“No,” she says finally. “We just had different ideas about where the relationship was going.” She glances at her watch and stands abruptly. “Look, I’m sorry, but I should get back to work. My break is almost over.”
“Of course,” I say, rising from my chair as well. “Thank you for taking the time to talk.”
“No problem,” she says, but she doesn’t bother to smile. “Feel free to browse as long as you like. We just got some new mystery novels that I think you might enjoy.”
Buffy walks away, and I can’t help but shake the feeling that I’ve just had a conversation with two people—the polite, slightly shy bookseller who serves pumpkin spice lattes and someone with secrets dark enough to kill for.
Mom approaches with Ella, who has apparently decided that my arms are the only acceptable location for her immediate future. It’s a decision I can relate to since Jasper’s arms are usually my preferred location during stressful situations, too.
“Thank you,” I say as I scoop up my daughter, and Mom leans in close.
“Learn anything?” she whispers.
“More than Buffy intended, I think,” I reply just as quietly. “Where are the four-footed among us?”
“Outside with Georgie,” Mom says. “After the Great Book Avalanche, I thought it best to remove the chaos generators from the equation. I bribed the pets to keep an eye on her.”
“Good move.” I nod, bouncing Ella gently as she begins to fuss. “Let’s join them. I need some fresh air to process what I just heard.”
We make our way toward the exit, and I glance back at Buffy who happens to be helping another customer find a book. She looks up and catches my eye, something unreadable passing across her face.
Mom follows my gaze and nods at the woman.She knows more than she’s saying,she thinks to herself.That girl hascomplicated backstorywritten all over her.
For once, I couldn’t agree more. And if my instincts are right, Buffy Butterwick might just be the key to unraveling the mystery of Heath Cullen’s murder, assuming I can figure out which parts of her story are fact and which are carefully crafted fiction.
After all, we are in a bookstore. And everyone here seems to be an expert at making up stories.
CHAPTER 12
After the book apocalypse at Sea Beans and Books, I went back to the inn, and surprisingly, Ella and I finished out a full day—which even included a quick bite with Emmie and baby Elliot.
But right about now, Ella seems as if she’s had enough of the inn, of the Halloween festival raging outside our doors, and quite possibly me.
I push open the cottage door while juggling a fussy baby, a diaper bag that weighs more than most checked luggage, and three pets who insist on entering at exactly the same moment.
Fish weaves gracefully between my ankles while Sherlock and Fudge perform their traditional doorway tango, each convinced they should be first through the threshold.
“Teamwork, people,” I mutter as we spill into the living room like a circus act gone wrong. “Or pets. Whatever.”
Jasper looks up from where he’s sorting case files on one of our yellow and white plaid sofas, his work suit jacket tossed over the other. The fuzzy rug beneath the coffee table shows signs of his restless pacing. Jasper can never sit still when deep in detective mode. And thanks to me and my quasi-lethal inn, that seems to be all the time.
“There you are,” he says, quickly setting aside his papers and coming to my rescue. “I was about to hunt you down at the festival.”
“The festival was a bust for this little lady,” I say, transferring a squirming, whimpering Ella into his waiting arms. “She’s been cranky since we left the bookshop. I think she’s hit her socialization limit for the day, and so have I.”
Jasper gives a mournful laugh. “Join the club, sweetheart.” He lands a kiss on both of our cheeks.
Ella, as if to confirm my diagnosis, lets out a wail that could probably be heard all the way back at the inn.
“And there she blows.” Jasper winces but holds her close, instinctively beginning the bounce-and-sway motion that sometimes—emphasis onsometimes—calms her down.
“I think we need the full reset protocol,” I suggest, dropping the diaper bag and rolling my shoulders in hopes of restoring circulation. “Bath, fresh clothes, feeding—the works—and that’s just me. But first comes our little angel.”
What follows is what I’ve come to think of as Baby Crisis Management Protocol—a carefully choreographed dance of bath preparation, tiny limb wrangling, and the delicate art of keeping a slippery infant from doing an impression of a greased watermelon. Jasper manages the towel handoff with the precision of a surgical nurse, and within fifteen minutes, we have one squeaky-clean, lavender-scented baby wrapped in a fluffy towel.
The crying, however, continues unabated.
“Maybe Mr. Snuggles?” Jasper suggests, retrieving the small teddy bear from Ella’s crib. “She seemed to like him yesterday.”
