Publishable by Death

by A C F Bookens

  We took a seat by the garage door that I’d had converted to mostly glass, and Rocky brought us two cappuccinos – she knew the sheriff’s preference – with little flowers in the foam. “Very cute,” Mason said with a chuckle.

  “Thanks. I figured you needed something adorable in your day.”

  “Always,” he said as he took a long swig from the mug. “Delicious. This from that roaster down in Easton? – because it’s amazing.”

  “Yep.” I had been thrilled to see that a local company was roasting coffee right on the Eastern Shore and had arranged to get all our beans from them. I liked to keep things as local as I could.

  I watched Rocky walk back to the counter to wait on her next customer before I leaned over and asked, “Okay, so what’s the story?”

  “Not much story, I’m afraid. You already knew Stevensmith had been hit and had probably come in here to hide. That’s still our best theory. We do know that she was clobbered with something that left a curved mark in her skull, but we still don’t know what that something was.”

  I leaned back in my chair and sipped my drink. “Man, that’s not much to go on.”

  “No. No, it’s not,” the sheriff scooted in, “but this helps.” He slid a little plastic bag toward me.

  I picked it up and pulled it close to my face. “A piece of bright orange paper? Okay, fill me in.”

  “I brought it by because I thought it might be a piece from a book cover, something that might give us a bit more of the story about Stevensmith’s steps that night.”

  I scrutinized the triangular sliver again. “I can’t say as I recognize that color or that paper texture from any of our books or even from the little bit of stationery we stock.” I pointed to a spinning rack near the register. “I don’t think this came from here.”

  He smiled.

  “I thought you’d be disappointed,” I said.

  “Oh no. If it’s not from here, then it’s from somewhere else, and that somewhere else might just be the murder scene.”

  He scraped his chair back from the table and stood. “Thanks, Harvey. I’ll keep you updated as I’m able. But of course, you know I can’t really talk about too many details.”

  “Of course. And as I find info, I’ll pass it on, too.”

  “As you find info? Harvey, you know Williams and I can handle this, right?”

  We began walking toward the front door. “Of course, I do. I’m just nosy I guess.”

  “Well, nosy can be dangerous. Best to let us do the nosing around, okay?”

  I shivered, remembering all too well how true his statement was. “I’ll do my best.”

  He shook his head. “You’re a stubborn one.”

  “You better believe it. Wouldn’t be here,” I did a little spin in the shop, “if that wasn’t the case?”

  I could hear the sheriff laughing as he walked to his SUV.

  I spent the rest of the morning ordering books to replace those we had sold over the weekend, and I even bulked up our inventory a bit with the profit we’d made. But in the back of my mind, I was trying to figure out just why that particular shade of orange had seemed so familiar.

  That afternoon, I was just reorganizing the religion section – those spiritual folks could de-alphabetize shelves like nobody’s business – when I heard the bell chime. I pried myself up off the floor from among the stacks of books and stepped out, right into a woman about my age with a long, ponytail of silver hair. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Goodness, you’re quick. I just heard you come in.”

  “I’m so sorry. I want to shop, but can I—”

  “Yep, just over there. Door on the left.” I had been that person chagrined but in need when it came to a bathroom. When I opened the shop, I vowed to never refuse its use to anyone. It was just so mortifying to have to bounce around while you waited in line to get a key.

  I went back to reshelving until I felt a hand on my back and stood to see the woman standing beside me. “Thank you so much. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I expect I have some idea. Been there, done that. Happy to help.”

  “Well, thank you.” She extended a hand and then smiled. “I did wash.”

  I took her hand. “I’m Harvey. This is my shop.”

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Harvey, and so glad you’re here. Ever since I moved to St. Marin’s a few years back, I’ve thought we needed a bookstore. I’m Cate.”

  I detected a little Deep South accent in this slightly plump and very stylish Asian woman. “So you’re not from here then?”

  “Oh no. I moved up from Atlanta about eight years ago. My husband directs the maritime museum, and I paint.”

  “Oh, did I need you last week?” I gestured toward the white-washed brick and then gave Cate a sideways wink. “Just kidding. What do you paint?”

  She laughed. “You’d be surprised how many calls I get to give estimates on painting barns.” She looked at me intently. “Or maybe you wouldn’t. I expect not much gets past you.” She smiled. “I paint landscapes mostly, a lot of scenes of the water here, obviously. But my passion is portraits.”

  “That’s interesting. Do you get commissions for portraits often?”

  “Nope. But that’s okay with me. I’m not much for sitting in a room painting someone else sitting in a room. My preference is to do portraits of people as they work. The watermen around here – those old-timers who have been on a boat every day of every decade in their life – their faces have so much story in there.”

  I knew then and there that Cate and I would be good friends. Anyone who can see the story in a person’s face was someone I wanted to know.

  “Maybe sometime you’d let me paint you?” she asked with a steady gaze at my face.

  I turned away and grabbed a stack of Barbara Brown Taylor books. “Why me? My face has been in a cubicle for most of the last twenty years. Not much story there.”

  “Oh, I know that’s not true. I can see it at the edges of your eyes.”

  “Ah, the crow’s feet tell the tale.”

  “Something like that,” Cate said. “Now, where’s your art section?”

  She and I spent the rest of the afternoon looking at art books with her guiding me to some new ones I should add to give the section a good foundation and pointing out others that I might want to return since they didn’t have the best quality images or because she knew that the artists hadn’t been fairly compensated for their work in the pages. I was usually loathe to return books, even though I got reimbursed for what I’d spent on them, but if the artists had been cheated, that was a no brainer.

  By the time we’d reviewed the whole section and I’d rung up the couple dozen customers who had come through – almost everyone who came in bought something, a true kindness from my neighbors – it was getting dark and was almost time to close up shop. “Oh my word, I’ve been here all day, and I really just stopped in to say hello, pick up the latest issue of Where Women Create, and of course, pee. I’m so sorry for taking all your time.” Cate pulled out the hair tie and smoothed her hair back into its sleek ponytail.

  “Oh gracious, please. I had a great time, and you really helped me with that art section. Thank you.”

  “Not sure how much help I was,” she said picking up the magazine she’d come for, one of my favorites, too, “but it’s almost dinner time. If you don’t have plans, come on home with me, meet Lucas, and have dinner. Mondays are always pasta nights, so we can fortify for the week ahead.”

  Mart had texted to say she was safe and sound in Westminster, and I had been planning on a bowl of cereal for dinner. This sounded far better. “Sure. Thanks. I’ll just close up here, drop Mayhem off at home,” as if on cue, the pooch stretched and squeaked with pleasure, “then I’ll be there.”

  “Yay. I’ll help you close up, and please bring Mayhem. Our little Sasquatch loves other dogs.”

  I let out a burst of a laugh. “You have a dog named Sasquatch.”

  “Sure do. He’s a miniature Schnauzer. All fu
r and personality.”

  It didn’t take us long to help Rocky wipe down the café tables, and I turned out the lights as the three of us headed toward the door. “Rocky, want to join us?” Cate asked as we stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “Oh, thank you, but I need to get home and do homework. Plus, Mama made her curry soup, and I cannot miss that goodness.”

  “No ma’am, you cannot,” Cate said.

  Most everything in the town of St. Marin’s was within walking distance, so when we turned up a side street away from the water – toward Daniel’s side of town, I found myself thinking – I was delighted. I loved this street with its rambling Victorians towering above cute Craftsman cottages. Mart and I had thought about buying something small on this very lane, but the lure of the water had taken me a few blocks away, over by where the museum was. We strolled to the far end of the street, and Cate led us up the sidewalk to the most wonderfully out-of-place home on the block. It was a lean, angular modern building clad in long, thin planks of what looked like bamboo. Windows were scattered about the front in a pattern that I liked, but couldn’t describe. The trim on all the windows was a gunmetal gray, and the front yard was covered in wood chips with a shrub here and there.

  “In the summer, this yard becomes a meadow of wildflowers. It’s a nice contrast to the hard lines of the modern house design. Sort of like Lucas and me. He spends so much time with old things at work that he really wanted to come home to something that only had our story attached, so we built this home when we moved here. The wildflowers are my way of softening our space, blending us in a bit.”

  “I love it,” I said and meant it. “Did the neighbors object?” I could see how some of St. Marin’s more, um, traditional community members might have found the sleek design – and maybe the wildflowers too – in poor taste since they didn’t match the historical design of most of the town.

  “There was some grumbling of course. Always is in a small town. But people like Lucas so much, they pretty much stayed quiet.” Cate’s voice was matter-of-fact – even. She clearly didn’t let much get to her.

  As we went in through the full-glass double doors, I gasped. “Oh my goodness. It’s so beautiful.” The doors opened into a long, wide hallway with a view to the dining room and kitchen and beyond that a full wall of windows that looked out over the brackish canal that ran behind the house. In the half-light, I could see two egrets and a great blue heron standing sentry in the reeds. “That window.” I walked right to it and stared.

  I heard a deep chuckle to my left and turned with embarrassment. There, apron over his khakis and polo, was a man I took to be Lucas. He was tall – well over six feet – and thin, reed-like is how I could describe him. “The view gets everyone the first time.”

  He put down the pasta spoon he had been holding, wiped his hands on the apron, and came to greet me. “I’m Lucas. Nice to meet you.”

  “I brought home my new friend. I expect you made enough pasta,” Cate said as she flung her wool cape over the back of club chair in the living room just in front of the kitchen.

  “I’m Harvey,” I said with a smile. “And that’s Mayhem.” My pup was doing the usual sniff and greet with the most adorable dog I’d ever seen. “This must be Sasquatch. I love his eyebrows.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harvey. Someday I need to know the story of that name. And yes, that’s our resident pillow stealer. Guard yours if you ever stay over. You’ve been warned,” he said as he headed back to his work. “Pasta puttanesca okay? I felt like capers today, and Merv down at the fish market had some amazing anchovies.”

  I tried not to wince. I wasn’t the biggest fan of seafood, which made me ridiculous in this town where dinner was literally out the window. Something in my face must have given me away because Cate asked, “Not a big fan of anchovies?”

  “Not really. I don’t like much fish, actually.”

  Lucas gasped with mock horror. “That’s it. You’ll have to leave,” he said with a smile. “Just kidding. Lucky for you, I cook the anchovies separately so I can mince them over the top, so I’ll just leave them off your plate.”

  I sighed with relief. “Thanks. If you have a tiny bit I can try, I’m always game. Just anchovies . . . “

  “They’re the stuff of pizza nightmares, I know.” Lucas turned the big saucepan full of pasta and veggies with tongs. “Trust me, these are not those anchovies.”

  “Wine?” Cate said holding up a glass.

  “Yes, please.”

  She poured me a glass of a gorgeous pinot noir, and I savored my first sip. Then, Lucas plated our food and we sat down at their long, blonde table. The conversation wandered from Lucas’s work at the museum to my shop to Cate’s plan for a series of portraits of the oldest residents in St. Marin’s.

  By the time I was done with my second glass of wine, had decided anchovies weren’t totally terrible, and gobbled down a vanilla cupcake that Lucas had picked up from the bakery in town, I was completely relaxed and felt right at home. I couldn’t wait to introduce Mart to Cate and Lucas.

  I looked at my phone and saw it was after ten. “Oh my. I better get home and feed this girl.” I looked down at Mayhem, who was asleep on her side at my feet, and gave her a nudge.

  “Actually, I think she and Sas shared dinner. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Are you kidding? Anyone who will feed me and my dog is a friend for life.”

  Cate stood with me and grabbed my peacoat off the chair. “Thank you for coming. I’m so glad you’re part of our town, Harvey.” Her face grew more serious. “I know the shop got off to a rough start.”

  I had almost forgotten about the murder, which I felt kind of bad about. “Did you know Ms. Stevensmith?”

  “I did,” Lucas said as they walked me to the door. “She was an acquired taste, let’s say.”

  “That’s how most everybody describes her. My experience was similar.”

  “Still, it’s a tragedy,” Cate said quietly.

  “It is. The sheriff says they’re making progress on the investigation.” I didn’t know how much I could share of what the sheriff had told me, so I kept it simple.

  “Good. I don’t like the idea of having a murderer in our little town.” Cate shuddered.

  “And on that note, let me run you home, Harvey. It’s late, and I would feel better if you weren’t walking alone.” Lucas was already grabbing his coat.

  I smiled gratefully. “What? You don’t think this girl can protect me?” I gave the sleepy dog a nudge with my ankle.

  “Oh, I’m sure she would. But what if she hurts someone else? Best to just keep all our citizens, even the canine ones, safe.”

  As Lucas and I drove the few blocks to my house, he caught me up on all the quirky people in town. There was the guy who pretended to be homeless when the tourists were around and made a good enough living to afford his Bentley in the off-season. And the woman who wore only purple ever. “Rumor has it that everything she wears is purple.”

  I guffawed. “Hey, maybe you can tell me about someone I met briefly the other day. Black kid, late teens or early twenties, a really impressive flat top?”

  “Oh, you met Marcus.” Lucas’s voice had lost all the humor. “Marcus Dawson. He went to Salisbury U for a few years. Rumor has it that he was uber-smart, too smart for his own good, maybe. For whatever reason, he flunked out and moved to St. Marin’s. He does odd jobs for folks – hard worker for sure – but kind of angry.”

  “Hmmm. He was pleasant enough for me, but he did use up at least two whole rolls of paper towels in the bathroom at the shop.”

  “Hmph. Maybe he doesn’t have great aim?”

  I laughed hard as Lucas pulled up to my house. I loved this town.

  5

  The next morning, Mayhem and I took a little more circuitous route to the shop. That little piece of paper that Sheriff Mason had mentioned had come to mind as I scrambled an egg that morning – it might have been the turmeric that I threw in for flavor that trig
gered some hint of a memory, something to do with Main Street. So the hound and I headed out early to see if we could find the source of that nibble.

  We walked past the park on the waterfront and took a left through our neighborhood of ranchers and cottages that were the homes to some of St. Marin’s year-round residents. We hung a right on Main Street and went past the sail shop, the garden center, and the stately historic houses that had probably been home to ship builders back in the nineteenth century. As we passed the bookstore, I could see Rocky inside dancing, and I smiled.

  We strolled on up the block past the post office and the creperie, where the smell of sizzling butter almost drew me in. A couple was looking at the real estate listings at the broker’s office on the corner, and I found myself hoping they could afford the high price of our gorgeous town’s real estate because we could use a few more young families in the area. I peeked in Max Davies’s windows at the quaint tables for two and found myself actually wanting to eat there, despite the owner’s bristly personality.

  Ahead, I could see Eleanor Heron opening the front shutters on her farm stand, and that’s when I remembered – the paper flowers in her windows. I tried to keep my pace steady as Mayhem and I walked over to Eleanor, whose arms were full of something that looked like plump bowling pins.

  “Hey Harvey. Hey, Mayhem.” She put her load down in the bins just inside the door and bent down to give the dog a scratch. “Just putting out the last of my winter squash. I ration these all winter so I have produce throughout the cold months. Need to keep that foot traffic going,” she said with a laugh. “I expect you’ll know more about that soon enough.”

  “I expect I will,” I said with a smile as I stepped over to the leaded glasses windows. “Tell me about these flowers, Eleanor. They’re gorgeous.”