Fatal Fiction: Snug Harbor Mysteries, #4

1

Maine may be bewitching in the summer months, but I think early fall may still be more magical.

It was a late September morning in Snug Harbor, where I’d spent many summers over the past several decades, but not nearly enough autumns. I woke to the tang of woodsmoke on the salty air, laced with the scent of fallen leaves, and a zing of excitement shot through me. I’d drifted off with the windows open; now, the little apartment over Seaside Cottage Books was delightfully nippy, filled with the promise of cool nights and cozy flannel sheets.

Winston, my aging bichon frise, grumbled as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wrapped a fluffy bathrobe around myself and headed to the small kitchen to make coffee.

The world outside was gilded with the early autumn sunrise; the branches of the maple behind Seaside Cottage were now tipped with flaming red, as were a few of the trees on Snug Island, which lay, half-shrouded in morning mist, just across the sparkling blue water of Snug Harbor. After years of living in Boston, with its postage-stamp-sized yards, perpetual hum of traffic, and smog, waking up in this natural wonderland was still a miracle… even if the coming of fall did mean the coming of the slow winter season in this tourist-driven town.

As the coffee maker started to gurgle, I opened the door to the balcony outside my little apartment, leaning on the railing and taking in the view.

I was watching four herring gulls wheeling over a lobster boat when I heard someone calling my name.

Max!

I turned to see my friend Denise Wilmington, dressed in paint-splattered coveralls, her auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, waving at me from the back yard of the little shop next door.

You’re up early! I said.

Time is money, she said with a grin. Denise had, until recently, been the manager of Sea Beans, Snug Harbor’s local coffee shop. When the owner broke a promise to Denise and arranged to sell the shop to a chain rather than her, she’d quit… and scraped together enough funds to rent the abandoned shop beside Seaside Cottage Books. She was now working part-time bartending at the Salty Dog in the evenings and spending the rest of her waking hours turning the former T-shirt shop next door into the future Snug Haven Coffee Shop.

How’s the renovation going? I asked.

Slower than I’d like, she said, but I’m learning so much! And I decided we’re going to do popovers. Everyone waits for hours to eat them at Bubble Pond House, but no one sells them in town. And I’m experimenting with blueberry muffin recipes, too.

That sounds amazing, I said. Did you ever pick a paint color for the interior?

I still need your help with that, she said. I’m thinking white, to go with the pretty wood floors, but I can’t decide which one to pick. There’s Chantilly Lace, Cotton Balls, Mascarpone, White Dove… I had no idea there were so many different whites. She grimaced. It’s a little overwhelming, to be honest.

Let’s put some paint swatches up and look at them in different lights, I suggested.

Good idea. First I have to finish the drywall, though. And I’m looking for a used commercial oven online… any ideas?

Have you checked Facebook Marketplace? I asked. After my divorce, I’d furnished the little apartment with finds from thrift stores and Facebook Marketplace, but I didn’t know if the offerings extended to restaurant equipment.

Not yet, but good idea, she said.

I’m brewing coffee… want to come up and grab a cup before you get started? I asked.

That would be great, she said. I’ll bring some of the muffins I have in the car… and I’ve got some juicy gossip to share, anyway.

I love juicy gossip, I said, and Denise headed back to her car for the muffins.

The coffee was almost done brewing. I grabbed two mugs and filled them, then put a carton of milk and the sugar bowl on the table, along with the spoon jar. Denise appeared at the door just as I sat down at the table, carrying a Tupperware container she opened to reveal four plump, berry-studded muffins glistening with a sugar crust.

Oh, my heavens, I said as she grabbed two little plates from the shelf above the counter and set them down next to our mugs. These look amazing.

It’s the best recipe I’ve found so far, she said, taking a sip of her coffee. I tried a bunch with lemon, but I realized I like just the simplicity of vanilla and blueberries the best.

As I took my first bite and the sweet, moist crumb mixed with the crunch of sugar and the burst of tart blueberry, I had to agree with her. I’d eat these every day of the week, in a heartbeat, I said through a mouthful of crumbs.

She laughed. Wait until you try my lemon bars! She took a bite of her own muffin and washed it down with another sip of coffee. Now. I told you I had gossip.

You did, I said. Spill.

Apparently Bethany’s boyfriend Devin was looking at engagement rings the other day, she said. I heard it from my friend Josie, who works at Maine Jewel.

Engagement rings? I asked, blinking. But they’ve only been dating a few months. And she plans to go to school soon. Bethany, my brilliant employee, was planning to pursue a degree in creative writing, and had been filling out applications for the last few months.

I know, Denise said.

I hope she doesn’t derail her college plans because of a boyfriend.

Maybe he’ll support her going to school, Denise suggested. You never know.

I guess not, I said. But if she decides to stay here with him, it’ll limit her options.

It’ll be good to still have her at the store, though, Denise pointed out.

That’s true, I said. And she and Caroline seem to be getting along well. Caroline, my daughter, had taken a break from college to figure things out. She’d spent the first few months on my couch, but had since moved to my mother’s place a few miles away. As thrilled as I was to have the extra time with her, I was worried about her finding her way, particularly since her two main interests since coming to Snug Harbor appeared to be Netflix and naps.

How’s she doing with her dad? Denise asked.

I think she’s still adjusting, to be honest, I said. Since my wusband Ted had taken up with a bestselling author girlfriend, his focus had definitely shifted from being a dad to being a boyfriend to a gorgeous, accomplished writer. One of my twins, Audrey, appeared to be taking things in stride, building her life as a college student and focusing on her future. Her sister was still processing the change. Blended families can be hard.

He and K. T. are not married, are they?

No, but they’re living together, I said. I think the family home doesn’t feel like a family home anymore.

It’s a tough time of life, being on the cusp between childhood and adulthood, Denise commented. But she’s got you. She’ll make it through.

I just hope I’m enough, I said, a familiar feeling of anxiety tugging at me. But I’ve been going on and on about me. Tell me more about the plans for the new coffee shop!

Coffee shop AND bakery, Denise corrected me. Assuming I can find an oven and figure out the permitting process. I’m hoping the new business will be good for both of us; I’d like to put a walkway between the buildings and encourage cross-traffic. Would you be willing to help me rip out that old dead rhododendron this morning? She asked. One of the bushes of the rhododendron hedge between Seaside Cottage Books and Denise’s future coffee shop had not made it through the last winter.

Of course, I said. I have a feeling this winter may be rough on the finances, at least for me; I need all the traffic I can get.

Whatever happened with your treasure hunt?

We actually made some progress! I said. One of the previous owners of Seaside Cottage, the adorable little cottage that housed my business and was now my home, had evidently been a rumrunner. Before he died, he’d hidden his stash, but nobody had ever found it. My boyfriend Nicholas and I had found a code book listing locations and a radio hidden behind a wall downstairs… and had recently discovered a key that was buried with what remained of a burned box at one of the locations listed in the book. We’re thinking it might be a safe deposit key. If it is, we haven’t figured out which bank it’s from.

I’m sure you will. Nicholas is a crack researcher; you have to be to survive being an attorney.

Here’s hoping, I said. Even so, I’d rather count on getting my income from the business than from buried treasure. And that’s kind of making me nervous, to be honest.

Yeah, this place kind of shuts up tight once the summer season’s over, Denise said. Probably not the best time to open a coffee shop.

At least you’ll be able to get the kinks out before next summer, I offered. Besides, everyone needs coffee, especially when it’s cold and blustery out.

And books, she reminded me.

I hope you’re right, I said, taking a last bite of muffin. Let me get dressed and we’ll go pull that bush out before it’s time to open.

I’ll just have another one of these muffins while I’m waiting, she said, reaching for another one as I headed to the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, we were out in the freshness of a fall morning, the sun coming up and chasing the last wisps of fog from Snug Island and warming the chilled air.

I brought two shovels, Denise announced, retrieving them from the side of the future coffee shop. Although the building had good bones, its former tenant had neglected it, and the front window was cloudy and cracked, the green-painted shingles peeling and revealing a coat of gold beneath. I’ve still got to sand all that, she said, following my gaze as she handed me a shovel. The landlord promised to help me, but it’s a project.

You’ll get it all done, I reassured her with more confidence than I felt, and turned to the scraggly rhododendron. This one, right? I asked, pointing to the one bare-branched, gnarled stump nestled among a line of healthy green ones.

That’s the one, she said. I cut off all the dead branches yesterday; I figured it would make it easier to dig out the stump.

Well, then, let’s get to it! I said, and thrust my shovel into the ground about six inches away from the trunk. The shovel made it about an inch before stopping in its tracks. I tried again, and only got a little bit further.

Those are some tough roots, Denise said, attacking the bush from the other side. I expected big fat ones, but this is more like a mesh of hard wires.

We went at it for another few minutes, but the roots were incredibly sturdy, and it quickly became clear that we weren’t getting anywhere.

Maybe if we water it a bit? I suggested.

It’s worth a shot, she said. We hosed down the area for a few minutes as she told me her plans for the new shop. I’m going to build a little porch and fill it with tables, she said. I haven’t decided if it’ll be enclosed or not; it would be nice to have a glassed-in porch in the winter, but that might have to wait a little bit until I have more money.

Makes sense, I said. What kind of food?

Bakery items and sandwiches, she said. I was thinking we could do box lunches for the day cruises, too. Just for some extra cash. And if we sell tickets from here, that would be an extra boost, too.

You’ve got a great mind for business, I said. I admired her vision; Seaside Cottage Books had been a bookstore for decades when I took it over, but Denise was creating a shop out of her own imagination.

I’ve been planning for this for years, she said. At first, I was really upset that I wouldn’t get to take over Sea Beans, but now… I’m excited to be able to start from the beginning and put my stamp on it. Denise had long managed Sea Beans, Snug Harbor’s only coffee shop, and had long been told she was in line to take over when the owner retired. Unfortunately, that path had been closed off last month. I admired Denise for having the courage to blaze a new one.

I think it’s going to be amazing, I said.

I hope you’re right. I could hear the anxiety under the enthusiasm in Denise’s voice. Let’s try those roots again.

It was easier going with a little water in the mix. It took us about a half hour, but we finally had enough of a swath cut out of the roots that we could rock the trunk of the bush back and forth.

We’re almost there, Denise said as we bent the bush back and forth, trying to sever the last of the roots.

This thing must be a hundred years old, I grunted as we pulled on the gnarled trunk. After a few minutes of twisting and bending, she joined me on the Seaside Cottage side of the bush and we each grabbed a thick branch.

Ready? she asked.

On three, I replied.

One, two…

Three! I announced, and together we pulled. The remaining roots gave way with a tearing noise, and a split second later we were both on the ground, holding the remains of a rhododendron between us.

Think that’ll be big enough for a path? Denise asked, evaluating the new space between the remaining bushes.

If we trim back some of those branches, it’ll be just fine, I said. We can even get a little arched trellis to mark it.

I love that idea, Denise said, getting to her feet. I stood next to her, surveying the hole we had made. Among the fibrous root mass remaining in the ground was a long, ivory colored object. What’s that? I asked.

I don’t know, she said, pushing at it with the tip of her shovel. She scraped away some of the dirt, and we both gasped. Is that…

I think so, I said, staring down at what appeared to be the tip of a skeletal hand… complete with a gold ring on one of its bony fingers.

2

Denise covered her mouth with her fingers. That’s a… a…

A hand, I finished for her, feeling like someone had just given me a sharp jab in the solar plexus. And maybe even more.

What… what is it doing here? Under the rhododendron?’ She looked at me. Do you think that’s why it died? A ghost was trying to tell us to dig here?"

I guess it’s possible, I said, my eyes still fixed on the ivory bones in the hole we’d just dug, inlaid in a bed of rhododendron roots and a startled-looking worm.

How long do you think he… she… it’s been here? Denise asked. And is that a wedding ring?

Well, it’s on the third finger, and it looks like that’s the left hand, I said, still trying to compute the fact that my friend and I had just dug up a skeleton between our two businesses. From the looks of it, it appeared like someone might have planted these rhododendrons directly over the body. Was the planting an excuse to explain the digging? I looked down at the gold ring. It looked like it had been downsized to fit a smaller hand, and I was guessing whoever this was was female. Can I borrow your shovel? I asked Denise.

What… you want to keep digging? Shouldn’t the police do that?

I don’t want to dig more, I said. I just want to move a little bit of that dirt aside. She handed it to me, and I followed the line of the hand up to the arm. As I brushed the dirt away with the tip of the shovel, I noticed a fragment of green floral fabric with a bit of lace at the hem, almost like the remains of a sleeve. One more brush revealed a bit more fabric, and what looked like a rib bone beneath it.

Whoever had buried this woman—it was definitely a woman—had lined her up right with the rhododendron bushes.

How old do you think these bushes are? I asked.

"I have no idea. They’ve been