Entitled to Kill

by ACF Bookens

  He smiled. “I did. It was at the police impound and was just released, so I got a great deal. I know you love these old pick-ups, and you’re always talking about redeeming the hard things. I thought this was a win-win.” He studied my face. “But maybe I was wrong? I can sell it if you don’t want it.”

  I walked toward him, rested my hand on his arm, and then walked over to the truck. “Can we paint it? I’ve always wanted my truck to be aqua and glossy.”

  Daniel walked up and slipped his arm around my waist. “We can paint it whatever color you like.”

  I leaned up, kissed Daniel’s cheek, and then climbed in the driver’s side door. “Consider this truck redeemed.”

  Bound To Execute

  I have this not-yet-explored fascination with garden magazines. Every time I see one and have the cash on hand, I pick it up. I’m such a sucker for those images of great planters and perfect levels of colorful flowers that I have to limit myself to cash-only purchases lest I spend my mortgage money on magazines that I don’t have any time to read.

  So why I thought I’d start not one but two gardens while also running my own bookstore, I don’t know. But I did . . . and I was loving it. At home, my roommate and best friend, Mart, and I had built some raised beds from fence boards that were left behind when we bought the house, and at the shop, I gathered a variety of planters from yard sales and auctions – with the help of my friends Stephen and Walter, denizens of good bargains and great taste – to arrange in front of the bookstore.

  At home, the planting was easy. We put in vegetable starts from our friend Elle Heron’s farm stand – tomatoes and peppers and one eggplant because I had this vision of suddenly liking the vegetable if I grew it. Plus, we seeded some carrots, beans, and melons, and I got very excited by the prospect of harvesting and then cooking with the food fresh from the yard. I was very optimistic.

  The bookstore plants proved more daunting because I wanted to recreate, so very badly, those gorgeous photos from the books. Elle cautioned me, though, about the various light and water needs of the eighty-eight flowers or so that I had dog-eared in the gardening magazines and suggested I go simple. Thus, I stuck with calibrachoa in a beautiful butter yellow and magenta coleus to complement it. I loved the look of those colors, even though – as several enthusiastic (and several other slightly angry) customers pointed out – I had inadvertently given tribute to the Redskins football team. Ravens’ fans were angry that I hadn’t, apparently, genetically altered flowers to make them teal and black, but I didn’t point out that I was a bookseller, not a horticulturist. I also didn’t say that I would never support – with my flowers or my money – the Redskins, given their racist mascot and team name. I wasn’t always good at holding my tongue, but in this case, I did. No need to make customers angry, after all.

  Still, the pots – alongside the bench my friend Woody had made – gave the converted gas station a welcoming feel. Customers often sat out there with a cup of coffee from Rocky’s café and enjoyed the spring weather. The first two weeks of May on the Eastern Shore are picture perfect for sitting and basking in the spring sun. Temperatures in the seventies. A slight breeze off the water. Perfect.

  In fact, most days when my assistant manager, Marcus, came in, I took my place on that bench for that very reason. Mayhem, my Black Mouth Cur, had figured out that the sun hit the west side of that bench perfectly in the afternoon, so she never hesitated to bed down in a sunbeam while I turned my face toward the sky and soaked in some Vitamin D.

  It was in that face-up position that Henri Johnson found me on that early May afternoon. “Hi Harvey,” she said as she dropped onto the bench next to me.

  I sat up just a little to turn toward her, but quickly resumed my position when she, too, leaned back, closed her eyes, and sighed. “What brings you by, Henri? Need some more books?”

  “Not yet, my dear. Bear brought me the last orders, and I’m still working through them. Just hard to stay inside and read when the weather is this nice.”

  I patted the copy of Crime and Punishment next to me. “That’s why I always bring a book.”

  She laughed. “I see how much reading you’re getting done at the moment.”

  I peeked over at my friend and marveled at the beautiful pink tones under her brown skin. Henri had the best complexion of anyone I knew, by far. I’d asked her once what she used, and she’d held up a pile of wool roving from next to her spinning wheel. “Lanolin. All natural.”

  Henri was a weaver – a really good one. One of her pieces was the runner for our dining table at home, but just this week, Mart and I had talked about asking her to make us a new piece for the table, something lighter for summer.

  We sat quietly for several minutes as the sun warmed us. I relished these days before humidity. I had grown up just north of here, and I knew a Maryland summer was not something to be trifled with, especially if you had curly hair like I did. Humidity and curls are not a good combination. But these perfectly warm days, I could do with months of those.

  Eventually, though, I felt the tell-tale tingle of a sunburn coming on and thought it best to put on my ball cap and begin the walk home. As I sat forward, Henri stood, too. “Thanks for that moment of rest, Harvey. I saw you here on my way to the bank and just couldn’t resist.”

  “Well, Henri, I’m honored to have had your company on the bench to bask. Let’s do it again before the town becomes a sauna.”

  “Deal.” She gave my arm a pat before she headed on up the street, a blue bank envelope in her hand.

  Seeing her deposit envelope made me glance at my watch – 4:45 – just enough time to get an extra deposit in before the weekend. I bustled inside and headed for the register. Marcus was just ringing up a sale, so I gave him a wink as I settled onto the stool behind him to wait.

  As always, he had hand-sold the customer some of his favorite books. Right now, he was on a Louise Erdrich kick, and I saw that the woman was leaving with copies of both The Round House and her new book, The Night Watchman. The woman was smiling, and I knew Marcus had secured another customer for the store. For about the millionth time I thought how lucky I was to have met him and to have been able to convince him to work with me.

  He smiled at me. “Whatcha need, Ms. B? Forget something?”

  “Nope. Just decided to do an extra deposit before the weekend. Feeling flush with our big sales this week.” I laughed. It hadn’t exactly been a big enough week that I could afford a yacht like some of those now coming into the St. Marin’s marina for the season, but each week, we were selling a bit more, and I hoped by our one-year anniversary in the fall we’d be ready to bring on a third employee.

  “Sounds good.” He leaned down, unlocked the cabinet door, and then opened the small safe we kept there. “Always good to keep your cash in the bank, Mama says. Less likely to spend it that way.”

  Marcus’s mom, Josie, was a regular columnist in our monthly newsletter. Her book reviews were almost as good as her son’s, and I loved her humor and the wisdom it usually hid within.

  “Well, if Josie says it’s wise, then it must be doubly so.” I patted Marcus on his shoulder blade. “You been working out, Marcus? Seems like you might be beefing up a bit.”

  A flash of color ran up under Marcus’s walnut skin. “Maybe a little.” His eyes darted over to the café behind me, and I smiled.

  “Ah, I see. Well, it looks good on you.” Marcus and café owner Rocky had been dating for a few weeks now, and from the pep in their steps and Marcus’s newly acquired interest in weight-lifting, it seemed like things were going well.

  I slid the cash and checks into our red bank envelope and made a note of what was there before heading to the door. “See you tomorrow.” I waved at Marcus and went out below the dinging bell.

  Mayhem’s sunbeam had moved on, so she was ready to walk. I slid her leash out of the custom-made holder that Woody had added to the bench when he’d realized how much Mayhem loved laying by it and headed in Henri’s foots
teps to the bank.

  It was just a few doors down Main Street to the bank, but it was 4:55 now – and banks didn’t make a habit of staying open a minute late, especially not ours. The bank manager, Wilma Painter, was a fastidious, rule-following woman, and none of the business owners in town trifled with her if we could help it. She’d been known to literally slam the bank door on a customer’s hand if they dared to try and open it a minute past five.

  A woman in her fifties, she had apparently decided to fight the signs of aging with coal-black hair-dye, and unfortunately, Wilma was a woman prone to glistening, as my mother delicately called sweating. So on a warm day, or when things in the bank went a little awry of Wilma’s strict standards, rivulets of black stain ran down her cheekbones. I always felt a little bad for her, but I didn’t know how – or have the courage – to suggest a visit to a professional salon lest my accounts be closed immediately.

  I bustled into the bank lobby at 4:56 and breathed a sigh of relief to see no one ahead of me in line. Some businesses have the, “If you’re in the door before closing” policy, but not Wilma’s bank. She would march you right out the door at five p.m. if your transaction wasn’t finished. I had found that out the hard way one day when she’d grabbed my arm, not gently, and walked me out the door, shutting it snugly after she said, “We reopen on Monday at nine a.m.”

  The teller gave me a tight smile as I approached. “Hi Cynthia. Sorry to be cutting it so close.”

  The young woman, who was a frequent visitor to my bookstore’s romance section, said, “It’s okay. I can count fast,” and then proceeded to count my deposit with the lightning speed that the three minutes left in her work day required. She printed the slip just as the clock over her head read 4:59, and I turned to go. But just then, I heard shouting from the direction of Wilma’s office.

  I turned to see what the commotion was about just as Henri came storming out of the office. Wilma followed behind her, her voice even but steely. “Ms. Johnson, I’ll appreciate that you speak to me with respect. This is a place of business.”

  Henri turned, opened her mouth as if to say something, and then spun back around and walked out of the building.

  I stood, dumbfounded, in the middle of the lobby until Wilma spotted me. “Ms. Beckett, please close your mouth and leave. It is 5:02 p.m.,” she said as she checked her watch, “and you are now in violation of bank policy. Remain any longer, and I will have to call the police and ask that you be removed.”

  I lowered my chin and looked at the bank manager from under my eyebrows, but I knew there was no value in giving her a piece of my mind, even if I did relish the idea of Sheriff Mason having to come escort me out for being in the bank at 5:02 p.m. The sheriff and I were good friends, and I knew for a fact that he harbored no deep affection for Wilma Painter. Still, I wasn’t in the mood to ruin my Friday night with a stand-off, so I turned, thanked Cynthia again, and went out the door.

  Mayhem was waiting by the tree to which I’d tied her, but she was turned back up the street and pulling at her leash. I looked in the direction she was straining and saw Henri leaning up against the wall of the bookstore. Her shoulders were heaving.

  I gathered Mayhem and quickly headed that way. “Henri, are you okay? Do you want to come inside and sit down?”

  When she lifted her head I saw, though, that she wasn’t crying. No, this woman was furious, and she was taking long, hard breaths to, it seemed, calm down. “I’m sorry, Harvey, but that woman.”

  I nodded. “She is something. Just threatened to have Tuck come and escort me out.”

  Henri shook her head. “She is really unbelievable.” She took a hard breath and dropped her shoulders. “I wouldn’t want this getting around town, but she just threatened to foreclose on the co-op.”

  “What?!” The art co-op down the street was one of the biggest attractions in St. Marin’s. Henri had a studio there, and so did our friend Cate, a local photographer known for her portraits. “Why?”

  Henri gritted her teeth. “She says that we are behind on our mortgage payments, but that can’t be right, can it? I mean, Cate is on top of everything. I can’t imagine her missing a payment.”

  I agreed. Cate had quickly become one of my dearest friends, and she was one of the most organized, thoughtful people I knew. She would never risk putting the co-op or the artists it served at risk. “I can’t imagine that either. There must be some other explanation.”

  Henri met my eye. “You’re right. Thanks, Harvey. It’s just the way Wilma talked to me, like I was an idiot.”

  “I know. She is ridiculous.” I smiled. “We can figure this all out, though. I’m sure there’s some simple story here.”

  She nodded, then looked at her watch. “Shoot. I’m afraid I can’t figure it out now, though. Bear has one of those fancy hospital dinners, and I have to get home and get ready.”

  I clasped her arm, and we walked up Main Street to the co-op. “Don’t worry. Cate and Lucas are coming to my place for dinner tonight. If it’s okay with you, I’ll tell her what happened and see what she says. Email you later with the story?”

  Henri squeezed my hand on her arm. “Oh, that would be great, Harvey. Thanks.” She turned to me. “And thanks for calming me down.” She gave me a quick hug and then scratched Mayhem behind the ears. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Definitely. And I’ll email tonight for sure.”

  She hurried down the sidewalk and got into her old, green Jaguar. I waved as she pulled by and then took a deep breath. At least we’d have something to talk about at dinner.

  I pulled my phone out of my back pocket. I still had a little time before I needed to go home, so I pointed my feet toward the mechanic’s shop at the end of the street. That was all the signal Mayhem needed to head toward her best friend, Taco, the Bassett Hound. I didn’t blame her though. A certain handsome mechanic kind of made me want to run, too.

  Daniel was under the front of a blue sedan when we arrived. I could just see his denim-clad legs sticking out. Next to him, the prostrate body of the Bassett Hound lay as if waiting to hand him the next tool . . . well, except for the floppy ear over his eye. Taco was not much good at assisting with anything except weighing down objects and nap training. Still, he was excellent company.

  Mayhem wasted no time and stretched out beside him. “I brought another useless assistant for you.”

  “Oh, hi,” Daniel said as he began to slide out on his roller-thingy. I knew that slider contraption he used to get under cars had a name, and I’d even asked, twice. But I’d forgotten both times since I had no compartments for car-related info in my brain, well, unless it related to a book. When I’d read The Myth of Solid Ground by David Ulin – an amazing book about earthquakes – I’d learned that James Dean died in a Porsche Spyder on the San Andreas fault, and I had never forgotten. Give me a story, and I’ll remember. Otherwise, I couldn’t tell an alternator from a brake caliper.

  Daniel stood and eyed the two dogs beside him. “Useless, those two. Completely useless.”

  I stepped forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek, taking a second to breath in that scent of oil and aftershave that I’d come to love even before I’d been willing to tell the man wearing them that I felt the same about him. That hurdle in our relationship had been crossed a few weeks back, though, and now we were sliding into that phase that was about resting easy in affection but not pushing too hard for the next step. I liked this stage, secure and steady with not much pressure.

  “Utterly,” I said as he leaned over and kissed my cheek.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Daniel asked as he wiped his hands on a blue rag. The man collected rags like they were gold, and I was grateful since I’d been able to gift him all the frayed and stained hand towels at our house without guilt.

  “We were just out and about with a little time to kill.” I tried to sound nonchalant.

  “Oh yeah. Since when do you have time to kill? I mean I appreciate the visit, but wo
uldn’t you rather be squeezing in a chapter of your latest read before dinner?”

  He had a point. Ever since the shop had gotten its feet under it and Marcus had begun working full-time, I’d delved back into my reading life with gusto. Daniel, not much of a reader himself, couldn’t figure out why I had this obsession with books, but I couldn’t figure out his obsession with cars, so I wagered we were even. “Well, yeah, okay. This weird thing happened with Henri at the bank.”

  I told him about Henri’s fight with Wilma and the missing payments. “Doesn’t seem like Cate to let something like that slip,” he said as he heaved Taco to a standing position before starting to turn off the shop lights.

  “That’s what I said. She’s just too organized for that.”

  He slipped an only slightly dirty arm around my waist as I encouraged Mayhem to standing with her leash. “You’re going to ask her tonight, right?”

  “Yep. Sure am. And speaking of which, I better get home and get the hamburgers formed up. I’m adding steak sauce and tucking cheese in the middle. I feel so fancy.”

  He grinned. “Need a hand? I mean, I’d like to shower, but I can come on if that would help.”

  I smiled. “You go shower. I can handle the burgers, and I have an audiobook to listen to while I cook.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, giving me a quick kiss before I went out the door. “See you at six-thirty.”

  He gave a wave as he bent down to lift Taco, who had returned to his previous prone position in the ten seconds that Daniel and I were talking.

  * * *

  Mayhem pulled me home with her incessant sniffing, which apparently wore her out because when we got the house, she went right to her dog bed and collapsed. Aslan, my cat, was less than thrilled to be displaced from her makeshift bed in the sun, but the dog was not to be dissuaded. Aslan begrudgingly took up her place on the cashmere throw on my reading chair. Oh, to have the life of one of my pets.