Memoirs of a Garroter (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries Book 4)

by Steffanie Holmes

  I’m never going to get anything done today if they keep… Oh, by Isis…

  Heathcliff’s mouth met mine, hot with need. Fire raced through my veins I tugged on his collar, pulling him closer, molding our bodies together. My hip pressed into our ancient metal till as Heathcliff laid me down on the desk, his hands unlacing the drawstring in Jo’s trousers. Dark hunger blazed in his eyes, the kind of hunger that made women in books swoon.

  “But I have so much work to do—”

  My feeble protests were silenced as literature’s greatest gothic hero swept me into his arms and devoured me, body and heart and soul.

  Chapter Four

  “Thank you so much, Mina. We really appreciate you setting up this event for Danny.” Brian Letterman held my hand between his. A pair of sharp grey eyes sparkled as he took in the room.

  “Thank you for agreeing to be my guinea pigs. I’m really excited about the potential for this space.” I beamed at the publisher as I surveyed my handiwork. We really had worked a miracle.

  A week ago, I’d made the executive decision to permanently remove the bookshelves from the World History room and cram them into a small alcove at the back of the shop. Now the light, airy room with its pentagonal bay window was our new event space. I’d cleaned and repainted one wall antique white, and purchased a projector that could be used to show slides or movies against the wall. Quoth and I scoured every junk store in Argleton for enough mismatched chairs to create a small circle around the lectern. Morrie scoured The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named for product reviews, and based on the internet’s recommendations, put together a state-of-the-art sound system, which was at this moment pumping out subdued jazz as our guests filtered in.

  Under the window was a buffet of locally-made cheese, crackers, Mrs. Ellis’ fruit preserves, and artisan salami. I’d even managed to convince Richard McGreer – the Rose & Wimple pub landlord who’d recently started a boutique cidery – to put on a small bar.

  A display of Danny’s books stood by the door, mixed with a couple of Quoth’s artworks and some props I found in Morrie’s bedroom – a magnifying glass, some handcuffs (I had to tear off the black padded lining), and a long black silk scarf knotted around the stand. Danny’s latest book, The Somerset Strangler, featured a serial killer who garroted his victims. I hoped I’d got the message across without being too morbid.

  Our guest list of local reporters, Barchester literati, and members of Danny’s fanclub milled around the room, spilling out into the main downstairs room of the bookshop, where they perused the shelves with an appreciative eye. I noticed a woman in the corner had already amassed an impressive stack of volumes on the counter for purchase.

  We’re going to make a killing tonight.

  It was just as well, because we needed all the cash we could get. All this effort wasn’t just to inject some life into the place – Heathcliff had finally let me look at his ledger. Things were more dire than I realized. Eight years ago, the roof had been damaged in a bad storm, and Mr Simson – who apparently didn’t believe in insurance – had taken out a mortgage on the shop to make the repairs. And that mortgage had been extended over the years as narrowing margins and the dominance of The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named cut into the shop’s already meagre profits. Heathcliff hadn’t helped matters – he ran the place the way all landed men of his era ran their estates – with a stubborn refusal to accept that changing times called for a fresh approach. We needed to sort out our mortgage arrears soon, or we’d really be in trouble.

  After that, I needed cash to make serious improvements to the shop. If I was going to keep working here after I went blind, then I needed a way to distinguish the books apart when I could no longer see the titles. The absent Mr. Simson was no help – from what I could remember of my childhood, his system seemed to be that he presented people with completely random books and they just accepted them because to say something would be rude, and a British person would rather pay £48 quid for a book on the history of the London sewers than ask for what they actually wanted.

  I’d been researching different options – braille labels would be most cost-effective, but an insane amount of work to implement. Plus, even though I’d already started trying to learn braille, it would take me a couple of years to become proficient. However, there was this neat electronic talking tagging system that I could control from my mobile…

  “It’s great to see this bookshop living up to its potential,” Brian said. “I came here a year or so ago, trying to get the proprietor to stock my authors or run an event. He was quite rude. Told me to go shag a goat—”

  “Oh yes, well, let’s just say he’s reformed.” I glanced across at Heathcliff, who stood behind the counter, begrudgingly ringing up purchases. I hadn’t heard him call anyone an idiot all night, so that was something.

  “That’s good to hear. You know, you’ve got a real head for the business side of this industry. I teach a publishing course over in Barchester, and let me tell you that too many naive students come in with the idea that publishing is all about pursuing their dreams of being a bestselling beat poet or bringing the joy of reading to future generations or some such nonsense. They could learn a lot from a woman like you… oh, I’ll introduce you to Danny. He’ll want to thank you as well.” Brian snapped his fingers. “Danny, come meet Mina. She’s the one who put this whole event together.”

  A tall, handsome figure with vibrant red hair drew away from the circle of admirers who surrounded him and wandered toward us. A shorter man with a sharp suit and thin black hair followed behind him. I recognized the redhead from the jacket of his book. Danny Sledge, in the flesh.

  When he reached us, Danny extended a hand and shook mine warmly, flashing me a charismatic smile. He rubbed the line of stubble along his jaw as he gestured to the room. “Fabulous event, Mina. My congratulations at finally talking some sense into that Mr. Earnshaw and turning this bookshop into a success.”

  I could feel my cheeks warming at his praise. “I’m not sure it’s a success yet. But I’m definitely working on it.”

  Over Danny’s shoulder, I noticed Jo enter the room, wearing a red dress that hugged her in all the right places. I guessed she been shopping instead of braving our locust-infested flat. I waved to my flatmate, and she made her way towards our group, grabbing two glasses of cider on her way past the bar.

  “—it’s so important to support these small independent bookstores,” Danny was saying earnestly. “Otherwise they’ll go the way of the dinosaurs. Of course, nowadays, readers prefer a screen to an actual book. I make most of my royalties from A—”

  I held up a hand as Heathcliff’s head jerked up, his black eyes blazing with fury. Does he have extra-sensory powers or something? How can he hear that all the way from the next room? “Um, I highly recommend you don’t use that word in this shop.”

  Heathcliff shoved his way into the room.

  “What word? Am—”

  “Croak?” Quoth fluttered down and settled on Danny’s shoulder. Danny immediately reached up and patted him on his head, his previous faux-pas forgotten.

  “You’re a good wee birdie, aren’t you? I saw a cat hanging around before, too. This place is a regular menagerie. Hey,” Danny grinned at Quoth. “I get it now. You’re like the shop’s mascot. They must’ve named this place Nevermore after you. ‘Once upon a midnight dreary. While I pondered, weak and weary—’”

  Panic shot through me. I knew what usually happened when someone recited that poem in Quoth’s presence. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable moment when my carefully-planned event became a disaster—

  Don’t worry, I’m not going to crap on him, Quoth’s voice landed in my head. I have more self-control than that. I just thought if I flew over here I might distract him from saying the word that makes Heathcliff go Super Saiyan.

  You’re my hero, I thought in return, as my whole body relaxed.

  “—each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor—
”

  I didn’t know it was possible, but the raven beamed. Anytime. Incidentally, if you could get him to stop reciting that infernal poem, I’d be most obliged.

  Danny was reaching his stride. “—for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—”

  “Danny, um, so…” I frantically searched for a question. “Do you do lots of author events?”

  “Not as much as I used to. It’s hard to get people to leave their homes and show up. Nowadays I put all my promotional efforts into social media. It’s a shame, because it’s always great to meet fans in person, hear their stories. I get lots of ideas that way. Tell me, Mina, which of my books was your favorite?”

  “Oh, um…” I racked my brain for a title. The truth was, I’d never read one of Danny Sledge’s books – commercial crime fiction wasn’t really my thing. I’d chosen him for this event because Mrs. Ellis told me he was famous and devilishly handsome, so she’d be able to convince her entire knitting circle to come along. I’d sold at least twenty tickets to little old ladies who now stood in a group around the bar, tittering every time they caught a glimpse of Danny’s arse. I glanced over to the table and caught the name of his latest book. “I really enjoyed The Somerset Strangler. I think it’s your best work yet.”

  “Good answer. That’s one of my favorites, too.” Danny didn’t seem to notice where I was looking. “It’s always so fascinating getting into the mind of a criminal. As you know, I’ve made this guy particularly vicious. He likes to get up close and personal with his victims so he can watch the life drain from their faces—”

  “Oh, yes, yes.” I nodded, only listening with half an ear as I noticed a familiar figure enter the room, wearing an outlandish dress that looked like a Christmas sweater had sex with a raccoon. I glanced at Quoth. What’s Mum doing here?

  You invited her, remember?

  Yes, but I didn’t expect her to come. I cringed as Mum swung around and I noticed a giant silvery patch attached to her upper arm. What’s that on her arm?

  No idea, but I can see a stack of them sticking out of her purse. My guess is, she’s got an exciting new product to sell.

  Zing. Panic shot through me again.

  “I haven’t read your book. What methods does your killer employ?” Jo was asking Danny. “Strangulation? Evisceration? Meat hooks?”

  “Death by locust?” I added. Jo stifled a laugh.

  “Danny’s killer has the garrote as his weapon of choice,” the second man piped up. “Garroting is such an unusual method of murder. It was developed by the Chinese as an early form of execution, and was also popular with the Spanish as the death penalty until 1978. Danny’s use of this method is part of the reason The Somerset Strangler has been so successful. It’s a bit different from the usual cannibal serial killer.”

  Danny peered over his shoulder as if he’d only just remembered the guy was there. “Oh, how rude of me. Mina, this is Angus, my closest friend and first reader. He used to be in law enforcement in Argleton – he nicked me a few times back in my wayward youth. He took early retirement, and his professional input has saved my bacon more than once. Angus, this is Mina, the bird who put this whole event together. Isn’t she knockin’?”

  Angus offered a firm handshake. He had an open smile and one of those soft faces that made you want to instantly trust him. I bet he was totally hot when he was younger. “Nice to meet you, Mina. Thanks for promoting Danny. He’s been worried about the reception of The Somerset Strangler. It’s a lot gorier than his other books, as death by garroting can be a grisly death, especially if described with the level of detail Danny likes to lavish on his victims.”

  “Tell me about it,” Jo said, sipping her drink. “No, seriously, tell me. I’ve never had a garroting case before. What kind of research do you do, Danny?”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m not out knocking off people just to get the details right,” Danny grinned. “Angus here fills me in on a lot of the realism from his old cases, an’ of course I’ve got the internet, now don’t I? Let me tell you about this strangulation I read about the other day—”

  My gaze flicked back to the door. Mum had disappeared into the crowd. Panic rose in my chest as I searched the shadowed faces. Please don’t let her embarrass me—

  Danny slapped Angus on the shoulder. “…so that’s how we know our killer used a fabric ligature instead of wire. When it comes to realistic details, I’m not worried about anything. Angus does all the worrying for me. He thinks his professional reputation is on the line with every book I publish. He worked a high profile garroting case back when he was an inspector, but they never caught the killer.”

  Jo looped her arm in Angus’. “Your drink appears to be empty, good sir. Let me show you to the bar for a refill, and you can tell me more about the history of garroting…”

  Angus nodded, and left with Jo. Danny leaned in, giving me a wink. “You’d better tell your friend to watch out. Angus is a bit of a player. The whole reason he hangs out at these parties with me is for a bit of tail.”

  “He might be so, but he’s not Jo’s type.”

  “She not into greying ex-cops?”

  “I’m sure the ex-cop is fine. It’s more the fact that he’s a he.”

  Danny’s eyebrows went way up, and the expression on his face told me that he found the idea that Jo was a lesbian a turn-on. He leaned in close, nudging me with his arm. “And you? Are you guys…”

  “I have a boyfriend,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable. It was so dumb how guys still reacted like that when they heard a girl didn’t fancy blokes. Because of course, Jo’s sexual preferences were all about his enjoyment. A woman tapped Danny’s arm to ask him a question, and I managed to slip back into the crowd. I needed to find Mum before she launched into a sales pitch and—

  “—all I have to do is wear the Flourish patch, and its transdermal vitamin technology transmits vital nutrients and calorie-burning stimulants directly into my bloodstream, helping me to burn excess fat.” Mum’s voice carried over the crowd. “Why, right now, as I’m drinking this free Champagne and eating these delicious sausage rolls, I’m burning fifty calories a minute…”

  Bloody hell, I’m too late.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” I shoved my way through groups of writers and journalists. Finally, I saw her. Mum had cornered three women and was busy patting the silver patch on her arm and giving them her latest spiel.

  “… as a Flourish consultant, you’ll spread the word about this amazing new technology and help hundreds of people achieve their health and weight loss dreams. Not only that, but you’ll be in charge of your own destiny as you build your own business and achieve financial freedom. Just look at me – a month ago I was living on the council estate, now I’m about to be handed the keys to my very own silver Mercedes.”

  Oh no, what’s this about a Mercedes?

  “Mum, you came!” I threw my arms around her, hoping to stop the stream of nonsense pouring from her mouth.

  “Mina, dear. You look lovely, although I bet you’d look even lovelier with a complete vitamin regimen. I was just telling your friends here about an exciting business opportunity.” Mum spun around to show off her patch. “Isn’t it amazing? Right now, I’m burning calories while receiving a dose of healthful nutrients through its remarkable transdermal—”

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful, Mum, but you don’t need to wear it here. People came tonight to discuss books, not weight-loss, er, patches…” I flashed the women an apologetic look over my shoulder.

  “Oh, it does more than just help you lose weight. The Flourish patch also cures bloating, improve energy, and suppresses appetite, so you don’t get those pesky cravings… oh, look, little cupcakes.” Mum grabbed two off a tray on the table. “You really have to try it, Mina. It’s remarkable. I’ve only been wearing mine for two days and I’ve already lost weight!”

  “You don’t look any different to me.” I watched Mum pop one cupcake into her mouth.

  “
Well, of course I don’t! It’s this lighting. It’s terribly unflattering. Maybe I’ll go see Morrie about changing it.” Mum turned to push her way back across the room, popping the second cupcake into her mouth. “It’s great to see you, dear!”

  “I really am sorry about her,” I told the woman. “She gets sucked into these get-rich-quick-schemes. She’s really harmless.”

  “It’s perfectly all right. We’ve all had friends who’ve fallen victim to those schemes. They really are criminal, the way they sucker people in. I’m surprised my husband hasn’t written about it in one of his books, but I guess it isn’t as sexy as murder.” The woman in the middle scoffed. She had strawberry blonde hair cut in a short, sensible bob and a designer dress that was a couple of years out of date and at least two sizes too small. She extended a hand to me. “I’m Penny Sledge, Danny’s wife.”

  “I didn’t realize Danny was married.” I shook her hand.

  “He doesn’t like to advertise it, especially not to pretty young women like yourself.” Penny’s two friends exchanged a look and shuffled quietly away. “I understand you’re the organizer of this event. You’ve done a fine job, really. An admirable effort, but if I could make a few suggestions…”

  “Sure!” I beamed.

  “I don’t think it will do having all these people crammed into this tiny space. And none of the chairs match! The food is a bit rustic, and cider instead of wine?” She tsked. “That won’t do. This shop is awfully dusty, isn’t it? Much better to rent the ballroom at my friend Cynthia Lachlan’s estate. Or even have it down in London at one of the literary salons—”

  “I’ll make note of that,” I said. Literary salons? What kind of books did Penny think her husband wrote? As she talked my ear off about the proper temperature to serve wine and why cupcakes and sausage rolls were inappropriate as hors d’oeuvres, I cast my eyes around the room, hoping to spot someone who might save me from the dreary conversation.