“Aunt Bea?” I call out as I head inside, where the air is soft with cinnamon and chocolate. She’s painted the walls pale pink and decorated them with a dozen ornate French-style mirrors in various shapes and sizes. As I step up to the polished silver counter and the big glass case, I think how proud my mom would have been to have her name on a place like this.
“Eveny? That you?” I hear my aunt’s voice from the back, and a moment later she emerges wearing a flour-streaked blue apron over jeans.
“Aunt Bea, the bakery’s beautiful!” I tell her. “I can’t believe you put this together in a week.”
“I hoped you’d like it.” She smiles at me. “Want to try one of my chocolate lavender cupcakes? I have some cooling.”
“Maybe later. I just had some lemon herb cake.”
She looks confused. “Where did that come from?”
“Peregrine’s and Chloe’s mothers dropped by to welcome us to town.”
I expect her to be pleased, but instead her face darkens. “What did they say?”
“That their daughters are positively thrilled to have me back.” I roll my eyes. “Doubtful.”
“I suspect you’ll have more in common with them than you imagine,” she says. “Now, would you mind helping me frost some cupcakes? I want to take them home for Boniface to thank him for all his hard work.”
She brings me a tray of unfrosted cakes and a pastry bag, setting them on a table in front of the bakery window. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
I spend the next few minutes piping caramel cream onto little pillows of chocolate. As I work, my head is swirling with a thousand questions about my mom, prompted by my brief visit with her two best friends. I’ve Googled her before, hoping to find some information about her death, but not even an obituary popped up. Just like with Glory.
“Hey, Aunt Bea?” I ask when I’m finished, setting the tray of frosted cupcakes on the counter in the back. “Does Carrefour have a newspaper?”
“Sure, why?”
“I’m trying to understand what happened with Glory Jones. I don’t get what would make someone who seemed so happy kill herself.”
She studies me briefly before saying, “Try the library. Mrs. Potter, who runs the place, prides herself in keeping perfect town records. Or at least she used to when I was growing up here.” She walks me to the door and points down the street. “It’s just past the theater, on the left side.”
“Thanks,” I say, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.
“I know you’re going to look up your mom’s death as well,” she says. “Just don’t read too much into it. Things in this town are never quite what they appear.”
She heads back inside without explaining more. I’m still puzzling over her words as I make my way up Main Street toward the library.
“Can I help you, dear?” asks the old woman behind the front desk as I walk in.
“Do you keep archives from the local paper here?”
She peers at me over her glasses. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you from the Périphérie?”
I’m not sure what that has to do with newspaper archives, but I reply politely, “No, ma’am. I live on the other side of the cemetery and just moved back to town. I’m Eveny Cheval.”
Her eyes widen. “Sandrine Cheval’s daughter,” she breathes. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You knew my mom?”
“Honey, everyone knew your mom.” She seems to gather her composure as she gestures for me to follow her. “How nice to see you back in town.”
She leads me down a hallway to a small room, explaining as we go that it’s a bit old-fashioned but that they still keep the archives on microfiche. “I find that the tried and true way is often the best way,” she says confidently. “Now, what can I help you find?”
“Actually, I was wondering whether I could see this week’s paper. And”—I pause, a little embarrassed—“if you have the paper from the week my mom died, I’d like to read that too.”
“You don’t want to go reading something like that, honey.”
“But I do,” I say, not sure why I’m explaining myself to a stranger. “So if you could bring me the articles, that would be great.”
She purses her lips and leaves, returning less than a minute later with three slides.
“Here’s this week’s paper, which I just put on microfiche yesterday, and the . . . older ones. You just move them under the glass there,” she says, gesturing to a microscope-like device on a desk, “and they’ll show up on the screen.” I thank her and she walks out, muttering to herself as she shuts the door behind her. I use the knob on the side of the machine to focus the lens and begin reading the article from the front page of the most recent Carrefour Weekly Chronicle, titled “Local Girl Stabs Self.”