For Whom the Bread Rolls Read online

  “I did. I also heard that the sheriff might be conducting a murder investigation.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I was the one who found her body.”

  “Sienna mentioned that. It must have been a terrible experience.”

  “It definitely wasn’t pleasant.”

  I paused as a middle-aged couple strolled past the stall, their eyes roaming over Patricia’s goods before they continued on.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I met Sheryl while I was waiting for the sheriff to arrive at the scene. But before that, one of the other neighbors told me that Sheryl’s daughter had been pounding on Ida’s door that morning, screaming and yelling.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know what that would have been about, but it doesn’t really surprise me that she and Ida had some sort of conflict. You know what Ida was like, and Melinda…well, she’s always been a bit of an angry girl. As I remember, she got in trouble at school on more than one occasion for fighting with other kids.”

  “Really?”

  So she had a violent streak. Had her anger toward Ida boiled over and led to murder? Perhaps after her mother had taken her home, Melinda circled around the back and found Ida in her garden shed, the confrontation ending with Melinda grabbing my lamp base and swinging it at Ida’s head.

  “She’s been out of school for a few years now, of course,” Patricia went on, “and I haven’t heard of her getting into any trouble recently, but she probably still has quite a temper.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “She and her mother haven’t had an easy time of it lately. Douglas—Sheryl’s husband—died of a heart attack three months ago. I’m not sure Sheryl’s going to stay in Wildwood Cove much longer.”

  “She’s not from here originally?”

  “No, she moved here from Florida after she met Douglas. She’s never made a secret of the fact that she wants to go back to her home state. I don’t know if Melinda will go with her or not, but I won’t be surprised if Sheryl’s gone before the end of the year.”

  That gave me some insight into Melinda and Sheryl Haynes, but I didn’t know if anything other than Melinda’s temper was relevant. Still, I was certain now that Melinda belonged on my suspect list.

  More customers arrived at Patricia’s stall, so I said a quick goodbye to her and moved on to say hello to Brett’s mom, Elaine, and his aunt Gwen. They occupied neighboring stalls, Elaine selling her pottery and Gwen her watercolor paintings. I admired their wares and spent a few minutes chatting with them before heading back in the direction of The Flip Side.

  On my way I noticed a colorful poster advertising the upcoming flower show, which would open to the public at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. I’d heard several regular customers at the pancake house talking about the show over the past week or so, and I knew there were many avid gardeners in town who looked forward to the event each year, entering their flowers in the hope of winning a prize or two. I wasn’t sure if I’d have time to check out the show, but I tucked the idea away at the back of my mind.

  I returned to The Flip Side shortly before closing time and soon said goodbye to the last of the day’s diners. Once I’d closed the restaurant and had cleaned up, I set off for the bank.

  As I stood in line waiting for a teller, my gaze wandered over the pictures on the wall to the front window, where a familiar head of curly blond hair caught my eye. I took a step toward the door, my first instinct to intercept Brett as he walked past the bank so I could spend some time with him, even if only a minute or two. But after that single step, I hesitated, all my fears from the day before rushing back to the surface. I still hadn’t decided whether to stay or go when a fifty-something bald man in a business suit paused in front of me on his way across the room. I recognized the young man with him as Sienna’s crush, Gavin Paulson.

  “Good afternoon,” the older man said to me. “Ms. McKinney, isn’t it?”

  I forced myself to focus on him rather than the window. “That’s right.”

  He offered his hand. “Mitch Paulson, bank manager, and this is my son, Gavin.”

  I shook Gavin’s hand as well.

  “I knew Jimmy Coulson for years,” Mitch went on, “and I’m glad to see you’re carrying on his business. Things are going well?”

  “They are,” I said, hoping that wouldn’t change as a result of the sheriff’s investigation.

  “Glad to finally meet you. Have a nice afternoon.”

  “You too.”

  Gavin smiled at me before following his father into a nearby office. Alone again, I hurried for the door, my desire to see Brett now stronger than my fears. I pushed my way out into the bright sun, but Brett had vanished. I shaded my eyes and scoured the street, but I still didn’t spot him. Disappointed, I went back inside to finish my banking business.

  Minutes later I was out on the sidewalk again. I paused outside the bank’s front door, once more searching the street for Brett. There was still no sign of him, and I couldn’t see his truck or work van parked anywhere in sight. If I wanted to talk to him, I’d have to call him. I pulled my phone from my tote bag, my thumb hovering over the touch screen, but I slipped the device back into my bag without selecting Brett’s number. Again my fears took hold, exerting their power over me.

  I’d hurt Brett the last time we parted—or at the very least had confused him—and I didn’t want to do that to him again. At the moment, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do otherwise. I’d talked to him on the phone without a problem, but seeing him face-to-face was another matter. He might see something in my eyes that would make things worse, and I didn’t know if I’d be able to find the words needed to reassure him. My thoughts and emotions were all jumbled together and I couldn’t untangle and sort out the mess. I’d have to soon, because I wasn’t willing to jeopardize our relationship more than I already had, but I needed some time to think first.

  Probably the best place for me to get in some good thinking was at home, or while relaxing on the beach, but I had other pressing things on my mind as well. Instead of heading for home, I set off in the opposite direction and arrived on Lisa’s street after a short walk. The trees lining the street provided some welcome shade, though I still wished I were wearing shorts instead of jeans.

  When I reached the house next to Lisa’s, I climbed the three steps leading to the front porch and knocked on the door of the cute yellow house. A dog barked excitedly on the other side of the door, but I heard no other sounds. As I waited for a non-canine response to my knock, I turned around and admired Joan’s yard. Rose beds lined the walkway leading to the front porch, and the grass and bushes were all neatly trimmed. Flower boxes beneath the front windows overflowed with colorful blooms and made the house seem even more charming.

  When several seconds had passed without anyone opening the door, I knocked again and listened carefully this time for any human sounds within the house. I heard nothing other than the barking. Disappointed, I decided I’d have to try again another time.

  I walked slowly along the shady street, considering my options. Although eager to get home and change into some cooler clothes, I decided to make a stop along the way. I followed a side street out of the residential neighborhood and into the town’s commercial center. Although my destination was the small junk shop situated next door to Marielle’s Bakery, I didn’t make it past the bakery’s display window without pausing.

  Now that it was late afternoon, the display of cookies, cupcakes, and biscotti wasn’t nearly as full as it would have been that morning, but what remained still looked delicious. I knew Brett loved butter pecan tarts and I was terrible at baking. The one time I’d attempted to make pastry had ended in disaster, so I knew that if I wanted to treat him to his favorite tarts I’d have to rely on a professional. I was feeling bad for hurting him the other day and hoped the sweet offering would help to make up for that the next time I saw him.

  Stepping into the blessedly air-conditioned bakery, I asked if there were any tarts left.

&nb
sp; “Only two, I’m afraid,” the twenty-something, rosy-cheeked baker said in response to my query.

  “I’ll take them.”

  The door opened with a jingle behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Gavin Paulson come into the bakery.

  “Hi, Marielle,” he said with a big smile. When he noticed me, he added, “Hi, there. Marley, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Home for the summer?” Marielle asked Gavin as she set the two butter pecan tarts in a small box and tied it up with string.

  “Yep. I’ll be around for a few weeks.”

  Marielle accepted the money I handed her. “We should catch up sometime,” she said to Gavin, and I thought her cheeks had flushed a deeper shade of rosy red.

  Apparently Sienna wasn’t the only one with an interest in the college student.

  “Definitely,” Gavin agreed.

  Marielle turned her attention back to me and I thanked her before leaving the bakery, slipping out the door just before a large family of sunburned tourists piled into the establishment, three generations eyeing the goodies on display with delight.

  Out on the sunbaked sidewalk I nearly ran into Sienna, who was standing outside the door, talking on her cellphone.

  She smiled at me and said into the phone, “I’ll be hanging out with friends for a while, but I’ll be home in time for dinner.” After saying goodbye, she ended the call. “Hey, Marley. Are you here for some treats too?”

  I held up the bakery box. “Butter pecan tarts for Brett.”

  “Yum. We’re having cookies.”

  “We?”

  Her eyes flicked to the bakery’s large front window, beyond which Gavin could be seen talking to Marielle as she put cookies into a paper bag.

  “You’re here with Gavin?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

  A hint of pink showed on Sienna’s cheeks. “You won’t tell my mom, will you? She’d freak if she knew I was on a date with a college guy.”

  “Maybe with good reason,” I said, my protective feelings toward the teen back in full force.

  “We’re going to eat cookies on the beach. Totally romantic, but nothing to worry about.” She shot an anxious glance at the window. Gavin was on his way out. “Please, Marley?”

  As Gavin stepped out of the bakery, she fixed her beseeching brown eyes on me.

  Not the least bit sure I was making the right decision, I said, “Have fun.”

  Sienna’s face lit up. “Thanks, Marley. See you tomorrow.”

  She waved as she joined Gavin, and they set off toward the beach. I watched them for a moment before heading for the junk shop.

  The bell jingled overhead as I stepped inside, the door falling shut behind me. Unlike the bakery, this shop didn’t have the benefit of air-conditioning. An old fan sat on the cash counter, creaking as it slowly swiveled from side to side, doing its best to create a welcome breeze, but it was fighting a losing battle.

  Brushing aside the curls the fan had half-heartedly blown across my forehead, I stepped deeper into the shop. Piles of odds and ends cluttered the shelves along the narrow aisles and a few old light fixtures hung from the ceiling, price tags dangling from loops of string.

  A man in his late thirties with greasy dark hair sat on a stool behind the cash counter, flipping through a magazine that looked like it had something to do with vintage cars. He glanced up without much interest as I passed by.

  “Help you with anything?” he asked in a flat voice.

  “Are you Kirk?”

  “Nah, I’m Jake. Kirk’s out back.” The man jerked his head toward an open door at the rear of the store, the bright rectangle of sunlight a stark contrast to the dim interior of the building. “Want me to holler for him?”

  “No, that’s all right,” I said quickly. “I’m just here to browse.”

  The man nodded and dropped his eyes back to his magazine.

  I wandered along the aisle, slowly making my way toward the back of the shop. As I drew closer to the open door, I heard the rumble of an angry voice. Pretending that I wanted to examine a display of dusty glass doorknobs, I edged my way along the shelf next to the doorway.

  “What are we supposed to do with it?”

  I leaned sideways and peeked out the door. It opened out onto a small courtyard, scraggly grass and weeds growing up through the cracks in the paved surface. A stocky man in a paint-splattered red shirt paced up and down in front of an old wooden chair, half white and half pink. He held a can of spray paint in one hand and kept his cellphone to his ear with the other. He had almost no neck, and his shaggy, dull brown hair was in need of a trim.

  Since no one else was out in the courtyard, I figured the man had to be Kirk.

  “You’d better be right about that,” he said into his phone. “If this doesn’t work out…”

  I caught a glimpse of his stormy scowl before he turned on his heel and paced in the other direction.

  “Fine,” he spat out a moment later. “You’d better be.”

  I ducked out of sight as he lowered the phone from his ear, turning back my way. He let out a string of curses, punctuated by a resounding crash. Startled, I chanced another quick peek out through the door. The half-painted chair lay scattered in pieces. Judging by the smears of white paint on the brick wall enclosing the courtyard, Kirk had either thrown or kicked the chair. He cursed again and I retreated a few steps away from the open door.

  I grabbed a glass doorknob off the shelf, feigning interest in it. Half a second later, Kirk strode in from the courtyard. He stopped short when he saw me, the angry glower still on his face.

  I smiled his way as I set the doorknob back on the shelf. “Hi. You must be Kirk.”

  “That’s right. Do I know you?”

  “No,” I said. “I just heard that the owner of the shop was named Kirk. I understand you knew Ida Winkler.”

  His glower had faded slightly, but now it swiftly returned, darker than ever. “Who told you that?”

  “Oh,” I said, pretending to be confused. “I’m not sure. I heard it around somewhere.”

  “Yeah? Well, someone doesn’t know what they’re talking about. I never met the woman.”

  He strode past me, aiming for the front of the store. As he passed by the man at the cash counter, he said without slowing, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Then he was out the door and gone from sight.

  I remained rooted to the spot, surprised by the brief encounter. A few seconds later, I shook it off and forced myself to move. I no longer had any reason to hang around.

  The man behind the counter didn’t so much as glance up as I hurried by and left the store. Out on the sidewalk, the bright sunlight momentarily blinded me after the relative darkness of the junk shop. Blinking and shading my eyes, I didn’t linger, instead setting an immediate course for home.

  Although I’d hoped that visiting the cluttered shop would prove enlightening, it had only left me with more questions. Even if I hadn’t found a note addressed to Kirk on Ida’s porch, I still would have believed that he’d lied to me when he said he didn’t know her. The words had rung false, and his eyes had skittered to the side as he spoke them.

  He had known Ida, at least to some degree.

  So why wouldn’t he admit that?

  Chapter 8

  Although my mind didn’t rest for a second during my walk home, I didn’t come up with any helpful insights or epiphanies. Kirk didn’t want me—or possibly anybody—to know that he knew Ida, and I’d seen firsthand that he had a temper. But whether any of that was related to Ida’s death, I didn’t know. Still, by the time I stepped into the foyer and kicked off my sneakers, I’d decided that Kirk was most definitely a suspect.

  If Ida had been blackmailing him, he easily could have wanted her out of the way, to put an end to the hold she had over him. Blackmail could also explain why he didn’t want to admit that he knew Ida. Maybe he didn’t want to be associated with her in any way, for fear that som
eone might figure out that she was demanding money from him in exchange for keeping his secret under wraps.

  But what secret?

  I had no clue.

  After a quick cuddle with Flapjack, I changed my clothes and settled on the back porch with a tall glass of iced peach tea and a paperback. While Flapjack danced around the yard, pouncing on grasshoppers, I did my best to relax and lose myself in the fictional world of the book I was reading. It worked for a while, but eventually I grew restless and left the book on my porch chair while I headed down to the beach.

  The tide was a long way out and I carried my flip-flops in one hand as I made my way toward the water’s edge, my feet leaving impressions in the wet sand behind me. Once ankle-deep in the ocean, I followed the waterline toward the eastern edge of the cove, where the receding tide had exposed rocky tidal pools.

  I slipped my feet back into my flip-flops before leaving the sand for the rocks and navigated my way around the pools, careful not to slip on the wet seaweed blanketing the rocks here and there. Exploring Wildwood Beach’s tidal pools was something I’d done many times as a child when visiting my cousin Jimmy and his wife, Grace. In my late teens, I’d brought my stepsiblings along with me, loving their exclamations of delight whenever they found a colorful sea urchin or starfish in a shallow pool. We’d played games during our explorations, challenging one another to see who could spot the most sand dollars or crabs. I missed Charlotte and Dylan terribly, and those wonderful days, but I was glad I had those memories to carry with me.

  Pausing at the edge of a pool bordered by barnacle-covered rocks, I crouched down to get a closer look at a beautiful purple sea urchin. I stayed there, watching it for a moment, before continuing on. By the time I turned back and headed toward home, I’d spotted two urchins, three starfish, several crabs and minnows, and one moon snail.

  When I turned away from the water’s edge, I saw Brett coming toward me across the exposed sand bars. I met him partway and greeted him with a kiss.

  “How are you doing?” I asked him.