Page 27 of First Street
“I’m really sorry, kid.”
My phone dinged. I pulled it from my pocket. A text from Arthur.
Are you up?
Yep. Bernie’s here.
I’m coming over.
Front door’s open. Want coffee?
Darling Skye, you couldn’t make coffee if your life depended on it. I'll bring my own, thanks.
Arthur was from the school of thought that full sentences were necessary in a text. I told Bernie what was going on. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and motioned toward me for permission.
“Clare’s house, Clare’s rules,” I reminded him. Which meant no smoking inside.
He huffed and pocketed the pack as Arthur knocked once and came in.
The two men had known each other for years, and their relationship was a mix of respect and old-school rivalry. Bernie was also the handyman he used. But from the stories Clare told me, Arthur’s obsession with perfection always drove the older man crazy. ‘To the brink of setting the bookstore on fire and being done with it. Or worse yet, to charging Arthur triple the going rate for a job.’
They nodded a greeting.
“Look, Bernard,” Arthur said in his dryest tone. “I know you never got paid for the last job. But it’s too soon to shake down the kid. She just got here.”
Bernie snorted. “I’m here to pay my respects, not collect a damn bill.” He turned to me with a wink. “Tell this one if I said anything about money. He’s always accusing me of stuff.”
“I’m so sorry you weren’t paid,” I told him. “I didn’t know.”
Clare had always been on top of things like that. In fact, more times than I could count, while I was in California, a text would show up out of the blue saying, ‘Check the account’. It was as if she knew exactly when I was struggling financially, and I was always grateful. Her generosity toward me had no limits.
“Do you have the invoice? I can?—”
“No need,” Bernie cut in. “The job’s not done yet. We can talk money once you’re settled and we’ve cleaned up this mess.”
“You’re a good man, Bernie.” I touched his hand. “Thank you.”
Arthur’s expression was comical. Half eye-roll, half grin. As if he couldn’t believe Bernie was getting credit for being decent. But he didn’t argue.
“I’ll leave you two be,” Bernie said, starting to rise from his chair. “Just give me a call when you’re ready for me to come back and help clear out the front room and the barn.”
“Hold your horses,” Arthur said, motioning for him to sit back down. “I’ve got something here I think you both need to see.”
My head was starting to throb. I got up, went to Clare’s medicine cabinet in the half bath and rummaged through until I found a bottle of acetaminophen. I swallowed two pills with a sip of water, then returned to the table.
“Remember the neighbor’s security camera? The New York shysters?” Arthur had propped his phone against his coffee cup so we could all see the screen. “He sent me the footage from the night Clare died.”
I focused on my breathing, silently begging the headache to ease.
Arthur hit play. It was a view of First Street and the sidewalk in front of Clare’s driveway. A car passed. No pedestrians.
Bernie yawned and said, “If I wanted to stare at nothing, I’d go watch your committee meetings at Town Hall.”
“Hold on,” Arthur said.
Sure enough, at that moment, a tall figure in a hoodie came into view and stopped on the sidewalk by the driveway. He looked in the direction of the Salt Box, then glanced up and down the empty street. The three of us watched as he quickly vanished from view in the direction of the barn.
“Damn it,” Bernie muttered under his breath.
