When Sister Bernadette hears from the local pharmacist about plans to redevelop and gentrify their small community on Chestnut Street, she rallies her neighbors at The Abbey: Senior Living to help stop it. Chestnut Street is home to local mom-and-pop businesses that The Abbey’s residents frequently access. But when the healthy pharmacist mysteriously drops dead with no discernable reason, Detective AJ Lewis is stumped. Then another, younger, business owner dies with no explanation, and AJ is suspicious and starts to dig.
Sister Bernie, investigating small, seemingly nonsensical thefts, is intrigued and positions herself to collaborate with the police for what she hopes will be her second murder investigation. Who’s behind the shadowy Vision Corporation? Each question leads to a dead end or another question. And then there’s an unexpected death at The Abbey. Coincidence or Connection?
Sister Bernadette Ohlson paused outside the main entrance of The Abbey: Senior Living to inhale the earthy smell of autumn. Pleasantly mild weather replaced the oppressive heat of summertime. Trees along the street bloomed in magnificent bouquets of orange, red, yellow, and rust brown. By this point in October, the frantic chaos of students moving into the University of Oregon and starting classes had settled into an easy routine while town and gown adjusted to each other. A short stack of hay bales sat outside the heavy wooden doors, artfully arranged with pumpkins and gourds harvested from Jorge Garcia’s garden in The Abbey’s courtyard.
“Bernie, wait up!” Rin Sato cried, stopping Bernie in her tracks. The petite woman hustled across the sidewalk with the agility of someone half her age. Rin practiced yoga and maintained astonishing flexibility and strength for a seventy-six-year-old. “You forgot my library books!”
Bernie set her canvas bag on a nearby bench and made room inside for the small stack her neighbor carried over. She’d popped in the common area to see if anyone needed anything before leaving for the pharmacy and little market down the block. Her small gesture of kindness resulted in a list of errands written in her spidery script on the back of an envelope now containing twenty dollars from Phil Thomas for his blood pressure medication, six dollars from Fern Panske for a box of peppermint tea, and five dollars in coins from Cliff Warneke for the 3/8-inch flat washers he required to fix the wooden bookshelves in the small reading nook behind the dining area.
“Thank you.” Rin’s glossy black bob shone in the early afternoon sunshine and from her height, Bernie could see a glint of white roots. Clearly Rin needed to make an appointment for a touch-up. Bernie had no doubt she’d already scheduled it; her friend was particular about her appearance, from her elegantly tailored pants to her buffed fingernails. By contrast, the only part of Bernie that got a regular polish were her teeth when she brushed them.
Two paperback murder mysteries by Kris Bock, one of Reece’s book club selections, and a Rick Steves traveler’s guide for Vietnam landed with a gentle thud on top of the package Jorge asked Bernie to mail to his son in Monterrey, Mexico. Rin pressed her jade pendant against her chest while she looked inside the bag. “What’s with the yarn? You don’t knit.”
It was true, Bernie didn’t do any crafts. Since retiring from teaching eighth grade English in the school that once occupied the rooms now converted into senior apartments, she enjoyed reading, assembling jigsaw puzzles, and taking charge of anything Meadow Jackson, the building manager at The Abbey, left in her capable hands to manage. She shrugged her broad shoulders. “The Harrington twins want me to return these skeins to the fabric shop. Or exchange them for”—Bernie consulted her list— “two skeins of forest-green bulky weight wool yarn by Kelbourne Woolens. This yarn purchasing business is very specific.”
“Well, you’re a gem, Bernie. My granddaughters are visiting in an hour, and they’ll expect a pan of my strawberry cake roll. I won’t have time to return these later, and I hate paying a late fine.”
Bernie suppressed a smile. In addition to her vanity, Rin was famously cheap. She preferred to call herself thrifty. Bernie couldn’t disagree with her assessment, she cared about having the best quality, but Rin was the lady who filled her purse with all the sugar and jam packets from a restaurant. “Have fun. I know how much you enjoy them.”
“I will. One’s working on a class project about ancestors, so she’s interviewing me.” A proud smile spread across Rin’s face.
“I suspect you’ll have no trouble talking about yourself,” Bernie told her.
Two joggers hopped off the curb into the street to avoid colliding with Bernie as she made her way down Chestnut Street. She gave them a friendly nod, greeted a young mother pushing a sleeping toddler in a stroller, and chatted up the piano teacher, Vivian Li, who was headed to The Abbey to give Phil his weekly lesson. Fern’s friend Iyla Allan called a cheerful hello from where she was parking her car across the street. The neighborhood’s companionable spirit always pleased Bernie. It reminded her of the old days when the school was open and the families all lived, worked, and worshipped within a ten-block radius. In her lifetime she’d seen plenty of places lose their soul—and friendliness—when small businesses closed, and developers moved in to build strip malls and condominiums designed for residents who commuted to work and play. She believed that when people spread their activities over too much space their travel took up too much of their time and the result further separated communities. She was grateful this neighborhood where she’d lived and worked most of her life still retained its character.
“Hi, Bernie!” Carly Hermsen, the owner of In Stitches, a fabric and yarn supply shop, greeted her from the worktable that dominated the center of the store. A former claims adjuster, Carly told everyone she wasn’t retired. She was enjoying this new chapter of life. Weak-chinned and stoop-shouldered, she wore a white apron embroidered with her store’s logo in yellow thread. She usually kept a pencil poking out of a rat’s nest of hair dyed a bright orange color and held with a leopard print plastic clip. Her deep apron pockets held her phone, pens, pins, notepads, needles, scissors, measuring tape, and a spare pair of glasses. Bernie had witnessed her retrieving every essential item out of those vast pockets while assisting her customers.
“The Harringtons wanted to know if they could exchange this yarn.” Bernie pulled the skeins loose from her bag and handed them to Carly who examined the labels and read the note.
“They want two skeins of the Kelbourne? Hang tight.”
While Carly ducked into the back room, Bernie strolled around the shop. Floor-to-ceiling cubbies filled with yarn, fabric, and pattern books covered the shop’s walls. Free-standing racks held a range of crafting accessories and a display case by the door showed off sample projects that Carly whipped up to generate interest in the classes offered at the stop. Bernie glanced at the calendar of craft workshops thinking perhaps something would seem appealing, but no, she really had no desire to weave, quilt, scrapbook, embroider, cross-stitch, knit, crochet, or felt. Still, she admired the variety of classes Carly offered. She folded a copy of the calendar in her bag to bring back to The Abbey.
“Here you go.” Carly bustled toward her carrying the twists of green yarn. She jotted numbers on an order pad and tore off the carbon copy. “Tell the gals they owe me seven dollars and thirty-two cents. The Kelbourne’s more expensive than the yarn they returned.”
Bernie produced her wallet, and Carly vigorously shook her head. “I know they’re good for it. They can catch me later.”
“Are you sure?” Her disapproving frown was met with a chuckle. “I don’t want to tell you how to run your business,” she began, although she did want to advise this woman.
“Oh, the Harringtons are in my shop once or twice a week.” Carly waved her hand. “But if you can suggest how to catch shoplifters, I’m all ears.”
Bernie’s frown deepened. “Someone’s stealing from you?”
Carly’s wide smile faded a bit, and she chewed her bottom lip before answering. “I hate to overreact. I want this to be a welcoming place with crafters dropping in and hanging out.” She waved her hand toward the stuffed chairs arranged around a table in one corner of the store. “But yes, things have gone missing lately.”
“Like what?” There. I may not craft, but I like solving puzzles and problems. I helped solve a murder last month, so this should be easy.
“A sample sweater I’d pinned to a yarn display, a set of wooden yarn holders, a little vase with flowers made out of wire and buttons.” Carly shook her head sadly. “It’s not a big loss, but it makes me feel bad when I set out displays and someone takes them. And these were definitely taken,” she added before Bernie could ask whether the items had been misplaced. “Trust me, I looked everywhere to be certain.”
“Could it be kids?” Bernie hated to accuse children, but in her experience, they often operated in a separate ethical sphere than adults. She’d seen it as a middle school teacher.
“The only children in my shop usually come buckled in strollers. But I do wonder because the sweater was child sized. Maybe a little girl took it for her doll.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, tell the Harringtons they can square up with me next time I see them. Did you need anything else?”
No, Bernie did not. She tucked the skeins into her bag and continued down the street.
After picking up prescriptions from the Pharmers Market (an inhaler for her, blood pressure meds for Phil) Bernie paused to read a new poster pinned to the bulletin board. Large red letters announced URGENT: Diversity NOT Displacement above a grainy photograph of a fancy five-story building. The poster gave details about a community meeting planned for Thursday night at the public library. “All are welcome—including pets and children.”
Bernie tapped the poster. “What’s this about, Ethan?”
The pharmacist came around the counter to stand beside her. Ethan Brecht was a few inches shorter than her, and he exuded good health. His face was tanned, frequently chapped and windburned from his rigorous weekends hiking and camping in the mountains. Long ago, he’d shaved what was left of the hair growing on his head, but whiskers bristled from his chin and cheeks. He claimed the layer of scruff protected him while deer hunting. Ethan and his wife, Jodi, met at the pharmacy school at Oregon State University. Bernie remembered when they bought the pharmacy from the previous owner twenty-two years ago and updated their inventory to reflect people’s interest in holistic healthcare. The Pharmer’s Market sold everything you needed to stay healthy no matter your age or beliefs—essential oils, CBD products, Nyquil, acne creams, hand-carved walking sticks, compression socks, even shelves of books to guide your understanding of meditation, menopause, or melanoma. Everyone at The Abbey shopped there, and Bernie usually saw other people from the neighborhood in the store, too.
“Don’t get him started, Bernie!” Jodi called from behind the back counter where she was filling prescriptions. She was smiling, but her voice sounded a warning.
Bernie raised an eyebrow at Ethan, who gave a low growl before muttering “Capitalist pigs.” He inhaled sharply and unleashed a long rant that began with, “They want to tear down our whole block. Every business, every person living and working here will disappear. Vision Realty and Development.” Ethan snorted and shook his head with disgust. “They’ve got some vision all right—all they see are expensive condominiums from sea to shining sea. They already made an offer to Hugo and he’s thinking about selling to them.”
Hugo Sanchez owned the convenience store on the corner of the block. The corner store had operated under various owners decades before Bernie first arrived to teach at The Abbey when it was still a Catholic school over fifty years ago. “Why would he sell his business?” Bernie exclaimed. The store enjoyed a steady flow of customers.
“He claims theft’s become a problem, but I think Vision made an offer he can’t refuse. Little guys like us won’t make it rich working in retail. Big money is in real estate development—luxury apartments, condos, that sort of thing. But life’s about more than money.”
Bernie knew Ethan and Jodi placed more value on building community than lining their pockets. Ethan often said if they earned enough to enjoy their hobbies and give their kids a good start in life, what more did they need? As a nun, she understood their thinking, her life had centered on moderation in a thousand different ways. But she appreciated the appeal of a big payout. “I thought you each owned your own building. Does it affect you if Hugo sells?”
“They want the whole block, Bernie. The whole block.” Ethan’s face flushed red and his voice shook. “It’s only a matter of time before they displace all of us. Once a corporation like Vision gets a toehold in our neighborhood, they’ll put the squeeze on the rest of us. And everybody knows the people who move into luxury condos won’t shop here. I’ll lose my customer base and that’ll put me and Jodi out of business. Then where will people like you and Phil and the Williams family and the Nyguyens and everyone else living here get their essentials? Don’t you dare say online either! That’s how gentrification works. They push out the diversity, eliminate everything that makes our ecosystem functional—and unique and wonderful. Then replace it with parking ramps, high rises, and Amazon delivery vans. Maybe a few high-end boutiques and coffee shops open up, but that won’t serve the working-class people living here. Can you picture Phil or Jorge paying six bucks for a mocha Frappuccino?”
She couldn’t. Everyone at The Abbey lived modestly because no one there knew if they needed to stretch their savings for five more years or twenty. She realized she was clutching the cross pendant hanging around her neck. Ethan’s prophecy of doom sounded awful. “But only Hugo wants to sell, right? I mean, Carly just opened her shop. She won’t go anywhere.”
“She doesn’t own that building.” Jodi had walked over to put her hand on Ethan’s back. “She rents it. We’re not sure who the owner is. She pays a property management company every month.”
“What about Scilla’s sandwich shop?”
The couple nodded bleakly. “Also rents. Wright owns his building, and the apartments next door.” Jodi’s wide smile faded. “All the houses behind us are older. I’m sure many of those owners would welcome a buyout. But we’re hoping we can explain the long-term impacts of this development plan and rally a united front before it’s too late.”
Bernie nodded. “You can count on The Abbey to show up. I’ll spread the word. We need you two. And the corner store.” She paused before adding, “Not real sure about the tattoo place, though. I don’t think anyone besides Meadow goes there.”
The Brechts chuckled and Ethan handed her a small bundle of pamphlets. “Sorry I’m so heated up about this, but it’s our future. All our futures.” He gave her an apologetic smile.
“We’d love any support you can give us. Thanks, Bernie,” Jodi added.
Bernie turned to wave as she leaned forward to push the door open—it tended to stick, and she always needed to put her weight into it—when the smooth polished surface swung away from her. She stumbled and fell into a bulky embrace. Her arms clutched at the man’s flannel shirtsleeves and she met the deep-set gaze of Crazy O, the owner of P’unked, the tattoo parlor on the other side of In Stitches. The man bristled—bushy eyebrows, shaggy beard, long black hair, face piercings, and a thick leather band around his neck was covered in metal spikes. He grinned at her and helped her steady herself.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Thank you. Yes.” Bernie adjusted the strap of her bag on her forearm. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been paying attention to where I was stepping.”
“No worries,” Crazy O said cheerfully. He held the door wide for her, the chains looped at his waist clinking with the movement. “Have a great day!”
“You too,” Bernie told him. Crazy O looked terrifying. His tattoo parlor got rowdy with the crowd that hung out there and she’d heard rumors about his supplemental income from selling drugs. But Crazy O acted politely the few times she’d seen him on the street or in a store, so as strange as he looked, she couldn’t fault his manners.
While she finished her errands, her thoughts kept returning to what Ethan had told her. The Abbey would suffer if the neighborhood stores disappeared. She loved living there because of her history in the building, but also because of the convenience of the shops within short walking distance and the friendly community of neighbors surrounding them. Sure, the place had become a bit scruffy around the edges over the years. Most of the houses on the block behind Chestnut Street needed paint and a few had fallen into disrepair and for a while more For Lease signs hung in the storefront windows than Open signs. But it seemed like their spot on Eugene’s map had turned a corner, and things felt like they did in the boom times of the seventies and eighties before malls and suburbs tugged the loose threads of local neighborhoods and unraveled the connections.
And The Abbey: Senior Living gave the empty Catholic school and monastery new purpose, bringing residents to the formerly vacant classrooms and boosting commerce along the street. She’d been proud of the community at The Abbey and how they’d knit themselves into the larger one around them. It angered her to think of losing any part of it—even the tattoo parlor.
Author Bio:
Melissa Westemeier is a Sister in Crime and teacher from Wisconsin. She uses humor to explore serious subjects, and her published books include murder mysteries, rom-coms, and a trilogy loosely based on her years tending bar on the Wolf River. She likes her coffee and protagonists strong and prefers to work barefoot with natural lighting.
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