by Harper Lin
Mr. Whitfield had lived in the apartment above the bookstore. A simple set of creaky stairs at the back of the store led to his flat, the door of which was never locked. Maggie had been in his apartment enough times to know where the cat food was.
After pulling her key from the chain around her neck, Maggie unlocked the deadbolt on the store’s front door and then slipped the key into the doorknob. After the familiar click-click, she pushed the door open. Tiny windchimes welcomed her back. As soon as she stepped through the door, the smell of parchment filled her nose. But the space was eerily quiet. The sound of soft music or the television coming from upstairs was not there. The light from the stairway was off. Only the light from the streetlamp gave Maggie anything to see by. She snapped the deadbolt back into place.
Maggie knew the store like the back of her hand. She knew it so well that even in the dark, she knew to step over the stack of books on the floor by the counter and wove around the coffee-table books that stuck out from the fourth bookshelf in the third row.
She snapped on the old-fashioned light that had a base in the shape of a pineapple, and suddenly, everything was familiar again. She looked around and felt funny at the fact that everything was just as she’d left it. Everything was the same but different. A world of different.
As she walked to the back of the store, she flipped on the lights to the stairs. The creaks were all familiar and comforting in a strange way. Once at the landing, she gave the doorknob a twist. The door opened easily. With just a few seconds of fumbling, she found the light switch, snapped it on, and stepped into the late Alexander Whitfield’s apartment.
It was simply decorated with books, books, and more books. There were oriental area rugs on the floor. A highbacked leather chair sat in the corner next to a round table with Mr. Whitfield’s coffee cup still sitting on it.
Poe, who seemed to spend most of his life on a windowsill either in the apartment or in the bookshop, was lazily stretched out on the davenport across from the leather chair and next to the old-fashioned Victrola, which still worked.
“Boy, have you got it rough,” Maggie said as she scooped the cat into her arms. “What am I going to do with you? From the sound of things, I think we are both out on our ear if Joshua Whitfield has any say in it.”
Maggie walked to the kitchenette, put the cat down on the floor, and checked his food bowl. He had plenty of dry food left. She added fresh water to his drinking dish and scraped the second half of a can of cat food into a third bowl, but Poe had no interest in it.
“I’m not all that hungry either,” Maggie admitted.
Just then, she heard a strange sound coming from the bookstore. At first, she thought it was just her imagination. But when she saw Poe’s ears perk up as the animal looked toward the open apartment door, she knew she’d heard something.
“I am not in the mood for any games,” she huffed. With all her frustration and anger at the unfairness of the situation, Maggie went stomping across the floor and down the stairs into the bookstore, muttering many unladylike things along the way. Once she got to the main floor, she shouted.
“The bookstore is closed. See the sign?” She pointed to a dark figure in a hoodie standing at the door. There was no way she could see his face. He stared at her from the black oval where his face should be.
“Come back in the morning, please. We open at nine!”
The man’s desire for a late-night book would have to be satisfied another way. He hesitated for a second then nodded, waved, and walked away.
Maggie’s first thought was that the man was probably drunk. She found it a little spooky, but in taking a couple of self-defense classes in college, she had learned that noise was the enemy of an attacker. And if they weren’t an attacker, the feeling of unease around Maggie’s nosiness was enough to get them to quickly walk away. As had been the desired result just now. And if that failed and she was confronted by an assailant, her job would be to swing and kick and bite and scream all at once until she either beat them back or passed out from exhaustion.
After going back upstairs, Maggie decided she was too tired to go home. Her fear was that this place wasn’t going to be around too much longer, so she was going to enjoy it for as long as she could. She shut and locked the apartment door, put on the teapot, and slipped out of her skirt and sweater.
Mr. Whitfield had an electric fireplace that slowly spun an orange kaleidoscope between two fake logs that to simulate crackling embers, throwing warm colors all over the room as it generated a steady heat. Next to it were an iron poker, shovel, and broom. It just struck her now that those utensils were not really necessary, but they made the fireplace seem that much more authentic. It was rather lovely. Maggie poured herself a cup of hot tea, stretched out on the davenport in her slip and bare feet, and pulled a soft flannel blanket over her legs. The memories of all the stories Mr. Whitfield had told her about his life came back a little at a time. She sipped her tea as tears filled her eyes, and she thought how tragic it would be when someone else took over this little apartment. She cringed at the thought of some younger person with a futon to sit and sleep on and milk crates as functioning pieces of furniture.
“You have an older person’s sense of style, Mags. How did you get that?” Mr. Whitfield had once said to her when she came to work wearing a vintage beaded sweater that had been popular in the 1950s.
“I don’t know. I guess I just like what’s considered old-fashioned,” Maggie replied. “I guess that explains why I like you.”
She remembered making a lot of comments like that and Mr. Whitfield laughing at every one of them. She wiped her eyes and leaned back against the soft throw pillow. The fireplace mechanism was soothing. Soon Maggie felt her eyelids drooping. It had been a long day, and she still had paperwork and personal items to gather. And then there was the bad news destined to come from Joshua Whitfield tomorrow.
“No. I’m not going to think about that now. I’ll think about that tomorrow, said Scarlett O’Hara,” she muttered as her lids got heavier.
Poe slunk along the floor, stopping by the door to do a little quick grooming before bed.
Maggie wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep, but she was sure the sound of the door closing downstairs woke her up. The room was still gold and orange from the fireplace rotating its artificial fire. She held her breath and strained to hear over the whirring mechanism. Just as she was about to relax her body, an all-too-familiar sound rushed to her ears like a squirrel might dash across the street: the floorboards downstairs creaked.
No. No one could have gotten in. They would have had to break the glass door, and that would have made a ton of noise.
“You’re just hearing things. Dreaming,” she said, her own hushed voice cutting like a gong through the quiet apartment.
As her muscles started to relax, she noticed Poe sitting on the oriental carpet in front of the door. He was staring at it, his tail lazily waving back and forth. Maggie’s first thought was that the little animal was waiting for his master to come home. Her heart ached for the cat until it froze solid in her chest. Someone or something had kicked over the stack of books on the floor by the desk downstairs. It was unmistakable.
Why would anyone break into the bookstore? They had to know there was no money in the register. But then she remembered the hooded person jiggling the front door handle. Had he come back? Had she slept through him breaking the glass door or jimmying the back door? Maggie threw the blanket aside and sat up. She leaned toward the door, not daring to get up and give away her own position by stepping on a loose board.
Then, as if the intruder had set off another alarm, Maggie heard someone knock into the coffee-table books that stuck out of the bookshelf. Mr. Whitfield, no matter how long those books had been there, had always managed to bump into them.
When Maggie heard the gruff grunt of a male voice, she stood up. Was it? Could it be? Poe was still sitting in front of the door as if he was expecting Mr. Whitfield to come through
it. Maggie swallowed hard, but her mouth had gone dry. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to the apartment sent a rush of adrenaline through her veins. Sweat covered her forehead and the back of her neck.
“Mr. Whitfield?” she called.
It would be just like that devious old man to come back as a ghost to taunt and tease her from the grave. In her heart, she didn’t think it was a ghost, but when the footfalls stopped at the mention of his name, Maggie began to tremble.
Poe’s tail was the only thing expressing any concern as it began to whip back and forth with excitement. Animals were keener when it came to paranormal entities, or at least that was what Maggie had read somewhere. The feline didn’t seem to be upset. But then again, he was used to the occasional person coming and going. What would he care if a violent intruder was coming in to rob Mr. Whitfield’s apartment?
Before she could take a deep breath, Maggie heard the steps start again, and they had not changed direction. They advanced on the door. Before she could get to the kitchenette to pull a knife from the butcher block, the sound of keys in the lock pushed Maggie into action. She stretched across the small parlor, grabbed the coffee cup, and just as the lock snapped and the door opened, she let the thing fly. It crashed into the doorframe, shattering into a million pieces. Poe ran into the bathroom.
“What the heck!” the man shouted.
“Don’t come any closer!” Maggie grabbed the shovel from the side of the fireplace and raised it over her head. “If I’m going down, you’re coming with me!”
“Margaret?” Joshua Whitfield stood in the doorway with shards of the shattered coffee cup around his feet.
“Joshua? What are you doing here?” Maggie snapped.
“This is my dad’s home. What are you doing here?” he shouted before the vision of Maggie in a slip distracted him. He never would have guessed such a cute little figure lurked underneath her buttoned-up sweater and wide skirt.
“I didn’t feel like going all the way home,” Maggie replied, putting her hand on her hip before realizing she was just in her slip. With a squeak of embarrassment, she grabbed the flannel blanket and wrapped it around herself.
“Did you stay at my dad’s place often?” Joshua asked with a look of horror.
“Bite your tongue. Your father was as dear to me as my own father. I hope he haunts you for making a comment like that,” she scolded.
They stood there for a few seconds before Maggie started toward the kitchenette to get the broom and dustpan.
“Wait! Don’t move!” Joshua shouted. “You don’t have any shoes on. Let me do that.”
“I’m fully capable of sweeping a floor,” Maggie huffed as she grabbed the tools from the small utility closet in the corner.
“Good to know. I may have a use for you yet,” Joshua replied before yanking the broom and pan from her. “Now stay put until I get this all swept up.”
“You need a flashlight if you are going to get every piece,” Maggie instructed.
“Can you just be quiet for a moment? I think I know how to sweep up a broken mug. Sheesh. My father said you were this polite, shy young lady. You don’t seem all that shy to me.” He looked at her face and then down at her bare feet.
“Very funny. Your wife must be in stitches all the time with such a witty husband,” Maggie replied.
“My ex-wife will tell you I had a very good sense of humor, thank you very much,” Joshua replied as he continued sweeping.
Maggie stopped. She wrinkled up her face; she didn’t want to continue this game. Mr. Whitfield had said that his son was married, but he had never spoken of his daughter-in-law in any way—good, bad, or indifferent. He had only spoken about his son and beamed with pride every time he did. Maggie swallowed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she said. She adjusted her blanket around her body, making sure none of the skin on her shoulders, arms, or neck showed.
“It’s all right. My dad didn’t know either. I didn’t tell him. He never liked my wife,” Joshua said.
Just as he finished sweeping, Poe came out of his hiding place and, with reckless abandon, rubbed his entire body along Joshua’s right leg then continued the display over his left.
“Well, that’s really none of my business,” Maggie said and tiptoed over to the couch, where her clothes lay on the floor. She picked them up and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and hooking the little latch into place.
Within a few minutes, she emerged fully dressed except for her feet, which were still bare.
“Do you want to stay for a cup of coffee or something?” Joshua asked as he watched her scurry around the small apartment, picking up her stockings and shoes.
“No,” she replied without explanation. Of course, she would have loved to stay and chat and get to know Joshua. It was amazing that he appeared to be even more handsome now than he had been before.
“Look, Margaret, I’m going to need your help with the shop. Getting everything in order and…” Joshua began.
“I’ll help you out of respect for your father. But the fact that you can just close up his shop, get rid of all his books and the things he held dear, well, I guess the apple fell far from the tree,” Maggie replied. She was tired and heartbroken.
“My father didn’t know how to run a business, and I…”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Joshua. The world is a little grayer without your father around,” Maggie said. She stomped to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it shut behind her then hurried downstairs.
Like an experienced cat burglar, she maneuvered around the spilled books, unlocked the door, stepped out into the cool night, and took a deep breath. More rain was on the way. She could smell it.
She went back to Pearlman Funeral Home, where her car was waiting. In no time, she was at her own home. Her heart was still broken that she would not see Mr. Whitfield tomorrow. Instead, she’d see his handsome son, who was nothing like him.
A Book to Kill For is available everywhere
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
A Note From Harper
Excerpt from “A Book to Kill For”
