by Colin Conway
Cozy Up
to Death
a novel about a bookstore,
a cat, knitting, and blood
by Colin Conway
Cozy Up to Death
by Colin Conway
Copyright 2020 Colin Conway
Cover design by Zach McCain
Published by Original Ink Press, an imprint of High Speed Creative, LLC
This is a work of fiction. While real locations may be used to add authenticity to the story, all characters appearing in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Cozy Up to Death (The Cozy Up Series, #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Dedicated to Gertrude Von Finklestein
I don’t mind dying.
I just don’t want to be there when it happens.
Spike Milligan
Chapter 1
The brass bell tinkled brightly when the door to the bookstore swung open.
The ocean’s aroma and the summer’s humidity entered along with the older woman. She took her time closing the door, then turned to wipe her feet several times on the well-worn mat, which once read All Good Stories Begin Here. Unfortunately, most of the Good and all the Begin had rubbed off over the years, so the remaining message was All Stories Here.
When she finished cleaning the soles of her shoes, she lifted her head, her eyes widening in anticipation. It was apparent that the slight woman enjoyed bookstores, and it appeared to be her first time at The Red Herring, Pleasant Valley’s only mystery bookshop.
Before moving, her eyes scanned every inch of the store, passing over the huge man standing behind the counter.
When the woman felt she had a good understanding of the layout, she stepped inward but stopped suddenly when an orange cat appeared out of nowhere to rub itself against her leg.
“Hello, sweetie,” the woman said, bending over to pet the scruffy tom.
It, however, had no intentions of being touched and hurried away, deeper into the store.
The woman righted herself and beamed. She appeared to be a cat person as she was not offended by the feline’s snub of her interest.
“Where to start?” she mumbled and stepped toward a small display with the headline banner Local Author Carrie Fenton. Underneath were several True Crime books that blatantly worked Maine into the title—The Death of Maine, Maine’s Bluest Blood, and Maine Line Murder. The woman dismissively shook her head and moved toward a nearby book spinner.
In the back of the shop, something fell to the floor.
“Cat!” the man hollered from behind the sales counter. “Knock it off!” His deep baritone voice was gravelly and seemed to shake the small store.
The woman stopped then to take him in fully. As she stared, her hand slowly lifted to her chest.
“I apologize,” the man said, his voice returning to a reasonable level. “The cat, he knocks things over. Aren’t they supposed to be graceful?”
The woman dropped her hand and stepped forward. She looked up at the man with awe. It was the reaction he got most when in polite company. He stood six-foot-four inches and weighed roughly two-hundred twenty-five pounds.
“You sure are a big fella,” she said with a southern accent. “My son played for the University of Alabama, and you’re even bigger than him. Didja play ball in school?”
“No, ma’am.”
“How come?” she asked as if not playing football was an odd choice for a man of his size.
He thought for a moment, then said with a conspiratorial half-grin, “It was too dangerous.”
She patted the counter in a knowing gesture and gave him a kindly smile. “Oh, of course. I always worried about my boy getting hurt, but my husband, he insisted our son play. Your father was smart for not letting you. It’s a risky game, for sure. Owning a bookstore is much smarter. I’m assuming you’re the owner, that is?”
“I guess I am.”
She stuck out her hand. “I’m Helen.”
“Brody.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. Her words trailed off as she noticed the tattoo on the back of his right hand. The ink seemed to disappear underneath the plaid, long-sleeve shirt that he wore buttoned up to his neck.
Brody pulled his hand back and shoved it into his pants pocket.
Helen regained her smile and said, “Everyone in this town is so nice. My sister and I are touring through the northeast and spent last night here. I’m so delighted by the hospitality that everyone has shown.”
She watched him expectantly, hoping Brody would engage in conversation. Instead, he remained silent and studied her. They stared at each other for a few moments until Helen spoke again.
“We’re leaving this afternoon and going up to York Harbor.”
Brody’s brow furrowed.
“York Harbor,” the woman repeated. “It’s ten minutes up the way.” Helen pointed absently toward the north.
“Ah.”
“But we’ll be in Pleasant Valley until lunchtime. What do you recommend we do?”
“No idea,” Brody said.
“Really?”
He shrugged.
“How long have you lived in this town?”
“A day.”
“One day? But you own this store.”
Brody hesitated before saying, “I bought it online.”
“Online?”
“Through the Internet.”
“The Internet?” Helen repeated before whistling softly. “You bought a business on the Internet. Who would have thought such a thing possible?”
Something again fell in the back of the store, and Brody turned his head to yell, “Cat!”
“Is today your first day?”
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
“And that’s your kitty?”
“He came with the store.” Brody leaned in. “And if you want him, you can have him. Free.”
“Oh, honey,” Helen said, “I can’t take him. Besides, every bookstore needs a cat.”
“Not this one,” Brody muttered with a look of exasperation.
Helen’s face widened with excitement. “Am I, possibly, your first customer?”
“I believe so.”
The woman tapped the counter with excitement. “In that case, let’s buy something! I like a good mystery. Agatha Christie is my favorite, but I’ve read all her books. So nothing by her, okay? I also like Sue Grafton and Janet Evanovich, but I’ve been through all their books, too. What new writer do you suggest I try?”
A frown creased Brody’s face, and he crossed his thick arms.
“If you don’t know anyon
e comparable to those writers, you can suggest anyone, my dear. Who do you like? I’ll buy any book you suggest so that I can be your first customer. What a neat honor that would be.”
“I’m not sure who to recommend,” he admitted.
“I’ve stumped you?” She turned to survey the bookstore. “How is that possible with all these delightful treasures?”
“To be honest,” Brody said, “I don’t read.”
Helen stared at him, dumbfounded.
“I mean, I read,” Brody corrected himself. “Newspapers and repair manuals and such. But I haven’t read an actual book since high school.”
The older woman picked up a paperback copy of John D. MacDonald’s The Deep Blue Good-by that was lying on the counter, turning it in her hand. “But, this is a ...”
“A bookstore. I know.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“That makes two of us.”
“What?” she asked, clearly confused.
A large clunk occurred in the rear of the store, which was then followed by several smaller noises.
“Cat!” Brody yelled. He turned to the befuddled Helen and said, “I’ll be back.”
In the section identified as Thrillers, the orange cat was nowhere to be found, but several books were lying in the aisleway. Brody quickly scooped them up and stacked them on a shelf without consideration as to where they belonged. While he did that, the bell chimed again at the front of the store.
Brody stole a final glance for the cat and returned to the counter. No one was there now since the older woman had left without buying a book.
He smelled the ocean’s air from when she opened the door. The summer’s humidity had snuck in again, and the building’s swamp cooler had yet to beat it back. It wasn’t even noon, and he’d already had and lost his first customer.
Brody realized then that living in Pleasant Valley was going to take some getting used to.
Chapter 2
He walked to the rear entrance of the store and examined the alley that ran behind the building. Brody was checking on his truck, a 1985 Ford F-150, when the brass bell rang again. He sighed, understanding then that customers coming into the store might be a regular occurrence.
Before closing the door, he took another look at the alley. It was spotless. Strangely so. He glanced in both directions, familiarizing himself with its layout. If he ever needed to make a hasty exit from the store, it would be an accessible route. On the opposite side of the alley were a row of houses that he could not see due to the large hedges that most of them had. If he couldn’t see the neighbors, he thought, then they couldn’t see him.
It wasn’t a bad location, he considered, although he would soon need to walk around the block to determine who actually lived in those houses.
He pulled the door closed, locked it, and headed toward the front of the shop. He passed the entrance to the basement stairway. It was dark and empty down there—too damp to store any books—but perfect for a few old pieces of furniture.
A woman stood at the book spinner, turning it slowly as her eyes scanned each title. She wore a light-yellow summer dress that hung from petite shoulders. Her straight mousy brown hair fell into her face as she bent her head to read the lower book titles. When her large round glasses slid down her nose, she pushed them up into place with a single finger.
She slowly squatted so she could better see the books. She pulled a book from the spinner, turned it over, and read the back cover.
Not wanting to disturb her, Brody strolled behind the counter where he sat on the cushioned stool. He put an elbow on the worktop, rested his chin in his hand, and watched her.
As she returned the book to the spinner, the orange cat appeared. It rubbed itself against her leg, and when she bent over, it allowed her to pet it.
“Hello, Rhodenbarr,” the woman said, her voice light and airy.
“Rhodenbarr?” Brody asked.
The woman started at the sound of his voice. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”
“Is that the cat’s name? Rhodenbarr?”
“It is for me.”
Brody’s face contorted playfully in confusion. “What’s that mean?”
The woman lifted the tom, cradling it in her arms. “A cat’s personality reflects the human they are with at any particular moment. Therefore, that person should be able to name the cat.”
“And you picked Rhodenbarr?”
“Wouldn’t you? I mean, the only addendum to the rule is that since this is a mystery bookshop, the name has to be from a mystery protagonist. Rhodenbarr seemed a natural choice.”
“Naturally,” Brody said, agreeing with the oddly cute woman even though he had no idea what she just said. “Who created this naming rule?”
“Why Alice, of course. This is her cat.”
“And who is Alice?”
The woman eyed him suspiciously. “The owner of the bookstore. Your boss.”
He stared at her.
“Alice Walker?” the woman said.
Brody shook his head.
The woman glanced around the shop. “Where is Alice?
He shrugged. “I own the bookstore now.”
“Wait. What? Alice sold The Red Herring?” the woman said, confused. Her reaction caused the cat to jump from her arms and scamper into one of the aisles. She stepped to the counter. “How is that possible?”
“I bought it.”
“Bought it?”
“Are we an echo?”
“I don’t understand?” the woman said. “She never mentioned wanting to do such a thing. Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did she sell it to you?”
“A few days ago, I guess.”
The woman studied Brody for a moment then said, “I don’t know about this.”
“What don’t you know?” Brody asked with a smile. The woman was disarmingly sweet.
“You don’t look like the bookstore type.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning offense. “I like books.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brody said. “Agatha Christie is my favorite. I also like Sue Grafton and Janet Evanovich.”
The woman crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “Well... you might be all right. Maybe.”
“Thank you,” he confidently said.
Something fell in the back of the store, and Brody yelled, “Cat! Whatever you’re doing, knock it off.”
“Cat? That’s the best name you could come up with?”
“Cut me some slack,” Brody said with a slight grin. “I just learned about the naming rule. Until you showed up, I’ve had to survive by my own rules.”
“Alice didn’t tell you about the cat?”
Brody’s smile faded. “No.”
“That seems odd, doesn’t it? To leave the cat with the store and not tell you about the naming rule? I’m surprised she would include the little guy with the purchase.”
“I was surprised by it, too.”
“Well,” the woman said, glancing around the store as she thought, “give him a name. You can’t go around calling a perfectly good cat, Cat. Only Audrey Hepburn can get away with that.”
He stared at her.
“Holly Golightly? Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” she said as if that jumble of five words would clear up the confusion.
Brody added a shrug and a head tilt to go along with his stare.
The woman rolled her eyes. “You need to come up with a name for the cat. Tell me, who is your favorite detective?”
Brody’s gaze dropped to the counter where he saw MacDonald’s book and its tagline A Travis McGee novel. He lifted his eyes to the woman and slowly said, “How about Travis?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Travis? Really?”
He nodded.
“As in Travis McGee?”
A car honked outside and she turned to look.
With he
r attention diverted, Brody swiped The Deep Blue Good-by off the counter, catching it with his foot so it wouldn’t hit the floor and make a sound.
When the woman returned her focus to him, she leaned in and said, almost breathlessly, “Travis is a guilty pleasure of mine. He’s sort of a misogynist, but don’t you just love him?”
“I do,” Brody said, “I do.” At that moment, he really wished he knew who Travis McGee was.
She thrust out her hand and smiled. “I’m Daphne Winterbourne.”
He carefully held her hand and introduced himself. “Brody Steele.”
“Like Danielle?” she muttered as she focused on the tattoo covering the back of his hand. She examined the inky ball of fire. Her free hand hovered above it as if to feel some imaginary heat.
Brody didn’t know how to respond to her question, so he asked, “Where do you work, Daphne Winterbourne?”
She let go of his hand. “At the Pleasant Peasant, the grocery store up the street.”
“And what do you do there?”
“I’m the bookkeeper.”
“No kidding,” he said. “I used to be a bookkeeper.”
“Before owning a bookstore?”
“Right.”
“That’s funny.”
“I believe someone thought it was.”
“What?”
“What?” Brody repeated.
The woman leaned in. “Who is someone?”
“I’m working on that.”
Daphne eyed the man behind the counter. “I need to get back. I’m on my break and wanted to get away for a few moments and see if Alice had reopened the store. I guess she did, or well, you did.”
He nodded, trying not to smile like a goofy kid.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Steele.”
“You as well, Mrs. ...?”
“Ms.”
A sheepish grin appeared. “Ms. Winterbourne.”
She nodded once before leaving, the little bell announcing her departure from the store. She paused outside the window, looked back at him, and waved good-bye. He returned the gesture.
The ocean’s aroma and the humidity that snuck inside the bookstore no longer bothered him.
Maybe living in Pleasant Valley wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Chapter 3
“Living in Pleasant Valley is going to be murder!” he yelled and smacked the polished metal table.
