The bell above the door jingles and Jenny slips in, one of the flower petals from outside caught in her hair. I raise my hand to get her attention and start to shift my collection of plates around. I couldn’t decide what to order, so I got one of everything in the case. I might have to get up for another sausage and cream cheese biscuit.
I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear and move a bear claw to the corner of the table. I consider it briefly, and then take a bite. I’ve never met a pastry I didn’t love. “Gotta go, Jo.”
“I expect a picture in my inbox later.”
I snort a laugh. If I sent her a picture of Beckett, she’d be on the next flight to Maryland. “Sure, sure. Love you.”
“You too.”
Jenny raises both eyebrows as she slides into the seat across from me. I hand her a plate with a cranberry scone and she gives a happy little wiggle in her chair. “Boyfriend missing you?”
My lips twitch at the thinly-veiled fish for gossip. At least two heads tilt in our direction that I can see. I need to remember that there’s always someone listening in this town.
“Life partner,” I explain and Jenny eyeballs me as she breaks her scone in half. I don’t bother explaining. “Did you call around?”
She nods. “Haven’t been able to find anything, but it’s early. I’m sure something will turn up today.” She drags the tip of her finger along the edge of her plate, blonde hair half covering her face. She reminds me of my mom. Same lines by her eyes, same gentle smile.
Same inability to hide her duplicitous intentions.
“Did you happen to find a place to stay last night? I feel so terrible about what happened.”
I grin and tear off some cinnamon roll. The icing clings to my thumb. It tastes like sugar and small town gossip. “I’m sure you saw the whole thing from behind your desk, Jennifer Davis. Did you really call the phone tree this morning or are you scheming?”
She blinks twice, slow and steady. She then proceeds to stuff the rest of the scone into her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drop my chin in my hand. “Mmhmm.”
“I told you—”
“—the kite festival, yeah.” I haven’t seen a single person in this town with a kite.
“I’ll keep checking,” she mumbles around a mouthful of dense pastry and dried cranberry. I offer her the glass of water at my elbow, concerned about the compulsive way she keeps swallowing. She takes it with a shaky hand and downs the whole thing in two gulps. “You never know what might turn up.”
“Sure.”
“Betsey might have a lead on a studio apartment, but I think it’s above the mechanic station. Probably smells like oil.”
“Probably.”
“And I know the McGivens sometimes rent out their spare bedroom, but I think they’re hosting an … exchange student.”
“Makes sense.” It doesn’t make any sense.
“I’ll keep you updated though!” She slips from her seat and takes a step backwards, closer to the door. If I thought everyone was looking before, it’s nothing compared to the intense, avid attention we are attracting now. Two of the employees peer out from the back kitchen, watching the exchange. I think Gus, one of the firefighters, is recording the whole thing on his phone. Jenny laughs—a bright, unnatural thing. “Okay, bye!”
Her ponytail has hardly disappeared from view when a small but sturdy shadow appears over my shoulder.
“That woman is full of shit,” says Ms. Beatrice, her voice always softer and sweeter than I expect it to be. I heard rumors of her around town before I met her the first time. Things like:
Remember not to look her directly in the eye, and:
Do you think she’ll make anyone cry today?
So when I walked into the cafe and saw a small woman in a floral apron with her long hair pulled up in a loose gray bun, I was surprised.
Then I saw her throw an empty can of coffee at the Sheriff and things made a little more sense.
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. I think about Beckett standing in the door of his spare bedroom last night, his body all rigid lines with a frown twisted across his lips. He had looked about seven seconds away from climbing out the window. “I guess I’ll have to poke around myself. See if there is anywhere else to stay.”
The last thing I want to do is make Beckett uncomfortable in his own home.
“How long are you here for?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Ms. Beatrice hums, hands flexing on the back of the chair. She doesn’t wear any jewelry, but she does have a tiny tattoo of a songbird on the back of her hand, just above her wrist. I nod at it.
“That’s beautiful.” Delicate lines, a touch of red on outstretched wings. It looks like it’s about to fly up her arm and rest in the crook of her elbow.
She glances at it once, a smile flirting at her lips. “Nova did it.”
“Nova?”
“Beckett’s youngest sister.” I blink. I didn’t even know he had sisters. “I told her I wanted BOSS across both knuckles, but we settled on this instead.”
“Well,” I search for the right words. She would look pretty badass with knuckle tattoos, and the look on her face says she knows it. “Maybe you can convince her in the future.”
She nods, but doesn’t budge an inch. I raise an eyebrow. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A slow smile creeps across her face.
“Since you’re asking …”
Ms. Beatrice wants an Instagram page.
She saw one of my posts featuring a coffee shop in North Carolina— rows and rows of coffee beans behind the counter and colorful ribbon hanging from the ceiling. Walking into that little shop had been like stepping inside a rainbow, Bob Marley on the speakers and sprinkles in my latte.
“That thing had over two-hundred thousand comments,” she says from the side of my table, shoving her phone in my face. “And the beans looked cheap.”
I don’t know what constitutes a cheap bean, but I indulge her. We snap a couple pictures of her behind the counter—a fierce look on her face in every single one—and set up her details. If the rainbow shop had an opposite, Ms. B’s would be it. But there’s a certain charm to it nonetheless. I apply a moody filter and smile at the result—a fierce woman holding a plate of scones, a steaming coffee pot at her elbow. She looks like something out of Goodfellas. Maybe she should get those knuckle tattoos after all.
“You know you can’t use this account to publicly shame people, right?”
A secret smile. “No promises.”
Gus and Monty corner me after that, asking if I can swing by the firehouse and help them with a video. Intrigued and amused, I can’t help but trail after them to the open bay doors, music spilling out from the back office. I proceed to watch them choreograph a surprisingly involved dance to Jennifer Lopez. Monty explains after with panting breaths that they’re trying to raise money for a new ambulance.
“And you’re doing that through … dance?” Kirstyn would be delighted.
Monty winks at me, forehead dewy with sweat. “Gotta give the people what they want.”