Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Wakey wakey, sleepyheads.”

  Heathcliff leapt to his feet, dropping me on the floor. “Get away from her, or I’ll gut you like a fish!” he yelled, brandishing a fire poker into the darkness.

  “Relax,” a voice I recognized as Morrie chuckled. “You’re not in any imminent danger.”

  “Shite.” I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it? Is it time for my watch?”

  “It’s seven a.m. I came up to see if you wanted me to cook breakfast. I was thinking a little boule de pain—”

  “You didn’t wake us?” Heathcliff growled. “What happened? Did Quoth even go out to follow the suspect?”

  “Relax, everything’s fine. I tried to wake you, but Mina looked too cute and you growled at me, and I didn’t want to risk my neck. I watched the biddies. Quoth spent the night watching Dorothy Ingram through her window. Apparently, she knitted a hideous scarf and cried her way through An Affair to Remember.”

  “I didn’t growl at you!” Heathcliff yelled.

  “I assure you that you did, kind of like you’re doing now.”

  “I couldn’t have. I was asleep.”

  “Then you growl in your sleep, like a giant cuddly teddy bear.” Morrie ducked out of the way as Heathcliff swung a fist at him.

  “Guys, can we focus, please? Mrs. Ellis, Miss Blume, are they okay?”

  “Yes, perfectly safe and in fine form. I’ve just delivered their tea. Miss Blume dumped hers out the window in order to ‘divine the leaves.’ On my way out, Mrs. Ellis pinched my bum.”

  I smiled. They were definitely fine. “What does it mean that Dorothy didn’t show up?”

  “Probably nothing,” Morrie said. “Maybe your killer didn’t get the message about the slumber party, or perhaps she suspected a trap, or your screams of ecstasy echoed across the village and gave the whole game away.”

  My cheeks burned. I scrambled to my feet. “I’ll go talk to them,” I mumbled as I headed for the stairs.

  Mrs. Ellis winked at me as I walked into the World History room. Great, so she’d heard me, too. This was going to be all over the village before sunset.

  And oh Hathor, Miss Blume works with Mum. This is very, very not good.

  “Did you guys sleep well?” I managed to choke out.

  “Oh, as well as could be expected,” Mrs. Ellis grinned. My whole face burned. “We were up all night, listening for the sound of our killer coming for us.”

  “We heard all sorts of creaks and moans,” Miss Blume added. “This old building certainly is lively.”

  Astarte, kill me now.

  “Right, well,” I cleared my throat. “Obviously you were perfectly safe. Will you be okay staying here in the shop today? Morrie and I are going to inspect Mrs. Winstone’s garden.”

  Mrs. Ellis folded up her duvet. “Oh, no, we can’t stay here. We need to visit Brenda at the hospital, and Sylvia has clients booked—”

  “Very well, Quoth— er, Allan will go with you to the hospital.”

  “Mina,” Quoth whispered from behind me. “Can I talk to you in private for a moment?”

  Mrs Ellis’ eyes bugged out of her head as she leaned forward to peer around the corner at a shirtless Quoth, who shrank back into the shadows.

  “Sure.” I followed him across the hallway and into the Children’s room. Quoth encircled my wrist in his long fingers.

  “Didn’t you just say you were going to stop pushing me?” Fire flared in his eyes.

  “Didn’t you say that you wanted to be pushed?” I shot back.

  “You sound far too much like Morrie. Watching an old lady through her window was one thing, but you saw what happened at your mum’s. If I mess this up, Mina… if I shift in front of someone in the village—”

  I squeezed his hand, losing myself in the deep brown of his eyes. “You’re just nervous, is all. The others have filled your head with all kinds of nonsense. You deserve a real life, Quoth. I want to walk hand-in-hand with you through the village and watch people’s heads turn. I want to take you to a punk concert so you can feel the way the music cuts you inside and forces all the bad stuff out. I want us to go to the National Gallery, and the Tate Modern, and maybe even one day we could take a trip to Paris and see the Louvre and all the amazing paintings that will fill you with joy. That could be your life, and I could share it with you, and it’ll be amazing. But if you want that life, you have to take Mrs. Ellis and Miss Blume to the hospital. Okay?”

  In response, Quoth raised my hand to his lips, pressing them against my skin. A jolt of electricity shot through my body. Too soon, he pulled away, turning to leave.

  “Where are you going?” I tried to tug him back, but he slipped from my grasp.

  Quoth’s brilliant smile lit up the room better than any junk store lamp. “If I’m to visit the hospital, I should put on a shirt.”

  I grinned as I collected Morrie and we went out to snoop. On the way, we stopped at the bakery for coffee. As we turned to leave, clutching our cups and cream doughnuts, Dorothy Ingram entered with two other ladies from the church. She gave me a dirty look as she hobbled past, her walking stick clutched tight in her hand. I shot her an evil glare back, resisting the urge to stick my foot out and trip her up.

  Morrie kept up a steady stream of chatter on the way. I tried to ask him about last night, about why he’d run away, but I couldn’t get the words out. I still couldn’t believe it had happened.

  The Winstones lived in a lovely cottage down a small lane on the opposite side of the town green, overlooking a picturesque meadow. Even though it was the middle of winter, the garden burst with color and texture. Morrie took out a pocket magnifying glass and went around the low stone wall, while I bent to examine the front stoop where she’d been attacked. A tall hedge of wisteria stood along one side. It would certainly give enough cover to an assailant lying in wait.

  I bent down to examine the hedge. There were a few broken twigs at the front, but not as many as I’d have expected from the kind of tussle Mrs. Winstone described. Either this would-be killer was careful, or she snuck up the path instead of hiding in the bushes. I pictured Dorothy Ingram with her stick and limp. She wouldn’t be sneaking up on anyone. I peered closer at the hedge. The ground didn’t appear to be trampled. Of course, Dorothy is a small woman so she wouldn’t need as much space as a big man.

  I shifted the dead leaves, hunting for more broken branches. Maybe I could find where she’d crouched down in wait. My hand brushed something hard and smooth. I wrapped my fingers around it, dragged it out of the bed, and held it up into the light.

  A wooden walking stick.

  The killer must have dropped it as they were making their getaway. I studied the shaft, noticing spots of dried blood around the ornately-carved handle.

  My mind reeled. Dorothy had her stick with her when we saw her at the bakery. Which means this can’t be hers.

  Unless she has a bunch of them. But that seems unlikely. It’s a very distinct stick, and it looks expensive.

  “Morrie!” I called out. “I found something.”

  He came running over and inspected the stick, trailing his fingers along its shaft and studying the dried blood near the handle. “This was definitely the weapon that attacked Mrs. Winstone.”

  “But Dorothy had her stick with her.” I pointed to the handle. “I think this one’s different. Dorothy’s has flowers carved around the handle. This one has these half-moon shapes.”

  “This is the phases of the moon, mixed with sacred geometric shapes. It’s an occult design.” Morrie made a face. “You’re right. Our religious fanatic wouldn’t use this.”

  I stared at the walking stick in my hands, hardly able to believe what I saw. This stick blew a huge hole in our theory. Dorothy Ingram had every motive and opportunity for killing off the members of the Banned Book Club. But if it wasn’t Dorothy’s stick, then whose was it?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Morrie and I sat down on the curb and f
inished off our now-cold coffee. Morrie made me recount the evidence we’d collected so far, especially the conversation I overheard between Dorothy and Ginny Button.

  “Dorothy seemed afraid of Ginny,” I recalled, trying to remember the exact words I overheard. “She said, ‘I got her out of the way for you. She’s paid for her sins, and now you and I have no more business together.’ Only Ginny wanted her to do something else, so she said that God detests a blackmailer. Then Ginny said she hoped Dorothy wasn’t threatening her, because she’d hate for anyone to discover her secret.”

  “Her filthy secret,” Morrie corrected, with an undue amount of relish.

  “Yes, of course. Her filthy secret. And she called Dorothy a murderer. Then Dorothy got angry and stormed off. And the next thing, Ginny’s lying dead at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “And it was the night before when you saw Sylvia and Ginny?”

  “Yes. Ginny was saying something that scared Sylvia, and as Ginny stalked back to her car, Sylvia yelled, ‘You may think you’re untouchable, but I know what you did. You’re rotten and you won’t get away with it!’”

  “So Ginny could have killed Mrs. Scarlett,” Morrie mused. “Or she could have got Dorothy to do it. But what if Sylvia found out about it? She could have pushed Ginny. She was at the funeral. But then if Ginny’s dead, who attacked Mrs. Winstone?”

  “Why did you run away last night?” I blurted out.

  “Heathcliff needed me downstairs. We were waiting to trap a murderer, if you recall.”

  “That’s not the reason. You orchestrated that whole evening for me, including sending Heathcliff upstairs. So why didn’t you stay?”

  “It’s simple. You’d just had an intense sexual experience. You needed someone to take care of you, bring your emotions back to a normal, happy place. You needed cuddles and sweet kisses and poetry. That’s not what I do.” Morrie flashed me a grin that wavered at the edges. “Quoth yearns for cuddles, so you were in good hands. This is the beauty of our arrangement, gorgeous. You get all the benefits.”

  “And you don’t have to do any emotional work, right?” I demanded. “You get to remain aloof and in control and above it all?”

  Morrie bit his lip. “I wouldn’t attempt to armchair psychoanalyze me, Sigmund Wilde. The last person who did went over the edge of a waterfall with me, or so I’m told. Talking about feelings defeats the purpose of having them. I don’t want my mind to become a spectator sport. Keep your eye on the prize – we’re trying to catch a murderer here.”

  Nice change of subject there, Morrie. Don’t think this is over. If I have to face up to my own reality, then so do you.

  “I still think it’s Dorothy,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense for it to be Sylvia if pushing Ginny was all about getting her to stop whatever she was doing. Maybe Dorothy purchased another walking stick in order to throw off the authorities.”

  Morrie shrugged. “Possible. I think we confront Dorothy, see if we can shake her up a bit. I overheard her conversation in the bakery. She said she was going to the church to do some cleaning. With any luck, we’ll find her there, alone.”

  We raced over to the church. Sure enough, there was only one car in the parking lot – a grey Nissan. The wooden door to the church was open a crack. Morrie and I peered inside, but without the candles lit, I could barely see a thing.

  Morrie stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. BANG. The sound reverberated through the towering nave.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” A voice snapped from the altar. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Dorothy Ingram, it’s a pleasure,” Morrie purred. “We’re a couple of concerned citizens come to speak with you about recent crimes in the village. Namely, two murders and one assault on members of the Banned Book Club.”

  Dorothy straightened up, dusting her hands on a white apron she wore over her severe black dress. “Police officers, are you?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Morrie said, sliding his phone from his pocket and tapping at the screen.

  “Don’t lie in God’s house,” she snapped. Even in the dark, I could feel her eyes staring daggers through my chest. “The two of you work in that heathen bookshop. I see no reason to speak to you and don’t see how I could be of interest. I hardly knew those unfortunate ladies.”

  “That’s not true, though, is it?” I said. “I overheard you talking to Ginny before Mrs. Scarlett’s funeral. She was blackmailing you. She wanted you to do something for her, or she would tell everyone about your filthy little secret.”

  “That’s preposterous.” Fear cut through Dorothy’s bluster.

  “Is it? You hated Mrs. Scarlett because of her influence in the community. She kept stepping on your plans to make the village more wholesome and God-fearing. You considered the Banned Book Club a personal affront.”

  “Even if I did, I didn’t lay a finger on her. Killing is against God’s Commandments! I would never commit such a despicable act.”

  “And just where does aborting your unborn child sit on God’s moral scale?” Morrie asked, still concentrating on his phone.

  Dorothy’s face paled. “Wha… what are you talking about?”

  Morrie held up his phone. On the screen was a scan of a printed form. “While we’ve been talking, I hacked your mobile phone, and what was the first message Ginny Button sent you? This in-patient form for an abortion clinic… with your name on it.”

  “That’s not mine. It’s been doctored!” Dorothy shrieked.

  “I don’t think so,” Morrie grinned, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “You were only nineteen, and an unwed woman. Whatever would God think? Tell me, was it a single night of unbridled passion, or did you have a long-term lover? Was he hung like a donkey? Did he make you scream? Did he stick it in your arse—”

  “Get away from me, you vulgar man!” Dorothy screeched, swinging the broom at Morrie.

  She’s really upset. I reached out to stop Morrie, but he was on a roll. He wrenched the broom from her hand and broke it over his knee like it was nothing. She sobbed and cowered behind the altar, and all the while he just kept talking in his calm, cheerful tone. “So you had the abortion, and no one ever had to know. Except Ginny Button came across this old file somehow, and she used it to make you do her bidding. She made you poison Gladys Scarlett, and then you threw her down the stairs in order to stop her blackmail. I know you work in the village pharmacy. You would have access to the equipment needed to make arsenic. You had no love for Gladys Scarlett. But what I don’t know, what I desperately want to know, is why Ginny wanted Mrs. Scarlett dead?”

  Dorothy peered over the top of the altar, laughing like a hyena. “What a load of cockaninny! Ginny didn’t ask me to kill Gladys Scarlett. She wanted me to use my position on the church committee to remove Brenda Winstone from the youth group. I was only too happy to do it because Gladys’ corrupting influence had tainted Brenda’s sweet nature. But then, the day of the funeral, Ginny said it wasn’t enough. She wanted Brenda to suffer. She wanted me to accuse Brenda of touching a child inappropriately so that Brenda would never be able to be near children again.”

  I thought about how Brenda had lit up when she chased the children around the shop, and how her voice faltered when she said her husband didn’t want kids. What an evil thing to do. It would destroy Brenda.

  “So you wrote that note and had Ginny meet you after the service,” Morrie said. “Perhaps you tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t back down. And so you pushed her.”

  “No! I didn’t see Ginny after the service. I stood at the door to offer a basket of flowers to the mourners so they might place them on that ungodly woman’s grave. Cassandra Irons can attest I was in that position until Mrs. Ellis screamed, and she has no love for me.”

  “Why did Ginny want to hurt Mrs. Winstone?” I piped up.

  “She never revealed that to me, and I didn’t ask. I do not care about the petty squabbles between harlots and heathens.” Mrs. Ingram
rose from the altar and waved her arms. “If that is all your questions, I’d be thankful if you left me in peace. If you have any kindness in your hearts, do not reveal my secret in the village.”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” Morrie crossed himself furtively. “I love to keep secrets. They’re much more valuable that way. We must be off. Say hi to Jesus for me. Toodles!”

  “Toodles?” I punched him in the arm as we exited the church.

  “I was just been friendly. So, Mina the clever detective, do you believe her?”

  “I… I’m not sure. I find it harder to believe she had an abortion, honestly. But if she’s telling the truth, that puts us right back to square one again. If Dorothy Ingram didn’t kill either of them or attack Mrs. Winstone, then who did?”

  “Perhaps when Miss Blume said, ‘I know what you’ve done’ to Ginny, she meant getting Mrs. Winstone kicked off the youth group. In which case, Ginny’s motivations may be unrelated.” Morrie held up his phone. “I think we need to figure out if Ginny Button was blackmailing anyone else.”

  “How are we going to figure that out?”

  “I haven’t found anything in her emails. She’s been very careful. But even the most careful blackmailers leave evidence. We need to see if she has incriminating documents on anyone else.”

  “How do we do that? The police will have her phone.”

  “A smart girl like Ginny will have her evidence stored in hard copy.” Morrie tapped his phone to bring up a map, zeroing in on a house in the village. “The only way we’re going to get answers is to do a spot of breaking and entering.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ginny Button lived in one half of a Tudor residence on one of the most picturesque streets in the village. Planter boxes hung from the windows, filled with herbs and winter blooms, and the pink front door had recently had a fresh coat of paint. The same sporty red convertible that had dropped off Sylvia Blume sat in the carport. Appearances had clearly been important to her – she had spent time perfecting her home in the same way she had perfected her image. I wondered where all her money had come from – she hadn’t been married, and I knew from Mrs. Ellis that she was an administrative assistant at the council, which couldn't have paid much.