by ACF Bookens
By seven, Mayhem, Mart, and I were walking up to the shop. Woody’s sign looked great, the strings of Edison bulbs that I’d splurged on were giving the front windows a warm glow, and the bright pink Grand Opening banner on the awning at the front of the store was shining bright in the glow of the morning moonlight.
I had a lot riding on today in terms of money, but also reputation. If the store didn’t get a good start, it would be hard for me to gain enough momentum to stay up, much less grow. So I’d gone all in. I’d taken out ads in the local newspaper, posted to Facebook in every book-related group in the area, and pushed out a huge press release about the grand opening. The local paper, the St. Marin’s Courier, had come out to interview me for a feature piece in last Sunday’s edition.
The reporter, Lucia Stevensmith, had come to the shop last Thursday for an interview, and I had been so excited that she wanted to be in the space and get a feel of it. I almost immediately regretted that we hadn’t gone down to the waterfront or something. The look on her face when she walked in wasn’t a welcome, excited one. She looked like she’d just tasted a raw persimmon for the first time. Her thin face was puckered, and beneath her graying eyebrows, her eyes were tiny with what I thought was disgust. “Oh, I see you haven’t gone for a full remodel,” was the first thing she said.
Then, she was bossy to the extreme and gave me advice about how to organize the shelves, suggested I move the location of the register closer to the door for “loss prevention” – it took me forever to figure out she meant shoplifting – and tried to persuade me that I’d never be successful with a general bookstore. “You need to specialize in something. Maybe nautical books or history about Maryland. You’re just not going to find people who want to read mystery novels AND buy nature guides.”
“I read mystery novels and buy nature guides. I’m sure I’m not the only one,” I had said.
She had let a little snort out and continued her critique as she moved into our small café. Apparently, I would “lose my shirt” with food. “Total money pit.” I had found it hard not to either defend myself or cry, but I silently bore up under her barrage.
Finally, Mart had put a stop to her bevy of “suggestions” by saying that she had prepared cappuccinos for us. “Is it decaf? I don’t touch anything but decaf after ten a.m. I have a sensitive system,” she’d said. Mart told her that it was not decaf, and I was pretty sure Stevensmith whispered the word “heathens” under her breath, but decided to let it go.
The interview itself was pretty straightforward, and I was grateful for the chance to talk about my hopes for the shop – that people would make it a place they gathered, that they’d suggest titles I should carry and authors they’d like to see read here, and that All Booked Up would become a part of St. Marin’s, just like the other wonderful shops on Main Street.
Stevensmith had said, “How quaint” with a certain dismissive tone and then snapped a few pictures with her phone before heading out. Fortunately, the paper had sent over a photographer the next day, and they had done a nice piece with a few great photos and key quotes in the Sunday edition. Most of Stevensmith’s persnicketiness had gotten edited out, thank goodness.
When I’d asked Woody about the reporter, he’d rolled his eyes. “That woman rubs every single human on the earth the wrong way. She always has an opinion about everything, and is never afraid to share it. In fact, just last week, she started telling Lucas – the director of the maritime museum – that she thought they should get rid of the exhibition about the enslaved men who fished these waters and ran boats along the waterways here because it made people uncomfortable.” I knew I liked Lucas immediately when Woody said the director had rolled his eyes and said, “That’s sort of the point, Lucia.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s not just me, then?” I asked Woody.
“Nope, pretty much nobody likes the woman, but we try to be neighborly, you know.”
I did know. In small southern communities, neighborliness was the currency on which everyone survived. Without each other, no one would make it. But of course, this also meant there were a fair number of crotchety folks that people had to put up with, and apparently, I’d met one. Lucky me.
When we arrived at the store, I unlocked the shop door, smiling as the bell rang above me, and held it open for Mart as she headed right to the register with most of my savings in small bills to make change.
I walked to the back of the store and turned on a second bank of lights by the art and gardening books. I’d wait a bit before I turned on everything since I wasn’t quite ready for customers yet. Opening time for this first day was eight a.m. since I’d promised fresh baked goods, hot coffee, and plenty of hot cocoa in the café. I expected my only employee – Raquel – to be in shortly to staff the food and beverage side of things.
Rocky, as she preferred to be called, was a tender but confident young woman of about twenty. She took classes at Salisbury, a local university, but still lived at home. Each time I’d met with her to plan the café, her hair had been done in another stylish look – once she had long braids, once a wild pixy cut that framed her face and set off her light-brown skin perfectly. Someday, I’d get up the nerve to get tips on hairstyles from her. But today, I had just managed to get a little pomade in to tame my curls in the short cut I’ve gotten from the salon up the street. The last thing I needed was to worry about a bad hair day.
While I fussed with the books a bit more, Mart made sure the register was stocked and the tablet that we’d use to take credit cards was working. Then, she began laying small piles of postcards with the shop hours, events, and contact information on all the tables. If she didn’t already have a job (and if I had the money), I’d be looking to hire her as my marketing advisor. She was so good at this stuff.
The bell chimed, and Rocky came in with her arms full of what looked to be cinnamon rolls doused in icing. Despite my full breakfast, my mouth started watering. “What are those?” Mart asked, coming over to help Rocky carry everything.
“My mom makes the best cinnamon rolls. She whipped up a batch this morning for the grand opening.”
I gently peeled back the plastic wrap and leaned down to take a long, slow inhale. “Is that maple icing?”
“Sure is. Mom’s specialty.”
“I’ll be having one of those later,” I said, “and maybe if we get good traffic today, we could ask your mom if she’d make these for us regularly.” This weekend would bring the biggest off-seasons crowds for the Tubman festival, so I sure hoped it meant we’d get some good traffic, too.
“I expect she could be persuaded,” Rocky said as she pushed back the stray strand of black hair that had slipped forward from her gorgeous halo of curls. “I’ll get everything set up.”
The café was small, just three or four tables in what used to be the garage bay of the gas station, a counter, a baked goods case, and an espresso machine, but I hoped it would encourage customers to stay a while. St. Marin’s didn’t have a formal coffee shop, so I wanted this to be a place people would hang out, do a little work, maybe read a book and make a purchase, too.
At the back of the garage bay behind the café, Woody and a friend had built a wall and created a storeroom for me. Right now, it was mostly empty since I couldn’t afford to have much inventory that wasn’t already on the floor, but I looked forward to seeing boxes of books, especially for author events and holiday sales, filling the space.
I took a quick look around the shop to be sure everything was good and then headed to the back to get a few more of the paper bags Mart had bought for the grand opening. They each had our shop name and a sketch of the storefront printed on them, and I wanted to be certain Rocky had some for the café in case anyone wanted to take a pastry for the road.
I stepped into the back room and flipped on the light. Then, I screamed.
There, on the floor, was the body of a woman. She was sprawled out like whatever had killed her had taken her by surprise, and while I didn’t see any b
lood, I was sure she was dead. There’s just something about a living person’s body – a movement even when that person is still – that a dead body doesn’t have. This was my second time finding someone dead, and I didn’t love that now I’d have two images of lifeless bodies haunting me.
Mart and Rocky came running and stopped short as soon as they could see over my shoulders. “Oh my word,” Rocky said.
I took a deep breath and reached for my phone just as Mart said, “Isn’t that the reporter who was here the other day? The rude woman?”
With a few more steps, I was at the body. I leaned down, and sure enough, it was Lucia Stevensmith. “Maybe we shouldn’t call her rude anymore,” I said to Mart. I was trying to lighten the mood, but really I just wanted to cry. Someone had died in my store on my opening day.
Within minutes, Sheriff Mason had arrived with a new deputy named Williams. The sheriff was beloved in St. Marin’s because he was absolutely no-nonsense when it came to police work, but also super funny. When the high school football team had won the State Championships back in November, the sheriff had organized the townspeople to line the road into St. Marin’s with scarecrows holding each players’ names, and when they reached the town square, there was a huge banner that said, “Catamounts are no scaredy cats” hanging in front of a huge, stuffed mountain lion pinning down a tiny “rebel” soldier that represented the mascot of the team they’d just beaten. Mart had said that was very “on brand” since the African American sheriff was also known for “having a conversation” with anyone who thought it fitting to hang a Confederate flag in his town. “Maybe it is heritage, but it’s a heritage of hate,” he’d said in a local newspaper. I pretty much loved him for that.
When he and Officer Williams, a petite, almost tiny, black woman who looked like her utility belt might drag her to the ground at any moment, showed up in the back room of my store, I let out the breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding. The sheriff took a very close look at Stevensmith’s body and then escorted us out of the room before saying, “Probably not the opening day attention you were hoping for, huh, Harvey?” He gave me a wry grin and then dispatched Williams to call the coroner before guiding me to the café to get my statement.
“You okay?” he asked as we sat down.
I nodded, grateful for his kindness. He’d been by a few times, just to say hello and let us know his staff was keeping an eye on things as we got the shop started. I had appreciated his attention and already felt like he was a friend.
“Okay, so just tell me what you know.” His voice was soft and encouraging.
“Not much to tell,” I began. “I went in the back room, and there she was.” I told him about my morning, about when I arrived, in as much detail as I could remember, hoping that something would help.
Mason nodded and made a few notes. Then he sat back, took a long sip of his cappuccino with extra foam, and said, “One of the things we’ll have to figure out is how she got in. I know there’s a back door off the garage, I mean café here, right? I expect you keep that locked.”
I nodded. “Of course.” I tried to remember closing up the night before, but I had been so tired that I only remembered getting home, eating cereal for dinner, and collapsing into bed. “But it’s been a busy few days. Let me check.”
I walked back past the storeroom, the sheriff close behind, to the half-glass back door that opened onto a small parking lot and turned the handle. It opened right up. “Oh no! I must have forgotten to lock it.”
The sheriff stepped around me and looked closely at the door jamb. “Nope, looks like someone credit carded it.”
“That’s actually a thing people can do? I thought it was just on TV shows.”
“Actually a thing. Pretty easy, too, on a door like this at least.” He turned to the storeroom door. “Let me show you.” The sheriff took a grocery store discount club card out of his wallet, turned the simple tab on the storeroom doorknob, and pulled the door shut. Then, he took the card, slid it between the door and the jamb, and worked it down until he was at the latch. Then, he wiggled the card a bit, and the door popped open. “See. Pretty easy.”
“Glory! Alright, I’m having a deadbolt put on that backdoor right away.”
“Good plan. I’ll ask Williams to check for prints – not that it’s likely we’ll get much that’s usable – and then you can call your alarm company. I might go with a full-on security bar if I were you. It would keep the door locked but also let you know if someone tried to sneak out of the store from the back. Should be easy to do before the end of the day.”
“Thanks.” I looked at my watch – 7:45. I was supposed to open in fifteen minutes. I let out a long sigh of disappointment.
Mason looked at me and smiled. “Don’t worry, Harvey. It’ll only take the coroner a minute to load out Stevensmith’s body, and then no one will be the wiser. After all, she was our only reporter. No one left to tell the story.” He winked.
I laughed hesitantly. “Some people might think you’re a little flippant about a death, Sheriff.”
He frowned. “Never. But then, it’s not going to bring her back for me to be overly serious is it.” A smile crept into the corner of his mouth. “Besides, we don’t want to hurt business in our newest shop here in town. I’ll do my best to keep this quiet until this afternoon.”
“Oh, thank you, Sheriff. I mean, I don’t want to hinder an investigation or anything, but if there’s no harm in keeping things quiet . . . “
“Actually, it might be a help. As soon as word gets out, everyone will have a theory. This will give me a few hours to get a handle on things before the entire town starts in on my cellphone.” He tapped the smartphone holstered opposite his pistol. “Now, how about another of those cinnamon rolls while we wait?”
Get Your Copy of Publishable By Death here:
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About the Author
ACF Bookens lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, where the mountain tops remind her that life is a rugged beauty of a beast worthy of our attention. When she’s not writing, she enjoys watching her husband and son ride the tractor, cross-stitching while she binge-watches police procedurals, and reading everything she can get her hands on. Find her at bookens.andilit.com.