Crime and Nourishment_A Cozy Mystery Novel

by Miranda Sweet

  Off the Books

  Angie still had the books that she had selected for Walter in the back of her car. She had no idea whether the police would let her give them to Walter or not, but the decent thing to do seemed to be to ask.

  She made it through the bookstore’s morning shift in a somewhat groggy mood. She’d tried to force herself to go to bed early, but hadn’t been able to sleep; she’d turned to reading her namesake Agatha. She’d already read Murder on the Orient Express a dozen times or more; she found one of her dog-eared copies and dragged it, and a cup of warm milk, up to bed with her, hoping that it would put her to sleep.

  Jo was hung over, muttering to herself, as she delivered the morning pastries on her bike.

  “Did he call?” Angie asked.

  “No. And no texts, either.”

  “Did you call?”

  “Shut up.”

  But the words were delivered with a hug. Jo’s green hair and Misfits T-shirt made for a surprisingly romantic picture as she pedaled off with her bicycle baskets full of bread into the morning fog between the rows of brick storefronts.

  The morning was busy. Angie set up the coffee as she had earlier, with a small sign and a cup for cash, so she could focus on knocking down the espresso drink orders. Pastries flew off the shelves. At nine, Mickey arrived to restock her case.

  People lingered in the café area, reading newspapers and books. She had scattered the tables with a selection of classic popular fiction in the smallest mass-market paperback formats, along with a few newspapers. The newspapers were picked apart into sections and traded amongst the patrons, but many of the paperbacks were purchased after the coffee was finished.

  Aha.

  One of her customers said something that stuck with her: “It’s just the right amount of noise in here,” she said. “The business of you making coffee, soft guitar music in the background, soft chatter…not like a chain restaurant where you can’t hear yourself think, and not like a library where you’re afraid to say boo!”

  Angie had picked out the music this morning because she’d been feeling nostalgic for something that hadn’t happened yet—was there a word for that?—that was, more time with Walter. This time with the Spanish guitar music he had mentioned.

  The patrons liked it. She’d have to remember it.

  As she worked, her mind wandered. Making lattes didn’t occupy too much of her thoughts after having made so many, even when she had a complex half-caff-soy-milk-extra-hot-just-a-dash-of-vanilla-no-sugar order on her hands.

  What could she do to help the twins with their bakery rent?

  She could give them money to help them stay afloat; maybe that suggestion would sound better coming from her than from their mother.

  She could try to drum up more business for them using the bookstore. In between customers, she took the Nantucket Bakery business card from the far side of the counter and put it next to the register, then pulled out a few of the cards and scattered them along the front of the case, in front of the Danishes.

  What else?

  The cake that Mickey had been making had been pretty clever, she had to admit, yet it was probably too time-consuming to make the centerpiece of their business. Making six hundred blueberry-sage scones was far more cost and time effective than making a single cake; although, if Mickey had to make nothing but scones all day, he would have thrown his apron on the floor and walked out. He was the artist in that family, where Jo was more focused on the business side.

  Angie continued through the morning, serving coffee, selling books, and making notes as she went. She didn’t come up with any brilliant solutions, just a few ideas she wanted to make sure Jo was tackling. Did she have ads in the local free papers? Was she making sure her customers all had business cards out? What about a radio ad? In Angie’s experience, radio almost always was more useful than TV for advertising. But of course it was always so hard to know. Had the local paper been invited to tour the bakery? What kind of website did they have? Did they have a press kit available?

  There were a hundred little things that they could and should do before they started paying for advertising, so that when people did see their advertising, all the details—like what services they offered and for how much—would be in place.

  The bakery occupied her thoughts until Aunt Margery arrived at eleven.

  “Hello, my darling Agnes,” she said, kissing Angie on the cheek.

  “Good morning, Auntie.”

  Aunt Margery made a face but didn’t complain. “I’m sorry to hear about Walter.”

  The two of them left it at that while Aunt Margery went over the café supplies and made a list of what she needed Angie to pick up while she was out. Then she checked the catalogues and marked a few titles that she wanted to pick up for the store. Finally, she took over the stool behind the counter. “Tell me about our vacation in Greece in January.”

  “It might be—”

  Aunt Margery raised one hand to cut her off. “Speak to me of dreams, child, not of rent and taxes and such.”

  Angie laughed and told her about the places they would go: Athens, Crete, the small islands where sea turtles would climb out of the water to lay their eggs on the sand next to your boat and the mermaids who would follow you through the water, singing songs to try to wreck you against the rocks.

  Aunt Margery sighed. “A little romance in one’s life, that’s all one needs in order to survive the vicissitudes of the fates.”

  “Is that a quote?” Angie asked.

  “It’s a poetic kind of morning.”

  It was a minute until noon.

  “Now that I’m fortified,” said Aunt Margery, “tell me what happened with Walter.”

  “I thought you knew already.”

  “As you know, it’s one thing to be apprised of the general situation by one’s friends, and another thing entirely to hear the details from the horse’s mouth. And you, my darling grandniece, will carry me on your strong back as you tell me the tale.”

  “You are in a poetic mood this morning.”

  “It’s afternoon,” Aunt Margery corrected her pedantically.

  Angie laughed and told her a detailed version of what had happened with Walter, stopping only to help a customer find books on woodworking—she bought all six of the ones that Angie had.

  When she had finished, Aunt Margery said, “Yes, you should try to take the books to Walter. I don’t know that they’ll give them to him, but it shouldn’t hurt to try. If not, they can just say no.”

  “I wonder what they’ll do with his luggage at Jellicoe House.”

  “I’ll call and make sure they don’t do anything odd with it,” Aunt Margery said. “They’ll have to rent out the room again, unless he’s paid in advance, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “You know he has a lawyer.” Angie said.

  “Being a Snuock and having gone to law school himself, I would imagine so, although I hope he has hired a specialist to help defend him if it goes to trial.”

  Angie shuddered.

  “It’s something you’ll have to think about,” Aunt Margery said. “What position you would like to be in, if it should.”

  “I don’t think he’s the murderer, Aunt Margery.”

  “I didn’t say he was…but until this gets resolved, one way or another, you’re a suspect. At the very least, no matter what happens, you’ll have to be a witness during the trial.”

  Angie thought about going on the stand and being asked the same kind of repetitive questions that the detectives had asked her, going on and on for hours—it gave her a sense of perspective about all the mystery novels that she had ever read. She had always sneered at witnesses who lied on the stand and got caught—surely she, Angie, would have been able to keep her story together.

  But now she wasn’t so sure. The questioning had been mentally exhausting. At least if she were called up to the witness stand she wouldn’t have to lie about anything, unless Walter really was guilty of murdering h
is father.

  Would she lie then?

  She made a face.

  “Think about what you would like to have happen,” Aunt Margery repeated. “Before it’s too late.”

  #

  After picking up everything Aunt Margery needed and dropping it off, Angie drove to the police station, a red brick building with white columns in front of the entrance on the east end of town, with her small stack of books.

  The receptionist at the front desk frowned at her. “Ma’am, I can’t allow you to give those books to him personally. You’ll need to get approval from the supervising officer on duty, and Clarkeson’s busy right now.”

  “Can I leave them with you? They’re just books.”

  “New books?”

  Angie went through the stack. “One used book.”

  “Usually people want to bring clothes…and the clothes have to be new. I’d forget about the used book just in case.”

  Angie pulled it out. The receptionist eyeballed the rest of the stack. Angie had pulled out five good history books, not on the Russians but on the Ottoman Empire, just for variety. They had been books that Alexander Snuock had enjoyed, but she didn’t plan to tell Walter that.

  Sometimes it was upsetting, finding out how similar you were to your parents.

  Angie gave the receptionist a hopeful look. The man sighed.

  “I’ll try,” he said. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try.”

  He stood up and slid the books off the top of his desk, and put them on a shelf in the back of the room, along with a scribbled tag that he stuck between the pages of the top book.

  When he saw that Angie was still standing there, he said, “Anything else?” in a put-upon tone.

  “I’d like to visit him, if I may.”

  The receptionist said, “I have some paperwork for you to fill out,” and slid over a form.

  Forty-five minutes later, Angie had surrendered her purse, keys, and belt, and was sitting on the other side of a heavy plexiglass window with guards standing on the other side of the room. Walter wore what looked like a set of bright orange nursing scrubs.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “You know who hasn’t visited me? My mother.”

  For a moment, it sounded like he was in a pretty negative mood. Then he laughed.

  “Sorry. It just struck me as ironic, but not surprising. Someone I’ve known for only a few days is more thoughtful than the woman who gave birth to me. I love her, and there are a lot of things I love about her, but I’ve never understood her, and I’ve never seen what Dad used to see in her.”

  “You haven’t known me a few days,” Angie said. “You’ve known me since kindergarten.”

  “True, but non-continuously since seventh grade, Ms. Smarty-pants. I don’t think that counts.” He took several deep breaths. I know why you’re here.”

  “Oh?”

  “You thought to yourself, Walter was such a snob, he would barely talk to me the other night…and yet, for the honor of the bookselling profession, I must still deliver the book he asked for,” he said, teasingly. Then he quickly switched to a serious tone, “Do you have it?”

  She felt her face go a little red. “The officer on duty has to approve them. I left them at the front desk. They don’t let you bring this stuff in with you.”

  “You might be passing me escape plans and files to cut through the bars.”

  “I might be passing you razor blades and meth along the spines,” she said.

  “Ah, good point. Okay, that’s reasonable. What did you bring?”

  “I’ve already given you my best Russian nonfiction, so I decided to go with the Ottomans. They and the Russians were so often in conflict that I thought you might like to get the rest of the story.”

  “Are these ones that you picked out for my father?”

  Now she was definitely blushing. “Maybe.”

  He laughed. “Sometimes you’re more predictable than you think.”

  She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “But what books did I bring? Tell me that!”

  “That’s the fun part of the surprise. Don’t tell me. I’ll just look forward to them. When I get them, eventually.”

  They looked at each other. She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know him well enough to say the things that might actually help him feel better; she didn’t know what landmines to avoid so he wouldn’t feel worse.

  “I didn’t kill my father,” Walter said suddenly.

  Angie nodded.

  “You believe me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

  “Because I’m the logical suspect.”

  “You don’t seem guilty to me.”

  “What if it was an accident, and I don’t feel guilty because it wasn’t something that I intended?”

  She suddenly felt like she was on a high-wire and trying desperately not to look down. “That sort of sounds like an admission of guilt.” She took a breath. “But had you accidentally killed your dad, from what I know of you, you wouldn’t have been able to cover it up without revealing yourself in the process.”

  “Really?”

  “You kind of wear your heart on your sleeve.”

  “I’m easy to read? Coming from you…” He laughed. “You’re easy to read. You look so frightened right now.”

  She gave him a hesitant smile, “You’re sending some strange messages.”

  “I know.” He interlaced his fingers and rested them in front of him. “Boy does it make you squirm.”

  “Your father liked to see me squirm,”

  That did it, now his face was flat. “I’m sorry. I don’t like to seem like him.”

  She shook her head. “We both belong to families that have been on the island for a long time. We’re kind of genetically predictable.”

  “It’s family destiny, then?”

  “Probably it’s more complicated than that. But it’s pretty easy to interpret a book that you’ve been reading for generations. Or something like that.”

  They chatted about books and family for a few moments, coming to agree that new generations of a family were like the latest sequel in a long-running series, and that by-blows were like spin-off series.

  Angie didn’t know how he was surviving the sterility of the prison—all metal and white linoleum, hard and odorless—but she was glad to see he was in good humor despite everything.

  Finally Walter sighed and said, “I only have a few minutes left before my time’s up… I think my father’s murder was an accident. I just don’t know whose accident it was.”

  ”Your mom’s?” she knew it was an invasive question, but it had to be asked.

  He took a second. “I don’t think she had anything to do with my father’s death. Just…” His shoulders fell. “It’s so complicated.”

  “Do you have an alibi for the fourth? Surely someone must have seen you when you went out looking for your mother.”

  “Not for the fourth.”

  One of the guards called out, “Time.”

  Walter stood up. He leaned into the plexiglass.

  “Did my father pay you for those books?”

  “Please, don’t worry about it.”

  “Send me a bill.”

  “Walter, this isn’t the time to discuss bills. It’s the least I can do.”

  The guard shifted from foot to foot. “Time!”

  Walter turned his head, “Just one minute.” Then back to Angie. “Listen. They’ll figure out that I didn’t do it eventually. From some of the questions that they’ve been asking me, it sounds like he was killed on the night of the third, not the fourth. And I was with you.”

  The guard was at his back, tapping him on the shoulder.

  Walter gave Angie a quick but reassuring smile then turned and was ushered back through the heavy armored door. Her chest fluttered. The third, not the fourth! That changed everything. Walter had an alibi. Her. The question now was, who didn’t have an
alibi on the third?

  #

  She spent a few hours wandering aimlessly along the children’s beach, watching the children play and reading a book on her phone. She didn’t feel like eating but made herself stop at a fast-food restaurant for a quick meal.

  It felt like she was being tortured by her own thoughts, which swirled around in her head endlessly. The same scenes over and over again: the sight of Alexander Snuock’s body, the scenes leading up to his discovery. Sobbing in the kitchen. I should have gone back up to see the body again, when I was calmer. Her date with Walter at Sheldon’s Shuckery—everyone had seen the two of them together, but then everyone knew when they had left, too, and after that, there hadn’t been much of a chance of a witness providing an alibi for Walter. It would all depend on the time of death.

  She returned to the bookstore in time to help Aunt Margery close, gave her a brief description of the visit, and opened up the bookstore financial reports on her computer, and calculated a few test profit-and-loss sheets for the bookstore based on last year’s sales, next year’s projected sales, and the new rental rates.

  The good news was that this year’s sales had been better than last year’s sales. The bad news was that she didn’t think there would be enough money to take the trip to Greece in January.

  She ran the numbers for closing the shop in January, but without the vacation to Greece, and those looked better. She could do one or the other: close the shop or take the vacation to Greece. But not both.

  Soon it was midnight and of course Aunt Margery had gone. Angie vaguely remembered a kiss on the cheek, but couldn’t recall when. Captain Parfait had head-butted her leg a few times, too. She glanced around the back room, then stuck her head out the door—he was in his basket by the window, sound asleep.

  When you’ve stayed awake later than your cat…

  She went back to the books. In short, she had to admit that Snuock had been right. She had a clear margin of safety; she wouldn’t lose the bookstore. That was what she had to focus on, not the lost vacation. She wasn’t being put out of business.

  Snuock’s ghost would be happy if Quinn were put out of business, of course. But what about everyone else? Snuock’s ghost could probably care less. He’d grown up on this island and had relationships with hundreds of people on it, not least of which were the ones with his tenants.