Mrs. Tucker or my parents. Funds were limited. As much as I didn’t want to hear about my promising future reading Tarot cards or tea leaves, I equally hated spending six of my fast fading dollars on a burger.

  Decisions.

  When I shut my eyes, Adrian’s face appeared for the ten millionth time. What did that strange look he gave me mean? I flopped into a folding chair at the kitchen counter and tried to label the expression. Not fear. He didn’t fear anything that I could recall. Adrian was brave. Overly confident. Obnoxious. And while I, on occasion, itched to shove anther ice cream up his nose, I also knew he wasn’t a killer.

  I pulled a half-eaten bag of chips off the counter and into my lap. Thinking went easier with something to crunch. In high school, Adrian and I had pledged to see the world together. I’d opened a savings account on the mainland for my eighteenth birthday, into which he and I deposited money every payday senior year. I shoved a fistful of chips between my lips. After we graduated, he left me with no warning. To play football. I ground my teeth together and flung the bag onto the counter. Crumbs dusted out the open end.

  My fingernails tapped an aimless rhythm on the Formica. Adrian had trapped spiders in the shower for me and deposited them outside. He carried me two miles on his back when I twisted my ankle on the steps at the lighthouse. He cried during the memorial service on 9/11. I saw him. Those soulful gray eyes melted my heart even in memory.

  I grabbed my phone to check my voice mail. Three from work. Any chance they’d changed their minds and needed me back? No. All three were from my co-workers. No one knew where we kept anything in the office. What did they do wh
ile I was working? For that matter, if I was the only one working before, how had I ended up as the one downsized?

  It was late. They’d clocked out and gone home by now. I tapped a quick set of texts onto the cell screen.

  Mr. Fergusen comes for lie detector tests on Thursdays.

  Remind him on Wednesday how many to expect.

  The coffee lady comes first thing Monday morning. She’ll need a receipt for the delivery.

  IT has a list of all my passwords. You’ll need to change them.

  I tossed my phone on the counter beside the chips. The apartment smelled dank and unlived in. I’d already pried open all the windows and emptied a bottle of Febreeze. Time was my only hope at remedying the stink. Until then, I’d suffer dirty air coated in a synthetic April Fresh cover up.

  With Claire gone, my mind wandered to the one other person I’d miss on the mainland: Sebastian Clark. Sebastian was a special agent I’d had a crush on since the day he rolled into my office, but guys like him didn’t date. They were too busy saving the world, unlike my ex, who was on the lam for murder.

  My mind kicked back to Adrian. Could he have gone away to play football and come home a killer? What all had I missed these last ten years? What was he doing back in Chincoteague? So much for seeing the world. Not that I could talk.

  I pulled my laptop onto my legs and brought up my new flyers. I had a goal to achieve. Every town needed a counselor. Who better to fill that need in Chincoteague than me? The residents knew me. I understood the island. We were a perfect match. Counseling with Patience. Finally my crazy name came in handy for something. Now I needed a few patients. I smiled. Then I thumbed the Print button. My tummy rumbled in warning. The chips didn’t cut it. A burger sounded amazing. While I was at the Tasty Cream, I’d ask Mrs. Tucker if I could leave a few flyers on the counter.

  Squawking seagulls and bleating tugboats faded into the background, swallowed whole by the enormous rattle and whoosh of my ancient printer. A moment later, instinct tickled my muscles. My ears perked to attention, straining to hear a sound I knew wasn’t coming from my printer. I tiptoed across the room and pressed my back to the wall. There was a murderer on the loose. I held my breath. The stairs outside my window creaked again. My purse sat on the coffee table, out of reach. Pepper spray couldn’t help me from way over there.