{"product_id":"smile-beach-murder-isbn-9780593336908","title":"Smile Beach Murder","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom author Alicia Bessette comes an all-new mystery series featuring Callie Padget, a former reporter turned bookshop clerk in the Outer Banks who is pulled into a deadly web of secrets when a mysterious fall at a lighthouse echoes a tragedy from her past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Callie is laid off from her reporting job, she returns to her hometown of Cattail Island and lands a gig at the local bookstore—the same one where she found comfort after her mother died. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn fact, the anniversary of her mother’s infamous death is approaching. Years ago, Teri Padget tumbled from the top of the lighthouse. As islanders are once again gossiping about the tragedy, devastating news strikes: the lighthouse has claimed another victim. Eva Meeks, of Meeks Hardware. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe police are calling it suicide, but Callie does not believe Eva jumped any more than she believes her mother did—especially because Callie knows that before her death, Eva had dug up a long-forgotten treasure hunt that could have put a target on Eva’s back. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Callie’s search for answers, she enlists the help of some beloved books and several new friends, including the handsome local martial arts instructor, Toby Dodge. But when another death rocks Cattail Island, Callie must face her fears alone. As she earns enemies in pursuit of the truth, Callie knows she will either uncover the killer or become a victim herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMystery Writers of America’s Lilian Jackson Braun Memorial Award nominee\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePRAISE FOR THE OUTER BANKS BOOKSHOP MYSTERIES\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What a great read! Elegant prose. A twisty plot. Characters I wanted to know. Truly, I was captivated by Alicia Bessette's \u003ci\u003eMurder on Mustang Beach.\u003c\/i\u003e Beautifully crafted, thoroughly enjoyable.” -\u003cb\u003eJane K. Cleland\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling and Agatha Award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eMastering Plot Twists\u003c\/i\u003e and the Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A captivating whodunit that will have readers longing to return to Alicia Bessette’s coastal North Carolina again and again.” - \u003cb\u003eEllery Adams\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eSmile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e is a must read for all mystery lovers. Bessette has taken all of the best components of a cozy mystery and layered the story with complicated characters, a compelling plot, a fabulous setting, and a very relatable amateur sleuth. This mystery was so engaging and engrossing, I couldn't put it down! I hope there are many more mysteries to come with Callie Padget and Cattail Island.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJenn McKinlay\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWait For It\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Familiar cozy mystery setup with a fresh shot of warmth and verve….\u003ci\u003eSmile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e juggles present-day murders with a level of menace that seems elevated for typical cozy fare.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003cb\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A whirlwind of a story that delights with sand, spindrift, and Blackbeard’s treasure. This book is, literally, a beach read! Bessette’s stunning new cozy swept me off to the Outer Banks and had me turning pages right up to the twisty (and thrilling!) conclusion. Upbeat prose, likable characters, and a strong sense of place. Best of all, the stealthy scatter of clues leads to a whopping good payoff. This delightful new mystery oozes with tension, eccentric characters, and bursts of slick prose. It definitely got my blood fizzing.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eLaura Childs\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the Tea Shop Mysteries\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Eva Meeks did not commit suicide—of that Callie Padget is sure. Her own mother was thought to die that way. But Callie knew Eva too well to believe that. Now it's up to her to figure out just what happened—despite the danger. Alicia Bessette's gift for description will transport you to Cattail Island and the salty air of coastal North Carolina. [A] must read!”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eLorna Barrett\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Deadly Deletion\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Bessette offers everything a cozy lover could possibly want: a charming setting with a host of quirky natives, a bookstore with a cat, a lighthouse, and a hunky potential boyfriend. With any luck, the appealing Callie will be back soon.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"The perfect mystery to kickstart your summer.... \u003ci\u003eSmile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e packs a wallop of mystery and intrigue... with an ending that will leave you on the edge of your seat.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eFresh Fiction\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Bessette captures the charm of the Outer Banks with her vivid descriptions of laid-back island life. It’s easy to root for Callie, who’s resourceful and brave even when she finds herself staring down confessed killers and deadly sharks. Readers will finish \u003ci\u003eSmile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e cheering for Callie and eager for many more cases to come.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A perfectly plotted mystery from a wonderful writer, \u003ci\u003eSmile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e is everything I want from a cozy—barrier-island beaches, a welcoming bookshop, a quaint small town—all balanced against deep secrets and complicated deaths. Callie Padget is a sharp and compassionate amateur sleuth with a compelling backstory, and a quirky cast of characters, family and townspeople alike, round out the story. I can’t wait to see what washes up next on the shores of Cattail Island!”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJ.T. Ellison\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHer Dark Lies\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I love every wise, graceful word Alicia Bessette writes, and \u003ci\u003eSmile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e is a perfect example of why: Her descriptions are so vivid you can feel salty tang of the ocean breeze, and her pages are populated by quirky, unique characters. Throw in a murder with eerie echos of the past, and you’ve got a recipe for an absolutely terrific summer read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eSarah Pekkanen\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling co-author of \u003ci\u003eThe Golden Couple\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Bessette, a poet as well as a novelist, pens a vivid narrative that places readers amidst the sunbaked beaches, humid sea air, and wild mustangs of the beautiful Outer Banks ... The author throws out red herrings and leads a merry chase toward the big reveal, all the while introducing Cattail Island’s colorful characters and suspects ... Fans of cozies unafraid to skirt a darker edge will enjoy their trip to Smile Beach… I, for one, am already looking forward to my next outing with Callie.\" \u003ci\u003e-\u003cb\u003eMystery Scene\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Alicia Bessette’s vibrant descriptions and multifaceted characters paint such a vivid picture of the Outer Banks of North Carolina and the often eccentric, laid-back lifestyle that is island life, reading \u003ci\u003eSmile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e is like taking a relaxing beach vacation…with a little dose of murder thrown in. You will smell the sea air, hear waves crash against the shore, and feel the warm sand between your toes as you join booklover Callie Padget on her quest to come to terms with her past and catch a modern-day murderer.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eAnnelise Ryan\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eA Death in Door County\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Smile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e had me on the edge of my seat! When Callie returns to Cattail Island, the last thing she wants to do is dig into the past, but a present-day murder forces long-buried secrets to the surface. Cozy fans will love how mystery novels are a touchstone in this wonderful series debut by Alicia Bessette.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003ePeggy Rothschild\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eA Deadly Bone to Pick\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smile Beach Murder\u003c\/i\u003e combines an island setting with a death, a bookshop, a lighthouse, a treasure hunt, and a mystery. What could be more exciting?....The well-plotted and beautifully executed story gradually builds momentum until it reaches the astonishing conclusion....this story is a well-written and engaging novel with humor, suspense, some action, and the possibility of romance.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eMystery \u0026amp; Suspense Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eBefore authoring the Outer Banks Bookshop mystery series, \u003cb\u003eAlicia Bessette\u003c\/b\u003e worked as a reporter in her home state of Massachusetts, where her writing won a first-place award from the New England Newspaper \u0026amp; Press Association. A pianist, published poet, and enthusiastic birdwatcher, she now loves living in coastal North Carolina with her husband, novelist Matthew Quick.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI ran for Smile Beach with the tangs of summer in my nose and an ache in my heart. The parking lot smelled like sunscreen and cedar trees and French fries. I breathed it all in, trotting past the burger truck parked in the shade, past the rows of cars steaming in the sun, and onto the sand-strewn ramp. Overhead, purple martins somersaulted against an impossibly blue sky. I heard the \u003ci\u003etling-tling\u003c\/i\u003e of a bicycle and, farther south, the bellow of the ferry as it bumped the rubber-edged dock in the harbor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCattail Island.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy mother had loved it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wanted to love it too.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Hey, ma'am!\" A dad was passing me on the ramp, leading his cute family to the burger truck. \"It's called \u003ci\u003eSmile \u003c\/i\u003eBeach,\" he said to me as he pulled a T-shirt over his furred belly. \"Not Frown Beach!\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis kid's floppy hat cast a pink glow on her single enormous front tooth. She erupted in giggles when the mom tickled her. The mom then shot me a smile like the one I'd seen on many a summertime visitor over the years. A smile brought on by chilled wine and vitamin D absorption. \"Is this place paradise or what?\" she asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Paradise,\" I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"It's just like that old chamber of commerce slogan. What was it? \u003ci\u003eCattail—the isle worth your while\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Something like that.\" It was actually \u003ci\u003ethe downhome isle that's worth your while\u003c\/i\u003e, but I didn't feel like getting into it, so I gave the woman a friendly little wave before turning onto Smile Beach. The gentle curve of it suggested a half-moon or a crescent—or a smile, which is what the founding Cattailers went with. I slowed to a walk so I wouldn't kick sand onto the families as they sprawled on towels and reclined in beach chairs. Parents held tablets above their faces. Teens took selfies. Kids became entirely encrusted in sand.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCattail Island is known for its beaches. The east-side ones evoke the covers of summer escape novels—windswept dunes sloping to fine sand and, beyond, the vast gray Atlantic. The west-side beaches, including Smile Beach, feature the shallow, gentle waves of the Pamlico Sound. Unless, of course, there's a storm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt wasn't the first time I'd wondered what it would have been like to go on a beach vacation with my parents. To have rubbed sunscreen onto my mom's shoulders. To have tossed a football with my dad, whoever he was. To have dozed so hard I forgot my name, then galloped for the water like a wild Outer Banks mustang.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI walked toward the old Smile Beach fishing pier, which sagged ten feet above the Pamlico. The sad old thing had missing railings and crooked pilings and looked as though the next stiff breeze would send it toppling into the chop. That didn't stop anglers from casting out, trying their luck for speckled trout or bluefish or flounder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePast the pier, the Elder Tree came into view, its branches beckoning as if wind had blown them into that shape. And wind had, over the centuries. At the northernmost point of Cattail Island, the live oak's trunk measured fifty feet around. Shade engulfed me as I followed the path curling from the beach into the woods.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI could still climb like a local. Scaling the queenliest tree on Cattail involved making use of a rotten fence remnant. Hopping, I grabbed the pickets and crept up until I could hook an arm around the giant branch paralleling the ground. My fingertips caught the lip of a teardrop-shaped cavity. I wriggled and grunted and heaved and soon was seated, legs dangling. Sweat trickled down my temples, my back, my shins. I must have sweated away my sunscreen, because my skin felt like rugburn.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf heat had a sound it would be waves crashing and insects clicking and leaves stirring in undetectable breezes and, from someone's portable speaker, Carrie Underwood snarling about taking a Louisville Slugger to both headlights.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis barrier island, nine miles long, is shaped like a cattail, whip thin except for the wide part, three miles across. The wide part's where most of the dwellings are, bungalow-style rental cottages and modest cedar-shake stilt homes. The southern end of Cattail Island curves slightly westward, allowing a glimpse of the lighthouse even from where I sat in the Elder Tree. All these years later and the sight of that hometown landmark poking above the treetops still made my chest hollow, as if someone had taken an icy scoop and cored out my heart.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shifted so that a clutch of Spanish moss blocked the lighthouse from view.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn addition to its beaches, Cattail Island is also known for being difficult to access. No bridges touch its shores—which means a long drive no matter what direction you're coming from, followed by a long wait for the ferry.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhenever I visited home, I felt marooned.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"How's the job search going?\" a voice boomed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy uncle appeared on the path. He peered up at me, his beard like pine shavings springing out in all directions, his sea-green eyes twinkling.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI took him in—his dusty overalls, his cannonball belly, the water bottle in his big hand. A nugget of confusion knocked around inside my chest. I wanted to throw my arms around him \u003ci\u003eand \u003c\/i\u003ehightail it back to Charlotte. Back to my old life. My adult life. My real life.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"How'd you find me?\" I asked him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Drove around for miles looking for the only person crazy enough to go for a run at high noon.\" Hudson was one of the hundred or so remaining Cattailers who still spoke what was known as the Outer Banks brogue, in which \u003ci\u003emiles \u003c\/i\u003esounded like \u003ci\u003emoiles \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003ehigh \u003c\/i\u003ecame out \u003ci\u003ehoi\u003c\/i\u003e. It was strange and charming, a southern drawl lilting with an English accent.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I needed to get outside,\" I said. \"I might be in a tree right now, but the past couple days I've been all over this glorified sandbar, looking for work. I won't be living in your loft for the rest of my life. And I won't be staying on-island very long either. That, I can guarantee.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Cattail really is a prison sentence to you, isn't it?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Please don't take it personally.\" I slid down from the branch and landed hard, knees crackling.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"You do realize it's two-thirds of the way through June. Seasonal work's been arranged for months. What's your plan? Go back to waiting tables at the diner? Vacuuming rental cottages on change-over days?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What do I look like, a college student?\" That was who got those jobs. Not thirty-eight-year-old laid-off newspaper reporters with crackling knees. \"I'll find something,\" I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Obviously the \u003ci\u003eCattail Crier \u003c\/i\u003eisn't an option.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Obviously.\" My complicated history with the editor in chief made working for the local weekly an impossibility.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What about the MotherVine?\" my uncle asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"The bookshop?\" I pictured it. The tall windows and pine-plank floors. My mother, curled in her favorite armchair, an open book in her lap . . . \"Not my speed,\" I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHudson stepped closer. His hair stuck up in tufts as if he hadn't bothered brushing. Because he hadn't. He smelled like lumber and Irish Spring soap. \"Your mother loved that bookshop. You did too, at one time.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe air was suddenly too thick, like paste in my lungs. He handed me the bottled water, and I took a few ice-cold sips. Then I squeezed some water over my head, yelping from relief and shock.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"It's been twenty-five years, Callie,\" he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Twenty-six.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"The way I see it, your only other alternative is shelling crabs at Cattail Seafood.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I'd literally rather \u003ci\u003ebe \u003c\/i\u003ea crab at Cattail Seafood.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"City made you special? Above selling books to the good people of Cattail? The people who raised you up? The tourists who put food on our tables?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI looked away. When he worded it that way . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe MotherVine Bookshop's front door shined a candy-apple red. A sign taped to the jamb read: PLEASE MIND THE WET PAINT!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was annual Paint Your Door Day. Red paint doesn't last on Cattail Island. In less than a year, the sun and gritty wind tag-team to beat all reds into pinks. But many owners of the downtown waterfront businesses had a thing for red front doors. And at the start of every summer, those doors were painted en masse.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStanding on the sidewalk, I took a few deep breaths. The breeze wasn't oceany here on the west side but instead smelled like brine and honeysuckle and whatever enticing specials the bistros were preparing. These few tree-lined blocks comprised the commercial section of Queen Street, which ran the whole length of Cattail Island, from the lighthouse in the south to Smile Beach in the north.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTourists buzzed around me, ducking in and out of shops. Some paused to lick the ice cream dribbling down their wrists, to greet passengers streaming off the ferry, or to snap photos of the rows of glistening red doors. Across the street, the replica pirate ship was a favorite attraction, docked in the harbor and accessible by a gangplank. Kids climbed the rigging and waged air-sword fights on the main deck.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore me, the brick bookshop looked enticing. A chalkboard out front promised a visit from a local author later in the week, and inside, shoppers browsed. Every now and then they'd pick up a book and turn it over, or run fingertips across the jacket. Their expressions ranged from delight to curiosity to sheer flight of fancy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI steeled myself for more rejection. So far, I'd been turned down by just about every on-island employer that hired literature-major types, including Cattail Heritage Garden, which deemed me overqualified to scribble its press releases. Hudson had been right: the MotherVine was my last shot at somewhat-professional temporary employment.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI was about to enter when a passing car slowed, then swerved. It was avoiding a barrel-shaped silver tabby cat, hunched in the middle of the crosswalk, nibbling the remnants of what looked to have been a delicious fish taco. The food must have tumbled from some sorry pedestrian's takeout carton.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI crouched and made a kissy noise, trying to lure the cat out of harm's way. But I was no match for the fish taco. Another vehicle rounded the corner, a vintage Jeep Grand Wagoneer, mint green with a strip of wood paneling, the ultimate surf-mobile. The driver gave no indication that he was going to avoid the cat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMeanwhile, the silver tabby was fully taco committed and didn't flinch at the oncoming vehicle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Hey.\" I stepped into the street, waving my arms. \"Watch it. Look out!\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Wagoneer still showed no signs of yielding. Neither did the cat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shot into the crosswalk, scooped up the tabby, pivoted, and leapt for the sidewalk. The Wagoneer braked, laying rubber and sending out a screech. It came to a stop in the crosswalk, front tires straddling the taco.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA few shopkeepers scurried out onto the sidewalks. \"Slow down, mister!\" yelled a mother pushing a stroller.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe driver stuck his head out the window. I couldn't see much of him; the sun was dazzlingly bright. But I did see him wave in my direction. \"Sure am sorry about that,\" he called. \"You okay?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Fine,\" I said. The trembling cat was so heavy it started slipping, and I had to jiggle it to get a better grip.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"My bad,\" he said before slowly driving off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe cat—TIN MAN, according to his collar's name tag—squirmed in my arms. But when I scratched his chin, he stopped trembling and pressed into my fingers, purring like a boat motor. \"You've got eight lives left, big guy,\" I told him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA trim woman darted from the MotherVine, arms outstretched. Antoinette Redfield was the owner of the bookshop and, apparently, the cat. \"Tinnakeet Man!\" she said. \"Oh, my dear sweet Tinnakeet Man.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI passed the cat into her arms, and she cradled him. \"Callie,\" she said, her eyes shining. \"I was out back but a customer told me what happened. He saw everything.\" She kissed Tin Man's head. \"Thank you.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Right place, right time.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"He was a stray. I started feeding him.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Looks like you haven't stopped.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"He refused to go away, so I had to make him a proper bookshop cat. He usually isn't tempted by the outdoors. Except when it's filled with the scent of fresh, hot mahi-mahi from the taco joint.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I can relate. Those tacos are narcotizing.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe canoodled Tin Man some more, picking a piece of cilantro from his whiskers. \"He seems no worse for wear. What about you? Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself? Are you shook up at all?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I'm fine, Ant. Really.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs always, she was dressed sensibly. Plaid button-down shirt, walking shorts, sandals. Her chin-length silver curls retained hints of strawberry. She was still nimble thanks to all the surfing she'd done in her youth, when she would even brave winter's wind-tossed, thirty-degree waves. Her voice had a ringing-bell quality.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe went over to the bookshop's entrance and placed the cat inside. Turning back to me, she asked, \"How can I thank you?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Oh, you don't have to—\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I most certainly do.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Well, actually, I came here looking for work. Did Hudson mention it?\" My uncle and Antoinette had been friends for years.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"The island rumor mill mentioned it,\" she said. \"Shame about the big buyout in the city.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Right. Thanks.\" I looked down at my feet. Flip-flops were perfectly acceptable for job hunting on Cattail, but I couldn't help feeling suddenly self-conscious—about my chipped toenail polish, hasty ponytail, and dress from several seasons ago, which had started to resemble a large dishrag. But it was practical, cotton with hidden pockets sewn into bias seams, a dress my mom would have approved. And at the moment, it was the best I could do.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe truth was, the \u003ci\u003eCharlotte Times \u003c\/i\u003ehadn't laid off everybody. Only the sixty-two worker bees who had failed to make themselves indispensable.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCallie Padget, Worker Bee Number Sixty-Two, at your service.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"My high-school helper quit high and dry last week when she realized lifeguarding was more lucrative than slinging books,\" Antoinette said. \"That gives you an idea of my pay scale.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShading my eyes, I peered straight into her face. \"I'm prepared.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What do you know about working in a bookshop?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAbout as much as I knew about quantum mechanics. Newspaper work was my true vocation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd it was a dying vocation. As was working in a bookshop.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTemporary measure, I reminded myself. My plan, hatched during my post-run shower thirty minutes earlier, was to keep publishing independent articles on my online portfolio in the hopes of attracting a daily newspaper job. I was going to get back to being a reporter ASAP. If not in Charlotte, then in any other city that would have me. \"I promise to make myself useful for as long as I'm on-island,\" I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You know your way around a coffeepot?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Like a pro.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Wheels?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I gestured to a Honda Civic, my trusty two-door steed, parked in one of the coveted spots along Queen Street. The front and rear tires had caught the curb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Whoops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “My on-island delivery service is a big hit,” Antoinette said. “Locals put a high value on face-to-face interaction. You can drive, or walk, if you have the time and inclination. I don’t care, as long as people get their books.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’m hired? Just like that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She glanced at the bookshop’s front bay window, where Tin Man was sitting, swishing his tail and training his amber eyes on the seagull that had descended upon the abandoned taco. “You earned this job, as far as I’m concerned,” she said. “Work whenever you want. My hours of operation are somewhat sporadic, as you probably remember. But we’ll figure it out. Just don’t rack up more than twenty-five hours a week.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Something like relief washed through me.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302682710245,"sku":"NP9780593336908","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593336908.jpg?v=1767736802","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/smile-beach-murder-isbn-9780593336908","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}