Little Bookshop of Murder

by Maggie Blackburn

  “I just-just—”

  “Shh, Aunt Agatha. You don’t need to talk.” Agatha felt warm and bony. Had she lost weight?

  After a moment of sobbing, she pulled away from Summer’s arms.

  “It’s just that I don’t know how I’ll face digging through that space without your mother. This?” she gestured to the house. “This is easy. She was never here. But that bookstore …” She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to. Summer had been dreading sorting through it for very same reason.

  “Beach Reads Bookstore,” Mr. Darcy said with a tone as if he’d just answered the phone. “Beach Reads Bookstore.”

  Agatha blew her nose and giggled. “That bird.”

  “Bookstore whore,” the bird said in another tone. “Bookstore whore.”

  “Did he just say—”

  “Whore!” The bird said. “Hildy is a bookstore whore!”

  The tone was sickening. Menacing. This bird had heard those words enough that he was repeating them. Summer’s stomach squeezed.

  “Aunt Hildy, maybe the person who hurt Mom was right here,” Summer said with her voice quivering.

  “Who would have called her a whore?” Agatha asked. Angry red face. Indignant.

  “Not just any whore. A bookstore whore.”

  Summer’s emotions tangled. What had been going on in her mother’s life? Why hadn’t she reached out for help? Then it hit her with a stone-cold thud. If this person was in the house, it was definitely someone in my mother’s circle. Someone stood in this house and called her that name. Which would be kind of funny, if I weren’t so certain the same person must have killed my mother.

  Chapter Nine

  Agatha left to return some casserole dishes, and Summer was alone in the house, mulling over the “proof” they had found so far. Not much. Three notes and the bird’s statement. Summer was no lawyer, but she figured none of that was enough for a murder case. They needed more.

  She sat on the couch and glanced over at the coffee table, where she’d stacked the magazines. There was a book sitting there—out of habit she picked it up and thumbed through it. It was filled with handwritten notes. Her mother’s handwriting. This must be a book club book. A romance?

  Summer’s heart skipped a beat or two. Her mom’s handwriting was so similar to hers. And Summer wrote in books in a very similar way. Funny. She hadn’t realized where she’d picked that habit up until now.

  She circled a line where her mother had written: “What a lovely metaphor. Want to point this out.”

  Summer smiled.

  The book’s title was Nights in Bellamy Harbor. Hmm. A beach book? She grinned. She read the blurb on the back and surmised there was an evil developer who had his mind set on a beautiful beach village—and on the daughter of his arch enemy. Interesting. In a sort of Romeo and Juliet–ish way. She recalled the stanza, forever blazed into her brain:

  Two households, both alike in dignity,

  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

  From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

  Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

  From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

  A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;

  Whose misadventured piteous overthrows

  Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife.

  Nothing like a beach developer character to get a beach community wound up. There’d been several deals that Summer remembered. Failed deals. The community of St. Brigid wasn’t going down the development road without a fight. It helped that the community was a thriving one with very little in the way of unemployment. In some other communities Summer read about, it was a challenge to keep the developers out because people needed work. That wasn’t the case for St. Brigid, a thriving fishing community, as it had been from the start. The island’s community suffered bad years along with the good years, but even the “bad” years were not bad enough to even consider selling out to some developer.

  The geography of the island was its blessing. Fisherman never had to travel far out to sea for a decent fish; the island was famous for its shrimp and always had been since its first settlement in 1796.

  And the tourist season was an extra boon to the community—as much as some members despised it. Of course the tourists didn’t discover the little island off the coast of southern North Carolina full force until the 1970s. They were all about the Outer Banks and Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

  Summer cradled the book in her hand; the weight of it gave it agency. It was a good-sized paperback, Summer’s favorite kind. She’d always preferred hardback books, but she grew accustomed to soft covers. And now preferred them.

  She curled her feet up under her and cracked the book open. This is probably the last book my mother ever read. Summer drew in air, and her lip quivered.

  Oh, Mom, what happened to you?

  A crushing sensation filled her chest, and she wailed a sob of anger. If I had been there for my mom. If I hadn’t been in England.

  The book paper felt good on her skin. She turned the page. The sound of the page turning, at once familiar and also a direct line to memories of reading with her mom. Now, here was a book once cradled in her mother’s hands, and here were the words she’d been reading and thinking about.

  Chapter One.

  Summer stopped. These were the very words her mom had been reading. She may have thought about these characters, this story in her last moments. Who knew?

  Summer read the first paragraph, then the next.

  She awoke with a start to her phone ringing, sitting up as the book dropped to the floor.

  “Uh, hello,” she said.

  “Hi, Summer—this is Marilyn. How are you doing, dear?”

  Marilyn. Marilyn. Oh yes. In her mom’s book group. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve just been lying down.” After searching through Mom’s house for clues, she didn’t say—because murder felt like a family matter.

  “I just wanted to call to see how you’re doing, and we also want to invite you to the next book club meeting if you’re planning to be in town. It’s next Wednesday,” she said.

  “I’ve not read the book.” It was a good excuse.

  “That’s fine. There’s plenty of time to read it between then and now,” she said. “But if you can’t do it, we’d still like to have you. We’re doing a little something special for your mother.”

  Something in her chest fluttered. That felt more like an honor for her mom than that ridiculous church service, which she still didn’t understand. Her mom was a happy, goddess-worshipping pagan and hippy. She didn’t do church.

  “Oh,” Summer said with a funny little sigh she didn’t recognize as coming from her. “That’s so lovely.”

  “We can count on you being there, then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hildy gave so much to us and this community. We want to honor her. Something a little more private.”

  “It’s very thoughtful of you,” Summer said, her voice cracking slightly. People thought so highly of her mother. Why couldn’t the two of them have gotten their acts together?

  Because you are a mess, Summer Merriweather. Correction: Were a mess. No longer. You will get over this fear of spiders. You will keep your job. And, you will find the person who killed your mother. If only she knew.

  “While I have you, Marilyn, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Anything,” she said.

  “Did you know about the offers Mom was getting for the bookstore?”

  “Offers? No, I don’t think she mentioned anything recent. I also don’t think she’d have sold her beloved store. Do you?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I found some … things … offers,” Summer said.

  Summer pictured Marilyn in her small Victorian home a few blocks from the beachfront. Plum, with mocha shutters and trim.

  “Well, if I were you, dear, I’d trash them. That’s where they belong. B
each Reads is more than a bookstore. It’s a second home for so many of us. We’re hoping you don’t sell, of course. We’re hoping you’ll stay. Hildy would have loved you managing her store,” Marilyn said.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Summer said and tried to laugh, even though jabs of regret poked at her. “But thanks for saying it.”

  After they hung up, Summer picked the book up off the floor, and a slip of paper fell out of it. “This character must be based on Rudy!” the note said. Rudy? The owner of the arcade? It had to be!

  Why would the writer of this book base any character on people in St. Brigid? She flipped the pages to the acknowledgments and scanned them. There, in black and white, was the name Hildy Merriweather. The author was thanking her for inspiration and for providing a safe, comforting space for readers from all walks of life. Safe, comforting space? An unnamable emotion plucked at Summer’s chest.

  Her face fell into her hands as she unraveled, sobbing.

  Chapter Ten

  “Summer? Are you here?” The words awakened her.

  Who was that?

  “Summer?” The voice came again. She sat up; she had cried herself into a nap. She blinked.

  “There you are!” The voice said, coming up behind her. Summer turned her head and saw one of the women from her mother’s books group. What was her name again?

  “I’m sorry. Were you sleeping?” she said.

  Doris. Yes. Doris. Pink-haired. Cinnamon rolls.

  “Yes,” Summer managed to say.

  “I’m sorry to just walk in, but the door was open, and I wanted to drop off a basket of food. I left it on the counter for you,” she said. “It’s a basket from the church ladies.”

  “Church ladies?”

  “Yes, your mother had struck up a friendship with several of the women from the churches. That’s why the service was held there,” she replied.

  Oh, makes more sense now.

  “I’m sorry,” Summer said. “I’ve completely forgotten my manners. Please sit down. Can I get you something?”

  “Oh no, dear. I can’t stay,” she said, but she sat down anyway. “My husband is rather ill, and today is not a good day for him. So I need to get back. But a little breather is nice.” She sighed.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your husband,” Summer said.

  “Thanks. Hey, is that the book we’re reading for the book club?”

  Summer nodded. “It has my mom’s notes in it. She must have read it already.”

  “She’s probably read it several times,” Doris said with a wave of her hand. “Are you reading it?”

  “Yes, I just started to read it. It seems Mom knew the author.”

  “She knew a lot of authors. Several of them would make certain Beach Reads was on their tour. I’ve met a lot of writers. They just blows me away, you know? How do they think of all those plots and words and everything?”

  “I agree,” Summer said. “It’s admirable. I’m not sure I could do it. Of course, I do have to write for my job. But that kind of writing takes very little imagination.”

  A pang of fear shot through Summer. She’d been trying not to think of her job—or the fact that she’d not heard from her boss. What if they let her go?

  What then? Would another school hire her?

  “Hildy had a great imagination. I used to tell her to sell the bookstore and write books,” Doris said.

  Summer sat forward. “Sell the store? What did she say?”

  Doris shrugged. “You know your mother. She didn’t want to sell. But I think she wanted to write a book. The only way she could do it was to get rid of the store. It was like a deadweight to her.”

  Deadweight? Hildy loved the store. “Many offers have been made,” Summer said. “Do you know anything about them?”

  Doris’s fleshy face fell, stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’ve got to run. My husband must be wondering where I’ve gone off to.”

  Summer stood to walk her to the front door.

  “No need, dear,” she said, holding up her hand. “Just don’t forget about the food on the counter. Some of it needs refrigeration.”

  Summer walked her to the door, anyway, trying to get a sense of why she was leaving so quickly. Why did the conversation about the bookstore make her nervous? Was she worried that Summer would sell?

  She turned and looked at Summer before opening the door. “Summer, I hope if you sell, you’ll come to the book group. There may be one or two members who’d like to buy it.”

  “I’ll take that under consideration,” Summer said. Maybe that was Doris’s hesitation moments ago.

  As they opened the door, Mia and Piper walked in, smiled at Doris, and kept walking toward the kitchen.

  “Look at all the food,” Mia squealed from the kitchen.

  “Mia’s a live wire,” Doris said, grinning. “She was very close to Hildy,” she said, lowering her voice. “Is she okay?”

  Summer was aware of their closeness. But she wondered why Doris felt like she wasn’t. She shrugged it off. People did and said the oddest things when in the shock of mourning.

  Summer said goodbye to Doris and made her way into the kitchen, where an astonishing array of food filled the counter. Casserole dishes brimming with food. Baskets filled with bread and muffins. Tupperware containers filled with soup, chili, and god knows what else.

  Well, if nothing else, they’d not go hungry.

  “I ran into Rudy again today,” Piper said.

  “And?”

  “I told him to stay the hell away from this place and you,” Piper said. “Mom said he’d been over here threatening you. I told him if he came over here again, we’d get an injunction.”

  Summer cracked a smile. “Do you think that will stop him? I mean if the man killed my mother, what makes you think an injunction will prevent him from doing anything?”

  “I tried to tell her that,” Mia said. “Killers don’t care about the law.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. A shiver traveled through her. If he had killed her mom, would Rudy be coming after Summer next?

  Chapter Eleven

  Summer’s therapist insisted on a phone appointment. Summer wasn’t sure how well it would work given that she was used to in-person therapy with eye contact and other subtle signals.

  “How are you doing?” Dr. Gildea asked.

  Summer didn’t quite know how to answer that. Her mom had just died, and she strongly suspected she’d been murdered, plus she was uncertain about her job. She felt like everything was spinning out of control.

  Dr. Gildea didn’t give Summer a chance to answer. “The death of a parent is one of the most earth-shattering losses. You must be feeling a variety of emotions. I’m concerned that you won’t allow yourself to feel them. Are you?”

  “Yes.” Summer glimpsed at Mr. Darcy, who was completely ignoring her—just like most males of any species. “Of course I am.”

  “You have a tendency to intellectualize everything.” Summer didn’t respond. What was wrong with intellectualizing, anyway?

  “Are you doing okay? Have you seen any spiders?”

  “No, and so I’ve not been challenged.”

  “I’ll increase the dosage on your meds, and we’ll go from there. How does that sound?”

  “Fine. do you think that will do the trick if I see one?”

  “Look, there’re no guarantees, and you’re in such a stressful situation. It may not completely diminish your fear, but it may. We’ve talked about this before, but we need to get at the root of this fear to resolve it. But in the meantime, I think the medicine will help.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Still, she’d steer clear of basements, attics, or camping out any time soon—tempting the hand of spider fate.

  * * *

  Aunt Agatha was making noise in the kitchen, humming softly as she did so. Happy kitchen noises and a delicious scent drew Summer into the room. Agatha stood at the stove, stirring.

  “What’s t
hat?”

  “Vegetable soup,” Agatha replied. “Smells wonderful.”

  Summer looked around at the counters, brimming with food. “It just keeps coming, doesn’t it?”

  “This community loved your mother, and it loves you too. Food is one of the great comforts and healers in life.” She continued to stir. She blinked and suddenly she looked older. Summer wrapped her arm around her.

  “I love you, Aunt Agatha,”

  She looked over at Summer. “I love you too, dear.”

  “What’s in the oven?”

  “I’m heating up the biscuits Doris brought over.”

  “Store bought?” Summer asked and grinned.

  “Who knows?” Agatha waved her hand. “The woman has a very sick husband. I’ve no idea how she does anything else but take care of him. I keep telling her she should get a nurse. But she won’t have it.”

  Summer opened the oven door. “The biscuits look ready.” She reached for an oven mitt and slid the pan out of the oven, placing it on the counter.

  “Wow, it smells so good here,” Piper said as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Where’s Mia?” Agatha asked.

  “There’s a slumber party tonight. I almost insisted that she go. I know she’s upset about Hildy, but it’s important that she continues to do things she enjoys. Life goes on.”

  “It certainly does,” Agatha said, spooning soup into bowls.

  The scent filled Summer with comfort. She’d never given grief much attention. But Agatha was right: food was one of life’s great comforts. People bringing in so much good food soothed Summer. She’d not be eating this well otherwise. She just wanted to sleep, cry, and dwell.

  “I didn’t think people brought food in anymore,” Summer said as she took her bowl to the kitchen table. “At least that’s what someone said in Staunton.”

  “Well, we do it here,” Agatha said. “I hope we always do. Grieving is exhausting. Who wants to cook? Heating up food is about all I can manage.”