Mornings at B-Sharp started slowly, just the way I liked them. The sunlight slanted in through the front windows, catching dust motes and bouncing off the edges of record sleeves lined up in tidy rows. The familiar smell of old vinyl and the faint mustiness of decades-old cardboard sleeves filled the air. A scent that had become as comforting to me as coffee. My only employee in the vintage record store was behind the counter, cataloging a crate of 45s we picked up at a garage sale the weekend before. He had something loud and angry playing under his breath, Metallica or maybe Iron Maiden, barely audible under the light jazz I put on the turntable when we first came in. Jeremiah was a metal head through and through, but he respected the shop's rule about easing into the day.

The morning ritual had become second nature after five years of running the vintage record store. I'd come back to Flat Rock after ten years in the Army, drawn home by the need to be close to my father after Mom died of cancer. The record shop had been a leap of faith, using a big chunk of my savings to breathe life back into a shuttered storefront. Some days, I wondered if I was fighting a losing battle. But then someone would walk in looking for that one album that defined their teenage years, and suddenly it all made sense again.

I flipped the sign on the front door to "Open" and gave the bell a half-hearted tap. Through the front window, I caught a glimpse of movement next door. Delores Krensky, unlocking Krensky’s Antiques. Even from here, I could see the scowl. She had one for every occasion. Traffic, weather, tourists who didn’t actually want to buy something, and especially me. The woman had made her feelings about "that noise you call music" abundantly clear over the past few years.

We never expected much foot traffic on a Thursday, but you never knew when someone would wander in looking to replace a scratched copy of Born to Run, or stumble across Frampton Comes Alive and convince themselves it was fate.

The old man held up a single, squinting at the scribbled handwriting on the label, his hair sticking out in all directions, which was its usual style.

"This one says, 'Don't sell. Belongs to Terry. Hands off.'" He raised an eyebrow. "Do you think Terry knows his prized possession ended up in a fifty-cent crate next to a fondue set and a box of mismatched Tupperware lids?"

I smirked. "If he does, he's either dead or divorced. Either way, Terry's not around to stop us."

"Garage sales are brutal, man." Jeremiah let out a low chuckle. "Sorry, Terry," he said, slipping the record into a fresh sleeve, with the practiced movements of someone who genuinely loved what he did. He'd been working for me since shortly after I opened the record store, and while his taste in music ran heavier than mine, he understood the rhythm of the shop. Mornings were for quiet work and background music, not conversation and chaos. So when the phone rang, it cut through the calm like a scratched record.

I turned from the open register where I was setting up for the day and glanced at the portable phone. The screen lit up with a familiar name: The Bear Claw Bakery.

I answered with a smile, expecting to hear Brenda's voice. "Hey, hon. What's—?"

"It's Stacy," the voice said quickly. Her tone was clipped, serious. "Brenda asked me to call you."

Stacy Macy (yes, her parents actually named her that) was Brenda's business partner at the bakery. The two had been best friends since grade school, surviving everything from shared crushes and failed driving tests to the kind of business partnership that could destroy most friendships but somehow made theirs stronger.

My girlfriend was the baker at the Bear Claw. And when I say that, I mean the real kind, not someone who dabbled with boxed mix and Pinterest hacks. A full-fledged, up before-dawn, floured-to-the-elbows kind of woman who could make a pie crust that'd ruin you for store-bought for the rest of your life. Together, the pair made a solid team. Brenda handled the ovens, the recipes, and the seasonal menus. Stacy took care of the register, kept the books, managed special orders…and, apparently, made the crisis calls before 8:30 a.m.

I blinked. "Oh. Sorry. I thought…never mind. What's going on? Is everything alright?"

"Brenda's at the police station. They're questioning her."

My stomach dropped. "Questioning her? Questioning her about what?"

"This morning Brenda found someone, Tony. Out back, behind the bakery. In a car."

I leaned against the counter, already feeling the shift in the air. "Who?"

"Vivian Marks."

I blinked. "The actress?"

"Yeah. Brenda was taking the trash out early, just like always, and saw Vivian's car parked behind the building. She thought it was weird, especially that early. When she looked inside..." She paused. "The woman was dead."

I turned away from the front windows. Jeremiah was watching now, his brow furrowed but saying nothing.

"What happened?"

"They don't know yet. But Brenda called it in, and Flat Rock PD brought her down to make a statement. And now... It's turning into something else. They're asking her all kinds of questions about the play. About her and Vivian. Whether they got along."

Vivian wasn't just some visitor. She'd been part of Flat Rock's growing arts scene for the past few years, ever since she'd moved here from the Twin Cities with grand plans to turn our sleepy lake town into some kind of cultural destination. She was an actress with a résumé full of regional credits, community buzz, and just enough ego to carry her into every room like it belonged to her. When the community theater announced they wanted to stage a new original play for the summer, Vivian was the first and only playwright to throw their hat into the ring.

The play—The Lost Lecture—was her creation. She wrote it, directed it, and cast herself in the starring role as a fictional schoolteacher who spars verbally with Mark Twain during a fabricated stop in Flat Rock, back in 1882. It was sharp, wordy, satirical… and according to Brenda, borderline insufferable in spots. But that was Vivian. Brilliant, polarizing, and absolutely determined to see the production unfold exactly as she had envisioned it. Brenda hadn't even planned on being involved. She had a business to run, two weddings on the books for August, and more than enough going on in her life without the added stress of stage lights and late-night rehearsals. But when one of the theater's board members came into the Bear Claw in a panic because Vivian's chosen understudy had backed out, Brenda reluctantly agreed to step in. Just in case.

Of course, just in case had never felt likely. Vivian was the sort of person who would have gone on stage with a broken leg and a bottle of cough syrup before letting someone else speak her lines.

"They're acting like maybe Brenda had a reason to kill Vivian," Stacy said.

"She had a reason to be tired," I muttered. "She didn't even want the part."

"Well, someone's not buying that, Tony." Her voice dropped a notch. "They think she did it."

I pushed my coffee aside, the cold ceramic scraping across the counter. The words didn't register at first. Not really. Brenda? They thought Brenda, who cried during commercials and apologized when she sneezed too loudly, was capable of murder? The woman who still caught spiders in mason jars and released them outside because she couldn't bear to kill them?

"They're wrong," I said finally, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

"Of course they are," she said, sharper now. "But Brenda's rattled. She's trying to keep it together, but you know how she is. The woman is more worried about the bakery than herself, and she asked me to call you. I don't think she realized just how fast this was going to turn."

I grabbed my keys from the bowl near the register. "I'm heading over now."

I ended the call and looked over at Jeremiah, who was still watching me, record in hand, brows slightly drawn.

"Everything okay?"

"Not exactly." I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair. "That was Stacy. Brenda found someone behind the bakery this morning. Vivian Marks. She's dead."

Jeremiah blinked. "Dead? Like... actually dead?"

"Yeah. Brenda called the authorities. Now she's down at the station giving a statement, and it sounds like they're asking more questions than they should."

He slid the record back into its crate and stood up straighter, already moving toward the front counter. "I'll keep things running here."

Nodding once, I said, "Thanks. I don't know how long I'll be."

As my hand opened the door, he added, "Tell her I said... I don't know. Something decent."

I managed a half-smile. "I'll come up with something."

The bell on the door jingled as I stepped outside, the bright morning sun suddenly feeling too sharp. Flat Rock was already in motion around me. Delivery trucks idling in alleys, a couple of shopkeepers sweeping their sidewalks, old Mrs. Henderson walking her ancient beagle past the same fire hydrant they'd been visiting for the past five years. The dog tugging its half-awake owner down the street with a leash full of determination. On any other day, I'd have stopped to appreciate summer in Flat Rock, maybe grabbed a coffee from the Bear Claw, and walk the few blocks back to the shop. But everything felt off-kilter now. Like the record of the day had started spinning at the wrong speed.

Vivian Marks was dead, and the show was scheduled to open in less than two weeks. And Brenda, who never wanted the spotlight in the first place, was now standing directly in it.

 

-End of Chapter 1-

 

 

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