“You recommended that a mechanic who doesn’t really read buy a book about two English academics who fall in love?”
“I did.” I had felt kind of proud of myself for the brazenness, but was quickly deflated by Mart’s practicality.
“What if he hates it?”
I sighed. Oh no, what if he did?
Before my mind could slide off into worst-case scenarios, Mart reminded me another odd happening from the day. “Who was that young guy, the one with the skateboard and the hair a la Fresh Prince?”
I knew just who she was talking about. A young black man – maybe about twenty – had come in and asked if we had a restroom. I’d pointed him to the back of the store then didn’t think anything of it until a while later when he came by the counter again. “You’re out of paper towels,” he said.
“Oh no. I’ll take care of that right away,” I said as I turned to go to the cabinet where we kept supplies by the bathrooms “Thanks for telling me.”
“Least I could do since I used the last two rolls.”
I stopped my jog to the storeroom just as Mart came up to the counter. I turned back to the customer. “Are you okay? Were you sick or something? I can get you a ginger ale.”
He shrugged. “Oh no, I’m fine. Sorry for using all your paper towels.” He waved and then headed back out to the street with his skateboard.
Mart and I watched him cross the street and head off further into town. But then, a customer came up to ask about wine books, and Mart was off in her element. And I rushed to refill the paper towels in the men’s room.
Standing up from the chair and stretching, I said, “Yeah, that was odd. But the bathroom was immaculate after he was in there. I just hope he was okay.”
Mart pried herself off the floor. “Guess we can head home? Unless you just want to sleep here to save us the trouble.” I was tempted, but Aslan would have my hide if I didn’t come home to feed her and tend her, er, facilities. She was a very particular cat.
The next day, the shop was hopping again. News of Stevensmith’s murder was in the Sunday paper, and that, coupled with the great coverage that the Baltimore Sun had done about the shop meant we were even more crowded than we’d been the day before. A couple of visitors even asked if they could see “where it happened,” and I had to politely decline the prurient requests, including one from Max Davies, the owner of Chez Cuisine, the local pseudo-French restaurant.
“Too bad,” Davies said. “I kind of wanted to revel in the place of her death.”
I must not have been good at hiding my look of horror because he said, “Oh, come on. I know you met her. She wasn’t the most likeable person after all.”
“Well, no,” I had to admit, “but the woman was murdered. Maybe reveling isn’t the kindest reaction?”
“If she had tried to shut down your business, you might feel differently.”
“She tried to shut you down?”
“Hm-mm. Twice. Once when she wrote a scathing review of our escargot and called them, ‘Elasticine.’ My snails are fresh and succulent, I’ll have you know.”
I nodded vigorously because it seemed like it was in my best interest to stay on Davies’ good side.
“The second time, I know she was behind this trumped-up health department complaint. I’ve never had rats in my kitchen.” He sniffed as if the very idea was preposterous.
I made a mental note to steer clear of Chez Cuisine. Rats or not, I didn’t feel like I really needed to take in any atmosphere Davies created. Still, a good neighbor is often a quiet neighbor, so I listened attentively and then asked his suggestion for the cookbooks we should carry. “It’s about time someone asked my expertise on things around this town,” he said as he snatched the notebook and pen from my hand and headed toward the cooking section.
I caught Rocky’s eye in the café, and she doubled over laughing. Guess Davies had a reputation.
Traffic into the shop kept the bell over the door dinging steadily, and I barely had time to help customers find books they might like – my favorite part of the job – before I had to ring up another sale. I knew it wouldn’t last forever this way, but I was pretty excited still. Last night’s quick tally showed we made a really good net profit for our first day, and today looked like it might be even better. At this rate, I might even be able to hire a clerk to help so that I didn’t have to be at the shop every minute it was open . . . although I kind of wanted to be, at least for now.
At one point in the afternoon, I came to the surprising discovery that many of the books in both of my window displays had been purchased, so I flagged down Mart as she hustled about straightening shelves and answering questions and asked her to cover the register for me so I could restock. One or two books missing from a window display made the shop look good; only one or two left made it look derelict.
I headed to the storeroom, bracing myself to enter. I’d been avoiding the space. But my extra copies of Catherine Clinton’s book were in there, and I thought I had a few more gardening titles that I’d been saving for later in the spring.
I stepped inside and let out the breath I’d been holding. The room looked normal, very normal in fact. No police tape. No chalk outline on the floor. Nothing at all to indicate that a person had died there. The business owner in me was glad of that, but the person who loved people, she was sad. I sat down gently on a box of cups for the café and took a moment. I knew Stevensmith wasn’t here – she didn’t seem the type to haunt a simple bookstore. If her spirit was lingering, it had grander aspirations – but I still felt like saying something was in order. “Ms. Stevensmith, I know you found my little shop lacking, but I still appreciate that you came and wrote about us. Thank you.”
I heard a rustle to my left and jumped up to see who was there. A tiny, white woman in a polka dot raincoat was in the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was looking for the bathroom, but I see I’ve made a wrong turn.”
I hustled over to her. “Of course. Let me show you the way.” I gestured behind her, but she didn’t move.
“Lucia actually liked your shop, you know? I know she didn’t show that well, but she was thrilled that you were opening. ‘About time we had a bookstore in St. Marin’s,’ she said.”
I stepped back so I could look the woman in the face. “You knew Ms. Stevensmith?”
“Well, of course I did, dear. I was her mother.”
I took a step backward in surprise. “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.” Fatigue and embarrassment made me fumble my words. “I didn’t know – I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The woman put a tiny hand on my arm. “It’s fine, dear. You’re new. How would you know? I’m Divina Stevensmith. It’s nice to meet you.”
I laid my hand over hers and found her skin was ice cold. “You’re freezing. Can I get you a cup of something hot?”
She smiled. “Maybe after I go to the bathroom?”
“Oh yes, of course. Right this way.” I closed the storeroom door behind me and walked her to the other side of the shop and pointed at the door. “Right there. I’ll wait for you here, if that’s okay, and then maybe we can have coffee and you can tell me a bit more about Ms., I mean Lucia.”
She nodded and headed to the door in small, graceful steps. I turned back to the store to wait, but then got pulled away by a customer looking for a book that would encourage her fourteen-year-old son to read. By the time I got back, the bathroom door was ajar and Ms. Stevensmith was nowhere to be seen.
After a quick glance around the shop to see if I could spot her brightly colored rain coat, I headed back to the storeroom to grab the books for the window displays. The door wasn’t shut tight, and I was pretty sure I’d closed it all the way. That felt off, but then, maybe Rocky had come in for supplies for the café or something. I didn’t have time to worry over nothing, so I grabbed my books, and headed back out with a stack of titles up to my chin.
4
&nbs
p; By close on Sunday, my whole body ached, and I was more tired than I thought I’d ever been, but I was giddy, too. The weekend’s sales had given my bank accounts a boost, but more importantly, I was feeling confident that I could do this thing, that I might not have to mooch off of Mart forever.
I stayed behind at the store after everyone left just to straighten up and to enjoy the quiet for a bit. I reshelved all the books that had been left around over the weekend. I checked the picture books in the kids’ section to be sure no dust jackets were torn. I gave Mayhem a good rub on her bed by the register. I fussed with the chairs in the perfectly tidy café just so I could put a hand to everything in the shop.
Then, I dropped into the wingback chair next to the poetry section and cried. Being super tired always made me a little weepy, but I was also immensely grateful for all the ways my friends and the people of St. Marin’s had rallied around my little store. Gratitude made me weepy, too.
I was finishing up my private crying jag when I heard a knock at the window and realized, with a shudder, that everyone on the street could see me since I had left all the lights on. Tomorrow would be fun. “Why were you crying, Harvey?” “Everything okay, Harvey?” Sigh.
Mayhem came to my side as I got up and went to the front of the shop. I shielded my eyes so I could see past the reflection of the Edison bulbs, and I felt my mortification grow. There stood Daniel and Taco. Mayhem must have smelled her friend because her tail started wagging a mile a minute. I, however, wanted to disappear into the bookshelves never to return.
Daniel gestured to the door and then to himself, and I nodded. Might as well let him know I’m okay. Maybe he could spread the word.
I unlocked the door, and Taco trotted on in and gave Mayhem a sniff before they headed to the café to be sure Rocky and I had tended to all the crumbs. Daniel locked the door behind him with my keys that were hanging there and then looked at me. “Big weekend. Just decompressing, I imagine.”
I smiled. That’s precisely what it had been – a release – and I was heartened that he knew that. “Exactly. Most of my strong emotions – good and hard – come out as tears. I’ve just always been that way.”
“I get it. I kind of think you might be healthier than a lot of us since you just let it all out.”
“Well, thanks for that.” I tried to suppress a ridiculous grin. “You okay?”
“Oh yeah, just out walking the canine slug. He usually has a pass up and back on Main before he totally refuses to walk further and I carry him the rest of the way home.”
“Wow. He’s not a lightweight pup. Maybe you should trade him in for a Pomeranian if you’re going to have to carry him.”
Daniel laughed. “Nah, no trade-ins. He’s stuck with me. I have contemplated a wagon though.” He shifted the leash from one hand to the other. “When I saw the lights on here, I thought maybe you and Mayhem would like to walk with us.”
I glanced over at our dogs, who had now taken up resting positions back to back by the front window. “Looks like they’re game. Just let me get my coat. But I should be clear – I’m not carrying anyone. Everyone gets home on their own power.”
“Understood. You hear that, Taco? The lady is not hefting your big butt.” Taco wagged his tail.
Outside, the air was brisk, and I worried for the daffodils that had begun showing their sunny faces in the warm sun of the weekend. Mayhem’s leash rested lightly around my right wrist as I pulled on my mittens. “Ready to go when you are. Were you on your way up Main Street or back?”
“Back. I was hoping you and Mayhem would motivate Taco to go a bit further, but I didn’t want to take my chances that his enthusiasm would wear off too soon and you’d have to see me try to lift him.”
I laughed. “He doesn’t look light,” I said as I eyed the sizable belly on the low-slung pooch.
“He isn’t.”
We walked along in comfortable silence for a bit, and I enjoyed the chance to look into the shop windows and admire the window displays. Even Heron’s farm stand was decked out for spring with beautiful 3-D flowers made from folded paper taped to the windows and attached to wooden dowels in vases in the sills. “Ms. Heron seems nice,” I said almost to myself.
“She is, although I’m not sure most folks would call her nice.”
I gave him a look.
“Oh, I don’t mean that she’s not kind. Just that she’s a force. You know she runs her farm and this farm stand by herself? Sometimes for harvest, she hires local teenagers, but mostly, she does it all – the planting, the weeding, the marketing. I don’t think she sleeps.”
She had looked tired when she’d stopped by the shop today to check on our order of daffodils for the café tables. “That must be exhausting. Just the shop tires me out, and I don’t have to grow the books myself.”
We reached the end of Main Street, and I felt a little sad that our walk hadn’t lasted longer. But I was tired and wanted to get home before the fatigue turned my legs and my brain to mush. “This is my turn,” I said, pointing east.
“Ah, you’re on the water side.”
“I am. That was one of the requirements for wherever I lived – a water view. I got spoiled in San Francisco with water on three sides of the city and the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate within walking distance of my apartment. Plus, I love this water. I grew up on the Bay. It’ll always be home.”
“I didn’t know you were from around here.”
“Well not here exactly. Just up the road in Cecil County, Chesapeake City.”
“I love that town. Did they build the canal through it, or did the town just grow up around the canal?”
“The canal brought the town, definitely.” I thought about the charming town that I’d hated in high school. No teenager likes for everyone to know everything about you.
I looked up into his face. He was smiling, and his face was so kind. “Thanks for this, Daniel. It was really nice.”
“Agreed. Maybe another evening we can do it again . . . or even take a walk by the water.”
I grinned. “I’d like that. Have a good night.” I gave Mayhem a tug and headed down the street to our house, eager to tell Mart, well, everything. Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite as tired.
Monday morning came early, but I woke with gusto. A new shipment of books was coming in, and I couldn’t wait to open the boxes, smell the ink and paper, and get shelving. There’s just something so satisfying about putting things away, and when those things are bound collections of stories and information, it’s even more fun, at least to me.
Rocky came in not long after I arrived at the store, this time with a tray full of cookies. “Your mom was baking again?”
“Oh, I made these. I was so keyed up from the weekend that I couldn’t sleep. So I baked. Spring-themed sugar cookies.”
I walked over to take a look and saw an assortment of flowers and rabbits. “These are beautiful. You decorated these by hand?”
A blush spread over Rocky’s cheeks. “I did. I’m just learning, but I think they came out okay.”
“Okay? These are amazing! And I bet they taste as good as they look.”
She turned toward the counter with a smile. “Let me get the coffee brewed, and we’ll find out.”
“I like how you think.”
Today was going to be the first day Rocky and I were on our own. Mart had to spend some time at the winery and then she was off to the mainland to consult with a winery up in Westminster. Over breakfast, she’d offered to stay home. “Or I can drive back tonight. I’ll do that. It’ll be fine. I’ll just caffeinate—”
“Mart, you will do no such thing. We will be fine. I will be fine. I have my trusty sidekick here,” I gave Mayhem a nudge with my foot, “And I have friends in town if I need them.”
“Friends like Daniel.”
I rolled my eyes. “What are we, twelve?”
“When it comes to boys, yes, we are twelve.” She grabbed her briefcase and headed toward the door. “You’ll call if you n
eed me?”
“I won’t need you, but yes, and you’ll text when you get to your hotel?”
“Sure, Mom.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and headed out the door.
Now, I was missing her presence in the shop. Having her there made me sure of myself, confident that she’d have my back. But I took a deep breath, glanced over at Rocky, and steadied my shoulders. We had this.
We opened at ten a.m., and within moments, a few folks had come in to grab coffee from the café. No real book shopping happened on Monday mornings, I knew. Most of us had too much ahead of us in the week to think about reading, but I enjoyed the chance to catch up on the industry news, check out upcoming releases, and brainstorm a few ideas for author events.
I had a quirky notion for a “Welcome to Spring” celebration for late March, and I wanted to see if I might be able to get David Healey, a local author, down for a reading from his Delmarva Renovators mystery series. His books were set in my hometown, and I thought I could probably get a good crowd from there and here in for the event, especially if the restaurants in town might do a special something for folks coming to the reading. I got to giggling as I thought about how Max Davies might try to redeem his chewy snails.
I was so focused on how we could do a murder mystery party after dinner that I was surprised when someone cleared their throat just on the other side of the counter.
I looked up to see Sheriff Mason grinning at me. “You are enjoying yourself, huh?”
I blushed. “I am. Planning some events for the store. It’s really fun. Do you like mysteries?”
“Live them every day, so I’d say so.”
“Ah yes.” I closed my laptop and came out from behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to update you on the investigation.”
“Oh, right. Okay. Do you want to sit in the café?” I scanned the shop. Just one woman browsing in the poetry section, so I was pretty sure I had a few minutes. Poetry readers are devoted, but the books weren’t our hottest ticket.
Publishable by Death Page 3
