Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  No.

  It can’t be.

  But maybe…

  A broad smile crossed my face. After a shaky start back in Argleton, things really were looking up. I had a date with Heathcliff, Morrie was making me feel all kinds of good, no one had been murdered in the shop in over a month, and we were about to host the first of what I hoped would be many events.

  I thought back to all the gossip about the King’s Copse development, and Mrs. Winstone’s reluctance to talk about the book club. Mrs. Scarlett seemed like a harmless old woman, but the more I heard about her and her book club, the more I wondered if I might be running with the badass old biddies of Argleton. It’s just a group of women chatting about books over high tea… it isn’t as if the Banned Book Club is dangerous, is it?

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, this is a lovely room,” Mrs. Ellis clapped her hands with glee. “You’ve done a wonderful job, Mina.”

  I had to agree. Yesterday, after he sheepishly came out of hiding and forgave me, Quoth and I finished flipping the bookshelves around to create more space and arranged the most comfortable chairs in a semicircle in the bay window. A table with ornate legs held a tray and kettle. I’d managed to locate enough un-chipped teacups and saucers in the guys’ flat. I even created a banned books display featuring some other censored titles we have in stock – The Picture of Dorian Gray, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Handmaid’s Tale, Harry Potter. Alongside it, I added two of Quoth’s smaller paintings and a selection of my book art – origami shapes and hollowed books I’d made from discarded stock that Heathcliff had reluctantly allowed me to sell in the shop.

  Mrs. Ellis admired one of my hollowed books, trying to see if her hip flask would fit inside the velvet-lined compartment, when Greta bustled in carrying platters of sandwiches and pastries. She arranged them on the table, placing a single plate in front of the wingback chair.

  “Mrs. Scarlett has specific dietary requirements,” Greta explained when I asked about the plate. “She’s been very sick lately with an upset stomach, so she’s on a detox diet. Gluten free, egg free, dairy free. I’ve made special versions of all the treats here for her.”

  “Thank you so much, Greta. You’re a genius. Hey,” I had an idea. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the book club?”

  Greta shook her head. “No, no, I’ve got so much work to do at the bakery. And my English is not good enough to read the books so fast. But thank you, perhaps another time.”

  She hurried off. I watched her go, feeling like I should go after her and say something else. She was around my age, and like all Germans I knew, her English was flawless, even better than mine. Working all day and night in that bakery… I never saw Greta with an assistant. She must be lonely, especially since people in the village could be unfriendly to outsiders.

  Footsteps creaked over the floorboards and Brenda Winstone entered, wearing a long floral cardigan over a pair of tan trousers. “Is this the place? Oh, look at those lovely sandwiches!”

  Mrs. Ellis bustled over to introduce us. “Mina, this is my cousin, Mrs. Brenda Winstone.”

  “We met yesterday,” I smiled. “Hello again. How are your charges liking their books?”

  Mrs. Winstone’s kind face fell. “I’m afraid I won’t have a chance to ask them. I’ve—I’ve been replaced as youth group leader.”

  Mrs. Ellis stared in shock. “But why? You’re the best thing to ever happen to those children.”

  Mrs. Winstone sniffed. “One of the dears told that nasty Dorothy Ingram I was in the banned book club and took the youth group to this shop, and that little Billy Bartlett had his fingers smashed and the parents were making trouble. Dorothy got the church committee behind her, and they forced me to resign as the youth group coordinator.”

  “I’m so sorry!” I cried, thinking it must’ve been one of the kids overhearing my words. “I didn’t mean to get you fired!”

  “Heavens no, Wilhelmina, dear. It’s not your fault.” Mrs. Winstone picked up a sandwich and took a huge bite. “Dorothy’s wanted me out for years – she finally had the perfect excuse. I’m trying not to let it bother me, but I’m sure we don’t want to bring down the meeting with my sad news. Thank you so much for the use of your shop. The room is absolutely beautiful.”

  “It’s Mina, actually,” I smiled. “And I don’t own the shop. I just work here. I loved the idea of a Banned Book Club, so I convinced my boss to let us host the event. You can use this room as often as you like.”

  “Well, it’s marvelous. Simply a magical place. Say, do you have a children’s story time?” Mrs. Winstone beamed, her rosy cheeks glowing an even deeper red. “I love helping children to read, and I’m certain I could find a lovely tale that would satisfy the parents, too—”

  “After your neglect nearly cost poor Billy his fingers, there’s not a parent in this village who’ll trust their children with you,” a cold voice from behind her said.

  I glanced up at the elegant young woman who’d just entered the room, her blonde hair perfectly in place and a mink stole hanging around her narrow shoulders, just low enough to reveal an impressive necklace of clustered diamonds and rubies around her neck. She swept past us in a cloud of cloying perfume and settled herself on the end of the chaise lounge, placing both hands on her rounded stomach and peering up at Mrs. Winstone with a smug expression.

  “Hello, Brenda, Mabel,” she purred.

  “Ginny,” Mrs. Winstone said, her voice clipped.

  “Hello, dear. How is the baby?” Mrs. Ellis sat down beside this newcomer, Ginny, and touched her stomach.

  “He’s perfect. We’ve just had our latest scan and the doctor says he’ll be strong and healthy, just like his father.” Ginny picked up one of the teacups and held it up to the light, frowning at the pattern.

  “These aren’t Royal Doulton,” she pursed her lips.

  “Nope,” I said, already disliking this posh bitch. I picked up a cupcake and took a big, messy bite. “But they hold liquid, which is the important thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I… I think I’ll go find myself a seat,” Mrs. Winstone whispered. She hurried off to take a place on one of the armchairs, as far from Ginny as it was possible to be while still remaining in the circle, and piled sandwiches and cakes onto her plate.

  “What’s up with those two?” I whispered to Mrs. Ellis as Ginny and Mrs. Winstone glared at each other across the cake stand.

  “That’s Ginny Button,” Mrs. Ellis whispered. “She’s unmarried, with a long string of lovers. She loves rubbing Brenda’s nose in the fact that she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Mrs. Ellis nodded, her face lighting up at the chance to impart some fine gossip. “Ginny’s a rotten piece of work, saying what she said. Poor Brenda lives for those children. She desperately wants one of her own, you know, but her husband Harold has given his final word on the matter. Ginny, of course, lets Brenda know every meeting how much of a mouse she is. Ah, I think I smell Sylvia now.”

  I sniffed as a haze of musky perfume wafted into the room, followed shortly after by a middle-aged woman with a jangle of jewelry and flouncy black peasant skirts. An enormous tie-dyed tote bag slapped against her side. “Am I late?” she wheezed, tucking a strand of frizzy hair behind her ear. The gesture was of little use since the rest of her hair stuck out at all angles, as if she’d just inserted her finger into an electrical socket. Something about her wild eyes and the millions of beaded bracelets stacked up her arms seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her.

  “Calm down, Sylvia. You’re on time. Gladys isn’t even here yet.” Mrs. Ellis patted her arm. “Dear Sylvia is always running late.”

  “I’m never running late!” the woman protested. “Modern society places too much importance in the arbitrary passing of time. Why, if we were to follow the rhythms and cycles of nature, then—”

  “You’d think with your powers of divination, you’d be able to predict when you needed to leave your stinking l
ittle cottage,” Ginny simpered from the sofa.

  The woman’s face reddened, but she didn’t say anything. Neither, I noticed, did any of the other ladies. Ginny Button must have a lot of power in the village.

  “Mina, this is Sylvia Blume. Sylvia, this is Mina Wilde—”

  “You’re Helen’s daughter,” Sylvia Blume beamed, throwing her arms around me like we were old friends. “I remember you when you were just a wee girl, reading books in the corner of my shop. Look at you now, all grown up!”

  Now I remembered where I’d seen Sylvia before. She owned the shop where Mum did her tarot readings for suckers who liked being parted with their money. I used to spend time there after school before I discovered Nevermore Bookshop. I vaguely remembered the cloying smell of incense clinging to everything and a frizzy-haired woman who used to pinch my cheeks and feed me candies from under her fortune-telling table.

  “Yes, er, hello again.”

  “It’s a real shame about your eyesight. Helen told me all about you having to give up your fashion job.”

  My cheeks flushed. “It’s not like that.”

  Only it was. That was exactly what had happened. I mean, yes, I’d intended to just muddle through as well as I could until my eyesight got worse – which could’ve taken years or even decades – but Ashley went and blabbed it all over the fashion world. But when Sylvia Blume spoke of it, I felt embarrassed, and I didn’t like that.

  “I know. I can do an aura healing for you!” Sylvia grabbed my shoulders, snapping my neck forward. “I’m an accomplished healer. I can perform a cleanse that will banish the evil energies that are at war within your body and restore your sight!”

  No way. “I think if modern medicine can’t do anything for me, then you’re probably not going to have much luck.”

  “Nonsense.” Sylvia dropped her tote bag on the floor with a bang, grabbed my wrists, and yanked them above my head. Her earrings clattered together as she shook her head from side-to-side and started to chant.

  Quoth, if you can hear me, get me out of this.

  I glanced around the room in a panic. Another woman walked in and bent her head to speak to Mrs. Winstone – I guessed it was Cynthia Lachlan, the wife of the developer, judging by her expensive clothes and affected posh accent. I jumped when I noticed Quoth was still hanging around in his human form. He’d been holed up in the corner by Mrs. Ellis, who was busy braiding his hair.

  “Ooooooooohm,” Sylvia moaned, swinging my arms around. “Spirits, unleash the demons inside this girl…”

  Outside the window, I spied a figure limping down Butcher Street. “Oh, here’s Gladys.” I managed to wrench my wrists from Sylvia’s grasp. “I’d better go see if she needs any help.”

  I’d never been so grateful to see an old lady in my life. I bolted toward Mrs. Scarlett as she bustled into the room. She looked even worse than the other day, her cheeks flushed, her eyes unfocused, her hair hanging lank against her forehead. She gripped the edge of the doorframe and swung her crutch in front of her.

  Mrs. Ellis rushed over. “Gladys, dear, you look poorly. Are you sure you’re up to the meeting?”

  “I’ll be fine, Mabel. It’s just my stomach upsets as usual. Do stop fussing.” Mrs. Scarlett leaned over her crutch and heaved herself into the room. Mrs. Ellis bustled around to her other side and after a few faltering steps, Mrs. Scarlett took her arm. Quoth rushed over and guided her other arm. Finally, she sank into the wingback chair, leaned her walking stick up against the wall, and surveyed the room with pursed lips. She picked up a sandwich from her plate of special food and sniffed it suspiciously before taking a dainty nibble from the corner. “Why hasn’t the tea been poured yet?”

  “Oh, I’ve brought some of my herbal blends.” Sylvia dug around in her bag and handed me two jars of dried tea.

  “Coming right up.” I steeped the tea and arranged the cups and saucers. The ladies shuffled in their purses, pulling out their copies of the book. Mrs. Scarlett unfolded a pair of glasses from a leopard-print case. While I poured the tea, Quoth leaned against the chair arm to look over my shoulder. His arm brushed mine and his rich scent – of earth and chocolate and fresh-cut grass – invaded my nostrils, and my stomach did that flip-flop thing.

  I’d set my date with Heathcliff, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to approach Quoth. I knew I had to pick my moment just right, or he’d spook. I glanced up at him, catching his kind brown eyes as they swooped over my body. Beneath him, my skin sizzled. Under his avian gaze, I was naked and exposed, even in the midst of the book club.

  I dared a smile for him, my heart pounding. Quoth smiled back, and the corners of his eyes flared with fire. The fact that he’d stayed for the meeting, risking the chance that he’d shift, filled me with gratitude and hope… and desire.

  Mrs. Scarlett’s sharp voice jolted me back to reality.

  “Welcome, ladies, to the December meeting of the Argleton Banned Books Club. The good Lord has seen fit to provide us with a new venue. Although it may be a bit dusty…” she sniffed disapprovingly at the shelves Quoth and I had painstakingly cleaned. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “It has a certain charm. I’m hopeful it could continue to accommodate the book club while repairs are made to our beloved hall.”

  “Are you sure this place is up to code, Gladys?” Mrs. Lachlan said, frowning at a crack above the window. Beside me, Mrs. Ellis tensed.

  But Gladys Scarlett didn’t seem to have noticed the question. She set down her teacup and rubbed her fingers against the palm of her hand.

  “You okay, Gladys?”

  “Of course. I’ve just got pins and needles in my hand. I’ll be fine in a moment.” Mrs. Scarlett ate a sandwich and a cream doughnut from her plate, then fumbled for her teacup, closing her eyes as she sipped the hot liquid. “Enough about me, let us get on with our business. Of Mice and Men explores the intimate journey of two men who cling to each other in loneliness and isolation. The title, of course, is taken from the Robert Burn’s poem, ‘To a Mouse,’ which translates to ‘The best-laid schemes of mice and men / Often go awry.’ It refers to the ambitions of the main characters in the book that are thwarted by their own m-m-mouse!”

  “Exactly, Gladys,” exclaimed Sylvia Blume. “The symbolism of the mouse was very interesting because—”

  “No, a mouse!” Mrs. Scarlett thrust out a wavering finger across the room.

  As I stared in horror, a tiny white blob with a brown patch rocketed up the corner of the bookshelf and darted along the tops of the books. It raised a pink nose, sniffed the air, then disappeared behind the shelf with a flick of its tail.

  Mrs. Scarlett’s face crumpled. She clutched her stomach. A strangled sob escaped her throat.

  “Eeeee!” Mrs. Lachlan yelled, leaping from her own chair and dropping a red velvet cupcake on the floor. “Someone get that filthy rodent before it contaminates the food!”

  I gripped Quoth’s thigh, watching his face contort as his predator instincts took over. Feathers shot through his skin. Luckily, the other ladies were too distracted to notice. He dropped his cup – smashing the china and splashing hot tea across the rug – and dived behind the shelves.

  “Ow, you burned me!” Ginny snapped, rubbing her leg.

  CRASH! BANG!

  Books toppled to the floor. The mouse darted out from behind the shelves and streaked across the floor, disappearing into the sofa and clambering up the curtain above Mrs. Scarlett’s head. Her face froze in reddened horror, and her whole body heaved as though she struggled for breath.

  “Croak!” Quoth flew out from behind the shelves and dived at the window. Tea cakes and old ladies scattered in all directions. Quoth’s talons scratched the glass as he snapped at the curtains. The mouse poked its head out from the opposite end of the curtain rail, twitched its nose, and disappeared down the other curtain and into the stacks again.

  I leapt to my feet and waved at the bird. “He’s over there! Try to chase him into the corner. I’ll get the broom an
d—”

  “G-g-g-geeeeee…”

  I whirled around. All thoughts of the mouse flew from my mind as I regarded Mrs. Scarlett’s face. Something was seriously wrong.

  Her eyes bugged out like a frog. One side of her face twitched uncontrollably, while the other stuck fast in an expression of abject terror. Her skin glowed red. Bile and spittle dribbled from her mouth. She clutched her stomach and doubled over, banging the table with her knee as she collapsed.

  “Gladys, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Ellis bent over her friend.

  “I’m calling 999,” Mrs. Winstone whipped out her phone.

  With a final wheezing cry, Mrs. Scarlett collapsed forward, face-planting into the Victoria sponge cake. Ginny screamed as cream splattered across her silk blouse.

  “Mrs. Scarlett? Gladys?” My heart pounded. I shook her shoulder, but she didn’t move or react.

  No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. I lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none.

  She’s dead.

  Chapter Six

  “Just when I thought I’d seen the last of this bookshop, you’re stacking up the dead bodies like unread Dan Brown books,” Jo joked as she clattered down the hall, pulling on her rubber gloves. Her medical kit slapped against her thigh.

  I managed a weak smile for my new friend. As the local forensic pathologist, Jo had a real gallows humor about dead bodies and grisly murders. I wasn’t nearly so desensitized. Up until a month ago when my ex-best friend was found murdered in the shop, I’d never seen a dead body. I still pictured Ashley’s prone form with the knife sticking out of her back in my nightmares.

  “At least it’s not murder this time. In here?” Jo pointed to the entrance to the World History room, where the EMTs were waiting with the stretcher to take the body away after she’d pronounced the death and examined the scene.

  I nodded. Jo disappeared inside. I leaned against a bookshelf, trying to keep my wobbling legs upright. Another dead body in Nevermore Bookshop. How was this even possible?