Murder at the Beach House by Andrea Kress

Author:Andrea Kress [Kress, Andrea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-06-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The mood in the house had improved since the day before and even Louisa seemed ready to tackle the day, whatever that meant. She asked me for more specific directions to the location of the mussel colony and Amanda scolded her for not remembering where it was from years gone by.

“I’ll find it,” Louisa said. “Pail, knife, gloves, anything else?”

“That should do it.”

“Hat. It’s overcast today, but you could still get burned,” Aunt Margaret said.

“With the tan she’s built up, I don’t think it would be possible,” Amanda said. “I’m very jealous.”

I invited Amanda to go to town with us and shortly after nine o’clock, holding a shopping list that my aunt had given us, we were off.

“Look, there’s Mr. Goodman,” I said, and we waved as he proceeded ahead of us heading along the drive out to the main road. It was only four miles to Scarborough so we could have walked but it was nice to have the luxury of the car.

The post office was on the main street, and it seemed the postmaster had got in on the tourist trade in addition to his government work as there was a carousel of postcards on a nearby table along with handkerchiefs, some embroidered with ‘Maine,’ others with ‘Scarborough,’ all of them with deftly crafted tiny lobsters.

“Oh, I’ll simply have to get some of these. Who makes them?” I asked the postmaster.

“My wife. Got to do something in the long nights of winter,” he chuckled.

I posted my mail and bought four handkerchiefs, one for my mother, another for Glenda, one for Miss Manley and one for myself. Very silly, but that’s what souvenirs were all about.

“I’ve got to show you this very cute shop that opened up,” Amanda said, and John’s eyes glazed over.

“I was thinking of checking in with the sheriff,” he said. “How about we meet up in a half hour?”

“A half hour? That’s not enough time for us to examine everything. Just come by when you’re done and see what we’ve picked out,” Amanda said, hooking her arm in mine and taking me down the sidewalk. “The place is called ‘The Shop.’”

“How clever. When anyone asks for a shop, they get directed there.”

It was entirely different from the staid women’s clothing and alteration store that the Smith sisters ran in West Adams, with the stiff mannequins in the windows. And it was certainly not like New York City’s huge multilevel emporiums with enormous selections and price levels to accommodate a broad range of customers. The Shop was artfully laid out with tables and racks of clothing as well as some things hanging from a decorated clothesline across one corner. Everything caught the eye with jewelry, scarves and hats adorning the clothes, suggesting a complete outfit ready to be purchased. The owner had placed everything in such a way that, no matter where or how you turned, something was intriguing.

“Look at this,” seemed to be our recurring expression as we saw crepe paper flowers in a

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