fuonlyknew

CHAPTER 1

My 1965, robin’s egg blue convertible backfired as I parked in front of the Wildflower Inn. The noise set off Clover barking in the backseat. Not exactly the quiet homecoming I’d hoped for. I jumped out of my Karmann-Ghia – or “KG” as I’d nicknamed her – to check under the hood, hoping I wouldn’t need to get the roadster serviced yet again. No idea where that money would come from. A screaming, ranting madwoman poured out of a neighboring house. Maybe in her late seventies, she brandished a large umbrella. I dropped the hood to find the umbrella pointing at me. Clover – all twenty pounds of him – jumped out and started growling. “Easy, boy,” I said. “You shoot something off, Missy? Here to cause trouble? Because I’m on the board of the Friends of the Rose Mallow Police.” the woman said. She wore a perfectly fitted Mamie Eisenhower pink skirt suit with enormous pearls – straight out of the 1950s. Her white bouffant billowed around her head. She reminded me of a researcher I’d helped earlier that day at the Library of Congress. That woman had been a murder mystery author looking for books about early detectives. This woman looked like she wanted to murder someone – namely me. Suddenly I remembered her: Cordelia Sullivan. She was my late grandmother’s arch-nemesis. After my Nana Z had moved to Rose Mallow, they’d competed to be the president of almost every board in town. Nana Z had called it a “friendly rivalry to garner the most civic goodwill,” but I don’t think Cordelia saw it that way. To her, the Blume family were – and always would be – outsiders in her perfect Chesapeake Bay town. “What’s going on?” My sister Azalea appeared on the wraparound porch of the Wildflower Inn. Although I was two years younger at twenty-eight, she looked like my twin, except that her hair was much longer and darker than my slanted bob. She pushed her bangs back and brought a hand up to her forehead when she saw me. “Juniper? What on earth are you doing here?” “Well, I…” My words faltered. I’d spent the past hour driving and trying to figure out how to tell Azalea about why I’d finally returned, but every time I tested the words out loud, they failed. Clover had listened with confused curiosity before giving up and falling asleep. “You know there’s a noise ordinance,” Cordelia said as she waved her umbrella around. Clover barked at the offending instrument. However, I think he wanted to play with it more than anything else. Occasional growling aside, he’s not exactly attack dog material. “Yes, Mrs. Sullivan. Not until 10 p.m., and it’s not even 8 o’clock yet.” Azalea’s exasperated voice led me to suspect that she’d had this conversation more than once. “Hmph. I plan on taking your ‘halfway house’ to the zoning board. What a travesty to do to our pristine historic district. You know I’m president of the Rose Mallow Historical Society.” Cordelia wagged a finger at my sister. I closed my eyes before rolling them. “Mama! Mama!” A young bundle of legs and a mop of nearly black hair appeared next to Azalea on the wraparound porch. I couldn’t believe how big Violet had grown. She was almost four years old now. She latched onto Azalea’s legs and held on tightly. I wanted to run up to my niece and smother her in hugs and kisses, but I wasn’t sure how I’d be received. Clover apparently did too because he took off after her. The little girl squealed with laughter as he covered her in licks. “Go inside, Vi. It’s past your bedtime,” Azalea said. She turned to us. “I don’t have time for this. As you can see, I have a young child requiring my attention. Plus, I have a house full of guests. Mrs. Sullivan, it sounds like you have a plan in place to handle my zoning and noise issues. I’ll leave you to it. And Juniper, if you’re here, then let’s get you inside.” Violet ran inside, letting Clover follow. I took that as a positive sign, so I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk and followed quickly, as Cordelia monitored us. Her umbrella remained held out in the air. She reminded me of Don Quixote in pearls. “You’ve done an incredible job restoring the place,” I said as I walked across the perfectly manicured lawn. Azalea had recently converted Nana Z’s Queen Anne style mansion into a boutique hotel. After so many years away, I hadn’t been sure what to expect. She eyed me with uncertainty. I could tell she was debating whether to chew me out for not being here for any of the work, let alone the hotel’s grand opening earlier in the spring. But my sister is much better at maturity than I am. “It’s been a journey. Not an undertaking for the faint of heart. Repairing that turret alone had me almost give up and put up the for sale sign.” Azalea pointed up to the three-story round tower protruding from the side of the house. As a kid, I used to pretend Nana Z’s home was a castle and fought many dragons racing up that tower. “You wouldn’t.” “I said ‘Almost,’” she replied with a laugh. “I love how bright the yellow siding is. I bet that color really pops in the morning against the Chesapeake Bay.” I walked up the stairs to the wraparound, past garden beds bursting with purple coneflowers and Black-Eyed Susans, Maryland’s state flower. “You know what’s funny is how much I hated canary yellow when we were little. Every time we came here, I’d always wished Nana Z’s house was more like Cordelia Sullivan’s with her dark greens and rich reds. But now that Nana Z’s gone, I couldn’t stand to change it,” Azalea said. “But it’s such a cheery color. Why would you want something so drab as Cordelia’s place? ” I asked. As a kid, Cordelia’s house had been as scary as the owner. Losing a ball into her yard meant it was never coming back. Neighborhood kids claimed her house was haunted. Azalea shrugged. “Yeah, the yellow’s growing on me.” “You kept this mess?” I said when I spotted the clunky clay mezuzah on the doorpost. I’d made the case at Jewish day camp as a kid. Inside was a tiny parchment scroll inscribed with biblical verses in Hebrew. The painted clay design was supposed to be a bunch of zinnias in honor of Nana Z’s first name, but it looked more like a lumpy mud puddle than a bright firework of flowers. Azalea shrugged with a smile. “Oh, there are a few of my own masterpieces on some of the other doors inside. Maybe I’ll get Violet to make some new ones.” The inside was as exquisite as the outside. I don’t think my memories did the place justice. The stained glass above the front door also sported Black-Eyed Susans, while those above each window featured a different native wildflower. Azalea had kept our grandmother’s lush red carpets with ornate gold and white floral patterns. Polished mahogany inset panels gleamed from the walls. A staircase with beautifully carved spindles fed into the large lobby. On the left was a parlor that Azalea had turned into the registration space. On the right was the library, overflowing with leather-bound books. It was in this room I had discovered my love for stories and books as a child. I wouldn’t have become a rare books librarian at The Library of Congress without Nana Z’s library. I sighed, wishing things were going better there. Nana Z would have been proud of me, but my job had become so difficult since I lost that promotion to Greyson. A little birdie had told me not to expect another chance for a long time, which meant I was stuck with someone Nana Z would have described as a “shlemiel.” A narrow hallway disappeared between the registration area and the staircase, which led back to the dining room and kitchen. I remembered how those overlooked the back garden, public boardwalk, and the Chesapeake Bay. I could imagine how ornately she’d decorated the upstairs bedrooms. Clover sniffed at everything in sight. I monitored him, but he was having a grand time exploring. Just not too grand of a time. I tried sending the message to him telepathically. He lifted his nose at me, as if to say, “Who, me?” “I love that you hung some of Nana Z’s watercolors,” I said. My eyes grew misty as I gazed at her paintings of native flowers, including dwarf crested irises, ironweed, columbine, and, of course, the rose mallow for which the Maryland town was named. I shook my head, pushing the grief down deep. A teenager hunched over a thick book sat at the registration desk. She had long, bluish-green locs that looked beautiful against her sepia brown skin. Her large glasses were rimmed in a matching turquoise color. She looked up from the book and said, “Sorry, Azalea. Vi got away from me.” The teen didn’t seem alarmed, but then again, neither did Azalea. I wondered if this happened frequently. Maybe Vi was a regular escape artist. Nana Z would have been pleased. I held back my smile. “I’m Juniper, Azalea’s sister,” I said to the teen as I extended my hand. “You have a sister?” she asked Azalea with a look of surprise. Then she recovered, shook my hand, and said, “I’m Keisha Douglass. I’ve been helping Azalea with the Wildflower Inn. But, uh, we’re all booked up tonight.” “I’ll figure it out,” said Azalea. “Although giving me some sort of a heads up you were finally coming would’ve been nice, Juniper.” I didn’t know what to say, so I smiled awkwardly. Clover raced over to the desk to check out Keisha. The desk was higher than him, so he couldn’t quite see atop. Fortunately, she came around to pet him. “Oh wow! A dog? We’re allowing dogs now?” I turned to check with Azalea, who massaged her temples. She breathed deeply but then simply shrugged. Great. Not only had I shown up out of the blue, but I hadn’t checked to make sure pets were allowed. I was pretty sure I knew the root cause of her sudden headache. I smiled sheepishly. “No worries, Keisha. Clover’s the exception to the no dogs rule. Vi’s fine. I’m going to put her to bed,” Azalea said, as she ushered the bouncing kid down the narrow hallway and turned abruptly right before the kitchen. Unsure of what to do, I followed. There was a small sitting room there, which she had reconfigured into a bedroom. It was a tight space. Azalea caught me staring. “It’s a temporary solution. I’m still working on updating the Carriage House in the back garden. Once I’m finished, Vi and I will move there.” Vi ran around the room, fighting Azalea’s attempts to return her to bed. My sister paused mid-chase and said, “This may take a bit. You know where the kitchen is. Why don’t you go there, start a kettle of tea, and I’ll meet you there when we’re done? I was getting ready to pull a kugel out of the oven anyway.” That was my sister, always gently commanding, whether it was an unruly neighbor, an energetic preschooler, or me, the surprise guest. I thought of her like a duck. Above the water, she appeared to be smoothly sailing along, but below, it was a mad fury of management to keep everything afloat. “A kugel?” I asked with excitement. Nana Z had made plenty of the baked noodle casseroles each summer. Sometimes they were savory, but more often, they were sweet, made with lokshen, or egg noodles, and various cheeses. Azalea looked pleased. “I’ve been trying to perfect her recipe. You’ll have to tell me what you think.” I knew immediately she meant Nana Z. As we headed down the hallway, I caught the aroma of the decadent noodle pudding. I could already detect the cinnamon she’d used. My eyes watered slightly at the memories the smell produced. The kitchen was both familiar and new. No longer was it the 1890s meets 1970s chic that Nana Z had employed. Azalea had replaced most of the yellowed appliances with updated stainless-steel, upgraded the laminate countertops to granite, and removed the harvest gold wallpaper to paint the in vogue “greige” along with a matching subway tile backsplash. Someone had been watching a lot of HGTV. But it was still Nana Z’s kettle on the stovetop, her handcrafted cookie jar on the counter, and a variety of favorite teas in the same cabinet location. Being here felt like being at home, but only if that home had been completely renovated when you weren’t looking. The view out back remained the same, looking past a blooming garden of blue hydrangeas and the small Carriage House, to the public boardwalk separating the garden from the Chesapeake Bay. On good days, you could make out the shoreline on the Eastern Shore. Being early June, the sun was beginning to set beyond the Bay’s edge, so the view became a Tonalist painting with its atmospheric blues, grays, and browns. Clover found an embroidered tea towel to play with. I tried pulling it away from him, but he decided that meant the game was afoot. I dug into my suitcase and found his food. I borrowed a couple of low rimmed bowls to fill with his dinner and water. He quickly abandoned the towel for something to eat. According to the timer, the kugel still had a few minutes left in the oven. I caught the kettle before it whistled and filled up two mugs. Given the abundance of Darjeeling black tea, I assumed it was still Azalea’s favorite and prepped it for both of us. Within a few minutes, she came in, plopped down on an empty seat, and dropped her head to the table. I sat up in alarm, afraid that my cool as nails sister might be about to cry. *** Excerpt from Crime and Parchment by Daphne Silver. Copyright 2023 by Daphne Silver. Reproduced with permission from Daphne Silver. All rights reserved.

One

Dying is overrated. Murder, on the other hand, is not. Trust me, after fifteen years as a detective, I know a lot about both. Like death and murder are always complicated, but not always related. You can have death without murder, but not the other way around. That’s what I used to think anyway. I changed my mind after an episode of my recurring nightmare. I’d been having it for years and it always turned out the same. While chasing a bad guy in the dark, he turned and shot me. I was about to die when something always pulled me from the nightmare. This time, it was Hercule’s hot breath. My four-year-old black Lab was standing beside my bed alternating between low growls and a tongue-lashing. Both demanded my attention. When my eyes first opened, he lapped at my face and nudged me with his big, wet nose. I forced my eyes open wider and at the same time realized that Angel was not snuggled beside me in bed. She was standing across the room and listening at our bedroom door. “Angel, did you hear something again?” She always heard things late at night and always felt compelled to share them with me. “Are you sure?” “Yes, Tuck. Herc can hear it, too. Wake up, will you? What kind of detective are you?” “The asleep-kind.” “Just get up. Please?” Hercule froze, nose down, staring at me as we both heard creaking floorboards in the downstairs hall. I rolled sideways and sat on the side of the bed. Hercule crept away and crouched near the door. For the third time, something interrupted Angel’s sleep. The first two times were just our old house’s creaks and groans, and both failed to wake Hercule out of a stone-cold sleep. Now, after summoning me, he was poised for homeland defense. I got to my feet and gathered my clothes littered in a strategic path across the room. I nearly toppled over slipping on my jeans and a black tee shirt and did manage to trip over my running shoes. Angel motioned for Herc to return to the bed. To me she whispered, “Hurry up.” “Look, if I’m going to get killed tonight, I don’t want to be naked.” I grabbed my 40-caliber Glock from the nightstand and checked the chamber. Then, I retrieved a .38 revolver from our walk-in closet and handed it to Angel. “Just in case.” “Okay. Be careful.” “Keep Herc close, babe. If it’s your imagination, stay awake and lose those pjs. If it’s trouble, give me fifteen minutes—then lose them.” Even in the dark, I could see her eyes roll. “Just be careful.” At the door, I listened but heard nothing. I winked at Angel and Hercule on the bed and whispered, “I love you—you too, Angel.” Hercule wagged his tail. In the hallway, I waited for my eyes to adjust a little more to the darkness. I shifted them to use my peripheral vision, looking for any telltale movement. Still nothing. From the top of the stairs, I could just make out the foyer below and did not see or hear anything. There were no wispy shadows, no running feet, and no creaking floorboards. Yawning, I eased down the stairs with my Glock out in front of me. At the bottom landing, I stopped. Darkness and the grandfather clock greeted me—it chimed two. The downstairs was quiet and I checked the front door. It was still locked and there were no signs of splintered wood, broken glass, or other forced entry. The only sound I heard was my own breathing. The only curious sighting was the half-dressed, frumpy guy in the hall mirror who looked tired and irritated. Maybe Angel would be losing those pjs sooner rather than later. I started with the kitchen and worked my way around the first floor, searching room by room—all five of them—ending in my den. Nothing. The most dangerous thing I found was Hercule’s squeaky frog that scared the crap out of me when I stepped on it. I felt foolish and decided to head back to bed. It hit me when I reached to turn off my desk lamp. The light shouldn’t have been on. I looked around. My briefcase wasn’t in its ritual place on my credenza. It was on my chair and the contents strewn over my desk. Everything was dumped out—my gold detective’s badge and I.D., several files, a notepad, tape recorder, and my .380 backup piece. No, the Walther wasn’t there—the holster was empty. “Angel …” I bolted to the stairs and looked up. Floorboards groaned above me. A door opened in the darkness beyond the landing. Movement—a shadow. Somewhere above, Angel called, “Tuck.” There was a flash at the top of the stairs … a shot. I lunged for the third stair. A figure stepped out of the darkness twelve feet above me. Another flash. “Angel!” *** Excerpt from DYING TO KNOW by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2014/2024 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.