Beach Thriller(6)

Holly ascended the sturdy wooden staircase at the base of the pier that carried her all the way up to the boardwalk. Although it was early in the season, throngs of people slipped in and out of stores, many of which Holly recognized from her youth. Her life had changed, but this place had not.

The shops had no shortage of T-shirts for sale, or sunglasses, sunblock, and other beachy accoutrements. The coffee shop that Holly had her heart set on—assuming it was still open—was halfway down the walkway, where cars were prohibited from driving over the sun-worn wooden planks.

She did a little window-shopping, browsing the beautiful paintings displayed in the galleries that gave Beauport its reputation as an artists’ community. Soon there’d be long lines at the two ice cream stores, the homemade fudgery, and the Lobster Shack. Tourists visiting Beauport literally put their money where their mouths were.

As Holly passed by the old-timey General Store, which still sold penny candy in glass jars, a woman in a blue shirt crossed her path.

Holly’s heart went still. It was Anna—she had no doubt about it. The woman was young and beautiful, with a curtain of wavy auburn hair framing her heart-shaped face, full lips, and hazel eyes that were almost the same shade as Holly’s.

Holly’s breath caught and the ground beneath her seemed to give way. She took hold of her sister’s arm but couldn’t manage to speak.

“May I help you?” asked an unfamiliar voice. The woman pulled back, freeing her arm from Holly’s grasp.

Holly blinked, coming to her senses. Anna would be over forty now. This woman looked like her, but from many years ago. As the sunlight struck her face, Holly realized this person’s features were sharper, more angular, and not much like Anna’s after all.

“I’m sorry, I mistook you for someone else,” said Holly in a quiet voice.

The woman in the blue shirt shrugged it off. “It happens to me all the time,” she said. “I guess I have one of those faces.”

Holly gave the woman a half smile. She realized she hadn’t fully processed her loss, but did not expect to hallucinate seeing her sister after only five minutes on the boardwalk. But what troubled her even more was the possibility of running into her sister’s killer without realizing it. The police files had been gathering dust for years. They weren’t investigating anymore.

Anna’s death certificate listed her manner of death as “undetermined,” a designation used when there was no clear resolution as to whether the death was an accident, a suicide, or a homicide.

But Holly knew better. Houses don’t often spontaneously combust.

Anna had died in a fire on the property of the richest family in town. Holly’s writing instincts told her there was more to the story. But accidents do happen—as the police had said—and the gas stove that had started the blaze was old and perhaps defective. But cover-ups happen as well.

Clearing her mind, Holly returned to her mission—searching for the coffee shop—but to her dismay, a clothing retailer had replaced it. Good news: There was another not too far away, a savory-smelling establishment cutely named the Bean There Café.

A busker was stationed in front of the coffee shop, nearly blocking the front steps. He wore a gray scally cap and a white button-down shirt with visible sweat stains under his arms. He looked a bit like a singing rat, with pinched features, a pointy nose, and a face weathered by the elements. Dirty scruff covered his sallow cheeks and chin, adding to his unwashed appearance.

Even though she was counting dimes, Holly dug out her wallet to give the man a couple of bucks. He was a creative type, and she always had a soft spot for those, even if he sang off-key and strummed the guitar like he was plucking feathers off a goose.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly when she added her bills to the meager sum lining his red velvet guitar case. She had caught the tail end of his rendition of “Sweet Caroline,” but when he segued into the next song, “Take It Easy” by the Eagles, it sounded remarkably similar to the previous tune.

Entering the coffee shop, Holly could still hear him crooning. Evidently, so could the employees, who grimaced as if subjected to some form of black-ops CIA torture.

“You didn’t feed him, did you?” asked a young man with thick eyebrows and a nose ring, who waited to take Holly’s order. “That just encourages him.”

The busker switched to a Simon & Garfunkel song that sounded just like the other two songs.

These poor people, thought Holly, suspecting she’d inadvertently involved herself in a local feud. “Does he do this every day?”

The young man’s coworker, a petite blonde with the fresh face of a high schooler, lowered her head in defeat. “Every. Single. Day.”

Holly grimaced in solidarity. “At least you have a lovely view,” she offered, pointing to the bank of windows that overlooked the ocean. Her eyes traveled back to the busker. She watched him clear out his guitar case, shoving crumpled bills into the pockets of his grimy, ripped jeans before strategically placing a single crisp dollar into the case that practically screamed, Poor me. Not only was he annoying the baristas with his shoddy renditions of popular songs, it appeared he was a scammer to boot.

On her way out, latte in hand, Holly nearly bumped into an older gray-haired woman. The woman’s billowy, bohemian-style skirt caught a breeze as she moved quickly, with surprising grace and fluidity for someone her age, avoiding a direct collision. The bangles encasing her arms—a throwback to the eighties—clinked together from the sudden change in direction, sounding musical. She wore a casual loose-fitting jersey—a look suited to someone who was never in a hurry. Except today, when she’d come barreling into the coffee shop in a rush.