by ACF Bookens
Tuck wrote something in his ever-present notebook, then shook his head. "I didn't find mention of that, but I didn't find much about her at all. Not in a suspicious way. She has social media profiles and a driver's license and such. But most of that stuff was pretty empty." He paused and ran a finger over his shaved head. "It feels a little like she was trying to not be seen or noticed."
"Hard not to be noticed when you look like this," Elle said, holding up the picture. "There's a lot of pressure on women to look a certain way, and while I've never looked the way I was supposed to, I always thought it might be hard to actually fit the standard of beauty, too, like you then had to be what the standard expected."
Something about what Tuck surmised and Elle suggested set off tiny bells in my head, and I asked to see the picture again. Elle passed it over, and I studied the image again. "She has both her arms here." I said it quietly, but the observation was so fundamental, even to me, that everyone heard it.
Tuck held out his hand, and I put the photo in it. He looked at it quickly and said, "Good night. I hadn't even noticed. Thank you, Harvey."
"When was the photo taken?" Bear asked.
"About five years ago," The sheriff said as he scribbled another note.
"Well, that means she's still in recovery from her limb loss." Bear was a doctor, so he would know. "It would take at least a year, probably more, to recover just from the surgery to remove the limb, if there was no injury that required the surgery. If there was and that injury was serious, it would take far longer. But then to be able to work as a bartender again with one less hand, that would have required a lot of focus and practice to be proficient."
Just then, the bell over the door rang, and Max Davies strode in like he had been invited, which he had most certainly not. "Max, what are you doing here?" I shot Tuck a look, and he shrugged. Clearly, no one had expected Max.
"I'm sorry to crash your, er, party, Harvey, but I saw the lights were still on, and I knew you'd want to hear this." He held up a piece of paper, cleared his throat like he about to give his acceptance speech for an Oscar and read, "I, Lizzie Bordo, nee Cassandra Leicht, being of sound mind and body do . . ."
"Whoa, Max," Tuck shot to his feet and took the thin stack of papers out of Max's hands. "This is a legal document, and it needs to be vetted before we share it."
Max, to his small credit, looked a little chagrinned. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just knew it was relevant and wanted Harvey to know. But you're right." He gave a small smile and looked at everyone in the room.
Daniel, kind soul that he was, offered Max a chair, and Max quietly took it with a small thanks.
"Tuck," I said, "since we knew that she left a will, it's okay to talk about that, right? I mean we're not going to know what she left to whom, but it seems significant that a woman as young as she is with no partner or children that we know of made a will, right?"
Tuck sighed. "It does. Max, where did you find this?"
"It was tucked at the back of the cash drawer of our register. I wouldn't have found it normally, but the drawer stuck tonight. So I took it out to see what had happened, and I found an envelope with that in it behind the drawer."
"Anything written on the envelope?" Tuck asked.
"Not a thing. I thought maybe there were old gift cards or something. I opened it without thinking. Sorry about that, too." Max seemed flustered and off-center, and for the second time in a week, I found myself feeling kindness toward him.
"You okay?" Henri asked him, and I was grateful. I was feeling kind, but I wasn't really interested in opening a heart-to-heart with the man, not just yet.
Max looked up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. "Yes. I am. I didn't think I was that bothered by having Lizzie die. I barely knew her, but, well . . ." His voice trailed off.
Lucas stood up, got Max a red velvet cupcake, and carried it over. "Death is always hard. Murder is harder. And I imagine murder in your place of business is especially hard." He looked at me as he returned to his seat.
He was right. Death in your business felt personal somehow. "Tell us what you did know about her?" I asked.
Max smiled at me, and for the first time, I had the sense that all the swagger and cockiness was a front for a shy person who, if the number of times I'd seen him with other people was any indication, was probably pretty lonely. "She was the best bartender I'd ever seen. And I don't mean with those trick pours and things, although she could do those, too. No, it was more about how she attended to the customers, guided them to a drink they'd like or gave them the perfect version of what they'd asked for. She listened to them, too."
"You saw all that on her first night?" Pickle asked.
Max laughed. "I saw it then, too, but for her interview, I had her work two hours at the bar, and she was amazing." Max looked down at his hands.
"She really was," Symeon added, and I suddenly realized that he had met Lizzie, too. Mart and I hadn't had a chance to talk alone or she probably would have pointed that out. "We have this one older man who comes in every Saturday night and sits alone at the bar. He nurses a gin and tonic every night. Never orders food and only that one drink. He never talks to anyone, but the night Lizzie worked as part of her interview, he talked to her all night. She kept going back to his end of the bar after serving her other customers, and she looked like she was genuinely enjoying their conversation. She was amazing period. But add to that the fact that she was handicapped?"
I winced. All my reading had told me the word handicapped was pretty offensive to most disabled people. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t. I didn’t like that I didn’t, but I didn’t.
4
The next morning while I ate breakfast, I was still mulling over Max's strange but pleasant change in temperament and pondering Lizzie's skill as a bartender when I felt that niggling in the back of my mind that told me my brain was working on an idea that it wasn't ready to tell all of me yet. That feeling also meant I probably needed to shift my focus to something else and let the back of my mind put in the effort. Fortunately, it was time for me to get to work, and Mayhem and I had a slippery slide-y walk in that was going to take all my concentration.
The hound girl and I made it safely over the patches of black ice, and I was just in time to get the store open and ready. I did a tiny bit of straightening, then flipped on the lights and unlocked the door. To my delight, there, on the other side of the front door glass was Galen, my favorite customer, and he'd brought a friend, a double delight since Galen usually only stopped in on Tuesdays. Already, the day was looking up from the bleak prospects of another below-freezing day on the Eastern Shore that my mind had conjured.
I loved when Galen visited because he knew books and loved them, first and foremost, but he also always bought books. And he highlighted my shop on his very popular Bookstagram feed every time he visited. His Insta game was so strong that he had forced me to up my own and bring in Marcus and Rocky for help in posting daily to our feed and stories. We were up to a few thousand followers, which felt amazing, and I knew I had Galen to thank.
He and his Bulldog, Mack, made their way into the shop while his friend, a tall, thin, Asian woman trailed behind. Unlike many white men in their sixties, my father included, Galen had a wonderfully diverse group of friends, and he often brought them to the store to shop and look around. Today, his guest gravitated right toward the memoir section, and I felt an affinity for her immediately. Memoirs were my go-to when I needed to understand more about how other people experience the world.
While Galen and Mac made their way to the mystery section, where I'd just added a Bulldog-sized bed for his royal highness since he and his owner favored that section above all others, I strolled over and introduced myself to Galen's guest. "Hi, I'm Harvey. So glad you're here. Are you a fan of memoir?"
The woman turned to me and smiled before putting out her hand. "I'm Effie. And yes. I know some people are burnt out on the genre, but not me. I can't get enough. Any you'd rec
ommend?"
Ah, my favorite question in the world. "Well, yes, I do in fact." I winked at my new comrade and said, "This isn't everyone's cup of tea, but this farm memoir, The Dirty Life, is splendid. And of course, The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls is a classic."
"You know, I've been wanting to read that one, but it felt too dark, too hard, maybe," Effie said as she picked up the book. "What do you think?"
"It's definitely not a light read, but there's this way Walls handles the trauma of her life that feels uplifting, revelatory, maybe even redemptive." I blushed. "But I don't want to oversell it."
"No worries there. I'm going to dive in. Now, something lighter, too?" she said with a twinkle in her eye. "Maybe something that makes me laugh?"
I didn't hesitate and grabbed David Sedaris's Calypso off the shelf and handed it to her. "Just don't read it in public. It's embarrassing to laugh that hard in front of strangers."
"So noted. Thank you." She tucked both books under her arms and turned back to the shelves in the universal book shopper's signal for "I've got it from here."
"Let me know if you need anything," I said and headed off to find Galen.
"Find" was a loose term, though, because in my small shop, the mystery section was just behind the memoir section. So when I rounded the corner, there he was, a stack of titles piled at his feet. "How in the world do you read all these books so quickly?" I said as I eyed his choices. All good ones including Black Magic Kitten, a fun cozy with a delightful and magical cat.
"Well, it helps that I'm retired and don't, say, have to run a business." He winked at me. "But I also read really fast."
I squinted at him and said, "Are you a skimmer, Galen?"
"No, ma'am. I read every word, or most every word. Does anyone really read all those 'she saids'? I don't skim. I just read fast." He reached over and patted my arm. "I try not to judge people's reading choices, but I definitely judge people who call skimming reading."
I laughed. "Me, too. Well, I’ll be right over there, but of course, you won't need me."
He smiled and turned back to the shelf while I gave the snoring Mack a scratch behind the ears before I went to the counter. Surprisingly, we already had a few customers, most in for coffee from Rocky's cafe, but a few book browsers, too. Maybe the cold wouldn't keep people away after all.
I had just finished up my new book order when Galen and Effie laid their choices on the register. I saw that Effie had added Jenna Wonginrich's Chicken Scratch to her pile and smiled. "Going all in on the farm memoir?"
"I figured I might as well. We don't have a lot of farm life in Boston, and while in the boondocks, might as well read about them." Her eyes darted up to mine. "No offense."
"None taken. I'm a proud proponent of the boondocks, at least for me. But glad you're visiting." I smiled, even as I felt the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Boston.
"Yeah, Effie just showed up on my doorstep last night, a spur of the moment trip." He grinned over at his friend. "Her dad and I were old friends, and I haven't seen you since, well, since you were what, eight or so?"
Effie shrugged. "Something like that. Dad had always talked about this quaint town that you called home, and well, I really wanted to be with someone who knew him on the anniversary." Her voice grew watery and soft. "My dad died five years ago this week," she said quietly.
Galen squeezed her arm. "I'm getting all of these, Harvey. Ring me up."
Effie tried to protest, to get out her own wallet and pay, but Galen was having none of it. I stood there watching them politely bicker over who was paying and wondered if this was how wait staff felt every time diners did this at their tables. If so, I was making it a point to decide who was covering the bill before I ate anywhere again. This was some kind of awkward.
Eventually, Effie graciously conceded, and Galen bought all fifteen books on the stack. I noticed he was trying out Adriana Licio's Basset Hound series and told him that I hoped Mack wouldn't be offended. "We'll just tell him it's a Bulldog." He leaned over the counter and said in a loud whisper. "He's cute but not that bright."
I laughed and tucked the books into the reusable totes Galen always brought on his trips. "How long will you be here?" I asked Effie as I worked the last few titles into the crevices of the bags.
"I'm not sure, actually. I work for myself and brought my cat, so I don't have any reason to be back. I may just hang out a while."
I smiled and ignored the way that niggling query was growing louder in the back of my mind. "Did you tell Mack your cat was a Bulldog, too?"
"No, a ferret," Galen said. "He loves ferrets."
My laughter followed them out the door, and I watched them walk up the street. Effie seemed like a lovely person, but it felt like a very strange coincidence that she ended up in our town just two days after a woman about her age from Boston was killed.
I took out my phone to text Tuck the new information but was interrupted when a young, disheveled man burst into the shop and sent the bell over the door clanging so hard I thought it might fall off.
"Is Max here?" the young man asked as he wheeled up to my counter and stared at me.
It took me a minute to respond because his entrance was so big and his question so odd, but eventually I spit out, "No. Why would Max be here?"
"I saw him here last night during your party or whatever. I thought he might work here or something." A flush of color was moving over the young man's pinkish complexion, and I felt the bluster of his entrance fading away. "He was just here for your party, wasn't he?"
I nodded. "Max owns the restaurant up the street. He was just here with some other," I swallowed hard, "friends. I glanced at the clock on the wall by the door. Eleven fifteen. "He's probably already there if you need him."
The man spun his wheelchair around once, taking in the store, before returning his gaze to me. "I'm sorry."
I smiled. "Nothing to be sorry about, but that was quite an entrance."
The man smiled. "Thanks. I take pride in never arriving unnoticed. Nice store. Yours?"
"Thanks. Yep, it's mine. I'm Harvey." I put out my hand, and he shook it.
"Davis." He moved toward the door. "Sorry again, but maybe I’ll come with less fanfare soon and just shop."
"I'd like that. Nice to meet you." I stared as Davis opened the door to the store and turned left toward Chez Cuisine. A small part of me thought about calling Max to let him know a very exuberant man was on his way, but that small part didn't triumph over the larger part who kind of wanted to see Max squirm. Davis had been nice enough, but something about his urgent need to see Max told me this wasn't going to be a gathering of old chums.
Marcus was in one of the front windows straightening our display, so I caught his eye and said, "I'm headed to lunch if you've got it."
"Got it, Boss," he said with a grin. He knew I hated when he called me that.
"Thanks, Assistant Manager Dawson. Be back in an hour." I grabbed my phone and headed out toward Max's restaurant. I didn't want to miss the show.
For the second time in a week, I walked into Chez Cuisine of my own free will. This time, though, I wasn't going to stay long. I had quickly devised the excuse that I needed to talk with Symeon about Mart's birthday in a couple of weeks if anyone asked why I was there.
But when I came in, I was not even noticed. Davis was at the end of the bar, and Max was leaning over having a very quiet, very intense conversation with him. The hostess and the wait staff were clumped in a corner, all eyes on Max and Davis. And the customers were staring intently, too. I suspected Davis had made a repeat performance of his grand arrival, and it was drawing all the focus.
I walked nonchalantly through the dining room and past the bar, giving Max a casual wave as if I strolled into his kitchen all the time. Then, as soon as the swinging door swished behind me, I trotted over to Symeon and said, "What is going on out there?"
Symeon cackled. "I should have known you'd suss out the big story right away, Harvey. I su
ppose you're talking about the guy who just blew open the door of the restaurant and demanded to see the man who stole away his girl?"
"What?!" I peeked out through the porthole window in the door. "Davis thinks Max stole Lizzie?" I had thousands of questions, but that one slipped out first.
"You know his name?" Symeon asked as he slid slices of mushroom into a skillet full of melted butter. The smell made me glow with pleasure.
"Oh yeah, we're old friends. Go back about five minutes when he blew into my store demanding to see Max." I smiled at Symeon, who was frowning at me.
"Why would he think Max would be there?" Symeon said as he did that things expert cooks can do with flipping and a sauté pan.
I watched with jealousy as I explained about how Davis had seen him the night before and thought maybe he worked at my bookstore, and even as I said it, I realized it was odd.
But Symeon beat my brain to my question. "So he's stalking Max?"
I shrugged. "Sounds kind of like it, huh?" I turned back to the window and looked out just in time to see Max staring at me through the glass. I stepped back, and he slowly opened the door.
"Are you looking for a position here, Harvey?" Max said in a tone that could either be derision or clever snark, but I couldn't tell.
"Um, well, no, you see, I just had to talk with Symeon about Mart's birthday, and you looked busy . . ."
Max rolled his eyes. "Davis told me about coming into your shop. You really are so nosy, aren't you?"
"I prefer the term curious," I said and heard Symeon snicker behind me. "And really, I just wanted to be sure you were okay."
Max grinned devilishly, and I shrank back a little. "So you were concerned about me, were you?" He took a step closer.
"Well, not like that. Just, well, the guy seemed intense." I felt heat rising into my cheeks and wasn't exactly sure what that was about, embarrassment or something else. But I pushed that something else far down into my brain stem and came back to the moment. "So what did he want?" I asked. I figured it was better to just be straightforward rather than pretend I didn't want to know.
