“He is. But he’s a person, a black person, but a full person who is not simply defined by—“
“Whatever,” she interrupted. “He did it. I saw him there.”
I just kept staring at this woman as she lied directly to my face, but I felt something wheedling at the back of my mind. I couldn’t grab it through my anger though.
“So you’re the witness?” I was done playing games and trying to be nice with this woman. “The one who lied and told the police that Marcus was at the farm stand yesterday afternoon.”
She sucked in a quick breath as she glared at me. “Did you just say I lied?” She looked angry, but her voice shook.
“I did.” I kept my voice even and quiet, but all of me wanted to stand up and announce that this very put-together woman was overtly racist. “Marcus was here in the store all afternoon. Several dozen people saw him and interacted with him. He was nowhere near Elle Heron’s store at the time you claim.”
I watched her carefully check her purse and then stand before she walked over to my chair and glowered down at me. “I know what I saw.” She turned and motioned to her daughters, who quickly set their books neatly on the table and headed toward the front door. Then, Miranda turned back to me. “Don’t you ever accuse me of doing something as crass as lying again. Ever. You wouldn’t like me when I am angry.”
Then she spun on a heel and led her daughters out the front door. They each waved as they left, looking a little forlorn.
I didn’t quite know what to make of that last statement, but it had set my hands shaking – from rage and maybe from a little fear – so I decided it was fair to think of it as a threat. Miranda Harris-Lewis had just threatened me. Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the phone and called the police station. I didn’t want to alarm anyone. I didn’t think I was in imminent danger, but I did think it might be useful for the sheriff to know what happened.
He was out, but Harriet, the dispatcher, told me she’d ask him to stop by as soon as possible. I thanked her and then tried to stay busy.
Fortunately, the stream of customers was steady for the rest of the day, and I was able to pour myself into book recommendations and ringing up sales. In the few lulls we had, I worked on the week’s newsletter. I was excited to announce the new Staff Recommendations shelf we were adding with books from everyone who worked here. I knew from my own experience that I loved finding a great book on a staff picks’ shelf and then seeing if that person was working so I could tell them I was going to try the book or that I loved it too. The booksellers I’d talked to had always seemed genuinely excited to talk about their favorites with customers, and I hoped our own shelf would help us get to know more of the folks who came to All Booked Up.
We were each starting with one book. My pick was The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris, and Rocky had chosen Home Front by Kristin Hannah. Mart had selected An American Marriage by Tayari Jones, and Marcus had introduced me to a fantasy title, Senlin Ascends by Josiah Bancroft. It was a wide variety of books, and I loved that. I thought our customers might, too.
All in all, the sales day was good – not ridiculously good, but steady, and I’d take steady. Steady was what paid the bills. When closing time came around, I was satisfied with the day and ready to relax. I even, almost, looked forward to cooking for my parents. I’d decided that we’d go very casual – breakfast for dinner. Since they hadn’t given me any warning they’d be in touch and since I’d decided to agitate them a bit by insisting I cook for them, I was left with what was available. I always had bacon and eggs available.
Daniel met me, as usual, at the shop door as I closed up for the evening, and he, Mayhem, Taco, and I walked home with a little more speed than usual. I knew Mom and Dad would be waiting. I’d texted Dad to remind him that the shop closed at seven, so I’d be home soon after, but I knew they’d be on my step with sour faces if I was more than a few minutes late.
So I was pleasantly surprised and then immediately worried when we got there and they hadn’t yet arrived. My first impulse was to text them and ask if they were okay, but I figured that if they were in trouble, someone in town would have let me know.
I got out the griddle and put the bacon on. Then, I whipped up a batch of from-scratch pancake batter since I had a little extra time. I was just flipping the last pancake and pouring out the scrambled eggs when there was a knock at the door.
Daniel set his beer down on the counter and went to answer it while the two-dog alarm went off at a deafening level. Our dogs would surely lick someone to death before they’d bite, but I was confident that no one intending harm would even want to come through that door and into all the racket.
Mom and Dad came in with big smiles on their faces, and I almost felt relieved. Almost. There was something odd about the way Dad was looking at me, something mischievous.
Then, I saw Sheriff Mason coming up behind them and understood. My dad thought he’d made a special friend and would get to introduce me to the important man in town, the highest law enforcement officer in the land. This was going to be fun.
“Sheriff Mason, oh, I’m so glad to see you.” I went over and gave him a big hug, which clearly took him by surprise since he jolted when I grabbed him. “You must have gotten my message,” I said as I stepped back.
He gave me a puzzled look but then said, “I did. Then, when I met these two fine folks who mentioned they were the parents of the new bookstore owner, I thought I’d take the opportunity to spend time with the parents of one of my favorite people AND follow up on your call.”
I think my face practically broke open with delight when I saw my father look from the sheriff to me and back to the sheriff. “So you two know each other then?” he said.
“We do,” I said. “Pretty well, in fact. We worked on, um, a project together when the shop first opened.” I smiled at the sheriff. “Let’s go into the living room to talk.” I caught Daniel’s eye and saw he was trying hard not to laugh himself. “Mind finishing up the eggs?”
“Happy to,” he said, and I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as I handed him the spatula and said, “Catch you up later.”
He smiled and turned to the stove. My parents stood by the counter for a minute, clearly confused about what was happening, but then began to take off their coats and look around. Judging our house would keep them busy for a while.
The sheriff and I sat on the couch on the other side of the living room from the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly private since the main living space had an open floor plan, but at least we could talk without direct intervention from my parents. The significant looks, however, passed right to me.
The sheriff looked at me intently and said, “So Miranda threatened you?”
When he put it like that, I felt a little silly. “Well, sort of, I mean she said that I shouldn’t call her a liar if I knew what was good for me.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “You called her a liar? To her face?”
I relayed the conversation, including Miranda’s racist commentary, and by the end of my story, the sheriff was nodding. “I’d say that calling her a liar was the kindest of the available and fitting options for titles.”
“You know her?”
“I do.” He looked out the front window into the gathering dusk before he straightened his posture. “She has, well, some issues. Unfortunately, she often comes across much like her father. I suspect he tried to teach her to hold her ground.” I sensed there was a lot more to this choice of words, but I had other things to think about, like solving a murder and putting my friend Elle’s mind at ease about her lack of action.
I nodded. “Yeah, I could see that. Even directly confronted about her lie, she doubled-down. She’s ridiculous, that’s for sure, but I don’t know. I didn’t get the murderer vibe.”
Sheriff Mason let out a sharp, hoarse laugh. “The murderer vibe? What, are you a psychic now?”
“What’s all this talk about murder?” My mom had come into the room si
lently, like a cat, and I almost jumped when she spoke.
She was peering at me with a feigned, wide-eyed expression, but I knew that look – that expression coupled with patient silence could make almost anyone tell her anything. But I was wise to her game.
My first instinct was to try and make up some story about a TV show, but given that I’d just accused someone of lying, I didn’t think it flattering to do so myself. Besides, I’d already told a couple of tales in the past two days. But I didn’t really relish my mother’s involvement in this situation.
“We were just talking about an unfortunate death here in town, Mrs. Beckett. Harvey is a good sounding board.” The sheriff shot my mother a smile that would have won over the heart of Clint Eastwood’s gruffest character.
Mom shot me a glance and then smiled at the sheriff. “Well, isn’t that interesting? I didn’t realize the police involved civilians in their investigations.”
And there it was – the zinger coated in feigned ignorance. My mother was not someone who liked to be left outside of anything – not social gatherings, not fashion trends, and definitely not gossip. But if I was in, and she was out, that was even worse. She loved me, of course, but she always thought I was a little out of it, a little bedraggled and wild. For years when I was a child, she’d tried to groom me, get me to care more about my appearance and my choice in clothing. When I’d entered my teenage years and suddenly developed opinions about fashion, I think she thought she might have a chance, but Eddie Vedder and the grunge scene dashed all her hopes. I was on trend and in flannel. I was living my best life, which happened to be her worst nightmare.
The sheriff’s smile only faltered for a split second before he said, “Oh we don’t.” He shot me a quick look, and I nodded slightly. “But since Harvey found the body, I do need to discuss the case with her. Now, if you’ll excuse us, this is an open investigation, so I need to ask for the room.”
I had always loved the expression “I’ll need the room” and to have it employed against my nosy, snobbish mother made me ecstatic.
She pursed her lips and looked at me. I gave her a “What can I do?” shrug, and she literally spun on her heel and walked back into the kitchen.
I whispered, “Sorry. She can be a little much.”
“You think that’s much?” Sheriff Mason said with a grin. “My mother can insult you while she hands you a pie, and you won’t even know it until your second slice.”
I guffawed, and my mother’s head whipped around to look at us again.
With a quick throat-clearing, I got myself back under control. “What do you think? Is Miranda a suspect?”
The sheriff’s mood quickly returned to somber. “I doubt it. She’s hard to deal with, but I don’t know that she’d have any reason to murder her father. I’ll look into it though.”
I walked the sheriff to the door. “Maybe you could talk to Marcus – a little man talk.”
“I had already planned on it. Black man to black man. This uniform doesn’t mean I haven’t been falsely accused of lots of things because people are scared of black men.” He stepped through the front door and turned back. “I’ll stop by there now. Just to check on him.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. See you soon?”
“Most people don’t want the police coming around, Harvey.”
“Well, I’m not most people, am I?” I gave him a wink as I closed the door.
As I walked back into the kitchen, the conversation stopped, and everyone turned to look at me. My father was curious, Daniel, too, but my mother looked out-and-out angry.
“You found a body, Anastasia? A dead body? What kind of places are you spending your time that you come across a body?”
I knew that when my mother took out my given name I should be wary, but her implication that people only died places she deemed “despicable” was both absurd and ignorant.
“At the local farm stand, Mother. I found his body at my friend Elle’s farm stand.” As soon as Elle’s name came out of my mouth, I regretted it. I didn’t need to subject my friend to my mother’s judgments.
But my mom pulled her chin back slightly and let out a long breath. “Someone died in that lovely little farm place up the street from your shop? How awful. We stopped in there today and talked with the owner – Elle, did you say her name was? She was delightful and gave me the best tips about my lilac bushes.” Mom looked at me again. “I do hope this doesn’t hurt her business.”
I decided not to be petty and point out that my mother had expressed no such concerns when I’d found a body in my own shop. Instead, I let out a long sigh and said, “I don’t think it will. The sheriff is very discrete about these matters. Local people will know, of course, but then local people also know Elle and her wares. I don’t think she’ll suffer. She may even get a little extra foot traffic thanks to the gossip.”
This conjecture seemed to lift my mother’s spirits. She pulled out a chair at the dining room table and smiled at me. “Harvey, would you mind if your father poured us some drinks?”
I was dumbfounded that my mother had actually asked permission to do something in my home. It wasn’t her style to ask for anything, but when I looked at her and saw the anxiousness on her face, I softened. She was trying. “Of course. We don’t have a lot, Dad, but over there in that corner cabinet, you’ll find the essentials.”
Dad took our drink orders – a Cosmo for my mom, a Whiskey Sour for Daniel, and a Dirty Martini with extra olives for me. After making our drinks, Dad poured himself a Vodka Collins and served us from a little round tray that I didn’t even know we owned. I was wary about using alcohol to manage anything, but tonight, it seemed that the mixing of a bit of spirits was lifting our own and the tension along with them.
Dinner was quiet and enjoyable. I don’t know many people who don’t enjoy breakfast for dinner. Then, for dessert, I whipped up instant vanilla pudding, dolloped on fresh whipped cream that I made from the cream I’d picked up the day before from Elle’s shop, and sprinkled on some fresh raspberries. It wasn’t fancy, but it sure was delicious.
After dinner, Dad made us another round of drinks, and we sat around our living room in a sort of satiated casualness. I leaned back into the crook of Daniel’s arm and felt myself start to relax.
But then my mother said, “I didn’t know whether to tell the sheriff this, but earlier today, I overheard two men talking about some land that was now available. It sounded like they were both interested in it because someone had been unwilling to sell until now.”
I wasn’t sure where this was going, but my mother was quite intelligent. If she thought something warranted attention, it probably did.
“I didn’t think anything of it until I heard someone had died. Was the victim, by chance, a farmer?”
That got my attention. “Yes, a dairy farmer in fact. Why?”
“So they were talking about the man who died then.” Mom looked out the window for a moment and then returned her gaze to me. “They were saying that the farmer had been sitting on his land acting like a king of his castle and lording his wealth over everyone. They were hoping the farmer’s daughter didn’t know the value of what was– excuse my language here – ‘under all that cow shit.’ I got the impression they were going to try to buy the land for far less than they thought it was worth.”
“Did they say anything more about what was so valuable? I mean good agricultural land can be very—“
Mom shook her head. “No, I got the impression that whatever it was, was sizable and quick. Something that could be dug up, maybe, and sold.”
I looked at Daniel, and he said, “I have no idea. I haven’t heard anything, but then, I wouldn’t, right? No one is going to talk about buried treasure with a local who might go get it themselves. Good sleuthing, Mrs. B.”
Mom fairly beamed at Daniel’s words, but I couldn’t tell if she was happy because of the praise or because of the nickname. Mom was a big fan of nicknames. She was always giving them out, even to people sh
e barely knew. It was her form of an icebreaker, I guess.
I didn’t really care about why she was happy though. She seemed to like Daniel, and while I didn’t need her approval, it certainly made things easier and more pleasant.
“Can you describe these two men, Mom?”
She looked at my father, and I watched a very familiar expression come over his face. My dad had as much penchant for the details of someone’s physical appearance as my mother did for social hierarchies. He could remember what someone was wearing on the day in third grade when he’d figured out he could sell chocolate milk to his classmates at a premium if he bought all that was available early in the day and then controlled the supply at lunchtime.
“Two men. One white. One black. Looked to be about fifty-five or sixty. Slim. Fit but not muscle-bound. If I had to guess, I’d think they played a lot of golf and passed on the carts. The white man had a wide moustache that twirled up at the ends, and the black man was mostly bald with a slight tonsure of hair just above his ears.”
“Pickle and Bear,” Daniel said.
“Excuse me?” My mother leaned forward. “Are you still hungry, dear? Did you just ask for a pickle?”
Daniel grinned. “No, ma’am. Those two men. Their nicknames are Pickle and Bear. Pickle Herring and Bear Johnson.”
My dad almost spit out his drink. “Pickle Herring? I guess we know why he has that nickname.”
“Yep. And Bear gets his from some exaggerated legend about him wrestling a bear when it came after him on a hike one day. I’ve always imagined the bear was a tiny cub, but who knows? Bear is a pretty unintimidating guy, if you ask me.”
“You’re sure that’s who Dad described.” I sat forward and looked back at him on the couch behind me.
“Yep, the moustache is a giveaway, and those two are thick as thieves. Always together. Plus, it makes sense they’d be at the co-op. Bear’s wife has a studio there. I think you met her, Harvey. Henry Johnson?” Daniel asked.
“Oh, Henry. Yes, I love her, and her work is so beautiful. Mom, you must have noticed it. She’s a weaver. Makes these lush table runners and wall hangings.”
Entitled to Kill Page 5
