The front door opens and there’s a definite surge of excitement at the prospect of my first customer.
The surge heats up a notch as Sheriff Erick saunters toward me.
“I’m sure it goes without saying, Miss Moon, but you’ll have to make other arrangements for the bookshop’s waste disposal until we complete our investigation.”
“Couldn’t you have sent my good friend Deputy Paulsen over to deliver that message?” I tilt my head and try to look enticing.
“She’s . . . I sent her . . . She’s on official business.” He steps closer to me and reaches toward my face.
My heart thuds. Is this happening? I want it to happen, but I assumed it would take weeks or even months to get him to see me as more than a “perp.” I lean into my hope.
A strange look enters his tantalizing blue eyes.
My eyelids softly lower.
“Is that gum?”
My traitorous eyelids pop open.
He picks something off my forehead and rolls it between his fingers.
My face is most assuredly a blotchy shade of unbecoming crimson.
His full lips part in a bemused chuckle. “Yep. That’s some Big Red if I’m not mistaken.”
You don’t say. I hope he’s referring to the gum and not my befuddled countenance.
“I’d ask how you got chewing gum on your forehead, but I’m not sure I want to know.” He walks his sexy behind over to the cash register and tosses the ABC gum in the trash can that he obviously knows exists. Seems like everyone in this town knows more about this bookshop than me.
“Nobody knows more than me, honey.”
“Great Gatsby!” I did not see Grams fade in, and her wicked giggle makes me wonder how much of my indignation she witnessed.
Sheriff Erick tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “You must really like books, Moon.”
I nod emphatically. “Mmhmm.” On the plus side, he’s dropped the honorific, “Miss.”
“I’ll leave you to it then.” He turns.
My gaze uncontrollably drops. He makes polyester—
He looks back.
Busted. I glance up and swallow.
Grams giggles into her ring-ensconced hand.
“I’ll let you know when we’ve finished in the alley.”
I nod and smile.
He leaves.
I exhale.
Grams whispers, “You’ve got it bad, dear. And I should know.”
Ignoring the jab, I launch into an apology. “I’m so sorry about Cal, Grams. I didn’t mean to drop that bomb on you. I thought you already knew. I thought you were back to tell me who killed him or something.”
She presses her hand to her heart and takes a deep breath. “Cal was a wonderful man and a well-meaning father. I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet him.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“Near as I can tell, that’s not how things work in between. I seem to be tethered to the bookshop, and I think you and Pye are the only one’s who can see me.”
“Pyewacket can see ghosts?” That cat is too much.
“He can sense me. Let’s test out the visual angle.”
Grams drifts toward the sleeping Pyewacket and floats up to the top of the bookcase where the hellcat naps. She brushes her fingers through his whiskers below the scars bisecting his left eyebrow.
Pye instantly leaps into arched, Halloween-cat pose.
“It’s only me, sweet kitty.” Grams rubs her hand through the air along Pye’s curved spine.
He moves the black tufts on his ears and flicks his short club of a tail. His large golden eyes search the air.
“I’d say ‘sense’ but not ‘see.’ Would you agree, Mitzy?”
“Agreed.” I plop onto an over-stuffed ottoman at the end of a thick oak bookcase. “Grams?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’m going to look into dad’s case. If you think he’s innocent—”
“Now, don’t misrepresent me. I never said he was innocent. I said I don’t think he committed the murder. But I think you best focus your efforts on proving your own innocence before you worry about Jacob’s misdeeds.”
“You can’t seriously think that Erick believes I killed Cal? Can you?”
“Oh, it’s Erick is it?” Grams wiggles her shoulders and flashes her eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“Be serious, Grams.”
“All right. Being accused of murder is serious, dear. Look what happened to your father. Cal was an important man in these parts, and Sheriff Harper will be under a lot of pressure to wrap this case up real quick and tidy. Everyone gives him a long leash because he’s a war hero, but he’ll have to charge someone—soon. Suspicion in a small town goes a long ways.”
That can’t be a thing. There’s no way I’m going to jail for murder just because my dad—
“It absolutely is a ‘thing.’ And I suggest we put our heads together and see if we can’t crack this thing before Sheriff Erick knows what hit him.” Grams rubs her palms together eagerly.
“All I know is that I definitely did not kill Cal. Other than that I don’t know where to start. I’ve never solved a murder, you know.” I cross my arms and sigh.
“We’ve all seen an episode or two of Murder She Wrote, haven’t we?” says Grams, encouragingly.
Oh, if we’re counting television shows and movies as experience then I’m pretty sure I have a doctorate in criminology.
“That’s the spirit!”
I jump. “It still freaks me out a little that you can hear my thoughts. So, new rule: If I don’t say it out loud you don’t get to respond. Got it?”
“I’ll do my best, dear. But you have to understand it’s rather all muddled together.” She puts a hand to her mouth and squints her eyes. “I’ll try to watch and see if your lips are moving. If your lips are moving then it’s fair game.”
“Fair enough.” I shrug. “So where do we start?”
“You should have a notepad. Detectives always write notes.”
I wiggle my smartphone. “I forgot to pay my bill, so I don’t have any service. The notepad app still works, though.”
“I like improvisation, Mitzy.”
“What am I writing?”
“Let’s make a list of all the suspects and then you can go question them!”
Boy, she’s one gung-ho ghost!
“I’m just—”
“Lips didn’t move, Grams. Lips did not move.” I wag my finger and she covers her mouth with her hand. “Besides, people aren’t going to let me question them. I’m a civilian. I can’t force them to talk to me.”
“Sweetheart, haven’t you heard the saying ‘You get more flies with honey’? You don’t have to make anyone do anything. You’re simply a grieving granddaughter who wants to learn as much as she can about her dearly departed grandfather.” Grams’ eyes twinkle.
“Oh, you’re a sneaky Gram Gram.”
Our raucous laughter disturbs the reclining Pyewacket.
My heart feels fuller than it has in ten years.
Chapter 10
The front door of the bookshop bangs open. Grams vanishes.
A shout dissolves into the books. “A little help?”
Sounds like the honey-voiced Twiggy has returned. “On my way.”
Twiggy balances a box on her right hip and juts her thumb toward the rusty white International parked with one tire up on the curb. “The rest are in there.”
“I hope you didn’t have to do anything unsavory.” I chuckle.
“As a matter of fact, I have to go to bingo next Tuesday night. But I told him I’d bring a friend for his friend, so that makes us even.”
I stop with a box half out of the SUV. “Am I the friend you’re bringing?”
“The one and only.” Twiggy pulls her foot off the huge door and it slams shut before I can get there. Great. I’m in town one day and some bingo-hall mafiosa is already pimping me out.
Three trips later, we have all the boxes
inside.
“I’m not so sure about bingo, but thanks for getting these files, Twiggy. We should take them up to the apartment. I don’t want anyone to find out I’m looking into my dad’s case.”
Twiggy nods in agreement and walks into the back room.
I guess when I said “we” she heard “not Twiggy.” I unhook the chain across the stairs in protest and make five trips up and down the circular staircase. Despite the irritation with my employee, I can’t help but grin when I tilt the candle and watch the secret door open into MY apartment. The glorious smell of books is less within the private rooms, but there’s still the lovely feeling of being wrapped inside the pages of adventures.
I line all the boxes up and rest my hands on my hips. I’ll need thumbtacks and string. I’ve watched Elementary. I know I’m going to need a visual representation of the connections between the suspects in the case. I’m not an idiot.
I run down the stairs—and trip over the blasted chain, which the helpful Twiggy has resecured.
Is that a muffled chuckle? Do I hear a chuckle? I jump up and storm into the back room. “Did you hook the chain?”
“Did you unhook it?”
Is this a Mexican standoff? Actually, no. If my movie knowledge serves me, a Mexican standoff requires three people—one of whom must be Salma Hayek. I choose not to take the bait. “I need thumbtacks and string, or possibly yarn.”
“You got it, boss.” Twiggy rolls her chair back to the desk and continues typing information into the computer.
“Do we have any?”
“Any what?” Clickety-clack go the keys.
“Tacks and string?”
“I put ’em on the weekly order.”
I don’t believe her, but even if I did . . . “I need them today. Actually now would be great.”
“Rex’s.” She does not stop typing.
It’s like she’s speaking in a code and I don’t have the decoder ring. “Excuse me?”
“If you can’t wait for the order, you’ll have to toddle on down to Rex’s and see if she’s got what you want.”
“Rex is a she?”
Twiggy slowly turns her chair like a villain in a Bond film. “What is it with you?”
I shrug and gesture for her to answer my query.
“Rex was a man. A man that owned a five and dime in Pin Cherry Harbor. When that man up and died of natural causes seven and a half years ago, his wife took over the store. She runs Rex’s Drugstore located at 414 Main Street.” She rotates back to the screen, shaking her head in bewilderment.
I’m not proud to admit that I make an inappropriate gesture to the back of her smug little grey head before I leave.
Grams gives a “tsk, tsk” at me as I walk out. “Lips didn’t move,” I growl through my clenched teeth.
The crisp early-evening air on Main Street blows my frustration away and I take a deep cleansing breath. Not like a crystal-crunching, aura-scrubbing cleansing breath—just a nice deep breath of fresh air.
My stomach growls when I pass Myrtle’s Diner. Tacks and string can wait. Mama needs some fries. I push open the door. Once again, all eyes turn.
“Hey, Mitzy. Have a seat. I’ll throw your burger down.”
I nod and smile. Seriously, a huge self-satisfied, face-splitting grin. I’m a regular. “Thanks, Odell.”
“Cheese?”
“I’m feeling Swiss.”
“I’ve got American.”
Oh Icarus, you flew too high. “American will be divine.”
Divine? Did I just refer to cheese as divine? I glance around the diner and don’t see any faces I recognize. Good, no witnesses.
The rasp of polyester against vinyl precedes the appearance of a short, squat figure sliding out of a booth. Spoke too soon.
“Glad to see you haven’t tried to make a run for it.” Deputy Paulsen rests one hand on her pistol. “I’ve got my eye on you. Stay close.” She wipes the grease from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Geez,” I mumble, as the front door swings shut.
“Ah, don’t mind Pauly. She’s had a bee in her bonnet ever since Sheriff Harper won the election, again.”
Oooh, small town gossip!
“They still lookin’ at you for Cal’s murder?”
Oooh, small town gossip. See what I did there?
“Erick says he’s waiting for time of death from the medical examiner, but Silas took a copy of my bus ticket down to the station, so I expect to be cleared soon.”
I’m aware of the looks and murmurs from the four-top in the corner, but apparently this is how things are done in a small town. “So, the deputy’s name is Polly Paulsen?”
“Yep, but on account of her dad wantin’ a boy so bad he spelled it like the apostle Paul, and then threw the ‘y’ on there to give it a girlie flair.”
“So it’s Pauly Paulsen? I’d change my name.”
Odell catches my eye through the orders-up window and a mischievous grin spreads across his face. “That right, Mizithra?”
Sic burn, old man. Sic burn. I shake my head and Odell delivers my food. “No server on the night shift?”
“If you mean a waitress, I manage all right most nights. Tally’s daughter comes in on weekends for the rush.”
I glance around at the sprinkling of patrons. “Mmhmm.”
As I devour the burger, I have to admit that the hot, melty cheese actually is divine. I finish off the perfectly golden fries and lean back.
“Made short work of that.” Odell tosses his observation across the diner without judgment.
“What can I say? I worked up an appetite today.” I grab my dishes and slide them into the bin under the counter. Call it instinct or years of food-service employment. There’s always a bin under the counter.
“Thanks, Mitzy.”
“My compliments to the chef.”
I walk out and make a hard right toward Rex’s. The self-satisfied smile evaporates when the door does not budge under my efforts.
“They close at four, dear.”
A woman who bears a striking resemblance to Tally, but with a backcombed monstrosity of grey hair rather than a tightly wrapped bun of flaming red, taps her watch as she walks past.
“Tilly?” I blurt.
She stops and spins on her pink kitten heels. “Do I know you, dear?”
I extend my hand as I say, “I’m Mitzy Moon. Isadora’s granddaughter. I inherited the bookshop.” That last one turns the lights on.
“Oh, of course. Twiggy mentioned something about being under new management. She’s such a hoot.”
Is she, though? “I guess that makes me the new management,” I reply with a friendly wink.
“Come on by tomorrow and we’ll get you all set up with a new passbook and your own box of checks.”
Oh, how extravagant. I wonder what checks do? “Well, thank you kindly, Tilly—Tally—Tilly.” I blush profusely. “Sorry about that. I’ll see you tomorrow, Tilly.”
The click-scrape of her kitten heels on the uneven cement sidewalk fades as she turns the corner.
A cold, late-summer wind blows down Main Street, pulling the damp chill from the massive body of water and spreading it over the town. I hug my arms around my middle.
I’m suddenly too aware of being alone on the street. I duck my head and jog back to the bookshop.
String or no string. It’s time I learn something about Jacob Duncan.
Chapter 11
I hoist open the massive front door and come face to face with Twiggy.
“You need me to come in tomorrow?” She turns and slides by me.
It’s an undeniable fact that I could use a more thorough tour of the bookshop. However, I have no idea if I can afford a paid guide. “Do I pay you?”
“Your Grams and I had an understanding.”
“I assumed. Do you want to have an understanding with me?”
She nods.
“I’m meeting with Tilly tomorrow. Once I get a handle on the ban
k account, I’ll see what I can offer you.”
“Accounts. Bank accounts,” Twiggy corrects.
I swallow my retort. “Like I said, after my meeting with Tilly.” I try a new tactic. “Can I meet you at Myrtle’s for lunch?” The moment of surprise on her face pleases me.
“I gotta eat.” She shrugs and walks off down the street. Not the street that runs beside the shop, which is Main, but the one in front of Bell, Book & Candle, which is—
Stepping off the curb, I search for a street sign because I can’t remember the address of my own bookstore. “First Avenue.” Makes perfect sense. It is the first “avenue” on this end of town. There’s the enormous lake, my bookshop, and this street is the first intersection on Main. Not terribly creative, but accurate.
I walk into my bookshop and twist the locks into position on the large door.
Twiggy must shut off the lights as part of her closing procedure. I fumble for my phone in the eerie, semi-dark store. The bookcases feel oppressive in the low light, and I make a mental note to hire an electrician to pull some wire and place a light switch right next to the front entrance.
I deftly step over the chain and make my way to the candle handle. I chuckle as I reach for the device.
“Oh good, you’re finally back.”
I make another mental note to purchase adult diapers to staunch the flow of ghost-related pants accidents I’ve been having. “Grams, you’ve got to come up with a more subtle entrance strategy.”
“Sorry, dear. I started to go a little coffin-crazy once you left. Twiggy can’t see or hear me, and I can’t leave the bookshop. I was anxious. Maybe over anxious.”
I walk into the apartment and the lights automatically switch on with a slow ramp up to full power. I place my hands on my hips. “Now why didn’t you put one of these do-hickeys at the front door?”
“Doesn’t make sense to have the lights flicking off and on every time someone walks in the front door!”
I shake my head and put on my onesie reindeer pajamas. “Time to reopen this old case.”
Off comes the lid of file box number one.
Fries and Alibis Page 5