Page 7 of The Hampton Beach Café 5
Frances and Alex stepped into the quaint little gift shop down the street from the café. The bell on the door jingled a tritone tune, announcing their arrival with something that sounded more like a Christmas carol than a shop bell. Then again, that suited the shop quite well. It was filled with all sorts of trinkets and souvenirs––including several Christmas ornaments that featured surfing Santa with a sign that said 'specially brought in from Australia!' in bright pink calligraphy. They waved at the older woman behind the counter, who greeted them with a warm smile.
“Good afternoon, dears. What can I help you with?” she asked, her voice tinged with a thick accent.
Frances smiled back. “Just browsing today, thank you. I own the café down the street and I want to fill some spots in my decor with things from local shops rather than bring in something from Boston.”
The woman's eyes brightened. “Ah, yes! I've heard wonderful things about your coffee. You must be Frances and Alex.”
The two nodded, pleased that their reputation had preceded them.
“Yes, that's us,” Alex said. “I own the jet-ski rental down the beach. You're newer in town, right?”
“True, though it's more like returning home. I left when I was about forty to go get married,” she said with a laugh. “Moved to London for a man––never looked back but can't say I miss the weather. When he passed on last year, I thought it was time to move home.”
“Oh, I'm sorry for your loss,” Frances said, twinging awkwardly.
“Don't worry yourself, dear,” she said lightly, “he was older even when I married him. We joked that if he lived as long as me he'd get kidnapped by the FBI to study like one of those alien fellas.”
“Oh,” Alex said. “Right...”
They looked at each other in barely veiled surprise, but the woman behind the counter laughed and they hesitantly joined in.
The woman leaned forward conspiratorially. “I have a little bit of gossip for you, if you're interested.”
Frances raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
The woman nodded, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I'm not the only Londoner in town. An English woman and her son have been coming in here quite often. She's lovely, but her son is just awful. So surly and rude.”
Frances and Alex exchanged a look, intrigued.
“Really?” Frances said. “What do they look like?”
The woman leaned back, considering. “The woman is in her fifties or sixties, I'd say. Blondie hair, always smiling. The son is younger, in his thirties, maybe. Dark hair, tall. But he's never smiling.”
Frances and Alex nodded, trying to place the duo. Frances felt her heart start to race as she weighed up the likelihood of there being a fourth Londoner in town just as someone English––or pretending to be English––threw a brick through her glass.
“Have they said anything about where they're staying?” Alex asked.
The woman shook her head.
“No, nothing like that. They come in, buy a few things, and leave. But the son, he's always scowling. Even his mother seems annoyed with him sometimes.”
Frances frowned.
“That's a shame,” she said, glancing at Alex meaningfully, “Maybe we should try and make them feel more welcome.”
The woman shrugged.
“Up to you, dears. But I wouldn't bother with the son. He seems like a lost cause.”
Frances and Alex thanked the woman for the gossip and moved on to browse the shop.
“Don't you dare,” Alex said under his breath as they took in the sight of a life-size, hand-painted, statue of a Chihuahua with a lime green bow around its neck and oversized hot pink sunglasses.
“Dare what?” she said just as quietly.
“Try and find them on your own,” he whispered back. “Now, if we're going to try and see if they're the ones who vandalized Café Bruno, then we'll do it together…”
“My darlings!”
