A Killer Ending

up in the shop as a girl—I felt an immediate kinship. She smiled, and I noticed the freckles dotting her nose and the bright optimism in her fresh-scrubbed, young face. She reminded me of my daughters, Audrey and Caroline, and my heart melted a little bit. "I'll start as an intern; once the store opens, we'll figure something out. I live with my parents and I'm only taking classes part-time. I've got both ample time and a scholarship."
"I can't pay you much," I warned her. "I'm not opening for months and I spent almost everything on the building."
"I'm sure we'll come to a suitable arrangement," she'd announced, peering past me at a jumble of books Loretta had left on a table. "I'll start by rescuing those poor books from their current condition," she'd informed me, and walked right into the store—and into my life.
Thank heavens for angels like Bethany.
Now, as I stood outside Seaside Cottage Books the day before the grand opening, the sight of a cheerful Bethany in jeans and a pink flannel shirt lifted my heart.
"How's it going in there?" I asked.
"Everything's ship-shape," she announced. "I've got the Maine section finished up—two local authors dropped their books by today—and I picked up more coffee and creamer, and some hot chocolate for the little ones."
"Terrific," I said, feeling better already. "Give me the receipts, and I'll reimburse you!" I opened the back door of the SUV and picked up Winston's crate, setting it on the ground. "There is one thing, though," Bethany said.
"Oh?"
"A rather insistent woman has stopped by three times today," she informed me as I liberated Winston from his crate.
"Who?" I asked as my fluffy little dog shook himself all over and trotted over to greet Bethany. He'd been my faithful companion since I'd retrieved him from the pound six years ago, covered in mange and painful-looking sores and looking a little like a scabby goat. With lots of TLC and medication, we'd taken care of the mange and sores, along with the worms and other maladies that had kept him curled up on the couch with me the first few months. Now, he was bouncy, curious, and suffering from a bit of a Napoleon complex, particularly (alas) with dogs that were more than ten times his size. He'd doubled in bulk since I adopted him, and was a terrible food scavenger. To my delight, since the first day at the pound when he climbed shaking into my lap, he'd been my biggest fan, my stout defender, and my reliable snuggle partner. Now, once Bethany scratched his head and got a few licks, he shook himself and waddled over to a tree stump to relieve himself.
"The woman who came by today? I've never met her before, and she wouldn't leave a name. But she was practically apoplectic." I smiled; even though "practically apoplectic" didn't sound promising, I did love Bethany's vocabulary. "She told me she absolutely needed to talk to you."
"Well, I'm here now," I said. "She can come find me."
"Right," Bethany said, but a cloud had passed over her bright face.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"She said something about you stealing the store."
"Stealing the store?"
She shrugged. "I don't know what she meant. But I got the impression she's planning to instigate trouble."
"Fabulous," I said. "Well, what's a good story without a few plot twists?" This was part of my new goal, which was to look on the bright side and count my blessings. Some days were easier than others. "Speaking of stories, how's your mystery going?" I asked.
"I've gotten to the dead body," she said, "but now I'm kind of stuck. I put the book to the side until after the grand re-opening, though. I've got K. T. Anderson set up for a reading an hour after it starts, and I even talked the local paper into sending a reporter over tomorrow!"
K. T. Anderson was a Maine-based bestselling mystery author who had set an entire series in a town not far from here; getting her to come to the grand opening was a coup. "You are amazing, Bethany," I said, meaning every word.
"Happy to do it. Come see what I've done!"
Leaving my U-Haul trailer behind and feeling rather brighter, I followed my young assistant into Seaside Cottage Books, Winston trotting along at my heels.
The bright blue walls and white bookshelves were fresh and clean, the neatly stacked books like jewels just waiting to be plucked from the shelves. The window seat in the bay window at the front of the store was lined with my handmade pillows, an inviting nook to tuck into with a book, and the armchairs tucked into the corners here and there gave the whole place the sweet, cozy feel I remembered from when I'd spent summer afternoons in the shop as a girl, when Loretta was still in good health. I walked from room to room, the gleaming wood floors creaking under my feet, and resisted the urge to pinch myself. Where the store, when I first took possession, had been dark and close, the windows covered over with old blankets and the rooms smelling of dust and must, over the past few months, Bethany and I had transformed it into a bright, clean space that smelled of lemon and new books and, above all, possibility.
"I set the table up here in the room with the local books, under the window," Bethany said, leading me to one of the front rooms. "I'm featuring K. T. Anderson's latest, of course. I didn't like it as much as the last one—it's a little heavy on the romance part—but it'll sell well. I ordered lots of stock for her to sign." Sure enough, a table with a light blue tablecloth sat along the wall, two coffee percolators and several platters waiting for the cookies