Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1)

  “Uh, I know these are unfortunate circumstances,” he began. “But it is time for the reading of the will. As I explained earlier, it was Harvey’s wish to have everybody present to hear his last wishes.”

  Since I didn’t know Harvey well enough for him to have left me anything, and I certainly wasn’t family, I tuned out most of what the attorney was saying in favor of observing the room. Even though I wasn’t what you’d call a “people person,” I still loved to people watch. It was amazing what you could tell about a person just by observing their habits and mannerisms.

  The attorney droned on and on, and I continued to ignore most of what he was saying until he got to, “. . . and to my wife, Sheila Boyette, I leave the remainder of my estate, after all debts, expenses, taxes, and other bequests are made.”

  Everyone turned in the direction of Harvey’s widow, including me. I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but Sheila certainly appeared smug at her sudden windfall. She didn’t look to be the grieving widow who’d just lost her husband. I felt bad—for Harvey. He would have been considered quite a catch to any woman over the age of fifty, had he never married Sheila. Certainly he deserved a wife who would mourn him properly.

  The probate guy continued. “To Abby Lee Kleburg, who I often thought of as the daughter I never had, I bequeath my most prized possession—The Poop Deck. I know you will continue to run it the same way I would have.”

  Gasps were heard throughout the room. Sheila turned angry in a second flat as the news sunk in. She was off the couch in a flash. No time was wasted as she marched right up to Abby Lee and slapped her. “You whore! Were you two having an affair? Is that why he left you the restaurant?”

  The idea that Abby Lee was sleeping with Harvey was preposterous. Hopefully everyone in the room thought so, too. He had easily been thirty years her senior, if not older. But it didn’t surprise me in the least that Sheila would think of something as trashy as a girl sleeping her way to an inheritance.

  Abby Lee, to her credit, was in a complete state of shock. Either from the news of inheriting the restaurant or from being slapped by Harvey’s widow. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered. “I had no idea he was leaving me anything.”

  From the second we all learned Abby Lee was to inherit the restaurant and she got slapped, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Thankfully, some of the men snapped out of it and restrained Sheila from assaulting Abby Lee again.

  “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” Sheila screeched as she was led back to the couch.

  With Sheila restrained, I ran over to Abby Lee and searched the room for Justin. Surely he wasn’t going to let Sheila get away with assaulting Abby Lee, but he wasn’t anywhere in the room. Go figure. When I actually wanted him around, he was gone. He must have found Harvey’s nephew and left before the reading of the will.

  The attorney cleared his throat. “Uh, shall I continue?”

  Since no one else was speaking, everyone still unsettled over what just happened, I took the liberty of responding on behalf of the large gathering and nodded in his direction.

  “. . . in the event Abby Lee Kleburg fails to survive me, the gift shall become part of the estate. In addition, if Abby Lee does not wish to operate the restaurant, or if she later wishes to sell, my wife, Sheila Boyette, will have first opportunity to purchase it.”

  “You mean I have to buy back what’s rightfully mine?” Sheila sobbed, as if the offer was already on the table. I had to give the woman credit. She was now giving a star-studded performance as the poor, grieving widow, not the gold digger she’d appeared to be a few minutes before. The woman certainly hadn’t acted like a victim; she’d seemed pleased to have inherited all his money and, quite possibly, a huge life insurance payout.

  All eyes reverted back to Abby Lee, a faint red mark marring her cheek where Sheila slapped her. “I don’t know what to say . . .”

  Again, I didn’t know if she meant the slap or the generous gift from Harvey.

  “You don’t have to say anything right now,” I said, hugging her. “Come on, let’s go. We can get the details later.”

  I turned to the attorney. I bet he’d never witnessed a show quite like this. Welcome to Trouble. “Is it OK if I take her home now?”

  He looked nervously over to Sheila, not knowing if she was going to cause another scene. “That might be a good idea,” he said, hoping to avoid any further dramatics from Sheila. He dug into his pocket and handed me his business card. “Please have her call me so we can discuss this matter at a later time.”

  Abby Lee didn’t say a word as she allowed me to take her home. The crowd was still stunned, so no one argued as I quickly whisked my friend out of Sheila’s house.

  It was another nice evening, so we decided to walk home. Abby Lee didn’t say anything for the first two blocks. It was another block before we finally reached her house. I had to say something.

  “I can’t believe Harvey left you The Poop Deck,” I finally said. “What are you going to do? Keep it—sell it to Sheila?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’d love to take over the restaurant, but I don’t want to cause any trouble,” she said. That caught me by surprise. Unlike yours truly, who avoided conflict on any level, Abby Lee was known to rock the boat from time to time.

  But she had a point. I didn’t know Sheila very well, despite her brilliant performance back at her house. I had already moved away by the time Harvey married her, but judging from her reaction to the news of Abby Lee’s inheritance, the woman spelled t-r-o-u-b-l-e. And boy, did she come to the right place to cause it.

  “Why don’t you sit on it for a while?” I suggested. “I’m sure Sheila will realize it’s not worth the effort to keep up a restaurant and decide it’s in better hands with you.”

  I caught the hint of a smile. “She’d have to be a reasonable person in order to come up with that conclusion,” Abby Lee said. “Maybe I should just sell it to her. I don’t know if I’m comfortable running it with Sheila attacking me every chance she gets.”

  Another good point. “You’re right. The woman doesn’t seem capable of rational thought.” I knew if Abby Lee kept the restaurant, Sheila wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

  I wasn’t sure if this was the right time to ask, but I was dying to know. “Why do you think he left you the restaurant?”

  Abby Lee sighed. “I don’t know. I swear I had no idea. I guess it’s like he said in his will, he always said I was like the daughter he never had. He felt bad when I had to move back to Trouble and take care of my mother when she got sick. Said I was destined for better things than to be stuck here on the island. Guess this was his way of making sure I’d be taken care of. Aside from Sheila, he didn’t have any other kin or anyone else that cared about his restaurant.”

  I guessed she hadn’t heard about Harvey’s nephew. But what she said made sense. Harvey knew exactly what he was doing when he left the restaurant to her. But what of the estranged nephew who’d miraculously appeared after all this time? The pessimist in me didn’t believe in coincidences.

  “When did he tell you all this?”

  “I don’t know. A couple months ago?”

  Then naming Abby Lee as a beneficiary might have been recent. Which meant either Harvey hadn’t gotten around to creating a will until recently or he’d changed it. If it was the latter, I wondered who’d gotten bumped in favor of Abby Lee. Sheila? His nephew? Maybe it wasn’t too far-fetched for me to believe that Harvey’s own nephew could be involved somehow. I decided to keep the estranged nephew and my thoughts about his possible involvement quiet. For now.

  “Do you think I’ll have to hand over the restaurant to Sheila?”

  “No. Harvey was pretty direct with his wishes, and I’m sure his attorney will make sure you aren’t bullied into handing it over. Why? Are you thinking maybe you don’t want it?” br />
  Abby Lee shook her head. “It’s not that. I want it. I can’t believe he left it to me. It’s like a dream. But I don’t want any problems.”

  Understood. If what I saw back at the Boyette house was any indication of what Sheila was like when she didn’t get her way, I would worry, too.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  With the excitement of coming home, the party, and Harvey Boyette’s death, I had almost forgotten about promising to work at Aunt Lula’s store—almost. Oh right, I hadn’t promised her anything. I’d been hoodwinked. Just how did I get roped into working at Palmetto Pink? I had a small reprieve, as my first official day was delayed due to everything that happened, but damned if I still didn’t have to work there.

  After a fitful night’s sleep, the preset alarm on my phone woke me up, annoyingly alerting me of the time. Waking up before eight in the morning was certainly not my idea of being on vacation.

  Since it was my first day, Aunt Lula wanted to give me the nickel tour and show me the ropes—despite the fact I practically grew up in her store—before opening the doors to the public. With the recent resignation of my predecessor, my aunt only had two other employees to assist at the store.

  “This is where we keep all the clothes in back stock,” Aunt Lula informed me, pointing to rolling racks of dresses and designer tops draped on hangers. “If a customer can’t find their size in the store, you can look for it back here.”

  We quickly moved on to the other back room that occupied the store, which served as her office. There was even a small bathroom to the left side of the office. Prior to Aunt Lula purchasing the space for her clothing boutique, it had been home to a struggling real estate office. Anyone could have, and probably had, told the realty company that our island hardly ever saw any newcomers looking for residential real estate. It didn’t take long for the company to go belly-up after a few years. Smart business woman that my aunt was, she snatched up the building for a steal.

  “And over here,” she said, pointing to a clear plastic bin under her massive oak desk, “is where you’ll find basic office supplies.”

  She was showing me everything I already knew or could figure out on my own, but in the hour I’d been at the store, she’d neglected to teach me the most important thing. It was the one thing that’d kept me up almost all night worrying I’d screw it up—the reason I still had dark circles under my eyes. “Uh, how do I work the register?”

  To say I was nervous about running the register was an understatement. I had spent the entire night worrying I would annoy customers because I couldn’t figure out how to ring their purchases correctly. I made my living working with high-tech computer software programs, but a cash register? Even a girl with a master’s degree could get freaked out by the mere notion of running a cash register. It’s the little things that scare us.

  “Oh, my heavens, how could I forget?”

  It took another half hour to teach me how to work the antiquated register—an old DOS computer rigged to work with a cash drawer—but much to my relief, I managed to figure it out after a few practice runs. And just in time for the store’s first customer of the day.

  The customer strolled in, or rather, waddled in. The woman was heavyset, but still managed to look good with her designer duds, complete with diamond earrings the size of nickels. Unless you were an expert, you just never knew if diamonds were fake or real, but I’d bet my first paycheck they were the real deal. This was Texas after all. When it came to trucks, hair, and jewels, we literally took the phrase “go big or go home” to heart. I didn’t recognize the woman, so I assumed she was from one of the bigger cities on the mainland, spending the day shopping on the island.

  The woman walked straight up to the sales counter with a purpose. Even though she was staring right at me, she waited for me to address her first. I wasn’t sure of the proper etiquette in dealing with retail customers. Should I ask if she needs help? Or should I wait until she asks for assistance? Judging from her expression, she was waiting for me to make the first move.

  “Hi, can I help you with something?” I put on my best smile.

  Already the woman looked impatient. “Yes. I was here last Saturday, and I ordered a denim shirt to pick up.”

  If she already looked put out, she was about to be even more annoyed with me. “We don’t sell any denim here,” I said. Even though it was my first day on the job, I had a pretty good idea of what my aunt carried in stock. Her inventory hadn’t changed much in the twenty years she’s been in business—Lilly Pulitzer, Tommy Bahama, St. John, and a few other luxury resort brands. Every year I received colorful Lilly shifts for my birthday, Easter, and Christmas. But never denim. So I was pretty confident she didn’t carry any.

  “Yes, you do,” she insisted. “I ordered it. Perhaps it was chambray then.”

  “Um, we don’t have anything in chambray either, but OK. What’s your name so I can look up your order?” If the woman had ordered something, it would be in the customer-information file. Thankfully, Aunt Lula gave me a quick tutorial on how to look up past purchases.

  “Trudy Baker.”

  “Do you remember who assisted you?” Not that it mattered. I was prepared to look into the computer system to locate the woman’s purchase the way Aunt Lula had showed me earlier. I was just stalling until I found my way around the system to find her transaction.

  “I think her name was Heidi,” she said, clearly annoyed.

  I was only half listening to her by this point, trying to figure out how to pull her name until I finally found it. Then I realized why it took me so long to find the purchase history—there were no sales transactions in the system for a denim shirt. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t have a record of your purchase. Uh, are you sure you’re in the right store?”

  The woman stopped scowling at me long enough to observe her surroundings. “No. I guess I’m not.”

  Yeah, like I said, we didn’t sell denim here. Maybe I should have been the one annoyed. My first customer of the day and I felt like I was already giving quality customer service a bad name. And it wasn’t even my fault.

  The woman waddled out the same way she waddled in, not even bothering to browse what we had in the store. It was a shame—my aunt carried some awesome pieces that would have looked great on her.

  “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Aunt Lula said, coming up from behind me. I hadn’t realized she’d been standing right next to the counter during the entire exchange.

  Dealing with rude customers wasn’t part of the job description as far as I was concerned. “I guess not,” I lied. It was only an hour into my shift, and I already felt like throwing in the towel.

  “Though it wouldn’t kill you to be nice to the customers, even if they are wrong. Denim,” she said, shaking her head in disapproval. “At her age!”

  Six hours later, my feet were sore from standing all day and my back hurt from hanging items back on the racks. I was in desperate need of some downtime. I wasn’t ready to go home, so I decided a glass of cheap house red was in order. Conveniently, the store was only a block down from The Poop Deck. It couldn’t hurt to have a glass of wine before I headed back to my parents’ house.

  “Hey! How was your first day?” Abby Lee asked as soon as I parked on a stool at the bar. I was surprised to find her back at the restaurant after the whole incident at Harvey’s funeral. I had expected her to take a few days off, even if she technically owned the place now, but knowing my friend, she wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I didn’t think you’d be working today,” I said, secretly pleased she’d stuck to her guns.

  “You know, I thought about taking a day off—you know, to give Sheila time to cool off, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it’s my restaurant now. It’s my responsibility.”

  “Good for you,” I said and meant it. I might avoid confrontations, but I totally believed in
standing up for yourself.

  I took a quick glance at the menu, left on the counter from the previous customer, but I already knew what I wanted. “So—what does a girl have to do around here to get a glass of wine with her whine?” I was still thinking of my sore feet.

  “That bad, huh?” She sounded like a true bartender, pouring my wine and listening to my tales of retail woes. I was sure I wasn’t the first one to come in and complain about a job.

  “I don’t know how you do it. How do you deal with rude customers all day?” I asked, imagining food service was even worse than retail.

  She shrugged. “I don’t. Most folks are generally nice, and I love serving people.”

  “Maybe it’s just me then. Am I that horrible to be around?” Maybe I projected negative energy to those I came in contact with. That would explain a lot. It was probably why James left me.

  “Jules, if you were a bad person, we wouldn’t be friends,” she said. “You’re just a tough cookie to crack is all.”

  “I think you mean ‘nut’ . . . a tough nut to crack.” I laughed at her attempt to make me feel better. Abby Lee was one of the most positive people I knew. If we could get along, maybe I wasn’t as negative as I believed myself to be—maybe.

  “In any event,” I continued, “consider me overbaked then. And speaking of people not liking me—do I have to go to the reunion?”

  “Oh my God, Jules! Is that what you think?” Abby Lee asked. “No one disliked you in high school.”

  I shrugged, wishing I hadn’t said anything. Now I was going to get a lecture on how ridiculous I sounded. “Could have fooled me.”

  Abby Lee poured herself a glass of wine. I raised my eyebrows. She shot back a look that said, “I’m the owner now, I can drink on the job if I want.”

  After taking a long sip, she sighed. “You know, you would have been much more popular if you were—how should I put this—more outgoing.”