fuonlyknew

Chapter One

Sally Witherspoon dropped onto the sofa in her office with a sigh, the cracked brown leather groaning as she settled herself, and ran her hand through her graying chestnut ponytail. What a night. The fights in the bar on Saturday nights were getting worse. Sally loved her bar, Sally’s Smasher, and her adopted town of Berry Springs, but the violence was getting to her. She had come to live in the small town fifteen years ago. An old college friend, Bill Arnold, was from there, and he had always urged her to come for a visit. With a population of two thousand, one hotel, two bars, two diners, and a few arts-and-crafts shops, it was very different from her high-powered life in finance in Atlanta, but now it was definitely home. A home that didn’t include her husband, mind you. They had divorced soon after the trip to Berry Springs. Putting her life’s savings into buying an old run-down bakery—with a lot of financial help from Bill—and turning it into Sally’s Smasher had been quite a gamble, but life here was different. The thought of living in the beautiful Ozark mountains in Arkansas and still sitting in an office like back in Georgia hadn’t been an option for her, and the bar seemed like the perfect alternative. Running it meant she had more time to explore and hike the local area. Yes, the nights were long, but the town had come to love Sally and her biker bar, and she’d made many friends. With only two bartenders, Jay and Magda, to help, it took a lot to run the place. Most Saturday shifts were hard slogs, but that night had been an especially long evening, as she had to deal with three bar fights, each uglier than the last. First, her business partner, Bill Arnold, had gotten into a heated argument with his biker club, The Mountaineers, over who would get to ride Bill’s vintage Vincent Rapide next. As it was on display at the bar in a large metal cage, it was often a topic of contention. Bill was always worried it would be stolen, it was worth a lot, or worse, one of his buddies would ruin the perfectly restored and polished leather seat and shining metal. Then Bethany Wells, the school assistant, had accidentally stumbled into Mayor Jennifer Milkowski on her way to the bathroom. Bethany did love her wine, and there had been a bit of a misunderstanding. Bethany got easily annoyed when she had had too much to drink. Jennifer was not the easiest to get along with, for sure, but she was always watching her image, and being involved in a bar fight would certainly not fit her mayoral brand, and she quickly defused the situation. The third fight almost resulted in Sally calling the police. Her friend Jeff Bartholomew, a teacher at Clinton High School, was sitting with their local Catholic priest, Father O’Malley, and had become pissed off by the bikers yelling at each other next to their table. Jeff stood up, his fists at the ready. One of The Mountaineers lobbed him in the jaw, and Jeff swung in return. Jeff had had too many beers to be in top form, and his swing missed. As he swiveled around, he fell hard, knocking over a table full of glasses and falling on a metal chair in the process, which his broad six-foot-two frame bent out of shape. If it weren’t for Bill stepping in and throwing Jeff out of the bar at that moment, Sally’s Smasher would have been truly and royally, well, smashed up. Unfortunately, this was not something completely unusual; the rough-and-ready people living in the remote town rising to conflict more than she’d seen in the city, but the fights that night had been more violent than normal. They’d completely torn up one corner of the place. Her insurance would pay for now, she hoped. She didn’t really have the funds to fix it up herself. But reviewing the events of the evening wasn’t going to change matters, nor was it helping Sally relax. She pushed herself up from the couch to finish cleaning up and readying the place for the next night. She’d sent Jay and Magda home at half past twelve, not needing their help in finishing off the last of the jobs. Plus, she didn’t want to overwork them. If they quit, she would be up the proverbial creek without a paddle. Sally went over to her desk to tally up the night’s receipts, making a note of the amount of cash in the drawer and putting all of it in the safe. While the overall accounting at the bar wasn’t as perfect as she wanted it to be—far too much red ink for her finance background’s liking—she always made sure the cash drawer was perfect. She then headed back out into the bar to put the glasses away she had washed before closing for the night. Pushing all the tables and chairs back in their proper places, Sally made one final sweep of the bar before checking all the windows and doors. Casting her eyes over the decorations around the bar always made her smile. The deer antlers above the door came from one of her hunting trips. Bill’s vintage bike was a real pull. And the red wooden paneling had been specially made by the local lumberyard. She was so proud of what she had accomplished, though it wouldn’t have happened without Bill’s help, and his money. As she did every night, she went to each window from left to right, making sure the catches were secure. Then she locked the front door. Back in her office, she grabbed her backpack and shut off the lights. Just before leaving through the back door, she set the alarm. The reassuring red light always calmed her nerves. After four break-ins in one month the previous year, she finally broke down and bought an alarm, a huge expense, but so far, worth it. In the parking lot, she headed to her car, looking forward to falling into bed. She threw her red backpack in the back of her old blue Datsun and started the engine. Damn, I forgot to put out the trash. She turned off the car and reluctantly headed back across the parking lot. Looking up, she frowned. Bill’s fiery-red Harley-Davidson motorcycle was still parked in the back of the building near the trash bins. Bill didn’t have a car, so he couldn’t have taken that. And she had definitely checked everywhere inside to make sure no one was passed out in one of the bathroom stalls. Maybe someone had given him a lift home. Bill was her business partner, but he acted like a very loyal customer most nights, drinking up the Murphy’s stout imported from Ireland for him. She walked over to the motorcycle and was surprised to find the engine warm to the touch. That’s strange, she thought. She glanced around the parking lot and the woods behind for Bill. Though, why would he be waiting outside? At that point, she was too tired to think about the motorcycle any further. Bill was a big boy, and he’d make his own way home, and she went to get the trash bags. She stomped back inside. Annoyed with herself, she had to switch the alarm off. She’d left the damn things by the door but must have walked straight by them. There were three huge bags, so she would have to make two trips. To make it easier for herself, she moved the bags outside before locking up and turning on the alarm again. She then grabbed two of the bags and lugged them across the lot. Why hadn’t she put the trash bins closer to the door? This was one of her many to-dos that never reached the top of the priority list. She should get Jay to do it for her next week. At the dumpster, she opened the lid and threw the bags in without looking, brushing her jeans against some grease on the side. Jeans were pretty much her go-to outfits, or sweatpants at home. Everything else was a waste of money, as it got dirty so easily at the bar. And she didn’t do much beyond hiking, working, sleeping, and eating. She went back and grabbed the third bag from the door, and returned to the dumpster. Her long night would finally be over. As she opened the lid again, she realized the bags she had just thrown in were too close to the top. The dumpster had been emptied the day before, so what was under the bags? If someone else was dumping their rubbish in her bin, she’d be having words. Sally fumbled in her pocket for her cell, switched on the flashlight, and peered inside. Waving the flashlight, the light landed on something that was definitely not trash. She brought her hands to her mouth, dropping the trash bag, and screamed. Staring back at her were the gray, unseeing eyes of Bill Arnold. *** Excerpt from Death in the Ozarks by Erik S. Meyers. Copyright 2023 by Erik S. Meyers. Reproduced with permission from Erik S. Meyers. All rights reserved.

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.