Софи Райан - No Escape Claws

“We got it on the trailer,” I said. “Let me prop the door open and we’ll give it a try.”

I wedged the back door open while Liam undid the bungee cords and unwrapped the moving quilts. With a little grunting and more than a little swearing—not all of it on his part—we managed to get the tea-filled casket into the workroom.

Avery poked her head around the doors to the shop. “That is so awesome,” she exclaimed. Her dark hair was cut in shaggy layers and she was dressed all in black; the collection of bracelets on her left arm were the only color she wore. “When Charlotte said you found a coffin I thought she was gooning me.” She studied the long wooden box. “You think anyone’s actually used it?”

Like her grandmother, Avery wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

“Other than to store tea, no, I don’t think so,” I said.

She shrugged. “Cool,” she said and then disappeared around the door again.

Liam and I followed her into the shop. There were no customers—not surprising because Monday afternoons were usually quiet, especially in late September. The summer tourists were gone and it was too early for the leaf peepers. There was no sign of Elvis. He’d probably followed Rose upstairs for a treat. Avery was busy replenishing our covered bucket display.

In what could have turned out to be a moment of insanity I’d bought three dozen small galvanized buckets for what amounted to pennies each, from a flower shop that had gone out of business. Avery had come up with the idea to decorate the buckets with strips cut from area maps. We had a box full of them. The map-covered pails had been a big hit with tourists looking for a souvenir of their time in Maine with some practical appeal—the buckets were great for holding craft supplies or kitchen utensils.

Rose came down the stairs from the second floor then, carrying a cup of coffee for Liam and another for me.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the stoneware mug from her.

Charlotte was behind her, knotting her apron at the waist. “I thought I’d start unpacking the tea,” she said.

“You’re certain it’s Canadian tea?” Rose asked.

Charlotte looked at her friend over the top of her glasses before pushing them up her nose. “Of course I’m certain, Rose.”

Rose turned her attention to me. “And you think there could be a dozen boxes?”

“Maybe more,” I said.

She clasped her hands together and beamed at me. “Wonderful!”

I continued to look at her without saying anything.

Her cheeks turned pink, which just made her look like a naughty and adorable little girl. “I know I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about you buying what was in those storage units.”

I nodded but still didn’t speak. “Did your cheese slide off your cracker, dear?” she’d asked when I came back from my meeting with the new owners of the storage warehouse to say I’d bought the contents of two units, close to sight unseen.

Now she reached over and patted my arm. “And I think we can all agree that this time I wasn’t as right as I usually am.”

I didn’t dare look at Liam because I knew if I did, I’d start to laugh.

Rose turned her attention back to Charlotte. “Before you get started, there was someone here looking for you.”

Charlotte frowned at her. “For me?”

“A young woman, not that much older than Avery. She said she’d be back.” Rose glanced at her watch. “Any time now.”

“Did she give you her name?” Charlotte asked.

“Mallory Pearson. I got the feeling she’s a former student.”

Charlotte nodded. “She is. She’d be close to twenty now. I wonder what she wants.”

Rose glanced out the front window at the street. “I think we’re about to find out,” she said.

Mallory Pearson came through the front door. She was tiny, as Charlotte had said, maybe twenty years old with blond hair in a thick braid over one shoulder, dressed in gray leggings and a blue hoodie. And she looked like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. She smiled when she saw Charlotte and her whole body seemed to sag with relief.

Rose shot me a look and I felt certain we were thinking the same thing. This wasn’t a social call.

Liam put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to get the last few boxes,” he said in a low voice.

I nodded. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Charlotte had walked over to greet Mallory, wrapping her in a warm hug. Now she was listening intently as the young woman talked, her expression somber. Rose watched them for a moment then she leaned over to me. “I’m going to go start unpacking that tea,” she whispered.

As she turned to go Charlotte called to her. “Rose, could you wait a minute, please?”

Rose stopped, turning back around. Charlotte looked at me. “You, too, please,” she said. She put an arm around Mallory Pearson’s shoulder and they walked over to join Rose and me. “This is my friend Sarah Grayson,” she said. “She owns Second Chance.”

The young woman gave me a shy smile. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “I like your store.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She shifted her attention to Rose. “Hello again, Mrs. Jackson.”

Rose gave her a warm smile. “I’m glad you came back,” she said.

Charlotte gave Mallory’s shoulders a squeeze. “Tell them,” she urged.

Mallory took a breath and let it out. “I want to hire you,” she said, the words coming out in a rush. “I want you to get my father out of jail.”

I don’t know what I’d been expecting her to say but not this. Along with working for me part-time, Rose and Charlotte also ran a detective agency, Charlotte’s Angels. The team included Avery’s grandmother, Liz, and Rose’s gentleman friend, Mr. P. The name was a play on Charlie’s Angels, although for the most part they just went by the Angels. Mr. P. had met all the state’s requirements and received his private investigator’s license. The four of them were actually pretty good at solving mysteries, although they tended to pull everyone around them into their crime solving efforts—especially me.

“Who’s your father?” Rose asked.

“Mike Pearson,” Mallory said.

There was something familiar about the name but I couldn’t put it into context.

“He’s six months into a five-year sentence for criminal negligence in the death of my stepmother, Gina.” She stopped for a moment and swallowed hard before continuing. “He was beaten in jail. He has broken ribs, a concussion and bruises all over his body. He won’t make it through another four and a half years in that place.” She squared her shoulders, seeming to pull from some inner reserve of resolve. “And he doesn’t belong there anyway. He isn’t guilty of anything.”

“I remember Michael,” a voice said behind us. Liz had come in while Mallory was talking. I wasn’t sure how much of the conversation she’d heard but it seemed she’d heard enough. “He worked for the Emmerson Foundation one summer years ago.”

Mallory nodded. “I know. I’ve seen a photo of Dad with you, Mrs. French.”

Liz joined us, her heels tapping a sharp staccato on the wooden floor. She was always elegantly dressed, blond hair curled around her face. I’d never seen her in yoga pants or a sweatshirt. “Keep going,” she said to Mallory.

The young woman gave an almost imperceptible nod. “My stepmother was an alcoholic. She had been waiting for a bed in rehab. They told Dad to make sure she didn’t have access to lighters or matches. She’d started a fire once before when she was drinking. Our garage almost burned down. But that day Dad had found out that there was going to be a bed available for her in a place called Haven House.”

Now I could put the name into context. I remembered coverage of the story in the news: Gina Pearson had died in the fire that had gutted her home the previous December, just two weeks before Christmas. A barbecue lighter and a bottle of vodka had been found by her body.