by ACF Bookens
“I’ll tell the sheriff I saw you here, Marcus, reading.”
“And I’ll let him know that you were working,” Mart said with a quick glance at me. “I tried to stop him, Harvey, but the man can’t help himself. He kept recommending books left and right. He only left the shop a few minutes before you came back in.”
“See, I couldn’t have killed that man.” Marcus’s voice was still quite shaky.
Cate leaned over and put her hand over Marcus’s. “Marcus, I assure you that no one here thinks you killed anyone.” We all nodded, and the tension in Marcus’s face eased a little.
Just then, there was a knock on the front door, and I walked over to let the sheriff in. “Sheriff, thanks for coming here. He was so scared.”
“I know. I hated to call him like that, but I thought it might be better for me to just come by his apartment casually rather than make a public arrest.” He gestured out the window with his chin. “Even drove my personal car to keep things quiet.”
I smiled at my friend. “That was kind of you. But between you and me, you don’t think Marcus actually did this do you?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t. But this witness is adamant. Insists she saw him there at the time of the murder.”
I sighed. “Well, we have witnesses here, a lot of them, including me and Mart, who know he was here all afternoon. That he didn’t leave until around four p.m.”
“Alright then.” A smile lit up the sheriff’s face. “Then all I’ll need are your statements, and we can keep from making any arrests tonight.”
As we walked over toward the café, he said, “Is that coffee?”
“You tell Marcus the good news, and I’ll pour you a cup myself.”
* * *
The next morning, when I arrived at the shop about nine thirty, Marcus was waiting. He looked better than he had the night before, but I could tell something was still bothering him. He was pacing back and forth in front of the store with his head down and his hands deep in his pockets.
“Marcus? You okay?”
He jolted a bit when I spoke. “What? Oh yeah, I’m okay. Just wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay. Let’s go.” We opened up the shop, and I gave Marcus his own set of keys so he wouldn’t have to wait outside for me anymore. Then, he fell right into the routine of turning on lights, checking on the dog water bowls, and starting the coffeepots that Rocky had set up the night before. I let him work, even though it was his day off, because it seemed like it was helpful for him to move in his routine.
When the store was all set for opening, we still had fifteen minutes before I unlocked the door, so we tucked ourselves into the two wingchairs by the psychology section. “Okay, what’s up?”
He looked up at the ceiling and said, “Harvey, why would someone accuse me of murder?”
I had wondered the same thing when I woke up about two a.m. I had always been one of those people who could drop off to sleep with no trouble, but if something woke me for long enough in the middle of the night, I could worry myself into a near panic attack before getting back to sleep. My cat Aslan both loved and loathed – when I petted her a minute too long – this trait. Last night, my concerns about Marcus led me to over-petting and four pinpricks of warning in the back of my hand.
“I don’t know, Marcus. I kind of thought about that, too.” I was understating the two hours I’d spent obsessing, but the man was already concerned enough. No need to heap my worries onto his. “I can’t imagine you’d have any enemies, anyone who wanted to get you in trouble.”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m not really a ‘making enemies’ kind of guy.”
I knew what he meant. From what I could see, Marcus was liked by everyone, even if at first some folks, including Lucas, had thought he was kind of angry at the world. He’d had reason to be angry, but I’d never thought he was. Just thought he was a kid who’d been dealt a kind of rough hand.
I folded my left leg under my right and put my hands behind my head to ponder how it would be that someone would identify Marcus as a killer. I had asked the sheriff the night before if this was a “meets the description” situation.
The sheriff had looked me dead in the eye and said, “Harvey Beckett, do you really think I would act on one of those reports about black people being ‘out of place?’”
I hadn’t, of course, but given how many people seem to report black men doing things they didn’t do simply because they were, well, black, I felt like I had to ask.
“No, Harvey. The witness named Marcus specifically. Said they recognized his shoes.”
“His Jordans?”
“Yes.” It took a kind of special eye to know tennis shoes, and I didn’t have that eye. I only knew they were Jordans because Mart told me. She had an eye for shoes, especially sneakers. They were her one luxury purchase – a new pair every month. Her closet was lined with neat shelves displaying all her pairs, grouped by brand and then color. It was a rainbow of Asics, New Balance, Converse, and Jordans. When someone made a joke about women and their shoes, Mart pulled out her camera, loaded a photo, and asked, “Like this?” Since it wasn’t the stereotypical collection of heels and boots, the person almost always bit their tongue.
“It’s not unusual to wear Jordans, is it?”
The sheriff had rolled his eyes. “No, Harvey. But I know you know those aren’t your run-of-the-mill Jordans. The witness knew they were Air Jordan 1s, the originals.”
I blew out a whistle. “So they were naming Marcus specifically, then? Not just saying they saw someone who looked like him.”
“Exactly.” He put on his hat. “Thanks for taking care of him, Harvey.”
I smiled. “No problem. Oh, and I’ve already forgotten. Who did you say the witness was?”
“Goodnight, Harvey.” The sheriff walked out the front door.
* * *
Now, with Marcus so bothered by this accusation, I didn’t know whether to tell him that someone had specifically fingered him or try to just play it off that it might have been a case of mistaken identity. I started to say, “You know, they might have just seen a black man . . .” but even saying that in my mind told me that was a mistake. Racism was alive and well, but it didn’t help end it to fabricate a profiling situation when there wasn’t one. We had enough real profiling to deal with.
I sat forward and put my elbows on my knees before looking at Marcus. “The sheriff said they ID’ed your shoes, Marcus. Someone definitely wanted to point the finger at you.”
He dropped his head back against the seat. “I was hoping I was overreacting.”
“Yeah. But look at it this way, this is our first clue in figuring out who the actual murderer is.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Harvey, there are about three hundred things wrong with that sentence, starting with the fact that we aren’t the ones trying to solve this murder.” He raised his eyebrows. “Additionally, just because someone tried to set me up doesn’t mean they were actually the murderer.”
“You’re right. . . about both things. But first of all, you know me.” I gave him my own significant look. “Second, it doesn’t mean they committed the murder, but it does seem to indicate they were trying to misdirect the sheriff’s attention away from whoever did, don’t you think?”
He shook his head. “Maybe. But—“
Just then, a knock at the front door drew my attention, and I saw Galen Gilbert outside with Mack, his English Bulldog. I glanced down at my watch. Ten a.m. on the dot. Time to open. “Don’t worry, Marcus. We’ll get this all sorted.”
“Thanks, Harvey,” he said as he stood up. “I decided to go over to Annapolis today, see Mom.” He walked me to the door. “Unless you need me.”
“I love that idea. Get out of here.” I opened the front door, let Galen in, and gave Marcus a solid push out. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Assistant Manager.”
That brought a smile to his face. “See you tomorrow.”
Galen
let Mack off her leash and wandered toward the register with me. “So Marcus is your new assistant? I love that idea. That young man knows his books. Did you know he has read everything Agatha Raisin mystery? He told me he really likes how loveable she is, but that he’s not sure why James puts up with her. I concurred completely.” He looked over toward the mystery section. “Anyway, great choice in assistants, Harvey. I’m off to shop.”
Galen had started coming into the shop shortly after we opened, picking up his weekly selection of mystery novels to read and review on his very, very popular Instagram feed. Not many men read mysteries, and even fewer admitted it when they did. But Galen had firmly embraced his love affair with the genre, and boldly shared his recommendations with tens of thousands of followers every week. He had promised to give me bookstagramming lessons soon, and I couldn’t wait. I had a lot to learn about my grid and my color palette and all the things Insta that Galen said would soon become second nature.
I stifled a giggle at the absurdity of a sixty-something-year-old white guy being an Instagram influencer. Sometimes, life is better than fiction.
I glanced over to see Mayhem and Mack sniffing around the front of Rocky’s bakery cabinet, and only then realized she hadn’t come in yet. That wasn’t like her at all, but when I pulled out my phone, I saw a text.
Car broke down. Daniel on his way. Be in as soon as possible. Can you start coffee?
I dashed off a quick reply to let her know it was all under control and then went to turn on the two coffeepots and shoo away the sniffy dogs. While I waited for the brew to finish and kept an eye on the register, I pondered why someone would kill Harris. Was there something to be gained, or was it revenge? A love triangle? I clearly had been reading too many YA novels. There was always a love triangle in those.
When the alarms on the pots sounded, I was no closer to having an answer, but I figured a good dose of caffeine might help. I filled the carafes and put out the half and half and skim, checked to be sure the sugar options were supplied, and then headed back to the shop.
Within minutes, Rocky came blustering in, an apology on her lips. “Your car broke down, Rocky. No need to apologize.” I looked around at the few customers in the shop. “It’s been a slow start. You’re fine. Take your time settling in.”
She gave me a grateful look and headed to the café, just as Daniel came in the front door. He made his way over to where I was standing near the poetry books and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Glad you could help Rocky out. It won’t be an expensive repair, right? I know she can’t afford anything big.”
“Not expensive at all.” He glanced at the café and then lowered his voice. “She just ran out of gas.”
I looked over at Rocky, who seemed overly focused on her work. “Oh poor thing. It’s never happened to me, but I’m always afraid it will.”
“I believe that. I’ve seen how close to empty you run. Maybe take Rocky’s experience as a cautionary tale.”
I knew he was right, but sometimes it just wasn’t convenient to stop for gas. I had podcasts to listen to, after all. Since moving to St. Marin’s, my risky gas fill-up ways put me in less and less danger since I almost never drove. I lived within walking distance of the shop, and since I worked every day, I didn’t even get in my old Subaru wagon very often.
Daniel started the old girl up and ran it around town for me every couple of weeks. “Cars don’t do well when they just sit,” he said again and again. I was happy to have him take care of something I didn’t care enough about to tend. I figured I returned the favor by making sure he had more than enough cheap beer and cheese dip in his fridge.
Still, I felt terrible for Rocky. She was precise about being on time, and I knew she was mortified at her oversight. I glanced over again and saw she was filling the pastry case like normal and decided to just leave it be. Even trying to be kind would probably be humiliating at this point.
“Anyway, thanks for helping her. You’re our knight in—“ I never finished my sentence because just then, my parents walked in. Burt and Sharon Beckett were sticklers about manners but never had been big on courtesy. They lived less than an hour away and had only been to visit once. I’d invited them for David’s reading the night before, but they’d had plans to play Settlers of Catan – “It’s all the rage,” my mom had said when she’d told me – and didn’t want to change it for something as pesky as their daughter’s first author event in her new store. They hadn’t made the grand opening of the shop or the big street fair I’d organized a few weeks back either.
But here they were today without notice. I let out a long sigh. I’d long ago learned that changing them was not possible and confronting them only made me suffer, so I smiled and waved as I said, “My parents are here,” to Daniel through clenched teeth. “I’ve told them about you,” I said as I pretended to straighten the shelf behind the register, “but they will act like I have not. It’s their MO. So sorry.” But that was all I had time to stay before they reached us.
Dad gave me a good solid hug, but I could feel him looking around the shop over my head. And Mom only hugs with her forearms. Body contact makes her uncomfortable. She, however, was far less interested in the shop than in the man who was standing behind the register next to me.
“I’m Sharon, Harvey’s mother, and you are?”
“I’m Daniel Galena, Mrs. Beckett. Harvey has told me all about you.”
He was completely lying. I mean I’d told him that my parents and I weren’t close, but I appreciated that he set the playing field clearly. He knew who she was, so she’d look foolish or just plain cruel if she didn’t say the same.
I saw Mom wince slightly, but then, she regained her prim composure and said, “Ah yes, Daniel. Harvey has mentioned you.” She glanced down at his hands. “You’re a plumber or something, aren’t you?”
“A mechanic, ma’am, but I’m fine with a pipe snake, too.” Daniel was a pretty shy fellow, but I was thrilled to see him refusing to play my mother’s game of coy derision. He shot me a quick wink. “Mr. Beckett, nice to finally meet you, sir.”
Gracious, that man was amazing. I loved that subtle weight on finally. He was due a full back massage later as gratitude.
My dad turned from his scrutiny of the business section just past the register and said, “Daniel, nice to meet you. Tell me – worked on any notable vehicles lately?”
They headed off toward the café, and Daniel gave me a quick smile as if to say, “I’m fine, and I’m here.” I felt myself relax just a little. But then, my mother said, “So I see business isn’t as good as you’d hoped.”
I glanced around. We weren’t packed, but six or seven people were browsing – that was pretty good for a Sunday morning in a town where most people went to church every Sunday. “Actually, this isn’t bad. We’ll pick up the after-church crowd come one o’clock or so.”
“I see,” she said and then ran a hand over – but never through – the dark brown coif that was, miraculously, the exact same shade of brunette it had been when I was five. Her weekly hair appointment was on Thursdays at four thirty, and, growing up, we’d always had fish sticks and apple sauce on those nights. Now, it’s salmon and Pinot Grigio for her and steak and an IPA for my dad. But only after her hair appointment.
She turned a full 360 degrees to look at the store and then said, “So you still haven’t been able to hire any help, I see?” She tried to make her voice sound concerned, but really, condescension was all I could hear.
“Actually, my assistant manager starts full-time tomorrow. I gave him the weekend off before he begins that position.” I tried not to look smug, but I think my face gave me away.
“Well, then . . .” She gave another survey around the shop. “Is it wise to bring on someone full-time? I mean.”
I laughed, and my mother finally met my gaze. “What’s so funny?”
“Mom, you just criticized me for not being able to hire help, and when I tell you I did, you criticize me f
or spending money on employees. What would you have me do differently?” I should have known better than to ask.
“Perhaps you could have started with some hourly help, asked your friends to pitch in a little, save some money.”
I sighed. Only a tiny part of me wanted to tell her that’s exactly what I had done, but I knew that would only lead to another, “Maybe you could have . . .” so I nodded. “You may be right, Mom.”
I took a long swig of my latte and said, “Would you like a tour?”
For a moment, she smiled with her whole face, and I took a long, slow breath. My mother’s critiques stemmed from her own perfectionism, not from her displeasure in me as her daughter. I didn’t always remember that, but when I could, I was able to have a bit more compassion for her and a bit more patience, too. “I’d love that, Harvey.”
For many years, my mom had tried to shake the nickname Dad had given me when I was about two. My given name was Anastasia Lovejoy Beckett, but somehow, Dad knew that I wasn’t an Anastasia, not a Stacy either, even though that’s what my friend Woody, the woodsmith, had taken to calling me as a joke. Mom hadn’t liked it. Apparently, she’d suffered hard to find my given name and resented that my father stole it from me so quickly.
But finally, when I was in college, I’d told her that when she used my given name, she seemed like one of those persnickety people on TV shows who insisted on some fancy name and looked ridiculous, and she’d finally caved and started calling me Harvey. It felt like a major breakthrough in our relationship then, and it still does now, every time she says it.
I took her by the arm and walked her through each section of the store, pointed out the storeroom in the back and saw her take careful note of the security system with a nod, and then wove her back over to the café, where Dad and Daniel were in an intense conversation about Dodge Chargers.
