Baked Books (The Donut Mysteries Book 30)

by Jessica Beck

  “Simon, it’s not my fault that the three of you combined haven’t sold half as many books as I have all by myself.”

  “Are you sure about that? I hear Alexa’s book is going to make the New York Times bestseller list! When was the last time you made it?” Did he take a certain amount of pleasure in tweaking the other man?

  Brad ignored the jab. “You should all be eternally grateful that I’m even allowing you to accompany me on this book tour.” It was clear that the younger man had an ego the size of Montana, and he wasn’t afraid to throw his weight around, either.

  “Don’t kid yourself. You need us every bit as much as we need you,” Simon replied.

  “You’re joking, right? Why on earth would I ever need a washed-up suspense writer, a dowdy grandmother selling recipe books disguised as mysteries, and a woman with exactly one novel to her name? I’ve done venues alone before, and I’ve proven many times over that I’m the draw, not the three of you.”

  “We humanize you,” Simon said, clearly uncomfortable with confrontation. “If it weren’t for us, your rampaging ego would drive away every reader who even bothered showing up.”

  That must have finally struck a chord with Brad. He loomed over Simon, and in a softer voice we could barely catch, he asked, “Did the others put you up to confronting me, or did you come up with it all on your own?”

  “Stop seeing conspiracies where there aren’t any,” Simon snapped. “That’s your problem, you know. You’ve been writing about the seedier side of life in your thrillers for so long that you’ve started to believe your own books.”

  Brad’s lips narrowed, and his nostrils flared. It appeared that Simon had scored yet another direct hit. “My books are real. It’s you mundane folks who seem like paper cutouts to me.”

  “I’m getting tired of having this argument with you,” Simon said with a heavy sigh.

  “Don’t worry, it’s the last time you’ll have to have it. After tonight, I’m pulling out of this farce of a tour. We’ll see how well you three little pigs do without me.”

  Simon’s face fell. “You can’t do that. We’ve committed to five more venues.”

  “Watch me,” Brad said icily.

  “Our publisher won’t allow it,” Simon answered. “You may outsell the rest of us, but we all signed the same contracts when it came to public appearances, and he’s the one who put this tour together. I might not be able to make you follow through on your promise, but he surely can.”

  Brad laughed, though there was no humor in it. “It’s so cute that you actually believe that, Simon.”

  “I’m not bluffing. I’ll call John Rumsfield himself,” Simon threatened. “Let’s see how you like dealing with the owner of Starboard House himself. He’ll set you straight.”

  “As a matter of fact, there’s no need to call John. He’s already on his way. Besides, I’ve got a contingency clause that if I’m feeling under the weather, I can cancel my part of the tour with twenty-four hours notice.” Brad glanced at his watch, and then he added, “I’ve got three hours to spare as it is, so after tonight, I’m through with you clowns and this joke of a sideshow.” After feigning a cough, he added, “I do believe I’m coming down with something. Oh dear. I hope it’s not catching.”

  “You can’t do that to us,” Simon protested. Brad must have really been the draw he claimed, because the older author was clearly panicked by the idea of his fellow panel member’s potential absence. “We came to this little one-horse town because you insisted. You can’t just turn your back on us after we leave.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m here to pay off one last debt. After I leave April Springs, I’m heading back to my place at the lake, and I’m going to write another bestseller. You know how that feels, don’t you? Or is your memory not that good anymore, atrophied along with your dismal writing skills?”

  With that, the tall man started to stalk away.

  But evidently we hadn’t been the only ones eavesdropping on the argument. Another man who’d been lurking near the bookstore stopped Brad before he could get very far. He was a slim gentleman in his late forties, his hair graying at the temples and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. His designer suit was out of place in my hometown, and I wondered who he was. “Brad. Where are you storming off to?”

  “John. You’re early,” Brad said, clearly surprised by his publisher’s sudden appearance.

  “Your message sounded urgent,” John said. “I flew down as soon as I could. Now, what’s this all about?”

  “I’m not ready to discuss it with you just yet.”

  The publisher began to frown. “I came all this way, and now you’re getting shy all of a sudden? What’s going on, Bradley?”

  The man clearly didn’t like the use of his formal name. Brad took a step closer to his publisher before he said, “There’s something you should never forget, John.” There was nothing warm about the way he said his publisher’s name. The two men had very similar builds, but their likenesses ended there. Brad continued, “When I signed my last contract with you, you were just renting me; you weren’t buying me outright.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” the publisher asked his author as he poked him in the chest with his left index finger. There was anger in his voice now but also a touch of fear.

  Brad wouldn’t explain himself any more, and as he walked away, Simon approached the publisher. “John, I need to speak with you.”

  “Not now, Simon,” the publisher said, clearly brushing him off as he started to follow his star author.

  “This can’t wait. It’s important,” the aging suspense writer said, clearly screwing up his courage to have his say. He put a hand on his publisher’s shoulder, who glared at him until he removed it.

  “You need to watch yourself, Simon,” John said. “You’re on thin ice as it is.”

  “Why would you say something like that? My books are still selling, aren’t they?” the man whined. “And so are Bev’s, for that matter.”

  “Yes, but the real question is, are they selling enough? We both know that I can’t afford to have any dead weight on my list.”

  “We’re not dead weight,” Simon protested, but it was clear his publisher’s words had cowed him.

  John didn’t answer. He merely stared at Simon for a single moment longer, and then he turned his back on him, dismissing him entirely. He hadn’t even looked around to see who might have witnessed their conversation. For that matter, neither had Simon or Brad. The three men had been so self-absorbed that Emma and I had gone completely unnoticed not twenty feet away, leaving us to wonder what we’d just witnessed.

  “Wow, who knew that writers and publishers could be so full of drama?” Emma asked me after they were all out of sight.

  “Why would you expect anything less from any of them?” I asked with a grin as we pushed our carts across the street now that the show appeared to be over. “Writers sit around by themselves all day and make things up, albeit spectacular things, and I have no reason to believe that the people who hire them are any less odd. How could they not be dramatic in real life?”

  I glanced over to see where we were heading. Paige had installed a large banner welcoming everyone to the grand opening across the front of the old brick building, and just below the flapping cloth, I saw the quaint little sign announcing her shop. The Last Page was written in florid script as though it were an illumination hand-lettered by a cloistered monk, or whoever had done that kind of work back then. I could always ask my stepfather if I really wanted to know. He was a history buff of all kinds, so he might know, but what he really specialized in were old and cold murders. It might have seemed like an odd hobby for a man in his retirement, but it seemed to suit him just fine, since he was a retired police chief.

  “I don’t know,” Emma answered. “I suppos
e I always pictured authors sitting around fireplaces in easy chairs lost in deep thoughts all of the time.”

  “That’s a little romantic, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose. How do you picture them?” she asked me as we started pushing our donut carts around to the back of the bookstore as we’d been instructed to earlier.

  “Not that I’ve given it much thought, but I guess I just figured that they’d sit in empty rooms banging away on keyboards all hours of the day and night. I’m sure that it’s just a job, not that much different than what the rest of us do with our days.”

  Emma shook her head. “I refuse to believe that.”

  “Hang around for the panel tonight and ask them yourself, if you get a chance,” I said.

  “Are you going to the talk?”

  “I hadn’t really given it much thought, I’ve been so focused on making these donuts. I probably will, since Jake is out of town. It could be fun, especially if they all dislike each other as much as it just appeared.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Emma said as I knocked on the back door of the bookstore.

  Paige looked frazzled as she answered our summons.

  “You still want your donuts now, don’t you?” I asked her.

  The new bookstore owner seemed more than a little distracted by my question. “What? Yes. Of course. Bring them in.” Doing her best to summon a smile, she added, “They look marvelous,” as she looked over our offerings. “What about the daggers?”

  “We’ll bring them with the last load of donuts,” I explained. “We wouldn’t want your donuts to ooze out too quickly, would we?”

  “No, of course not,” she said absently. “They’re going to be perfect.”

  “We’re glad you like them,” I said as we wheeled the first batch inside. She was really rattled. “Paige, are you all right?”

  “Yes. Things are just a little chaotic at the moment, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bet they are,” Emma said with a grin. “We just saw two of your writers and their publisher nearly getting into a brawl in front of the donut shop not ten minutes ago.” She peered around to see if she could spot them up front. “Are the others already here?”

  “No, I’ve asked all of them not to come to the bookshop until five minutes before the panel is set to begin. Who was fighting, do you know? I was told that the group’s publisher might be here, but I didn’t think that would be possible, since the man runs a pretty large publishing company. How he can just leave New York on the spur of the moment and come to April Springs is beyond me. John Rumsfield not only runs Starboard House, which is a pretty big deal in mystery circles since it’s one of the last few large independent publishers, I’ve heard it said that he owns it outright, making him the last of a dying breed.” Paige bit her lower lip, and after a moment’s hesitation, she asked us, “Was Brad Winslow one of the writers, by any chance?”

  “That’s what the other fellow kept calling him. He was a tall, handsome man, and he seemed to have a bit of a mean streak in him. Does that sound about right?”

  “That’s him to a T. Who was he arguing with?”

  “An older, portly gentleman named Simon,” I said.

  “That would be Simon Gant. Did you say the publisher was there, too?”

  “He was. How well do you know them?” Emma asked her.

  “I don’t know Simon or John at all,” Paige said with a frown, “except by reputation, of course.”

  “Does that mean that you know Brad, then?” Emma asked. “He’s kind of handsome, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose some women might think so,” Paige said, and then she bit her lower lip.

  It sounded to me as though their acquaintance wasn’t exactly a happy one, so I decided to leave it alone.

  Not Emma, though. “So then, you do know him,” she said.

  I was about to warn my assistant to back off, but to my surprise, Paige nodded. “Unfortunately, I do.”

  “Are you two dating, by any chance?”

  I wanted to scold Emma for being so presumptuous with our client, but Paige answered before I could say anything. “Not for a very long time. How did you know?”

  “Honestly, I just took a stab in the dark,” Emma said. She must have finally noticed the hint of sadness on Paige’s face. “I’m sorry to be so nosy. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore point for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said brusquely. “Brad and I are finished.”

  “Doesn’t that make it awkward having him here, Paige?” I asked her.

  “What could I do? It’s something I had to risk, whether it was difficult for me personally or not. After all, he’s here at my request. They all are, but Brad is the one who arranged it at the last minute.”

  “I don’t get it,” Emma said. “If you two are estranged, then why would you invite him to your grand opening in the first place?”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking him to come, but starting up a bookstore from scratch is a great deal more expensive than I realized it would be. I need a smash grand opening, or I might not be able to keep my doors open for very long.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be a hit,” I said, doing my best to comfort her and, in the process, try to end this discussion of her love life and change the subject to a happier topic. “Now, where should we put these donuts?”

  “How about if you just stick them over here in the corner for now,” Paige said, pointing to one of the few unclaimed spaces in the back. “Before you go get the next batch of donuts, let’s take that tour I promised you earlier, shall we?”

  I wanted to see the bookstore, especially as a sneak peek before the rest of April Springs got a chance, but I could see that Paige was clearly being stretched to the limits without indulging us. “I’m sure you have more urgent matters to attend to than showing us around the place,” I said, trying to give her an easy out.

  “Nonsense,” Paige said. “Honestly, I could use a break.”

  “Yeah, Suzanne. In a way, we’re helping her by distracting her,” Emma answered with a grin. “Lead on, Paige.”

  As we walked into the main part of the shop, I was amazed by the sight of so many filled lovely wooden shelves dominating the space. “Are these made of walnut?” I asked as I trailed a finger across a shelf.

  “Yes. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? I don’t even want to think about how much they cost me.”

  I didn’t doubt it. I wasn’t sure how much she’d sunk into her shop, but if those shelves were any indication, Paige needed to be a roaring success to even begin to recoup her investment. She certainly had enough inventory on hand to do it. The shelves were loaded with books, both hardcovers and paperbacks, and whoever had created the sign out front had used their lettering skills to pen individual genre sections as well. Romance was written in flowery script, while the overwhelming Mystery section was lettered in a gothic font just dripping with ominous portent. There was even a section of autographed books up front, and I was amazed by the array of signatures collected there. “How did you get so many signed books so quickly?” I asked her as I noted some very well-known names represented there.

  “I lucked out there. A collector who haunted conventions recently passed away, and I bought the entire estate’s book collection. It cost me a pretty penny, but I think it was worth it.”

  I picked up an autographed volume by a prolific mystery novelist and saw that the book was very reasonably priced. “Are you sure you’re charging enough for this?” I asked her.

  Paige laughed. “Are you kidding? From what I hear, the only valuable books he’s written are the unsigned ones. He must have terminal writer’s cramp from signing his name so much.” She reached for another book as she said, “Here’s a real beauty. I was tempted to keep this one for my own collection.
” She then showed us a hardcover by a long-dead author, and when I saw the price tag, I knew that Paige hadn’t been shy about pricing things on the expensive side.

  “Wow, that’s a lot to pay for one book,” Emma said, noticing it as well.

  “You’d be surprised. I could get that, and a little more, tomorrow if I were to sell it online, but that’s so impersonal, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so,” Emma said as she wandered off to the science fiction section, lettered in a rather futuristic print.

  “Maybe this was all one big mistake,” Paige said softly as she looked around the shop.

  I patted her shoulder gently. “It’s completely understandable. You’ve just got opening-night jitters. It’s going to be fine,” I said, hoping that I was right.

  “Did you get nervous when you first opened Donut Hearts?” she asked me.

  “You bet I did! I must have eaten three dozen donuts myself that day,” I answered with a grin. “Just remember, every store that has ever opened has had an opening day. You’ll manage just fine.”

  “Thanks,” Paige said. “You’ll be here tonight, won’t you? I could really use a friendly face.”

  “Of course I will,” I said, making my mind up on the spot to be sure to attend. “Don’t worry. It will work out fine.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I have a question, Paige. How are you, Suzanne?” the older woman with striking long gray hair asked me with a smile.

  “I’m fine, Millie. How do you like working at the bookstore?”

  “So far it’s been great, and I just know that I’m going to love it. There’s just one problem so far, though.”

  Paige frowned. “What’s that?”

  “I’m worried that my entire salary is going to be eaten up by my book budget,” she said happily. “At least I have my pension to live on.” Millie had recently retired as the high school librarian, and it had been a perfect fit for her coming to work for Paige.