by ACF Bookens
Marcus’s after-school entourage came in right on schedule. This bevy of teenage girls clearly had a crush on my assistant manager, and while he was obviously quite devoted to Rocky, he was also kind and polite to these young women. And his kindness meant they came back often, which I didn’t mind. Bookstores aren’t always the hang-outs for teenagers, but I liked their presence. Plus, they bought any book Marcus recommended. Today, he was telling them about Artemis Fowl and suggesting that while they were certainly too mature to be the intended audience, “I think you’ll still enjoy the playful way Colfer uses the stereotypes about fairies and such.”
The girls were agog with his kind assessment of their literary abilities, and I was equally impressed at his ability to recognize books that might not seem a good fit for a reader but actually were perfect. These teens loved urban fantasy, so steering them to a middle grade series that featured character types they’d know, but a in a new way, was super wise and might just broaden their reading tastes a bit. Masterful, that guy.
I was just listening into Marcus’s conversation with the girls as they checked out when Scott came in. I smiled as I saw my new hairdresser and hoped I had done his cut justice with my very slim efforts toward styling this morning. “Hey, Scott. Glad to see you here.”
“Well, I had to return the favor of business for my new client and fellow business owner. Point me to the manga, please.”
I nodded and walked him toward the small section of graphic novels, comic books, and manga. “We don’t have a lot here, so if you have recommendations of must-have titles, do let me know. I don’t read much manga, but I’m always open to suggestions.” I ran my hands through my hair, pulling on the blue stripe self-consciously. “In fact, the only graphic novel I’ve read ever was The Watchmen.”
“Well, if you’re only going to read one, that’s a good choice. What did you think?” he asked as he pulled a Sailor Moon anthology off the shelf.
“I liked it. I mean I liked the characters and the plot, but to be honest, reading and studying pictures at the same time isn’t my favorite. Probably I’d get better at it if I tried, but well,” I gestured around the store, “with so much . . . I do love reading . . .”
“Got it. Too many books, too little time.”
“Exactly.” I looked back toward the front of the store to see a customer headed toward the register. “Well, just let me know if you need anything.”
He nodded and turned his attention back to the shelves in front of him as I scurried up to ring up a customer’s beautiful coffee table book of Andy Goldsworthy’s art. I spent a bit of time talking to the older man about his purchase, and it turned out we were both avid Goldsworthy fans. By the time I thought to check on Scott, he was already in the café chatting with Rocky.
Marcus was tidying the front tables, so I took a minute to step over for my afternoon latte. As I walked over, I heard Scott say, “Oh yeah, I used to be fast – 4.6 in the 40-yard dash, if you can believe it.” He patted the slim curve of his belly. “No way I could do that now.”
“4.6 – that’s fast. Like almost Olympics fast,” Rocky said. “I never did have speed, just distance.”
“You were a distance runner, Rocky?” I asked, totally butting in and not caring. “I didn’t know that.”
“I am a woman of mystery, Harvey Beckett. You should know that by now.” She laughed. “Scott was just telling me that running was the best part of football for him.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say that about football. After all, running doesn’t have much to do with the ball, does it?” I shrugged.
Rocky and Scott shot each other significant looks. “Gracious, Harvey. Have you ever watched football?”
I felt my face redden. “Of course. But isn’t the point to throw the ball and catch it?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I imagined a field with a bunch of men running – running very fast in fact – to catch the ball.
“And who catches--” Rocky started, but I interrupted her with a raised hand.
“Those fast dudes who catch the ball – you were one of those, right? Tight end?”
Scott chuckled. “Good memory. Yep, I was one of those fast dudes.”
I smiled as I felt my brain trying to tick off some box. I needed a moment for my mind to catch up. “Well, I will not be moving at all if I don’t get some caffeine. Fill me up, Rocky?” I held out my blue, hand-thrown mug.
“Sure thing,” Rocky said as she winked at me.
* * *
As I watched her fill my cup, I tried to follow the gossamer thread of thought my brain was trying to weave. Something about Scott and running . . . I came back to the moment when Rocky waved the cup of cinnamon-covered warmth beneath my nose.
“Earth to Harvey,” she said. “You okay?”
I laughed nervously as I glanced from her to Scott. “Sorry. Just got lost in my thoughts there. Thanks for this.” I waved to her and Scott and headed back to the bookstore. I just couldn’t quite get to what my brain was saying, but I knew myself. It would all come together eventually if I just gave myself enough time.
Unfortunately, time was not something I had a lot of for the rest of the day. The customers kept coming in steadily, so I stayed on past my scheduled hours to help Marcus and to replenish our pumpkin books in the window. It just wouldn’t do to have an empty window display before the weekend.
By the time we closed at seven, I was beat and really just wanted to go home, eat marshmallow cereal for dinner, and watch more Outlander. But we had a float meeting first, and we needed to get going on finishing our float. I didn’t want to be here until midnight tomorrow trying to get everything finished.
Fortunately, Cate and Lucas came with Sasquatch, their Miniature Schnauzer, and, as usual, they had dinner in hand. This time, it was a huge platter of lasagna that Lucas had made from scratch and a large salad. Plus, I was thrilled to see a big box of his famous cupcakes. And soon we were joined by Stephen and Walter, our friends Henri and Bear Johnson, Pickle and Lois Herring, and even Woody, with my planter boxes at the ready. Mart brought Tiffany, too, and Daniel sauntered in with Taco just as we got everything set up.
The dogs gobbled down the special meal of chicken and rice that Lucas had whipped up just for them, and Mayhem then led their retreat to the dog bed in the window, where I saw both tourists and locals stopping to wave and take pictures. Once again, I gave thanks for my idea of having a dog-friendly shop. It probably was the primary source of my business some days.
Soon, everyone had paper plates full of pasta, crisp salad, and a cupcake (or two in my case), and we were perched around on the chairs and ottomans that Marcus and I had gathered in the fiction section. I again wondered about having some evening picnic-style potlucks here in the winter months – this kind of gathering was just so much fan, and when the tourist season pretty much shuttered after this weekend, maybe local folks would enjoy a quiet evening out at the bookstore. I texted myself to remember to look at the calendar for November and see if we could get that scheduled. Then, I focused all my attention on Lucas’s amazing lasagna – with sausage and hamburger, perfect amounts of cheese, and a tomato sauce that was just the right amount of sweet and basil-filled. If I hadn’t already had the second cupcake at the ready, I might have had seconds.
As we ate, we chatted about the harvest festival and the parade, about the latest news from the museum that Lucas directed, and, of course, about the murder. Mart and I exchanged a look when Henri mentioned the lawsuit, and I saw Mart reach over and discreetly rub Tiffany’s arm. But neither of us said anything about what she’d told us. That was her story to tell, well, unless she was a murderer. But I was still hoping that wasn’t the case.
Eventually, I figured we needed to get moving on the float, even though what I really wanted to do was rest my shoulders against Daniel’s chest and talk with my friends all night, so I stood and put on my jacket. Soon, everyone followed suit, and we trudged out the back door of the shop into the col
d, dark October night. Woody had brought by some workshop lights, so we could see back in the alley, and soon enough, we were hard at work hanging streamers, painting signs on pieces of old paneling that Daniel had pried from the back of his office wall, and figuring out how to secure a big, but very lightweight pumpkin, to a hay trailer.
PIckle and Bear were in a full-on debate about pumpkin lashing when Symeon stepped out from the back door of Chez Cuisine. He looked flustered, but I didn’t think much of it given that he worked for Max. If I worked for that man, I’d be flustered – and irate – most every minute. But as I hung streamers from the gooseneck of the trailer, I saw Symeon’s pacing behind the restaurant get more emphatic, and soon I heard him talking to himself, as if he was psyching himself up for something.
I caught Mart’s eye and pointed toward Symeon with my head. She followed my gaze and then nodded before heading his way. They talked for a few minutes, and then, just as I finished making a total mess of my twist of yellow and orange streamers, they headed back toward us. “Hey, Symeon,” I said as I lowered myself from the trailer. “You okay? Looked like you were working through something major over there? Max getting to you?” I tried to look sympathetic and not nosy, even though I felt completely nosy.
He looked at me with confusion and then smiled. “Oh, no, not Max. I can handle Max.” He winked at me, but then his face grew dark again. “No, it’s what I was hearing from one of my tables. My uncle . . .” He looked at Mart and then at everyone else, who had since stopped work to look at him. “Never mind. I don’t want to gossip.”
Tiffany stepped forward to the edge of the trailer from where she had been helping Daniel secure a custom-made dog bed as Taco’s perch for the parade. “No, what did you hear? I want to know.” Her voice was hard and brittle.
Symeon looked from Tiffany to Mart. When she shook her head slightly, he said, “It’s nothing really. Just people talking, probably.”
I felt a thud beside me, and then Tiffany was in Symeon’s face. “Tell. Me. What. You. Heard,” she said and thrust a finger in Symeon’s face.
Symeon took a quick step back, and Henri stepped up and slid an arm around Tiffany’s waist. “Clearly you have some feelings about Coach Cagle,” Henri said calmly, “ but there’s no need to take that out on Symeon here. Surely you can see he’s having a hard night?”
Tiffany’s scowl slowly softened, and it seemed like she might be seeing Symeon for the first time. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just, that man.”
Hands raised, Symeon said, “You’ll get no argument from me. He was a total cretin. I never liked the guy, but I didn’t know he was that bad.” He laced his fingers behind his head and looked up at the sky before turning back to Tiffany. “But maybe he was.”
“Sorry,” Tiffany said as she laid the hammer she’d been using on the trailer. “I think I’d better go.” She hugged first Mart and then me and put an arm on Henri’s shoulder. “Thanks, everyone. See you at the parade.”
I watched her slip back into the shop and followed her, but by the time I reached the counter, she was already going out the front door. I turned the lock and watched her as she got into her car and sped off down the street. I felt the RAINN card that Lu had given me in my pocket and decided that tomorrow I’d find a way to see Tiffany and get that to her. Clearly, she had some unresolved struggles, and their volunteers just might be able to help.
8
Friday morning came too soon, but when my alarm went off, I was up like a shot. I had so much to do to prepare the store for the Harvest Festival. The Main Street Fair, which kicked off the festival, began at four p.m., and I wanted to be sure we had plenty of goodies – including some of our infamous “Book Grab Bags” for the kids. Each grab bag was going to include a coloring book, a chapter book, and a coupon for ten percent off their next purchase in the store. I’d ordered a whole bunch of fun but inexpensive titles a few weeks back, and my morning’s work was to fill the pumpkin-shaped bags and have them ready for the Fair.
Plus, I wanted to beef up the pumpkin window display, change out the other window to focus on Autumn-themed fiction, including several copies of Isabelle Allende’s House of Spirits, which Marcus’s mom had just recommended glowingly in our latest newsletter. I’d also printed up a poster-sized copy of that newsletter with a “Sign-Up Inside” bubble attached in the hopes that we’d grow our mailing list over the weekend. This was our last chance to really grab the readers before the town got sleepy quiet for the winter season. I was hoping that more email subscribers might mean more special orders, especially if we offered discounted shipping for larger orders.
So I threw some bread with extra sharp cheddar under the oven’s broiler as I double-checked that my backpack had everything I needed for the day. Then I ate as Mayhem and I walked to the store. I loved days like these – busy and full of potential, but they also made my stomach ache. I fed most of the cheese toast to Mayhem.
Marcus came in early that day, and so he staffed the store while I worked on the displays. When I was done, the windows were full and looked perfectly autumnal. I’d placed candles with artificial flames on pedestals and stools of various heights in both windows to tie them together. Then, I’d perched the books for each theme on ladders and chairs in the displays, leaving plenty of room for Mayhem’s dog bed in the fiction window. Then, I’d placed small pumpkins and gourds from Elle’s farm around in groupings and finally centered my newsletter poster and a sign that Cate had hand-painted from the leftover paneling last night that read, “All Things Pumpkin” to the left-side of the other window.
Outside, Woody had hung my new planters, and Elle was there filling them with the most amazing plants, mums and coleus with lots of bright yellow pansies in the front. The boxes were just the perfect touch, and I even loved the little card advertising the planters for sale in the corner below the fiction display. I had no doubt Elle and Woody would be getting lots of orders soon.
About noon, Galen walked in with Mack. The Bulldog headed right to the front window to join Mayhem and Taco. Galen picked up a couple of thrillers, including a copy of The Summer House by James Patterson. ”How does this man write so many books?” he asked as I handed him his purchases.
“Help,” I said. “He writes most of his new books with ghostwriters now, but he picks good ones, ones who get his style. And he has this whole new series of kids’ books that are so fun.” I pointed over to a cardboard display that Patterson’s publisher had sent over for the holiday sales season. “He’s got a good thing going, and he’s good at helping other writers, too. I like him.”
Galen smiled and snapped a picture of the display. “I like him, too. His books are so fun. Next time, I want a couple of those children’s books, okay? Remind me? “
I smiled and then gestured to the front window. “Feel like leaving Mack for a while?”
“How could I tear him away?” He looked at the chubby English Bulldog. “I mean, literally. I can’t carry him, and it certainly doesn’t look like he’s going to leave of his own volition. You don’t mind?”
“Not a bit. Just come by before the fair starts and pick him up? I don’t think I can hold all three of them back when the funnel cake stand arrives,” I didn’t know if I could hold myself back, now that I thought about it.
“See you then.” Galen headed out the door and greeted Cate, who was standing with Sasquatch in her arms and pointing to the sleeping trio.
I stepped out the door. “Leave him. They can take a group nap.”
“Perfect. I am running late and didn’t know how I was going to drop him with Lucas at the museum and get my exhibition done by the time the fair started. You’re a life-saver.” She passed me the pooch and took off down the street at a brisk clip.
When I set Sasquatch in the window, he sniffed, turned a circle like a cat, and dropped onto his side like he was dead. Soon, I could hear four dogs snoring from the window, and I found myself a little jealous. Some days a group nap sounded like just about th
e best thing. All my friends and a good snooze – that would be so comforting. But not today, there was too much to do.
As Marcus and I bustled about filling gaps on the front tables, pulling down some overstock from Woody’s new bookshelves, and adding everything from the backroom to the floor, I caught glimpses of lots of people photographing the puppy puddle in the front window. About every third person then came in to see the pooches in person and many of those folks bought books. Once again, hound-dog laziness was good for business.
About three o’clock, Marcus came back from his late lunch, and I decided to grab a quick snack and catch my breath in the café. Rocky brought me her newest café addition – a salted caramel, chocolate chip scone – and I dug in with my feet propped on a chair across from me. I leaned my head against the window.
The next thing I knew, the chair under my feet was jerked away, and I woke up to see Tuck smirking at me. “A bit tired, Ms. Beckett?”
I groaned. “I guess so.” I sat up straight and hoped I hadn’t been asleep long enough to flatten my hair on one side. It was a hazard of short, coarse, curly hair – it took on the shape of whatever it touched. Headbands left impressions that could be seen for days. “What’s up, Sheriff?”
Tuck sat down in the chair he’d just removed and sighed. “Mart coming in today?”
I looked at the watch over Rocky’s register. “Yeah. In fact, she should be in soon. Why?”
“Just need to ask her about Tiffany Steinberg.” He pulled his hand down his face. “This is probably the worst time to need to solve a murder.”
