A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) (7 page)

"Where is he now?"

"Los Angeles. He's an accountant, I think."

"He didn't go into show business like his dad?"

"No, the closest to show business anyone else in that family got was Cecilia Evers, Cal's niece. She's one of the drama teachers at the high school," my mom said. "Nice woman. She let my garden club tour her yard last year to study her camellias. It's sort of strange that she was the one person in the family to get the acting bug, since she was adopted by Lorraine and her husband, oh, what was his name? He was a dentist, I think. Died about ten years ago."

I was more interested in the other members of the family—the live ones who were planning their ex-husband's funerals.

"Mom, what are the plans for the funeral?" I said, trying to steer her back to more relevant topics.

"It's at the church, and then he's to be buried at the family plot at the Danger Cove Cemetery."

"Why is Pippa Montague organizing it?"

"She's a take-charge type of person," my mother said without a trace of irony. She ignored my pointed stare on this topic, and I wondered if she actually didn't realize that she could also be described in that manner. "My guess is that since David is not local, she's taking on his responsibilities. I know when Lorraine died a few years ago, Pippa was at the funeral to support Cecilia."

My home phone rang with a loud peal of bells, and I startled. My grandmother had had the same wall-mounted phone in the kitchen since I was a child, and the long, curled cord was twisted into a rope of knots that I couldn't quite seem to coax out, but I liked having it around and still working. Even if it did scare the bejeezus out of me every time it rang.

"Meri, are you reading Cal's book?" Alicia asked in a breathless gasp.

"No, I'm having tea with my mother. What did you find?"

"Other than the man was a total cad? Nothing. But oh Lord, he was horrible to that poor actress. I can't even believe what he did to her!"

Obviously the book got better, or worse, depending on your view, the deeper into it one got. I really needed to buckle down and read it.

"What chapter is that?"

"Chapters seven and eight, when he's in London shooting a film in the mideighties," she said. "Call me when you get there so we can talk."

"Sure. Are you still at the store?"

"Of course. It's been busy as heck, but in between the waves of customers, I found time to sneak in a few pages," she said.

I perked up. "Are we selling more books?"

She paused, and my brief flash of optimism faded. "No, not really. But lots of people stopping in."

The browsers weren't going to pay the bills.

"Thanks for the tip, Alicia. I'll keep reading," I said.

"Oh, that's not the reason I called. The police phoned, and that detective wants to talk to you," Alicia said.

She really could have led with that, I thought, my stomach sinking to my knees.

"He seemed mad that we didn't tell him Cal's jacket was here on the night of the murder," Alicia said.

"That's not our fault. We didn't know it was in the closet," I said.

"And he also didn't care for us rooting around in Cal's pockets."

Okay, that one was on us.

"Well, I guess he's right about that," I said. "I'll call him later. Did he pick up the jacket?"

"No. He asked if there was a cell phone in the pockets, and when I said no, he told me to keep it in the closet where we found it, and someone would be over to pick it up soon."

I let out a frustrated breath. For all they knew, there could be clues in the jacket. Clues that would clear me and point to someone else. I mean,
I
hadn't found any, but it didn't seem like the police were taking my discovery seriously at all.

I was glad to hear that the store was busy, but disappointed that the increase in crowds hadn't translated to a comparable increase in sales since we reopened on Tuesday. We were selling Cal's books, because they were featured and there was a certain macabre fascination with his death. Overall, though, sales were still slow. I couldn't help but think that we'd make more money if we just charged admission to the store instead of selling books.

My mother stood and walked to the sink, where she washed and dried her teacup and put it away. Then she gave me that patient smile that I knew meant she wanted to talk.

"Yes?" I asked, waiting for the big question.

"What are your plans, Meri?"

"Thought I'd make some dinner later, finish reading Cal's book—"

She frowned and shook her head, cutting me off. "That's not what I meant."

"What do you mean?" Dread filled my stomach. I'd been avoiding any serious discussion about my future.

"Are you going to sell the store, the house? Are you going to stay in Danger Cove? What about your job in Seattle?"

Well, those were the questions I'd been expecting for about six weeks, and I admired my mother's restraint at waiting so long before bringing them up.

"My job in Seattle is gone, and even if I could get it back, I wouldn't want it," I said. The thought of returning to HunTech, and working with Hunter, made me sick to my stomach. "And I don't know about the other things. I guess I'll just see how things go."

My mother gave me a pained smile. "I don't want you to think you're trapped here. Just because Ruth left you the house and the store, that doesn't mean you have to keep them."

"I know that."

And I supposed that I did know that I could sell Dangerous Reads and the cute bungalow-style house. But neither of those options had really entered my brain. I'd assumed that I'd keep the bookstore because it was a family heirloom, same as the house. They were the containers that held so many of my treasured memories. How could I just throw them away?

"You had an important job in Seattle, a big career ahead of you. I don't want you to throw that all away over one boy," my mother said.

"I didn't throw it away over a boy." Technically, Hunter was a man. But otherwise, that statement was probably true. "I have no desire to go back to PR. Not right now. This is where I want to be."

That was true. Being home in Danger Cove had felt right, comforting, in a difficult time.

My mother smiled, and her face relaxed.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said. "When you're ready to start dating, let me know. I have a new eye doctor, and I think he's single."

On the other hand, maybe I was selling Seattle out too quickly.

As soon as my mother left, I switched to wine. It had been a long week, I was enjoying a lazy late afternoon at home, and I had a very nice bottle of an Oregon Pinot Noir just begging to be sampled. The wine seemed to help, because the book improved.

Tales I Shouldn't Tell
was aptly named. Cal Montague had been quite the player and wasn't opposed to a little kissing-and-telling. His autobiography didn't sugarcoat his behavior—he openly admitted that he'd had affairs while married. And he had only married one woman, Pippa Montague. I imagined that this was not a book she wanted to read. Or have her friends read.

His writing about Danger Cove was interesting, and not just because I was familiar with the same landmarks. I could identify with his stories about growing up in a small town and wanting to leave from an early age to see the world. But the world beyond Danger Cove was something he wasn't prepared for, so he returned after a short spell in New York City. That was when he reunited with Pippa, a fun and feisty 19-year-old redhead who had been his high school sweetheart. They fell in love, and then Cal got the call—he'd gotten a part in a movie, and he'd have to go back to New York City right away.

When he left Danger Cove this time, he took his new bride with him. The small part in the movie grew to a slightly larger role, and that led to a string of supporting roles in larger and larger films. Soon, he was flying off to locations around the world and leaving Pippa behind in New York City. While Cal's story went into great detail about how much he enjoyed this time in his life, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the small-town girl he left alone in a big city.

After being away for a three-month shoot in Morocco, Cal returned to find his apartment empty. His wife had returned home. So Cal followed her back and also learned that she was pregnant. He vowed to look for work that wouldn't require him to be gone for such long stretches, and Pippa took him back. According to Cal, they were happy for several years. Cal, Pippa, and their infant son, David, moved to Los Angeles, where Cal worked on numerous television shows but never quite broke into the big time.

But then he took a job in London. It was only going to be for four weeks, and Pippa said she and David would be fine alone because it was a great opportunity for Cal. But what Cal didn't tell Pippa was that he'd been having an affair for nearly a year with a young actress, and she was going to be on the same film set.

At that point in the book, Cal's focus shifted almost entirely to his relationship with the actress, whom he called Angel. She was a luminous beauty, of kind heart, and she was his soul mate. She was younger than Cal, but she was wise beyond her years. Every cliché Cal could think of was poured into the chapter about Angel. And Pippa seemed to fade into the background, as if she never existed.

The next chapter picked up after Cal's divorce. It was such an abrupt shift in the timeline that I went back to reread the last bit to make sure I hadn't skipped a page. But no, it went from the very heights of his love affair with Angel to about a year later, when Cal was back in California, divorced, and the star of a short-lived situation comedy in which he played a wacky priest.

My stomach growled, and I looked at the clock on the mantel and saw that nearly two hours had passed in a flash. I stretched and walked to the kitchen to refill my wine and maybe throw a frozen tray into the microwave, but the sound of a dog barking in my backyard drew my attention. It was nearing sunset but still light outside, and I stepped out to look around.

A section of the wooden fence had fallen flat in the last storm, and I hadn't gotten around to getting it repaired yet. But despite the gap, I didn't see any of my neighbors' dogs in the yard. I turned to go back inside and heard it again. A yip, sharp and loud and definitely coming from close by.

I walked out and stood in the middle of the lawn. It was a generous yard, a little extra wide because it was on the corner, and it was deep, with a small shed in the very back. I was starting to worry that a dog was trapped inside, when I heard it again, but this time it sounded like it was right behind me. I whirled around, but there was no dog.

The leaves above me rustled, and I looked up into the branches of the ancient sycamore tree—and right into the wide eyes of a scared German shorthaired pointer that was laid out and clutching a thick branch about 12 feet in the air. I didn't know a lot about domesticated animals, but I was pretty sure that dogs did not belong in trees.

"How did you get up there?"

The dog had no answer but a long whine that ended in a yelp. That's when I noticed that about five feet above him, there was a gray cat glaring down at the dog. The long-haired cat was familiar—that was Tilly, who lived next door with Mrs. Fitzwilliams. The cat treated my yard as her own, and I'd often see her lounging in the lowest branches of the tree.

"I guess that explains it," I said.

I ran over to the shed, opened the door, found the old wooden ladder, and set it up below the branch. It wasn't nearly high enough, and I wasn't sure how I would get a sturdy, probably 60-pound dog down without hurting both of us. But I figured that if I could get up to the thick lower branch, I might be able to coax him down to the wide spot where the branch and trunk met. From there, I could probably help him to the ground.

I dragged the ladder over to the lower limb, climbed up, and put my hands on the branch. The rough texture felt remarkably familiar, just like when I would climb it as a child. Maybe that was what made me think I could still easily shimmy along the branch. Instead, as I pushed off the top rung, I heard an ominous crack, and then there was nothing but air under my foot.

"Oh-oh-oh." I scrambled for the branch, managing to get both arms around it as the ladder hit the ground. My feet kicked in the air, and it took every muscle in my torso to get my feet up and around the branch. And then I was stuck like a possum, hanging off the underside of a fat branch, looking up at the worried face of the German shorthair.

"Well, damn it," I muttered.

The dog whined. I heard a cat meow. And nothing else in the quiet neighborhood.

I did a quick inventory of the neighborhood in my head. If I yelled, I might be able to get the attention of one of the Darners. Their backyard butted up against mine, and their kids were always playing there. But it was way too quiet over there for the Darner kids to be around. My other option was Mrs. Fitzwilliams. She lived next door, but she was as deaf as a post.

A mosquito buzzed in my ear, and I shrugged my shoulder to shoo it away. The sun was starting to set, and soon it would be dark. And I'd be stuck in a tree for who knew how long.

I craned my neck, tried to judge the distance, and figured I might be able to drop without breaking something if I could swing clear of the now-fallen ladder. I adjusted my grip and wrapped my legs tighter around the branch, but I could not figure out how to get on top of it. Tilting my head back, I peered into Mrs. Fitzwilliams' backyard as her light came on. It might just be one of those security lights that turned on when it got dark outside. But then I heard a door open.

"Tilly!"

"Mrs. Fitzwilliams!" I yelled and tried to wave but then had to clutch at the branch again.

"Tilly!"

"Mrs. Fitzwilliams! I need your help!"

"Tilly?"

I groaned, took a deep breath, and then yelled again as loudly as I could.

"Oh, Meri, is that you? What are you doing up there?"

"Oh, thank God. I was trying to get this dog out of the tree, and I got stuck. Do you have a ladder?"

I tilted my head to look at her but could only barely see the top of her head on the other side of the fence.

"What's that, dear?"

"I said I'm stuck in this tree. Do you have a ladder?"

Good Lord, if the Darners were home, they were probably going to think I was crazy. And honestly, I would have no way of defending myself on that charge.

"My heavens. Don't you have a ladder?" Mrs. Fitzwilliams asked.

I groaned again, my shoulders starting to feel fatigued. "Can you get help?"

"Is that a dog up there?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right over."

She disappeared, and I began calculating the cost of an emergency room visit for a broken ankle. I could give up the coffee at the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery and drink Burt's swill for the rest of the year, and that might cover my co-pay.

My nose began to tickle, and my gaze focused on a tuft of gray fur stuck in the bark just inches from my face. That was what I needed—to have an allergy attack while clinging to the limb. I tightened my grip while trying to keep my face turned away from the offending cat hair.

Mrs. Fitzwilliams must have walked through her house and then around the corner to my backyard, because it was five agonizingly slow minutes before she walked through the gate.

"Well, isn't that a pickle?" she said, putting her hands on her hips and staring up at me. "Tilly, get down here."

Tilly yawned, blinked, and looked down at the humans, unimpressed.

"Can you move the ladder? I can drop to the ground if the ladder isn't there," I said.

"Oh, sure. But that's a long drop, Meri. You're going to break your leg."

I figured if I let my legs down and then dropped, it would be about four feet. That wasn't too bad to fall onto the ground. Mrs. Fitzwilliams dragged the ladder away from my landing zone, and I started to unwind my legs from around the tree when I felt a sharp pain in one leg, then I heard a tearing sound.

"Oh no."

"What is it, dear?"

"There's a nail or something in the tree, and I think it just tore my pants," I said, giving my leg a tug.

No matter how I twisted my body, I couldn't move. If I pushed in one direction, the nail pressed painfully into my flesh. If I tried to move the opposite way, the nail seemed to have a grip on the sturdy inseam of my pants.

"I think I'm stuck."

"I know someone to call. You just hang tight."

Mrs. Fitzwilliams toddled off back to her house to use the phone. As instructed, I hung tight—literally, clinging to the tree. If I let go, the nail was going to gouge my leg, and at best, I'd get a fresh tetanus shot. At worst, stitches, some sort of infection, and a scar. Or, if I moved the other way, my pants would be caught up on the nail, and I'd probably fall on my head instead of the graceful drop to the ground that I'd imagined.

"How the hell did a nail get—" I didn't even bother to finish my own muttered rhetorical question. Instead, I remembered one long summer break when Becky Brady and I tried to build a tree house in my grandma's backyard. It never became more than a few boards nailed into the tree, because we weren't natural-born builders and quickly figured out that we'd rather be at the public pool or at the library. I heaved a sigh, just as I heard Mrs. Fitzwilliams returning.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," she said as she opened the gate for my rescuer. "I'm not sure how all three ended up in the tree, but they're all good and stuck now."

Tilting my head backward, I saw her walking across the yard toward me, in front of a tall man. Even upside down, I recognized him. He wasn't wearing a white coat, but there was no mistaking that gruff yet amused expression as Dr. Adam Whitaker studied me doing my possum impersonation.

"Well, that is interesting," he said in a rich baritone that at any other moment would have melted my insides a little. "Hello again, Meri."

He looked beyond me and nodded at the dog that was still frozen to the branch about three feet above me.

"That looks like Winslow," he said.

I twisted my head to look at him again. "You know him?"

"He's one of my patients. So how is it you treed the dog?"

Adam picked up the broken ladder and tried to set it up, despite the wonky top step.

"I didn't tree the dog. The dog treed a cat and then got carried away."

"That's my Tilly up there," Mrs. Fitzwilliams said, peering up into the branches. "Can you get her down?"

Adam peered up into the tree, and then his lips softened a little. He was wearing a dark-blue T-shirt and jeans—all of it fitting him very nicely.

"Oh, sure. I see," he said. "Is there a mouse up higher, above the cat?"

I laughed, but even that small movement made the nail poke me in the leg again. "Ouch."

"What hurts?" he asked, taking a couple steps up the ladder and testing whether it would hold his weight. I didn't have much confidence in it, since it didn't hold mine, but he made his way to the third step.

"There's a nail in the branch, and it's caught on my jeans. If I move, the nail pokes my leg."

Adam found the spot where the nail had pierced my pants. "You have no idea how nice it is to be able to get an answer to that question, for a change."

I continued to cling to the tree while trying not to think about how I could feel the heat from his hands through the fabric. It took him less than a minute to free my leg. Then he stepped down and stood below me.

"If you drop your legs, I'll help you down," he said.

I tried to loosen my legs, but they were cramped, and it took some effort and more than one groan to unwrap my grip. Once my legs were down, Adam wrapped an arm around me and gently lowered me to the ground. He set me on my feet and waited until I stopped swaying before letting go.