A Dead and Stormy Night

by Steffanie Holmes

  When I ducked into the bakery for our morning coffees and pastries, I was surprised to see the place empty. Greta – the young German baker who owned the shop – was a culinary genius, and there was usually a line out the door as workers tried to buy up the Cornish pasties and mince pies fresh from the oven.

  When I rounded the corner onto Butcher Street, I found out why. A crowd of people had gathered outside Nevermore Bookshop, peering in the windows and scrabbling about in the overgrown planters. The local gossip mill had already worked its dark magic. As I pushed my way through the crowd, whispers followed me.

  “That’s Mina. She’s the one who found the body,” Mrs. Ellis leaned out her window to tut to her friend. “Good on her, I say. It’s time we had a little excitement around here.”

  “I heard she used to be friends with the victim, but they had a falling out.” Mrs. Ellis’ friend stage-whispered back.

  “So she was the murderer, the little minx! I always knew she had it in her. Her mamma’s name ain’t Wilde for nothing.”

  “I heard she lives on the council estate,” another old lady sniffed. “It just goes to show, doesn’t it? They’re breeding criminals out there.”

  “I heard she just came here from New York City, which has the most stabbings per capita of any city in the world. That’s not a coincidence, you know.”

  “I knew that gypsy was up to no good. Now here he is, hiring criminals to work in his shop. What would Mr. Simson think? No wonder this village has gone to the dogs.”

  My cheeks burning, I pounded on the door. “Heathcliff, open up, or someone else is getting stabbed today.”

  Distasteful, yes, but it made the gossips step back. My neck crawled from their accusing eyes as I waited. The door pulled back an inch, and Heathcliff’s glowering face appeared above the chain.

  “That better be the strongest fucking coffee in the world,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. A loose curl of dark hair flopped over his cheek, and it was so a-fucking-dorable my fingers itched to flick it back. But there were more urgent matters to attend.

  “Good morning to you, too.” I growled back. “Hurry up and get this chain off. I’m stuck out here with the village gossips.”

  Heathcliff pushed the chain off and flung the door open. I tumbled through, right into Morrie’s arms. Behind me, Mrs. Ellis cheered, and regaled her friends with an anecdote about the time she had sex in the bookshop.

  “Shut the door!” I yelled, before I had an image in my head not even bleach could scour away.

  “We’ve closed,” Heathcliff yelled, slamming the door. Silence descended – sweet, blissful silence. I steadied the coffee in my hand and stared up at Morrie’s glacial eyes. On the staircase behind him, Quoth crouched in the shadows, his flame-ringed eyes like two pricks of firelight in the gloom.

  “Out of the way.” Morrie shuffled me aside as Heathcliff shoved a heavy bookshelf in front of the door, leaning it against the wood. They’d be able to see the barrier through the glass inserts in the door.

  “That should hold them off.” Heathcliff dusted his hands.

  “Um, guys, much as I appreciate the show of solidarity, how are you going to open the shop with a giant bookshelf in the way?”

  “We’re not opening today,” Heathcliff growled.

  “Yes, we are. You can’t let what happened put a taint over the shop. People are going to gossip no matter what. If nothing else, it makes us look guilty. I don’t want to see this place suffer just because of what happened. Nevermore is special, and all you need to do is get more people in the door and I know they’ll see it for themselves.”

  “Those people just want to gape at a murder scene and get a look at the Argleton ripper in action,” Morrie said.

  “Don’t ever call me that again. I say let them gape. They might stay and buy things. Trust me, I’m no stranger to people talking shit about me behind my back. I can handle the village gossip mill. Besides, I need something to do, or I’m just going to sit at home obsessing and staring at my mother’s wobbling stomach.”

  “Huh?” Heathcliff’s mouth curled back.

  “Never mind. Long story filled with visuals you cannot ever unsee, kind of like everything Mrs. Ellis says.”

  “You holding up okay, gorgeous?” Morrie took the box of coffee and muffins from me and led me through into the main room. He pulled up a velvet chair in front of Heathcliff’s desk and settled me into it. Heathcliff and Quoth trailed after him. “You don’t look like you got much sleep.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” I replied, wrapping my hands around my warm coffee cup. “Honestly, I’m pretty shaken up. Ashley was my best friend for more than eight years, and now she’s dead. I don’t know who would want to hurt her, apart from myself.”

  “Neither do we. But we’re going to find out.” Morrie sat down.

  “You said you’d tell me why you know Quoth didn’t do it,” I said. “I’d like to know now.”

  “Quoth’s suffers from what we medical folk call ‘vasovagal syncope.’ He faints at the sight of blood.” Morrie said. “That’s why you hardly see him in the shop. Too much risk of a paper cut.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am. It’s a real medical condition. I can find you a medical dictionary if you want to look it up.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. But if it’s as simple as that, why couldn’t I have told the police!”

  “Because I’m off-the-grid,” Quoth said from the staircase, his rich voice caressing my ears. “I’m hiding from people who want to hurt me. If the police look into my background, they’ll notice that I don’t have a birth certificate or any other official documentation, and I’m screwed.”

  “I knew it. I knew Quoth couldn’t be your real name.”

  Quoth grinned, but there was no mirth in his eyes. That smile almost broke me – it was the smile of someone who’d forgotten what it was to be truly happy. “Thank you for what you did. Morrie shouldn’t have asked for you to lie for me, but it may have saved my life.”

  “You can pay me back by not being a murderer,” I said. “And also by kicking Morrie’s arse.”

  “My pleasure.” Quoth bowed.

  “He’d never dare, not when he knows I was helping him out. Even if the police knew about Quoth, they’d still be looking at you, Mina. And not because you’re hot as sin,” Morrie drawled. From his chair behind the desk, Heathcliff groaned.

  “I get it. I’m a suspect because Ashley and I fell out and she showed up in my place of employment.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “But why was she here?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to figure out if we’re going to solve this murder. Does Ashley have any enemies?”

  “The cops asked me this. I don’t think so, except me.” I slumped back in the chair. “I mean, she could be selfish and self-obsessed, so it’s likely she crossed a few people in the industry, but she’s still too small fry for anyone to bother with. She was trying to become a social media influencer, so maybe she pissed off some Instagram celebrity and this is all about an internet feud.”

  “A social Insta-what?” Heathcliff tapped his pen against a legal pad filled with scribbled notes.

  “A social influencer. It’s when companies pay you money to take selfies of yourself with their products and post them on the internet. It’s like being a corporate whore, except the pay is worse.”

  Heathcliff shot Morrie a look. “And you claim I’m missing out on life by not using the internet.”

  “Admittedly, Mina isn’t helping sell the concept.” Morrie tapped away on his phone. “We can have a look through her social media accounts, see if anything leaps out. What about the homeless man, Erin wossisname?”

  “Earl Larson. He’s harmless,” Heathcliff said.

  “Now, now, everyone is a suspect where our Mina is concerned.” Morrie added his name to the legal pad. “I think he’s our best lead, especially given the smell and the stolen money. Mina said he was sheltering under the eaves when she ar
rived last night, before the storm got really bad. But none of us saw him out there after the murder. If he moved that book, it means he came in the shop last night. It could be an opportunistic killing. Now, as for the knife… Jo sent in her report this morning.”

  “Isn’t that information supposed to be kept confidential?”

  “Sure is.” Morrie pulled out his phone, “Now, this knife is a bit unusual. It’s an odd shape, almost like an ancient blade from the Middle East, and the handle has these elaborate carvings, but it’s modern. Jo says she can’t identify it as a replica, but she’s taking it to an ancient weapons expert.”

  “Jo just sent information about an active murder investigation to a friend of the chief suspect?” I can’t believe it. Jo seemed so dedicated to her job.

  “No, no. Jo is way too moralistic for that. I hacked her phone, obviously. Do you know anything about this knife?”

  I peered at the picture, surprised that I recognized the blade. “Yeah. Marcus Ribald did a collection two years ago that was all about the Persian Empire. He had these knives made to go in the goodie bags at the premiere.”

  “So only people who attended that show would have got these knives?”

  “Yeah, as well as everyone in the office, but half of them would’ve gone straight home and stuck them on eBay.” I shrugged. “The little known secret about fashion people is that they’ll all up to their eyeballs in credit card debt to finance their wardrobes. If other people can’t see you wear it, there’s no point in owning it. Ashley and I sold our blades the following week. They paid for three months of rent and partying. I doubt you could figure out who owns that knife now.”

  “Still, it’s another connection to the fashion industry, so that’s a start.” Morrie jotted that down. “I can start with the knife and the eBay sales. Quoth, can you head over to the police station, see if you can find out anything else?”

  “Sure.” Quoth stood up and jogged upstairs.

  Morrie peered through the blackout windows at the growing crowd outside. “You are going to sell so many books today. Maybe we’ll be able to eat something other than tinned beans or takeaways this week.”

  “He doesn’t even want to open today,” I complained.

  “They’re not here to buy books,” Heathcliff grumbled, flinging the legal pad into a drawer and pulling over his ledger.

  “Then make it impossible for them not to. Move the thrillers and true crime books onto the sociology shelves, and let them at it.” Morrie clapped his hand on Heathcliff’s shoulder.

  “That’s actually brilliant.” I said. “I could start—”

  “The books stay where they are,” Heathcliff growled. “And if I’m being forced to open the shop, you’re not going to be here when those biddies come in. Go upstairs and hide. Quoth will light the fire for you and you can read books and drink all the tea until the shop closes.”

  “What, just hang out in your private space, putting my girl germs all over your precious stuff?” I grinned and wiggled my arse at him. “I’m going to mess up the arse-groove in your chair so bad.”

  “Don’t you dare sit in that chair,” Heathcliff snapped. “That was a one-time privilege.”

  “It’s going to be too weird sitting up there while you guys are down here working. Can’t I at least have something to do?” I reached for the ledger. “I know, let me balance the books.”

  “Hands off.” Heathcliff yanked the ledger away.

  “Quoth will keep you company. He can go to the police station later on,” Morrie suggested.

  “He can guard my chair from interlopers, is what he can do,” Heathcliff growled.

  “See, you’re not really selling it to me.” I liked Quoth more than I did yesterday, but he was still a weirdo who watched me from the shadows. I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the day trying to make small-talk with him while Heathcliff and Morrie dealt with the chaos downstairs. On the other hand, one should always take the opportunity to get paid for reading and drinking tea.

  I sighed. “I’ll go up, provided you pay me time-and-a-half.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, woman.”

  “Thanks. I learned from my mother.” I grabbed a copy of Wuthering Heights from the shelf, making sure Heathcliff saw the title when I went past him, and climbed the stairs to their apartment.

  I told myself I wouldn’t snoop around when I got to the first floor landing. Of course, I snooped. Last night the SOCO team rolled up the rugs and took them away. Dark squares on the floorboards showed the marks of years of wear. There was still a faint aroma of chemicals in the air.

  Ashley’s dead.

  My eyes prickled with tears I didn’t want to cry. What Ashley did to me had changed the way I felt about her, but now she was gone all I could recall were all the crazy adventures we’d had as rebellious punk rock teens. I replayed our last conversation over and over in my head. Maybe she was trying to reach out? I’d pushed her away. Maybe she saw me come into the shop last night and followed me to try and talk again, and that homeless man jumped out and attacked her?

  Maybe in some crazy way, I was responsible for her death.

  Memories flooded me – Ashley and I thrashing about in the mosh pit in a London club. The two of us showing up at our school formal in dresses made out of PVC, fishnet, and safety pins. Ashley and I celebrating our acceptance to fashion school by getting matching skull and rose tattoos on our lower backs.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks. I wiped them away, but more replaced them. The tears washed away the numbness that had clung to me since last night, leaving my body raw with grief. I cupped my broken eyes and wept for Ashley, for the friend who had lifted me out of my darkest times as a teenager and taught me not to give a fuck what anyone thought.

  Floorboards creaked downstairs as Heathcliff and Morrie moved around. Upstairs, all was silent. Quoth hadn’t come down to go out to the police station, although I don’t know why Morrie thought they’d tell him anything, or why if we were trying to protect Quoth he was going to the police station at all.

  It doesn’t make any sense.

  Of course it didn’t make sense, because they weren’t telling me the whole truth. I didn’t need Morrie’s superior intellect to figure that out.

  I need to talk to Quoth.

  I tore my gaze from that bare patch of floor and bolted up the stairs. The door to the flat was open, the living room empty. Morrie’s computer beeped an odd rhythm. Numbers and random strings of characters streamed down the screen. I peered into the kitchen, and quickly retracted my head. That room needed crime scene tape. “Quoth?” I called out.

  No answer.

  “I need to talk to you. I’m not buying this blood phobia story.” I stepped into the hallway, squinting to resolve the dark paneled walls covered with even more artwork and a set of narrow servant’s steps sweeping up toward the attic. I peered into the first room. It was impossibly neat – the bed made with hospital corners, a metal clothes rack beside the window holding an identical row of pinstriped suits, damask waistcoats, and crisp white shirts. Six pairs of shiny brogue shoes were lined up on the edge of the blanket box, upon which sat a turntable and a sound board. A set of leather belts with extra silver attachments hung from a hook beside the bed.

  I picked up one, noticing the silver attachment buckled a wrist-sized loop. “Argh!” I dropped the thing and wiped my hand on my jeans. Those aren’t belts…

  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce this was Morrie’s room, and that I now knew way more than I needed to about the guy. I backed out without touching anything else. The next door was closed. I pushed it open just wide enough to see it was a bathroom. Then the smell hit me and I slammed it shut again. I guess Morrie’s fastidiousness doesn’t extend to communal spaces like the bathroom and kitchen. At least I knew my boys were somewhat normal.

  Why am I thinking of them as mine? I’ve only known them for three days, and one of those days they asked me to lie to the police and they might very well be lying to
me now. Don’t get attached to them just because they’re hot and they were nice after I spilled my guts. I should know by now what happens when I think I can trust someone.

  “Quoth!” I yelled, pushing open the next door. The contents of this room consisted of a mountain of clothes, books, and stale takeout containers that might hide a bed or furniture or the weapons of mass destruction. A unique and distinctly Heathcliff musk hit my nostrils – leather and peat and stale cigarettes mingled with damp laundry and rotting food. I held my nose and backed out. If Quoth was buried under that pile, he was a goner.

  By Isis, guys are pigs.

  I headed toward the final door at the end of the hall. I knocked. “Quoth? I know you’re in there. If you’re wanking, can I get a grunt of acknowledgement?”

  Nothing.

  “Why does Morrie want you to go to the police station if you’re supposed to be laying low? What is it you’re not telling me? You listened to me spill my guts last night. I demand equal treatment. Quoth?”

  Still no reply.

  “Quoth, seriously, say something or I’m opening this door right now.”

  The hairs on my neck prickled. The silence in the flat turned ominous. It was too quiet.

  Someone broke into the shop last night and killed Ashley. We assumed they slipped out after doing the deed, but what if they’d been hiding in the shop this whole time? What if they’re behind the sofa downstairs or crouching in the corner of the Children’s Books room, just waiting for the chance to sneak out and pick us all off?

  Or what if Quoth is standing behind me with a machete and an evil glint in his weird eyes?

  The creeping sensation shot up my neck. I whirled around, but there was no one in the hallway. I froze, listening hard for the sound of movement, but all I could hear was the faint sounds of people banging on the front door and Heathcliff yelling.

  No. I don’t deserve to feel scared like this. I’m getting answers.