by ACF Bookens
Eventually, my best friend noticed that I was glassy-eyed, I guess, because she said, “Okay. Fine. I’ll stop. But four p.m., you’re mine.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound threatening at all,” I said with a smirk.
“Don’t mess with me, lady, or I’ll tell Max you’re getting all done up for him.” She laughed and bounced away to help Marcus ring up customers.
I looked out across my store and smiled.
17
A little after noon, Tuck returned with tacos and information. We slipped into the back room for a few minutes so we could eat, and he handed me a photograph. I looked down at an image of the same syringes I’d found in this very room a couple of hours before. “Okay, so you took a photo of the bag.”
He jabbed at the photo with a salsa-drenched finger. “There.”
I leaned down and looked at the spot next to a slice of onion. “Is that a number?”
“It is. A batch number, and this batch was ordered by the hospital about three months ago.” He shoved the rest of his taco in his mouth and then wiped his face with a napkin. “And three syringes were missing from the bag.”
I felt my eyes go wide. “So the syringe that killed Bixley . . .”
“Yep, part of that same batch. The killer hid the rest of the bag to keep it from being linked back to the hospital, I suspect.”
I put down the rest of my taco and felt my heart sink. “So that means it was probably someone who worked at the hospital who killed Bixley?”
“Looks more and more like it. How well do you know Cynthia Delilah, Harvey?” His voice was kind but firm enough to tell me this wasn’t a casual question.
“I don’t know her very well at all. She’s been in here a couple of times, but I haven’t really talked to her much. She’s your top suspect?”
Tuck rested his hands on the top of his head and looked up at the ceiling. “She has means and opportunity, maybe motive, too. It just makes sense since she worked at the hospital.” The sheriff didn’t look convinced, though.
“You don’t think she did it though.” It was more of a statement than a question.
He peeled his eyes from the ceiling and looked at me. “I don’t, but I’ve been wrong before. It all just works if she’s both Bixley’s assistant and the person who killed him.”
“You mean maybe she thought he was going to point the finger at her because it seemed like the board might take some action? Scapegoat her for what he did?” I had to admit that idea had some merit, but somehow, still, the idea of Cynthia as a killer wasn’t sitting right with me.
“Yeah, that’s what makes logical sense.” He dropped his chin into his hand. “But when has murder ever been logical.”
I sighed. “Right. I was just reading the latest Louise Penny mystery, and I love how Gamache goes back to the root cause of murder, to the thing that sparked the emotion that led to the actual killing.”
Tuck sat up and looked at me. “That’s exactly it, Harvey. I just don’t see any reason beyond self-protection to kill Bixley. We know the board wasn’t really interested in taking action, so even the idea that they might have feared being caught seems flimsy.”
I nodded. “This may be way out there, but it also seems very personal to have killed him the way he killed his victims.”
“Allegedly killed his victims.”
“Right, allegedly.” I made air quotes as big as my torso as I spoke. “But you know what I mean. If Cynthia was going to kill him, wouldn’t she choose another method. She has medical training, after all. She could have easily used another medication – or another means altogether, cutting his brakes, for example – to get the job done. Why risk tying it back to herself so directly?”
“Yep, that’s what’s bugging me. This feels too neat, almost like someone is framing her. But what I don’t get is the syringes back here.” He gestured toward the pile of packing material I’d fallen in earlier. “You might not have found those until after the holidays if you hadn’t taken another tumble.”
“Hey. I’ve only fallen two, wait, three times in the past week.” I felt a wee bit defensive about my recent accidents. “But I see what you’re saying. If someone wanted to frame Cynthia, they would have left the syringes somewhere most obvious, like her car.”
“Precisely.” Tuck headed toward the door. “ I need to talk to her again, find out more about what she might know.” He stopped abruptly and looked back at me. “Just to be sure, she hasn’t been back here, has she?”
I stood and thought back through the past few days. “Nope, both times she was in she was up front within my line of sight the whole time. And we keep the back door locked tight. Only Mart, Marcus, and I have keys. So no, I don’t think she’s been back here.”
Tuck nodded and kept nodding as he walked out the door. That was a man with a lot on his mind.
After cleaning up our lunch dishes and trying, without luck, to figure out what that annoying itch about something Tuck said meant, I followed him out to the shop floor. I was stunned to see the store still packed. I had kind of forgotten that we were the “it” location on the Eastern Shore today, and the sheer number of people shopping was breathtaking.
I scooted my way back to my throne and was thrilled to see Marcus’s Mom, Josie, in my seat. “Mrs. Dawson! Oh, it’s good to see you,” I said with an apologetic smile at the young woman to whom Josie was speaking.
Josie stood up and hugged me tight as she said, “Harvey. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Please do your thing.” Josie wrote our monthly newsletter and did regular book reviews for us. She was in high demand for advice about books to read when a customer needed something in particular. In fact, her advice often reminded me of Recipes for Love and Murder by Sally Andrew, although Josie doled out more than advice on love. She was a veritable wealth of knowledge – as was her son – about books of all sorts.
I sat down quietly in the other wingback chair and made myself seem busy as I looked up our sales figures for the day so far. Really, though, I was listening as Josie recommended Flannery O’Connor’s complete story collection to the young woman. “It’s the best book I know for a woman who knows herself but also knows that might mean she doesn’t quite fit in. O’Connor was a woman ahead of her time, and, did you know, she had a pet chicken.”
“I love chickens,” the young woman with red hair and a sort of 1950s look said. “Is that book here?”
Josie looked over at me, and I nodded. “Check out anthologies right over there at the end of the fiction section,” I said as I pointed toward the far wall.
“Thank you,” the woman said and headed toward the anthology shelf. I watched her for a couple of seconds and then turned back to Josie. “You really are spectacular at this.”
Josie blushed. “Well, when you are raising a black son who loves literary fiction, Nikes, and skateboarding, you read widely.”
I laughed. Marcus was a remarkable young man, and if he kept up his reading pace, he’d out-read me in just a few years. “What did you find to recommend for the skateboarding obsession?”
“Tony Hawk’s books of course.” Josie laughed.
For the rest of the afternoon, my friend and I sat and recommended books, answered questions about Green’s talk, and handed out literature about hospice. Between the two of us, we had personally recommended almost every book in my small Death and Dying section. Apparently, our guests today and presumably tonight were committed to thinking about death complexly and deeply, so I was thrilled to be able to suggest Let’s Take the Long Way Home, a memoir about death and friendship to a woman whose best friend was just diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. Josie suggested Stiff by Mary Roach to the older man who was contemplating the options for his corpse. By the time four p.m. rolled around, the Death and Dying shelf was almost bare, and Josie and I were spent.
I gave her another hug, apologized for keeping her son at the store for another long day, and scooted my way out to Mart’s waiting car with a w
ave to my staff. Their enthusiastic shouts of “good luck” and “don’t break a leg” carried me safely to the car.
* * *
I have always wanted someone to nominate me for one of those makeover shows. Back in the day, I hoped Clinton and Stacy would show up one day and whisk me away to New York, but now I was confident that I could impress Antoni from Queer Eye with my cooking skills. Tonight, though, Mart was basically all of the Fab Five thrown into one witty, kind best friend.
First, she fed me figs with goat cheese and honey while also refilling my wine glass just enough times that I was feeling relaxed but not loopy. Then, she washed my hair without soap using something called “the curly girl method” that involved the most luxurious conditioner, a towel that reminded me of the fancy shammies they used at car washes, and a spritz of coconut oil. My curls had never looked so good, especially when I slipped my sparkly headband back on and reined in a couple of the most unruly pieces until my hair looked perfectly like me and perfectly styled, too. I was clearly going to have to ask her to do my hair every day.
But she wasn’t done. She painted my fingernails and worked some magic on my toes that made them look like I didn’t stand (or scoot) on them all day. She even managed to coordinate the polish with Ollie’s painting on my cast.
She didn’t stop there, though. Next, she pulled out a long, flowing black skirt that I’d picked up years ago in a market in Morocco. That story has always sounded more elegant than it was. Really, I just only had five dollars to spend and this skirt fit my budget. I rarely wore it, though, because it was, well, it was a lot – like goth-girl meets Boho chic – a lot. But tonight, Mart paired it with a cut velvet blazer that my mom had bought me back in my days of fundraising so I’d have something to wear to a winter event. That and a simple camisole, my favorite rings, Mart’s mom’s jewelry, and my grandmother’s bangles that, from a distance seemed to match my headband, and I was done.
I looked in the mirror and smiled. I looked good and, still, like me, not like me trying to put on a show. I spun around and smiled at Mart. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.” She took my shoulders and steered me toward the door. “All that primping has taken our available time. I will be there in twenty minutes, but your ride has already arrived.”
I scooted down the hall and there was Daniel, in his one suit but with a brand-new tie and, “Is that a pocket square?” I asked. “Tan would be so proud.”
He lifted his jacket. “Maybe not because I didn’t do a French tuck.” He winked at me, and I cracked up.
“You may have watched a couple too many episodes of Queer Eye with me, big guy.” I leaned up and kissed his cheek.
“Maybe,” he said. “You look amazing.”
I blushed. “Well, Mart does good work.”
“Of course, but you are the art, my dear.” He kissed me deeply and then tugged me toward the door.
I waved to Mayhem and Taco, who were already unconscious by the fire, and I blew a kiss to Aslan, who made it a point to not even open an eye in response. “I see we’ll be sorely missed,” I said.
“Terribly. I hope they make it,” Daniel added.
I laughed and took his arm as he pulled me along to the truck.
* * *
The reception was just beginning when we arrived, and I found myself once again profoundly grateful for Mom and Dad’s leadership of this part of the evening. Symeon was on hand overseeing the staff, and I gave him a wave as I came into the room. Henri and Bear were already mingling with the first guests, and I scooted over to give them quick hugs before I took up my station beside the donations table. Mom had arranged to have a comfortable chair on a small platform there for me so I could sit but still talk with folks from behind the table, and I was immensely grateful. My leg was throbbing, and I didn’t know that I’d be able to stand on one foot the whole night.
Daniel stood near me and greeted everyone, taking it upon himself to explain my injury so that people didn’t think me rude or lazy for sitting while they asked questions. He was definitely a keeper.
We had a steady stream of guests, and people were ever so generous with their donations – both in the large glass bowl that Mom had set up and seeded with bills and in the drop box for checks that she’d also arranged on a small table nearby so that people could leave checks without their information being visible.
During a lull in the traffic, Daniel leaned over and said, “We’re getting pretty good at this raising money thing.” I laughed, remembering the time recently when we’d blown the socks off both Mart and the organization she was supporting with her event.
“We are. Maybe we should go into business.” I gave him a sly smile.
“Well, you already have a business, and I only have this one suit. So maybe we just do this for fun.” He kissed the top of my head.
I liked that plan. Fundraising had been a great career for me back before I came to St. Marin’s, but I appreciated the low-key life of a bookstore owner now. Still, it was good for my heart to support organizations I cared about, and hospice was definitely one of those organizations. Before I’d met Daniel, I’d always worried that I might die alone. I still worried about that sometimes, but at least I knew hospice would take me in and be sure I was comfortable in my last days if no one else was there to do it.
My thoughts strayed toward Bixley and his “alleged” murders. I could never understand how another person could willingly steal the life of another person, but in one sense I got it. If he thought they were suffering, well, then in his sick brain, I could understand how he might have felt he was helping. But when he saw their families suffering, when he looked at the pain he caused, that should have stopped him. But it didn’t. He kept going. It was despicable.
I forced my mind back to the situation at hand by looking across the room to see who I recognized. Pickle and his wife Lois were talking with Henri and Bear. Woody and a young woman – probably his daughter – were talking with my parents and Cate and Lucas, and I caught a glimpse of Elle wandering through the room.
I was looking for Mart when I nearly made eye contact with Max, but fortunately, I saw him before he saw me. I was surprised to see him here, but it was good that he’d shown up, for himself and for his restaurant, too.
I looked up at the woman Daniel had been telling about the work that hospice does with family support and was surprised to see he was talking with Cynthia. She caught my eye and smiled. “Hi Harvey. This guy here knows his stuff.”
I swallowed hard. She seemed to be in a good mood, so I wondered what that meant about her conversation with Tuck. Had she had the second conversation with Tuck?
“Hi Cynthia. It’s nice to see you here. I expect you’re familiar with hospice’s work.” I smiled and hoped it looked sincere. I didn’t believe she was Bixley’s murderer, but I was still ill at ease with what Tuck had told me about her and all the pieces that pointed her way.
“Oh, very. They do amazing work. I recommend hospice all the time to terminal patients.” She leaned down toward me and smiled again. “Even the ones who will probably die in the hospital.” She looked me in the eye and held my gaze.
“Oh, you do,” I said, a small smile growing on my lips. “I bet that’s part of the records at the hospital, isn’t it?”
She stood up and spread her hands wide at her hips. “As a matter of fact it is. Sheriff Tucker and I were talking about that very thing this afternoon.”
I stood and scooted around the table. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. Really, really glad. I didn’t want it to be you. I really didn’t.” I held out my hands, hoping she’d forgive me for suspecting her.
She reached over and pulled me into a hug. “I am so glad to hear that, Harvey.” She pulled back and held me at arm’s length. “It’s natural you thought of me. My flippant attitude. My defensiveness. I was just so exhausted from trying to stop Bixley that when he died, the relief was palpable. But when the suspicion came soon after, I was resentful. I wan
ted someone to see what I had been doing all this time.”
I nodded. I could completely understand that.
“I didn’t help,” Javier joined our little group. “I’m sorry I accused you. Dad loved you, and I should have trusted him, even if I couldn’t trust you.”
Cynthia let out a long sigh. “Terminal illnesses wear us down. They make us look for people to blame. We want someone to be responsible. I get it.” She put a hand on Javier’s arm. “And in this case, someone was responsible. It just wasn’t me.”
“The sheriff told me.” Javier wrung his hands together. “I’m glad it wasn’t you, but it was still someone.”
“It was,” Cynthia said. “But the sheriff is working on that. He told me they have a new clue.” She and Javier wandered off into the crowd with a smile.
I rolled back around the table and leaned against Daniel. “They’d make a cute couple,” I said.
Daniel rolled his eyes. “You can’t sleuth, so you’re turning to matchmaking?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
We continued to answer questions and accept donations for a while, and about halfway through the reception, I heard the din of voices rise as John Green walked in. He looked like the perfect author – jeans and a plaid blazer with Chuck Taylors. He graciously greeted everyone who came his way, and I marveled that this time, at least, one of my heroes hadn’t been a disappointment.
I was just about to make my way over to say hello when a flash of bright red caught my eye. I looked over, and there was Damien in his Santa outfit. He even had a big sack that looked to be filled with boxes. He looked downright jovial, but for a reason I couldn’t quite pin down, I wasn’t happy to see him here.
18
