Entitled to Kill

by A C F Bookens

  I felt my heart kick up a notch and glanced around, sure that my mother or Marcus or someone would interrupt. But oddly, we were completely alone.

  “I love you, Harvey Beckett.” He smiled and pulled my hands to his chest. “And if you ever scare me like that again . . .” His voice drifted off, too overcome with emotion to finish the statement.

  “I’m so sorry, Daniel. I never meant for any of this to happen.” I looked down, but then realized I was about to do that thing that people on TV shows do and forget to actually say it back. I was going to mess all this up, so I took a breath, looked up into his eyes, and said, “I love you, too.”

  He put a hand gently to my chin and kissed me. And of course, then, everyone in the store cheered. Talk about embarrassing, but I didn’t really care. We were in love.

  I had just begun the very slow process of getting out of my chair when Mart, Stephen, and Walter rushed in with looks of deep concern on their faces. They’d been down in the mountains of Virginia wine-tasting and hadn’t had any cell signal for most of the day. But as soon as they got Daniel’s message about my injury, they rushed home, driving the back roads to avoid the wild and wooly traffic around DC.

  “Harvey?!” Mart rushed over, dropped to her knees, and put her hand to my jaw, avoiding the swelling I could feel on my temple. “Woman! You are made of steel.”

  “Not hardly,” I said as I winced. “I feel like I’ve been kicked in the head by a donkey.”

  “That’s not far off,” Daniel said. “Homer is a sort of an a—“

  Stephen interrupted by holding up a bag of peas. “My mother always swore by frozen peas as the cure-all for bumps and bruises.” He wrapped the bag in a dishcloth Mart had grabbed from the café and gently pressed it to my face.

  I winced again, but smiled, too. “Thank you. I’m sure it will help.”

  Walter sat down on the floor beside where Stephen knelt and said, “We need to hear the whole story, of course, but given how it looks like you feel – no offense,” he gave me a small smile, “maybe we’d better wait until everyone else gets here.”

  “Everyone else?” Mom said. “I don’t know that Harvey is up for a performance.” She placed her hand on my shoulder and stood like a sentry behind the chair.

  I placed my hand over hers and smiled. “Who is coming?”

  Mart dropped back to the floor and sat beside Stephen. “Cate and Lucas, Woody, Elle, Tuck and Lu, even Max wanted to come by.” She gave me a knowing look, and I rolled my eyes and found out that even the edges of my eyes ached. “We’re having a picnic, Mama Sharon. Nothing fancy. Everyone just wants to be sure Harvey is okay. We won’t stay long.”

  As if on cue, my friends came in one after the other, each bearing a plate full of food that was perfect for sitting on the floor. Rocky and Marcus brought over paper plates and cups for the lemonade that Elle brought in. Cate spread out two plaid blankets and then placed platters of cheese, crackers, and fruit at the center. Max contributed the fried mushrooms that I loved so much, and Woody lay two long sausages and a cutting board next to Daniel. “Venison sausage.”

  I tried not to grimace. I never could get around the idea of eating Bambi. I didn’t think I could chew sausage anyway. Still, I was grateful he was here.

  Daniel and Mom were whispering behind me, and while I couldn’t hear all of what they were saying, I got the idea that Daniel was gently but clearly telling my mom that this is what I wanted and that I would appreciate the company. He was right. After a week as trying as I’d had, it felt amazing to have friends, good friends, nearby.

  Max took a seat right next to my chair, his shoulder against my shin, and I stared wide-eyed at Mart until Mayhem, not a girl to miss a snack, pushed between Max and me and stood ready for any morsels that fell. I reached down with a hand and scratched her ear, “Good girl,” I whispered.

  We ate in silence for a while, and then, finally, Cate said, “I know you don’t want to talk much, Harvey, but we’d really like to know what happened.”

  I looked over at the sheriff, and he gave me a nod. “I’ll fill in the details if things seem sketchy. Nothing to keep back, though, since we have our man. You can tell anyone anything you’d like.” He still didn’t looked thrilled with me, but I appreciated his presence nonetheless.

  “First, let me ask,” Stephen said, “did this happen because you were sleuthing? I need to know if I must suppress a lecture tonight.”

  I sighed. “Yes, I was sleuthing, and yes, please no lectures tonight.” I placed a hand against my cheek. “I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “I doubt it,” I heard Mart say under her breath as she winked at me.

  I told them about following the truck and wanting to just take a look around at the Harris place. Mom filled in the details like she was the soundtrack for a movie thriller, and when she told them how Homer had clocked me with the shovel, everyone winced. I had to admit, we made a pretty good storytelling team, if not the best detectives in the world.

  By the time we got to the part where Daniel and Dad showed up, everyone was sitting forward with deep looks of concern on their faces. I was growing tired, and reliving the day’s events was more emotionally taxing than I’d imagined it would be. So I asked the sheriff to finish the story of Homer’s arrest and the next steps.

  “He’ll be arraigned tomorrow, and then I expect he might take a plea since he was caught dead to rights, no pun intended.”

  “So he confessed to both Huckabee’s and Rafe’s murders?” Woody asked.

  “He did,” the sheriff replied. “It was weird. He was proud of it, acting like he’d done a good thing. Apparently, it was easy for him to get the poison into Huckabee’s gum since he was in and out of the farmhouse all the time, and Rafe kept a pretty regular routine of jogging on 33 after work each night. I expect when we check the truck, we’ll find evidence of the hit and run, not that we need it.”

  Max reached over Mayhem and put his hand on my knee. “I’m so glad you’re okay, dear Harvey.”

  Daniel reached down, took Max’s hand off my knee, and helped me to my feet. “So am I.” Then he leaned over and kissed me in public for the second time that day. He was a kind, gentle man, my Daniel, but I was also his, and he needed Max to know that.

  I grinned at Daniel and snuck a peek at Max, who looked not one bit put off or disappointed by Daniel’s declaration, and I sighed. I wondered what it would take for him to get the hint.

  I looked at my friends, all seated at my feet, and smiled. “Thank you all for being here. This was exactly what I needed. But now, I need to go home, find a certain fat cat, and watch a movie that doesn’t involve shovels, combines, or silver trucks.” Daniel wrapped his arm around my waist and led me to the door. “Marcus, you’ll close up?”

  “You got it, Ms. B. And I’m opening tomorrow. You rest.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.” Thank goodness for Marcus.

  Mom and Dad drove Daniel and me to my house with Mart, Stephen, and Walter close behind. Mom drew a bath for me while Mart chose a movie, Stephen and Walter made hot cider, and Daniel walked the dogs again.

  We all settled onto the sectional sofa to watch Dan In Real Life, one of my favorite movies ever. I loved Steve Carrell, especially when he wasn’t primarily funny. Aslan curled up on my lap, and I was asleep before Isabella Rossellini even arrived on screen.

  By morning, the swelling in my face had gone down, but I looked like I’d come out on the raw end of a boxing match, and I guess, in a way, I had. I was all purple and black around my eye and jawbone, and while it hurt like the dickens, I was secretly a little thrilled because – for reasons I’d never understood – I had always wanted a black eye. I expect it was about the attention.

  In fact, I did spend the morning being doted on. Mom and Dad brought me breakfast in bed, and Stephen and Walter had already begun a complete spring cleaning of our house. Mart had arranged to have my favorite comfy chair in the shop – the chair and a half that usually sits by
the fiction section and is covered in book-print fabric – to be brought up by the register. Last night, I had felt a bit like royalty. This morning, I was going to feel like someone should be fanning me with palm leaves and feeding me grapes. I kind of liked it.

  But my attention for my injury soured late-morning when Miranda came by the shop with the girls. I took one look at her face, largely healed but still showing the faint bruises from her husband’s hands and immediately felt terrible for reveling in being hit. The circumstances were different, of course, but I was ashamed of taking the attention I was given when Miranda had needed to be so careful not to draw attention from her husband or anyone who might stir up his anger.

  As the twins jogged off to read to each other, their mom and I took a table by the window in the café. I still wasn’t up to full force yet, so Marcus was managing things for the most part. Still, I wanted to see how Miranda was doing, and I needed to have a conversation with her about the girls’ and our upcoming photo shoot, but also about something more difficult. I wasn’t looking forward to this.

  And when I dread something, I plow right in, eager to get it over with. I was still calling this little trait “spontaneity.” Miranda had barely set our lattes down – drinks she’d insisted on paying for and carrying because of my injury – when I said, “Miranda, I really want to hear all about how you are and what you think of all this news. But first, I need to talk with you about something.”

  She sat forward and said, “Of course. Are you okay? I’m so sorr—“

  “I need to know why you accused Marcus of killing your father.” My voice was quiet, almost a whisper. I didn’t want to draw attention to us, but I also hated this kind of confrontation, even when I knew I needed to do it.

  Miranda looked down at her hands and twisted her fingers. “I don’t really know. I mean I’ve thought about it a lot.

  I felt my shoulders drop just a bit. At least she realized something was amiss there. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I mean I don’t think of myself as racist or anything, but when I found out that someone had killed my dad, the first person I thought of was Marcus.” She glanced over to the register where he was laughing and ringing up a young boy who looked to buying the entire Brian Jacques Redwall series. “I have no idea why.”

  I took a deep breath. “So you didn’t see someone who looked like Marcus running away from Elle’s farm stand?”

  She shook her head. She let out a shuddering breath. “Even worse. I didn’t see anyone running away at all. I wasn’t even there.”

  I tried to keep calm, after all I knew what this woman had lived through. But I was livid. Someone had accused a person I love of something because of—

  “Racism,” she said. “It was just racist of me to do that.”

  Her admission set me back on my heels a bit, and I floundered at what to say.

  “Yes, it was racist.” Marcus had come over to the table, a copy of Publisher’s Weekly in his hand. “I’m glad you realize that.” There was no anger in his voice, no venom. He just sounded tired.

  Miranda looked up at him, and then she stood. “I’m sorry. I can’t even explain my behavior, much less justify it. I’m very sorry.” She put out her hand.

  He didn’t even wait before shaking her hand, which is more than I was inclined to do at the moment. I kind of still wanted to give her a good talking to. He gave Miranda a small smile and then looked at me. “Someone is asking when we’ll have the new Miranda,” he looked at the woman across the table, “the new Miranda James mystery.”

  “We’ll order it today. Should come on release day then,” I said with a small smile.

  “Thanks.” He walked away quietly.

  “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?” Miranda’s voice was very quiet.

  “Probably. In time. He’s that kind of person.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, so before you go, I can get you copies of Robin DiAngelo and Tim Wise’s books. They might help you explore why you accused Marcus. They helped me.”

  She nodded. “I’d like that.”

  “Plus, well, you need to update your reading list a bit. Girl, that big ole compendium of books you gave me was all ancient stuff. Haven’t you read anything new?”

  Miranda blushed. “I wasn’t allowed to go to the library or anything. No unmonitored internet access allowed, and he kept a tight rein on my spending, so I couldn’t buy books either. All I had to read were the books I brought with me when I married Rafe. Couldn’t even go to the library because of the computers.”

  I sighed. “And those were books from your childhood, maybe your mom’s books?

  “Grandmother’s actually. I read a lot when I was a kid, but we got most of our books from the library to save money.” She gave me a small smile then. “Still, there are a lot of good books on that list.”

  I grinned. “I expect so. I’ll definitely be getting some of them in. Thanks again for that. But still, we need to get you up to date.”

  “Most definitely,” she said. “I really want to read that one about the girl on the bus.”

  I laughed and then winced. “Girl on a Train. I’ll add that to your stack today.”

  “Great.”

  “Now, tell me what your plans are.” I smiled at my new friend.

  We talked for a good bit longer about the ranch and their plans. She and the girls had decided to sell, to move up to Boston with her aunt and start over. “Too many memories here, and I just can’t handle the memories of Homer.”

  I understood. A childhood friend turned killer . . . but also rescuer in a way. That was a lot to live with day-to-day.

  We made plans for the girls to come on Tuesday for their photo shoot in the children’s section, and then she bought the books I recommended – I added Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow to the mix, too. As she left, she turned to me and said, “Harvey, really. Thank you. For this,” she held up the books and then gestured toward my cheek. “For that, too. I don’t know what would have happened when I had to refuse Homer again. The sheriff said he was so convinced he’d done the right thing and that now I’d have to love him.” She sighed. “Funny thing was, I’ve always loved him. Just not like that.”

  I watched her, Maisy , and Daisy– earrings in again today – walk down the street and wished them well. Marcus came up next to me, bumped my shoulder gently, and handed me the Publisher’s Weekly. “She’s going to be really mad if she doesn’t get her new mystery on time.”

  I looked down at the magazine. “Got it. Let’s get the order in.”

  It took me a few days, but the pain in my head faded as did my bruises. The blow to my ego for my stupidity took longer to ease, but fortunately, no one thought it necessary to rub it in.

  The bookstore kept humming along, and as we moved more fully into the “season” with more tourists coming down to get on the water, sales picked up. We started getting lots of special orders, especially for books about local history, and I started pondering an event for May, a local history gathering, and was thrilled when Lucas agreed to co-coordinate with the Museum as the co-sponsor.

  Mom and Dad opted to buy a condo right on the water – close enough for a long walk when we wanted to get together, but not so close that we’d be tempted to pop in on each other just because we didn’t feel like cooking. Meanwhile, Stephen and Walter moved into that gorgeous house, and we had frequent cookouts on their deck overlooking that gorgeous view, and I enjoyed many a Mai Tai on a spring evening.

  One afternoon, I left the shop about four, as I had started doing after Marcus got his feet fully under him as assistant manager, and began the walk home. I loved that the days were getting longer and that I could look forward to a few hours of reading on the back porch before the sun set. I’d just gotten in Jon Cohen’s novel Harry’s Trees, and I was eager to make up for all the lost reading time I’ve given to opening the shop.

  I had just turned onto my block when a flash of silver caught my eye. I turned and saw the silver C-10 that had stal
ked me – Homer’s truck – cruising down the road in my direction. Without thinking, I began to run. Mayhem, sensing my fear, took off and pulled me toward home. We reached the house just as the truck pulled in my driveway. I fumbled with my keys and had just gotten the door unlocked when a voice said, “Harvey, it’s me.”

  I stopped. Took a deep breath. Turned around and screamed, “Daniel Galena, if you ever scare me like that again . . .”

  He was standing a few feet away, stock still with a look of shock on his face. “Was I the reason you took off running? I thought you just wanted to get a little jog in.”

  “Daniel, when have you ever seen me run for the sake of running?”

  He stepped closer. “I’m so sorry, Harvey. I didn’t think.”

  “Why are you in his truck?” I spat. My heart was still pounding, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to pull myself together just yet.

  “I bought it. For you.”

  I looked at him. It was my turn to be stunned, and I had so many options for shock. “You bought me a truck? The truck of the man who tried to kill me?” I looked from Daniel to the truck and back again, my anger subsiding into something that felt much more pleasant. “You bought me a truck?”

  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