Arsenic with Austen (10 page)

No, the past could never be rewritten. Whatever the future might hold, they would have to build it from the ground up. And this time they had better not build on sand.

*   *   *

Emily fortified herself with another of Agnes's admirable breakfasts and changed into her “business” clothes, reflecting that she was quickly running out of things to wear. She asked Agnes about doing some laundry, but Agnes replied, “I regret to say, madam, that the washing machine is broken. I hope to have it repaired tomorrow morning.”

Emily was on her way to her car when a man came around the corner of the house, a hoe over his shoulder, whistling. His girth so nearly equaled his modest height that he rolled more than walked, his feet serving merely as rudders. A thin fuzz of white hair sprang up above the smooth, round, ruddy face of a Dickensian philanthropist, but his garb—a clean and smartly pressed blue jumpsuit—somewhat spoiled the impression.

His roll and his whistle came to an abrupt halt when he saw her. He swept off a nonexistent cap and bowed to her. “Billy Beech, at your service, ma'am. Gardener, handyman, and general factotum. As employed by your late aunt, God rest her soul, and I presume to hope by your kind self as well.”

He even spoke like something out of Dickens.

“Emily Cavanaugh.” She shook his proffered hand. “Beech. Are you related to Agnes?” Had any other two people been concerned, she might have asked if they were married; but it was impossible to imagine the dour Agnes married to this smiling beach ball.

“My late lamented brother was Agnes's husband, and a better husband never walked the earth, though I say it. I do my best to look after her, as Bobby would have wished, but I'm sorry to say my efforts are not always accepted in the spirit in which they're meant. She's an independent old girl, is Agnes.” He chuckled, setting his several chins and massive belly aquiver.

“I haven't seen you before. I take it you don't work here every day?”

“Three days a week, ma'am: Monday, Wednesday, Friday as a rule, though I did take Monday off out of respect for the dead. You may have glimpsed me among the mourners, ma'am, but I wouldn't presume to introduce myself at that most distressing time.”

The vision of Billy in full Victorian mourning gear, complete with top hat draped in black crepe, nearly set Emily aquiver herself, but she controlled herself with an effort. “Well, Billy, everything seems to be in good order here as far as I can see, so I guess you may as well carry on as you have been.”

“Thank you kindly, ma'am.” He swept his hand to the ground, folding his spherical girth in half in a way that suggested it was filled with something more compressible than fat and organs—marshmallow, perhaps, or memory foam. “I shall endeavor to give satisfaction.” He straightened, and the marshmallow foam instantly regained its spherical shape. He rolled off, whistling, toward the flower beds that lined the drive, and Emily proceeded to her car.

 

eleven

Every morning now brought its regular duties;—shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at.

—
Northanger Abbey

Emily decided to start at the north end of what passed for downtown and work south, visiting every business along the way. The northernmost shop was called Cash and Carry. Its window displayed brightly colored beach towels, lewdly leering crab statuettes, and T-shirts with witty sayings like
MY MOM & DAD WENT TO STONY BEACH AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID SHIRT.

Emily wrinkled her nose and went in. The door had barely closed behind her when a booming bass voice greeted her. “Hey there, little lady! Welcome to Cash and Carry! I'm Joey Cash, and if you can carry it, we sell it.”

A tall sixty-something man stepped out from behind the counter, dressed entirely in black. Black Stetson, black Western shirt with a black bolo tie, black jeans, black cowboy boots. The tie clasp and the outsize belt buckle were silver, molded in the same intricate design—a florid
JC
.

“Ask me if I'm any relation to the great Johnny Cash, and I'll tell you if I'm not, I oughta be. I'd be his reincarnation except he died after I was born.” When Joey shut up for a second, Emily could hear “Folsom Prison” playing in the background.

“Emily Cavanaugh.” When he didn't respond she added, “Your new landlady.”

That took a second to sink in. Then he grabbed her hand in both of his. “Glad to know ya, glad to know ya! Great to see some new blood around the place. Gotta get this dinosaur out of the mud, eh, little lady?”

Joey was beginning to sound suspiciously like Mayor Trimble. “So I take it you're in favor of development?”

“Absolutely. Onward and upward! No point in standin' still, eh? Keep movin' forward!”

Joey and the mayor had clearly attended the same night classes in “How to Speak Cliché.” She wondered whether either of them was capable of dealing in simple facts. “What benefit do you expect for the town from further development?”

He grinned, showing uneven tobacco-stained teeth. “Money, little lady. That's what makes the world go 'round, ain't it? Lots more money.”

“For whom, exactly?”

That took him aback. “Why, for the town. The business owners. You and me.” He gave her a repellent wink. “For people who know a good thing when they see it.”

“I see. So you don't actually expect the town as a whole to benefit? The people who work for you, for example. Will you pay them more? Give them more hours, better benefits? Hire more workers?”

His grin faltered and his eyes narrowed. “Whatchou gettin' at? You some kinda socialist? You believe in this ‘of the people by the people' bull?”

“Mr. Cash, you are quoting President Abraham Lincoln. He, like our founding fathers, wanted this country to have a government of the people, by the people, and for the people.”

“Government, okay. But those guys weren't talkin' 'bout money. They had more sense. Money is of, by, and for the people who know how to get it. And how to keep hold of it. To him who has, more shall be given. Jesus said that.” He shoved a horny finger in her face.

Emily drew herself up. “He also said, ‘Give, and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For with the same measure you use, it will be measured back to you.' How much do you give to this town, Mr. Cash?”

She left him gaping as she turned and walked out of the store.

*   *   *

Next door to the Cash emporium was a bookshop called, with refreshing directness, Stony Beach Books. Emily pushed open the door and paused to take a deep breath of thoughtful, well-educated air.

From somewhere far up in that air, a pleasant male voice floated down to her. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Just looking around,” Emily said, suiting the action to the word in search of the voice's source. At last she spotted a ladder in the far corner with a pair of chino-clad legs perched several rungs up. “Actually, I was hoping for a book on local history.”

“Sure, I can help you with that.” The legs descended, revealing a tall slender male figure and a young mocha-colored face of remarkable ascetic beauty. The man could have posed for an angel in an Ethiopian icon. With a diffident smile, he led Emily to a table near the front of the store. “Not much in the way of comprehensive history, but we've got lots of specialized stuff—lighthouses, pirates, legends, marine life, whatever floats your boat. Of course, if you're not interested in anything nautical, you may be out of luck.”

Emily flipped through several of the volumes and chose one on local legends as covering the most ground. Then she wandered through the store, noting an eclectic mixture of subject matter in books old and new. A couple of racks up front contained a selection of “beach reads,” but apart from that, most of the books seemed more appropriate to a university town than a tiny tourist community.

She took her selection to the counter and introduced herself.

“Ben Johnson,” the young man replied. “So you're my new landlady? I hope you're not planning to sell to some out-of-towner. I'm afraid my store might not look like a big profit-maker to a developer.”

“No, at this point I'm not thinking of selling. Though I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised you can keep going with a shop like this in this location. Do people really buy books on German philosophy and Russian music in a place like this?”

He dipped his head. “To tell you the truth, I sell more online than I do in walk-ins. I tend to buy what I like more than what I think will sell. Except for the front racks, of course.” He punched the book's price into a manual cash register. “But you'd be surprised what locals do sometimes buy. Like the other day, Mayor Trimble bought a big illustrated book on the Borgias along with a volume of Machiavelli. I'd never have pegged him for a history buff.”

“Nor would I.” Why would a small-town mayor want to read about the most famous family of poisoners in history? What else could he want it for but professional advice?

Ben's eyes took on a wistful look. “You've got a great library up there at Windy Corner. I don't suppose you'd be interested in selling any of it?”

“I doubt it. That library is the most precious part of my whole inheritance to me. But if I do run across anything I know I'll never read, I promise you'll be the first to know.”

A smile lit up his face. “Thanks. You just made my day.” He put a bookmark in her book and slid it into a paper bag. “So, how are you liking Stony Beach?”

“I think I'm going to love it. I've only been here a few days, but I've met a lot of interesting people.”

“Have you met Beanie yet? In the yarn shop?”

“I was in there yesterday. She's a hoot.”

Ben sighed, looking wistful again. Emily didn't probe, but filed the information away for future reference: Ben was pining after Beanie. Perhaps he was too conservative for her taste—or maybe just too shy to make a move.

Emily paid for her book and said a reluctant farewell.

“Thanks for coming in,” Ben said. “And thanks for not asking me if I play basketball.”

Emily grimaced. “You get that a lot, huh?”

“All the time. I haven't shot a hoop since high school PE, but in most people's minds, tall black man equals basketball player. Even if he's running a bookshop.”

Emily's next stop was the Friendly Fluke coffee shop—a welcome respite for her parched throat and sore feet. With some trepidation she ordered a cappuccino and biscotti, unsure whether Stony Beach could produce a proper espresso drink. But the waitress came back with a steaming mug on top of which a whale's fluke design floated in a layer of fine foam—worthy of her favorite coffee place in Portland.

Emily introduced herself again, glad of an opportunity to talk to an employee rather than a business owner. The waitress's name tag read
JESSICA
, and she looked about eighteen.

“How's the job market in Stony Beach?” Emily asked. The café was empty of other customers, so with a gesture she invited Jessica to sit down.

“Not bad, at least in the summer. Winters, I haven't even tried. I'll be going off to Oregon State in the fall.”

“What about your parents? What do they do?”

“My dad's a fisherman. Mom's a teacher in Tillamook. Summers she works in the kitchen here.” Jessica indicated the back room with her chin.

“Do a lot of people work in Tillamook, then?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Stony Beach kind of closes down in the winter.”

Emily sipped her cappuccino. Its taste lived up to the promise of its presentation. “Have you heard about the whole development thing?”

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Who hasn't?”

“What do you think? Would it make life better for the people here?”

She shrugged. “I don't see how. There'd be more summer jobs, I guess, but it wouldn't change anything the rest of the year. We already have all the fishermen the place can support, and there's nothing else here but the tourist industry. Probably get a bunch of students coming in to work summers, taking jobs away from people who live here. I don't see the point.”

Emily nodded. Jessica had just confirmed her own thoughts on the matter. “Thank you, Jessica. That's very helpful.”

“Sure thing.” The girl went back to her station.

Emily savored her cappuccino and biscotti, then went to the counter to pay. “Boss says it's on the house,” Jessica told her. “Seeing you're our new landlady and all.”

“That's very kind.” Emily had already taken a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, so she dropped it into a stoneware jar labeled
JESSICA'S COLLEGE FUND
. “But next time I insist on paying full price.”

*   *   *

The next block was dominated by an antique shop called Lacey Luxuries. Like the bookshop, this one would have drawn Emily even if she hadn't been on a fact-finding mission. The window held an enticing array of vintage linens and china set out on dainty tables as if ready for ladies in sweeping skirts and wide-brimmed, flower-decked hats to sit down for tea.

Inside, the shop was set up as a series of miniature open-fronted rooms, each created around a different color, period, or theme. Emily wandered blissfully from room to room, fingering filmy laces and peering into delicate boxes of inlaid wood. There was nothing in the shop she needed but a thousand things she would love to own.

She paused in front of a large watercolor painting of a Victorian mansion. The colors and surrounding vegetation were different, but she could swear the house was Windy Corner. She peered at the signature. The artist's name was unreadable, but the date was 1912. That would have been shortly after the house was built.

This was a piece of history she couldn't pass up. This painting needed to hang in its rightful home.