Murder by Page One by Olivia Matthews (read aloud txt) 📗

He sighed again. “Marvey, we don’t have enough time to plan a dinner party for tomorrow evening.”

I thought fast. “If you do this for us, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How?” He sounded dubious.

I closed my eyes and reminded myself that my sacrifice was for the greater good. “I’ll be your partner for the Cobbler Crawl.”

Another pause. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“Your usual, Marvey?” The greeting came from Anna May Weekley, the owner and operator of On A Roll. The neighborhood café and bakery served as the unofficial Peach Coast community hub. Time seemed to slow here.

“Yes, please, Anna May.” I returned her smile as the scents of warm rolls, sweet pastries, and hot coffee led me across the brown-and-gold tiled flooring to her counter. Along the way, I stopped to exchange greetings with the other regulars, which was pretty much everyone in the crowded café. Most of the circular tables were occupied.

I’d known as soon as I’d seen the little gathering spot that it would be the best place to get to know the residents—and to let them get to know me. Making the café part of my morning routine on my way to work had sped up my acclimation to the town. It also was a great place to help raise the Peach Coast Library’s profile in the community. I hoisted my American Library Association tote bag a little higher on my shoulder. Its tan canvas material prominently featured the slogan Read, Renew, Return.

When I arrived at the cash register, I handed Anna May the exact amount for my order. “And some of your delicious peach cobbler to go.”

Anna May’s T-shirt this Monday morning read Coffee: The Right Answer to Any Question. Her cherubic peaches-and-cream features glowed and her periwinkle eyes twinkled with what I considered the Anna May Weekley Seal of Approval.

Experience had taught me not to reject Anna May’s cobbler. The first time I’d strode into the café to order what had become my usual—a small café mocha with fat-free milk and extra espresso—the café owner had tried to press the dessert onto me. I’d declined. In my defense, I’d still been full from breakfast. Suddenly, the air had filled with the smell of condemnation, overpowering the little shop’s other far more pleasing aromas. I’d quickly learned my lesson. Now every weekday morning on my way to the library, I stopped in for my doctored mocha and the pastry. I gave the pastry to Floyd Petty, the reference librarian. The gesture had earned me the status of Floyd’s Favorite Coworker. I also suspected it had delayed the lovable curmudgeon’s retirement.

I exchanged greetings with a few familiar customers as they left the shop and nodded to others as they joined the line behind me.

“So, Marvey.” Anna May spoke over the music of the coffee bean grinder. It had taken her three weeks to stop giving me the side-eye for requesting fat-free milk. “News is you found Fiona Lyle-Hayes’s body. May her soul rest in peace.”

Silence covered the little café like a pie crust. I sensed the other patrons holding their breath in anticipation of my response. Those customers who also were on their way to work appeared to linger for my reply.

It felt like performing in front of a live studio audience. I pretended to ignore them. “Spence Holt and I were with Jo Gomez when she found Ms. Lyle-Hayes’s body.”

Anna May shook her head as she stirred the hot cocoa syrup. Overhead lights played on the reddish-blond curls escaping the white cap that covered her hair. “It’s a terrible business, something like that. Murders just don’t happen in Peach Coast, although being from New York, you must be used to it.”

My eyebrows knitted at the misperceptions in Anna May’s statement, starting with murders not happening in Peach Coast. Fiona Lyle-Hayes’s spirit would disagree. “I’ve never seen a homicide before.”

“Really?” Her question was thick with skepticism.

An overexcited male voice carried from one of the tables behind me. “The story in the Crier said Fiona had been stabbed. Wonder whose buttons she pushed this time?”

I turned in the direction of Dabney McCoy’s voice. I estimated the tall, slender retiree to be in his late seventies. His companion, Etta Child, appeared close to his age. She also looked queasy as she set down a forkful of her peach cobbler.

Sending the grandmotherly woman an apologetic look, I responded to Dabney. “Who do you think could’ve killed her?”

Anna May added the espresso to the hot cocoa syrup, then poured the milk. “Not many people got along with Fiona. God rest her soul.”

I remembered Zelda’s disposition had cooled when Jo had mentioned Fiona on Saturday. Had that been a common reaction around Peach Coast to the now-deceased woman? If so, my list of alternative suspects for the deputies was going to be really long.

Dabney barked a sarcastic laugh. The creases fanning from his blue eyes and bracketing his thin lips deepened. “Stop tap dancing. People couldn’t stand the woman.”

Etta gasped and bowed her head as though in prayer. Her lips moved quickly and silently before she raised her chin and pierced Dabney with a glare. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” Her dark blue gaze scanned the café as though she expected Fiona’s spirit to manifest and dump Dabney’s hot coffee over his bald pate.

He snorted. “What’s the difference? People spoke ill of her while she was alive.” He picked up his spoon and jabbed it in the air above their table. “Obviously, the killer didn’t think much of her, either.”

Etta lowered her spoon and shoved her peach cobbler aside.

Dabney’s sharp gaze bounced between Etta, her dessert, and back. “You goin’ to eat that?”

Etta’s narrowed gaze promised retribution. “No. It’s all yours.”

It wasn’t the first time in my memory that Etta had given up her dessert to Dabney. Sometimes it was hard to remember the couple wasn’t married.

I accepted my mocha from Anna May, lowering my voice to keep the conversation limited to our small group.