Publishable by Death

by A C F Bookens

  She let out a hard sigh and went into the back room.

  “The deputy’s murder was a tragedy, but not Stevensmith’s?” Cate asked as she slid back over beside me.

  “She didn’t say that.” I felt like I needed to defend Elle for some reason, but even I had to admit that she wasn’t exactly giving off the “completely innocent” vibe.

  “She didn’t have to say it.” Cate gave me a look that said, if it quacks like a duck.

  Eleanor came back from the storeroom with an armload of small-petaled daisies. They were beautiful and seemed like the perfect emblem of spring. They would definitely lower the intensity of Cate’s roses.

  Cate paid, and we thanked Elle and made plans for her to come by on Saturday afternoon to drop off the flowers. Except for that whole suspicion of murder thing, it would have been a lovely visit with a neighbor.

  Back at the shop, things had gotten much busier in the twenty-five minutes we’d been gone, and I could see the look of relief on Rocky’s face when we came in. She had a line at the café counter and was just ringing up a big sale at the book register. “I’ve got this,” I said as I slid in beside her.

  “Thank you. The need for caffeine was getting palpable,” she whispered as she jogged out from behind the counter toward the café.

  I laughed and continued ringing up the man in front of me. His selections were fascinating. Most men stick to the supposedly “male” genres like thrillers and spy fiction, military history, maybe a bit of literary fiction as long as the main characters are men. But this guy was buying a stack of cozy mysteries by some of my favorites: Mollie Cox Bryan, Maggie Sefton, and Millie Jordan. “Lots of murder here,” I said with an ironic wink.

  Well, just when I needed to restock my supply for the week, I thought. “What better place to come than the bookstore that was the scene of the crime?” He gave me a tentative smile. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

  “Not at all.” I was surprised I meant that when I said it. “We’re just glad people are finding us. I love a lot of these books, but I hope you don’t mind me saying that I don’t find many men who read cozy mysteries.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I’m an anomaly, but since my wife died, I just want to read books that capture my attention, let me feel like I’m among friends, and give me a chuckle at the sleuth’s complete inability to walk away.”

  I felt color run up my neck. He’d pegged me pretty well. I managed to choke back my embarrassment and say, “Well, if you ever need recommendations—”

  “Oh, I’ll be back. I went with some favorite authors here, but I saw a couple of writers I don’t know yet. Maybe you can point me toward some great books when I come next time.”

  “I’d love that. I’m Harvey, by the way. I own the shop.”

  “Galen Gilbert. Nice to meet you. I have decided that I’ll make St. Marin’s my Tuesday outing – I have one for each day of the week just so that I don’t get to be too much of a homebody – so I’ll see you in a week.”

  I watched the small, gray-haired, white man as he made his way out the front door. A customer like that was why I was in business. I knew books could save people’s lives – keep them from deep heartbreak like the loss of a partner – and I immediately started musing on what cozy mysteries to recommend next. Maybe something British?

  That night, I went home exhausted. Daniel and Taco walked Mayhem and me home as usual, but when we got to the door, I put my hand on his chest when he leaned down to give me his single kiss. “Let’s hold that thought,” I smiled at the shock and then the sadness in his eyes. “Want to come in, eat a huge bowl of peanut butter popcorn, and then complain about our aching bellies while we binge watch Game of Thrones? I’ve never seen it, and I hear it’s best if I not go in alone.” The events of the past ten days had finally caught up with me, and Mart was away. I didn’t feel like doing anything strenuous like cooking a meal, but I did feel like spending more time with Daniel.

  He took my keys and unlocked the door. “After you, Madame.”

  Peanut butter popcorn is one of those foods that the world needs to know about. It’s a really simple thing to make – just honey (or corn syrup if you must), sugar, peanut butter, and vanilla all mixed together and poured over popcorn. The only problem with is that it is possible – but not advisable – to eat an entire bowl by oneself. This was my other motivation for inviting Daniel in. I’d been thinking about this popcorn all day, and if he shared, at least I wouldn’t make myself too sick.

  I mixed the peanut butter sauce while he used the air popper to make the popcorn and fed Taco and Mayhem. They would have been content with popcorn for dinner, too, but we opted for kibble instead. Then, he watched as I dumped the popcorn into a super-big metal bowl and then poured the peanut butter sauce over top, stirring carefully enough to get sauce on most of the kernels but not so carefully that we’d miss out on the goodness of extra sauce at the bottom of the bowl. “That’s the best part,” I told him as I explained my strategy.

  We sat cross-legged on the sofa, our knees touching and the bowl of popcorn wedged between us, and I felt myself completely relax for the first time in weeks. Daniel loved the popcorn, and the twenty minutes of Game of Thrones that I saw before I fell asleep looked pretty intriguing.

  When I woke up the next morning, I was under my favorite quilt – the one that usually graced my bed, Mayhem and Taco were on the floor beside me, and Daniel had left a note on the coffee table. “Dear Harvey, I didn’t want to wake you. You needed the rest, but I did take the popcorn. I will return the bowl when I bring your keys to the shop at 9:30. I left Taco behind because he and Mayhem make a good guard duty pair, and also, I didn’t want to carry him home. See you soon. xo”

  I sat up and stretched and smiled. This guy, this one was a keeper.

  9

  Daniel hadn’t stayed long when he’d dropped off the completely empty and washed popcorn bowl and my keys, but it was still nice to start the day seeing him. I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he watched three episodes of Game of Thrones without me and now had to – by my demand – wait for me to catch up with him, but I figured I’d forgive him, by oh, say, noon.

  I spent the first part of my morning swapping the display of Westerns I had made with a new display of True Crime books, featuring my favorite title, Shot in the Heart by Mikal Gilmore. I knew we had a number of loyal readers for Westerns, but I needed to be wise and go with what All Booked Up was known for, and right now, that was crime. So True Crime got the coveted face-out shelves just behind the new release tables. I knew where my bread was buttered.

  I was just about to head out to the taco truck and get Rocky and me some lunch when Divina Stevensmith came through the front door. After our last conversation and her odd reaction to the color orange, I felt the impulse to run around and tug all the books with orange covers off the shelves, but I resisted. After all, she just said she didn’t like the color; she didn’t say it made her homicidal or anything.

  The tiny woman was wearing a polka dot jumpsuit that reminded me of the rain coat she’d been wearing that first time I saw her, and I wondered if she had a penchant for the whimsical print. I was on my way to ask her that very question as a casual conversation starter when she made an abrupt turn away from the self-help section that she’d been browsing and walked straight toward me.

  I mentally braced myself for what looked like it might be a dressing down, given her forceful march in my direction, but when she reached me, she said, “Thank you for what you’re doing for Deputy Williams and the town.” Her voice was quiet and steady. “That poor woman. She didn’t deserve that.”

  Ms. Stevensmith was twisting a bright blue scarf in her hands, and she looked on the verge of tears. I came around the counter and pointed to a pair of club chairs by the art books. “Want to sit?”

  She gave a small nod and lowered herself smoothly into the nearest chair. Next to her, I looked a bit like a cow trying to use furniture, but I tried to
focus on her nervousness.

  “It was a sad thing, her death, especially for you.”

  She nodded, scarf still twisting. “And I’m sorry you have been affected, and in your new shop and all. What terrible timing.”

  I looked around the shop. “Well, if it hadn’t happened here, it probably would have happened somewhere.”

  Her eyes darted to meet mine. “I don’t know about that. I mean, there’s something about this space, don’t you think?” She stood up and spun in a circle as if trying to see the whole shop. “There’s a lot of history here.”

  I thought about what the sheriff had told me about The Green Book and this building when it was a gas station. Ms. Stevensmith was easily in her eighties, very much someone who had grown up in the Jim Crow South. “You knew this building when it was a gas station?”

  “Knew it? Harvey, my husband owned it.”

  I dropped my chin to look at her through the tops of my eyes. “I’m confused. I thought the man who owned the gas station was black.”

  She grinned. “He was.” She took a deep breath and looked at me closely.

  “Okay, but, forgive me for asking, but wasn’t Lucia white? Not biracial, I mean?” Conversations around race were always so hard.

  “Yes, you’re right, not that everyone who has mixed-race ancestry shows it the way we think they would, of course.”

  I nodded, although that was news to me.

  “Lucia was my daughter from my second marriage. Her father was white. My first husband, Berkeley Hudson, owned the gas station.” She sat down and looked at me. “He was black.”

  “I heard that the station was in The Green Book.”

  “It was . . . although a few places in there were owned by white people, too. But most were black-owned. Berkeley’s was one of them.” She smiled and seemed to slide back into her memories. “Lots of people came through here when they were on their way from New York or Philly and headed to Norfolk or other places in the South. No I-95 then, you know?”

  I hadn’t known, but I loved trivia like that. “Anyone famous?”

  “Oh my, yes. John Lee Hooker stopped once, ended up having dinner with us because there wasn’t anywhere else to eat until you got to Norfolk. I couldn’t get him to play for us, but he was mighty nice.”

  “You met John Lee Hooker?” I was tempted to get up and put his music over the speakers right now.

  She gave me a soft grin. “I did. My favorite guest, though, Richard Wright—“

  I couldn’t help myself and interrupted her. “Richard Wright stopped in St. Marin’s. What?!”

  “A fan are you?”

  “You could say that. I’ve read Native Son maybe twenty times. He’s one of the best American writers in history.”

  “And a big fan of meatloaf,” she said with a smirk, “With extra ketchup.”

  “No?! Really? I love that.”

  She got quiet then and folded her hands around her scarf. “It was an important place, this gas station. A haven for a lot of folks who just needed somewhere to stop and rest before heading on.”

  I put a hand on her knee. “It was kind of you to open your home.”

  “Maybe too kind.” She stood up and looked toward the back of the store. “Anyway,” she said with a little shake of her head, “I’m glad you own this place, Ms. Beckett. It seems like you appreciate the stories – both the ones in the air and the ones on the page – that live in these walls.”

  I felt like I was not getting the whole picture here, but she was clearly moving our conversation along, so I didn’t push. “Thank you, Ms. Stevensmith. I really appreciate that.” I took a few steps back toward the counter. “Was there something I could help you with? Something you needed.”

  “Oh yes, I almost forgot. I’d like to donate a piece to auction off at the street fair with all proceeds going to the scholarship fund in honor of Deputy Williams, if that might be alright with you.”

  “Alright with me? Of course. That’s lovely. Can you get me a bit of information about the piece, and I’ll get the word out to the press? I’m sure this will bring some folks out.”

  She handed me a small sheet of paper covered in neat handwriting. “I took the liberty of anticipating that request and made some notes here. Just let me know if you need anything further.”

  I glanced down at the paper and saw she’d written:

  Divina Stevensmith – 1938-

  Study of St. Marin’s at Nightfall

  Paper Collage

  8’ x 12.5’

  Valued at $25,000

  “Oh my word, Ms. Stevensmith. This is too generous. I had no idea—“

  “No idea my work was worth that much?” She smiled demurely. “I hope I’m not overvaluing my art, but I sold a piece that size last week for a little more than that. So I hope that’s fair, but feel free to lower the value if you think it appropriate. You’re welcome to come by and see the piece in my studio if that would help. And of course, people don’t need to bid nearly that much—”

  “No, of course your work is worth that much and more. I’m just stunned by your generosity. Thank you.” I took a deep breath and then leaned down to give the tiny woman a hug. “Truly. Thank you. This is a huge gift in Deputy Williams’ honor.”

  “It’s the least I could do.” She gave my hand a hard squeeze.

  As she started to walk toward the door, I called after her, “Ms. Stevensmith, can I ask a question?”

  She turned, and I met her near the doorway. “I mean, I’m just curious. The color orange? You really seemed to dislike it. Is that an artistic thing? Something about the way it, um, plays with other colors or such?”

  That tiny woman looked me dead in the eye and laughed so hard her shoulders shook. “Oh my, no. I’ve just seen way too much of it in my day. Lucia loved orange from the time she was a little girl. She wanted her room painted orange, always wore orange clothes, even now – er, until she died – she took notes on orange paper. I just got tired of it, you know, the way you get tired of a food if you eat it all the time, even if you loved it once.”

  “Ah, thank you. I totally get it. Sometime, I’ll tell you about my small overaffection-turned-distaste for Reese’s peanut butter cups. Thanks for telling me. I had been curious.”

  She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Seems like you’re curious about a lot, my dear.” Then, she turned and walked out the door with a little wave through the window as she went down Main Street.

  I shivered as I sat back down in the chair by the art books and texted Mart to explain the orange thing and the gift.

  My wise friend wrote back immediately. “You better Google her.”

  “Right. On it.”

  I knew I was in for a surprise when Google auto filled Divina Stevensmith after I’d typed simply Divina. A quick scan of the listings showed she had pieces in galleries from coast to coast, including one of my favorites in Sausalito, California. She’s had exhibitions at the MOMA in New York, and she had a permanent gallery down in Salisbury. She was a big deal.

  I scrolled through a few listings, looking for anything I could about her personal life. I felt kind of nosy, but I couldn’t help it.

  Twenty minutes later, though, and I still knew almost nothing about her. She had been born in Baltimore in 1938 and lived in rural Maryland. That’s all any site listed. She and her agent – the only person I could find any contact information for when it came to her work – kept a tight lid on her private life. I respected that and was impressed. In this social media age, it took a special prowess to stay out of the headlines, even if you weren’t a famous artist.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon sending a second round of press releases about the art auction in between ringing up the customers who came in. Cate got Ms. Stevensmith’s permission to take a photo of a corner of the piece she was donating so that I could put it on the impromptu webpage I’d created for the fair on our store website. I also added a contact form with the hopes that most of the requests for more info
rmation would come through email since I much preferred email to the phone. Finally, I altered the store voicemail to give a bit of background about the street fair and the silent auction and pointed callers to the website.

  Then I braced myself for the onslaught of calls . . . that never came. All through Wednesday evening and into Thursday morning, the phone rang only a couple of times with people looking to order particular books. Normally, I would have been thrilled to have orders coming in, but in this situation, I was just disappointed. I had thought Divina Stevensmith’s donation would cause a buzz.

  In an effort to distract myself and lift my mood, I texted Cate late Thursday morning and asked if she wanted to get lunch. Mart was in town and had offered to come cover the shop for me so that I could get a break. She knew I was sad that the news of the auction hadn’t caused more of a stir. While we had eaten frozen pizza and drunk boxed wine the night before, she’d said, “Tomorrow, I’m coming in and working the register so you can get things prepped for the weekend and – and this is non-negotiable – take a few hours away from the store. You’ve been there all day almost every day since opening. It’s time you relaxed for a bit.”

  Part of me felt guilty – felt like I should be the one giving Mart some time off. She worked so hard, and she was supporting me financially at the moment. But then, she reminded me that her job usually enjoyed a wine tasting a day in some of the most beautiful places in the mid-Atlantic, and I acquiesced.

  Cate texted back immediately and suggested we meet at noon at Dale’s Seafood Shack. “Then, I’ll get Lucas to give you the deluxe tour of the Museum.”

  “That would be great. See you there at noon.”