by N. C. Lewis
Also by N.C. Lewis
OLLIE STRATEFORD MURDER MYSTERY SERIES
The Ollie Stratford murder mysteries are a set in the Hill Country of Texas and offer a light hearted glimpse into small time life. The stories can be enjoyed in any order:
Texas Troubles
Creek Crisis
Bitter Bones
Magic Mumbles
Teddy Tumpin
Double Dimple
Angry Arrow
SKEGNESS ON SEA COZY MYSTERY SERIES
Features journalist Doris Cudlow and is set in the English seaside town of Skegness. The stories can be enjoyed in any order:
Deadly Chapel (coming soon)
For an updated list of all books please visit: https://www.nclewis.com/
Reader newsletter
Want more stories like these? Sign up to N.C. Lewis's Newsletter and be the first to know about new book releases, discounts and free books.
MURDER IN THE BOOKSTORE
Copyright © 2018 by N.C. Lewis
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Chapter 1
The task that brought Alan Earl into downtown Austin on a warm Friday evening in June was both pleasurable and profitable, exactly the way he liked it. Happiness wrapped its arms around him now as he strolled along the tree-lined, Shoal Creek trail, enjoying the sounds of spring water splashing over the riverbed, the evening chirp of unseen birds, and the gentle rustle of the evening breeze through the live oak trees. Families strolled in small groups, their children running ahead, or riding tiny bicycles, or balancing on skateboards. Joggers jostled with tourists and locals as dusk grew deeper.
Alan, a weedy, undersized man with an oversized, egg-shaped head atop a short, flabby neck, breathed in deeply. He took immense pride in his ability to whip up an eager desire in wealthy Texans for things they didn’t need or want. As a purveyor of rare and antiquarian books, this ability came in handy.
"Watch out!" cried a small girl on a tricycle. It came within inches of his right leg, swerving to the left at the last second, toppling the child hard onto the ground. "Serves you right you little runt," he whispered while smiling at the concerned parents racing toward the screaming child. Had the parents not been there, he might have added a sharp slap to make sure the kid learned the lesson. But this evening he was on his best behavior. He gave a sympathetic shrug to the father, and continued along the trail, picking up his pace slightly.
From under thinning black hair, his small hazel eyes leered at a woman in a tight pink tank-top and matching shorts. She sped up as she jogged by. Soon, he thought, he could buy anything he wanted, including women, and ditch Sara, his nagging wife. He was feeling alive now, as he followed the winding dirt trail along Shoal Creek.
Selling books was an addiction. It was like breathing; a world Alan could completely lose himself in, become absolutely ruthless. He'd stumbled into the business by accident, receiving a stolen copy of Mark Catesby's The Natural History of Carolina, Florida, and the Bahama Islands from a small-time criminal, Eddie Yates. He'd sold the book to a wealthy Texan collector. The possibilities seemed endless after that, and his passion for trading rare books grew stronger every day.
As the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon, he hurried off the trail onto Shoal Creek Boulevard, turning right onto Twelfth Street. Outside the Idlewild Community Laundromat, a weasel-faced man wearing tattered blue jeans and a torn white T-shirt held out a grubby tub for money. The stench of his sunbaked sourness pierced the evening air.
"Spare a little change, sir?" he asked in a slow southern drawl.
Alan tossed in a single penny and kept walking.
"Is that all you can spare, Mr. Earl?"
That caused Alan to stop and turn.
"Have we met before?" he asked, stepping back, surveying the man and trying to refresh his memory. He drew a blank.
"The homeless shelter has a picture of you in the reception area, along with the others," answered the man, his gunmetal-gray eyes flashing something Alan couldn’t quite read.
"What others?"
The man's corrugated face appeared impassive. "The other benefactors of the shelter."
"Ah, I see," Alan said. His company A.E. Antiquarian Books held a prominent position as one of only a handful of platinum donors to the Shoal Creek Homeless Shelter. Alan prided himself on being a benefactor, and it allowed him to rub shoulders with influential city folk, not least the mayor who served as chairperson of the homeless shelter board.
The weasel-faced man stretched his thin pockmarked hand into the tub, picked out the penny and examined it. "Canadian," he said at last with disgust. Again, his eyes flashed. "Want to get me a plate of catfish and some beers. Can't buy nothing with a penny, sir."
The laundromat door opened. Fluorescent light flooded the sidewalk, exposing the deep crags in the man's grimy face. A young couple, each carrying a handle of an oversized bag overflowing with clothes, walked out. Students, Alan thought, as the couple glanced at the homeless man, exchanged nods, and turned left onto Twelfth Street.
Alan stood for a moment, his small eyes following the couple and remembering his youth. At fifty-five, the last flush of youthfulness had long since left. With his new-found wealth, he could feel young again with a string of pretty women at his disposal.
Alan sensed the weasel-faced man staring at the back of his head but continued to watch the couple. He despised the homeless with their needy demands, their filthy addictions, and grubby, worthless lives. He'd joined the homeless shelter board for influence and connections, not to help the insatiable demands of Austin's hobos. If the foul-smelling bum wanted catfish for his dinner, he'd have to catch it himself.
After the young couple had disappeared into the deepening dusk, Alan turned back toward the laundromat doorway. He wanted his penny back, but the weasel-faced man wasn't there.
Chapter 2
Alan looked over his shoulder quickly as he continued along Twelfth Street. At the narrow entrance to A.E. Antiquarian Books, he glanced around again. Satisfied he wasn't being followed, he unlocked the door.
The streetlamp on the sidewalk flickered into life as he stepped inside. The cozy little bookstore was a long rectangle designed to give the ambiance of a London gentleman's club. Antique oak bookcases lined opposite walls, with two coffee tables and four vintage, hand-dyed brown-leather armchairs placed to encourage customers to browse before buying.
Alan's footsteps echoed on the polished concrete floor like pistol cracks as he strode quickly toward the office where he kept his special books. These were viewable by appointment and only after he or his assistant had verified the identity of the potential buyer.
A wardrobe-sized safe stood in the corner shielded by a handcrafted, six-panel screen depicting the battle of the Alamo. In a single fluid motion, he entered the combination, heaved open the door, pulled out a box, and placed it on his desk. Then he hurried to the small bathroom by the back door, washed, and dried his hands, and returned to his desk.
He opened the box, lifted out a leather-bound book, a
nd eagerly examined it. After ten minutes, he placed it back into the box. It was his first Soviet Union manuscript. His Ukrainian contact had more of the same, stolen from unnamed Eastern European university archives.
Another shipment was due any day now and Alan already had a buyer lined up.
He leaned back in his chair and blew out a contented breath. "That's why they call me the book Sugar Daddy. I make sweet deals."
There were things to get ready to prepare for the delivery. He made a mental note. First, he'd contact his regulars, maybe even hold an auction. Second, there was his usual supplier, Eddie Yates. He'd already cut the prices paid to Eddie for his special American manuscripts, but he didn't need Eddie anymore; the man was a loose end.
Alan didn’t like loose ends.
Now, he'd have to come up with a permanent solution.
And then there was Tim Clark, his only employee. "I'd have fired him by now if it wasn’t for Esther," he muttered under his breath.
Esther Bara was Tim's long-term girlfriend. In her mid-thirties, she had a taste for expensive gifts, which Alan showered on her. In return, she shared herself freely with him. "It's our little secret," she had said. Alan knew, provided the gifts kept coming, Tim wouldn't find out.
And what if he did?
The thought of having Esther all to himself was exhilarating but there was also Sara, his wife, to consider. He leaned back in his chair, half closed his eyes and wondered how much it would cost to have Sara, Eddie, and Tim eliminated. Then he considered when. Perhaps, after the next Eastern European shipment has sold.
A sharp, irritated tapping on the front door interrupted Alan's daydreaming. He bolted stiff, almost as if he were some Frankenstein monster shocked into consciousness by electricity. He didn’t expect anyone; no one knew he was in the store, not even his wife, Sara.
Something cold coiled in his gut. With caution, he crept out of his office, keeping to the shadow with his back to the bookcase along the side wall.
The tapping came again, this time more insistent.
Alan peeped around the edge of the wall toward the door and swore. He recognized the face, half hidden in shadow staring back.
Alan pulled open the door. "Inside," he said, his eyes darting up and down the street.
The individual stepped into the store, closing the door firmly.
"What do you want?" Alan demanded.
The lips of the figure curved upward. A dull metallic flash startled Alan. He fell back two paces, eyes wide, staring at the sharp end of a butcher's knife. His heartbeat faltered, then picked up speed like a colt on the racetrack.
Instantly his mind cleared. He, Alan Earl, knew how to talk his way out of anything. That's what his friends at the Country Club had said. Hell, he'd even won the chamber of commerce persuasive speakers contest, had certificates hung in neat wooden frames on his office wall to prove it.
I can do this; get them to the office, have a civilized conversation at my desk where I keep my gun.
For an instant, he dared to hope. He could do it. He would do it.
The figure turned the blade, examining it as the streetlight glistened across the metal. Then rushed forward. In the long seconds that followed Alan looked puzzled—and at last understood. He staggered back, hands grabbing for something to defend himself with. Too late.
Alan closed his eyes as the cold steel blade plunged deep into his stomach. With a violent twist, the figure withdrew it, and struck again, this time to the chest. Finally, a vicious swipe to the neck and Alan Earl was gone.
The killer moved quickly, riffling through Alan's pockets, emptying the bills from his wallet and dragging the pint-sized body to the closet next to the bathroom. With a grunt the killer shoved the limp body into the closet and eased the door shut.
A trail of blood smeared the concrete floor. The killer cleaned it up, glanced around to check everything was in order and left the bookstore by the back door.
As the killer hurried along the back alley they considered where to eat for dinner. A catfish parlor called Mutton Manchaca flashed into their mind. They served fried green tomatoes, blackened catfish, and deep-fried cheesecake. Yes, the killer thought, Mutton Manchaca would be the perfect end to a perfect day.
Chapter 3
A week earlier…
Amy King lit the candles in her dining room, on a table set for two. The light was soft, and the aroma from the kitchen delicious. The Gaston Avenue two-story, southern colonial house, set back from the main road, was modern and elegant, with an expansive patioed backyard and only a few steps from the Shoal Creek trail. Amy and Nick had lived there for six of the twenty-two years they'd been married, and for most of those years they had entertained guests from Austin and the local towns.
Amy and Nick's social dinners brought together local civic leaders, politicians, and Austin police officers. Nick worked as a detective in the city's executive protection unit. But tonight, she and Nick were enjoying a romantic evening alone. At forty-five, she kept the figure of her teenage years, and her youthful looks made her almost indistinguishable from her two grown daughters, both of whom married and followed their husbands to England.
"Here's to your new business," said Nick striding into the room with two champagne flutes in his hand. He put them on the table and wrapped his arms around Amy's waist. "Oh my, that smells good, and you look incredible tonight." His eyes danced across her face, then he kissed her. Amy batted him away playfully.
"Got to check the grill, that is unless you want burnt ashes with your champagne."
Nick released her from his grip, his boyish face eager. "Whatcha got cookin'?"
Amy put on the voice of a maître d'. "Wild-caught catfish from spring-fed ponds, filleted and sprinkled with lemon juice, freshly ground cayenne pepper, garlic salt and grilled to perfection under a bed of fresh organic fennel. Tonight, sir, I'll be serving it on a bed of couscous, roasted pine nuts, red bell peppers and a side of fried green tomatoes."
"Oh, my favorite," Nick said, beaming, as he reached into his pocket and held out a fifty. "I'd like a side order of the chef with my meal please."
"Cost more than that." Amy laughed, hurrying to the kitchen.
Nick walked to the French windows and looked out past the deck with its large clay pots of lavender bushes. The moon was visible in an inky-black, star-filled sky. He was five years older than Amy, trim and in decent shape from his pastime of jogging and cycling along the many trails that crisscrossed Texas' capital city. For some time, he'd been thinking about retiring from the police department and trying his hand at something new. He'd decided and would share it with his wife tonight.
Amy returned five minutes later with the serving dishes. She placed them on the table and stepped back admiring the place setting and flaming candles. She turned as Nick slipped into his seat; he smiled as their eyes met. Her cheeks reddened; even after all these years he could make her blush and feel like a woman.
Nick stood, opened and poured the champagne. Then he raised his glass and said, "Aloha nui kakou. That's an old Hawaiian toast. It means to your good health or something like that."
"Oh," replied Amy, "Are you hinting at where you'd like us to go for our summer vacation?"
"Of course," grinned Nick slipping a pink envelope across the table.
Amy shook out the contents. Two tickets fell onto the table. She picked one up and studied it closely. "Hawaii!" she cried joyously wrapping her arms around her husband.
They kissed.
Then they ate.
The food was outstanding.
And there was deep-fried cheesecake for dessert, Nick's favorite.
Chapter 4
It was after ten o'clock when Amy and Nick sat on the deck and looked out into the star-filled sky. The night breeze had a warm, velvety feel, heavy with the scents of cedar and lavender. Amy snuggled up close to Nick, and he smelled of something musky and wild. "Honey," Nick said matter-of-factly. "I've decided to step down from the police department, ta
ke early retirement. The department is understaffed, and the stress is getting to me. I'm young enough to try my hand at something else." He had a faraway look as he spoke.
Amy snuggled closer. "Maybe we'll get more time together now, go traveling the world."
"Thought you'd be good with it," he said looking admiringly at his wife.
"I am," she replied, gazing into his soft brown eyes.
"Now, tell me what's happening with your new staging business," Nick asked with interest.
Amy had recently left the world of homemaking. With the children grown, organizing social dinners wasn't enough to occupy her, and as a detective, Nick's hours were long and often unpredictable. Since Amy had an excellent eye for design and an intuitive sense for how to pull interiors together, she had set up her first business, Studio Shoal Seven. Now all she needed was to find clients, and an assistant to help things run smoothly.
"I've gone through my list of furniture and prop suppliers and met with all the owners. Of the original list of ten, I've whittled it down to six."
"What was wrong with the other four?" asked Nick.
"The chemistry wasn't right," she replied without stopping for breath. " I didn't connect with the owners. I will not do business with people I don't like or trust."
Nick knew then why he married his wife, her integrity. Their years together had been a relaxed and gentle love affair, and he was still crazy about her.
"That sounds about right," he said, at last. "Have you given any thought to an assistant? You will need at least one, and it's better to plan ahead."
"I've been thinking about Danielle Sánchez. Do you know Danielle?"
Nick wrinkled his nose. "Is she the woman that dresses in green pants and pink Keep Austin Weird T-shirts, and works at the elementary school?"
"Yes, she's a teacher's assistant. I know she is looking for something else, something a little more challenging."
Nick looked at his wife with a puzzled expression. "If her color coordination is anything to go by, you two are in for some fun and games. Isn't her husband in a band?"
