Summer didn’t want to take up much of her time, so she spit it out. “Was Mom involved with anybody who could have hurt her?”
Keri’s eyes slanted, as if she were deep in thought. “Your mother worked with victims. I don’t think she ever came into contact with anybody else. But I’ll check on that for you and get back with you.”
A sliver of hope.
As Summer drove back to the house, she worried about the women’s shelter. It sounded like it was in a financial struggle. If she could see her way clear of her debt, she’d like to help them out. She vowed to herself that she’d try to use whatever money her mom had left to help them.
Her phone dinged, reminding her she had a phone appointment with her shrink. She should be home just in time.
Chapter Forty
“I don’t think you’re dealing with your emotions,” Dr. Gildea said. “Losing a parent is an extremely difficult matter. You seem to be focused on this being a murder and finding the killer rather than giving yourself time to grieve.”
This wasn’t quite true. “I’ll admit that I’m not sitting around beating my chest and crying, but I’ve had my emotional moments.”
“And what about this murder case? Have the police even deemed it that?”
His question hung in the air. “Are you seeing things that aren’t there as a way of diverting your attention?”
“You might have been on to something, except since the last time I talked with you, someone tried to burn the house down and I was attacked and ended up with a concussion. I understand someone wants me off this island and is trying to harm me.”
“Then what are you doing there? If your life is in jeopardy, you need to leave and let the police deal with your mother’s death.” He paused. “It would be best for you to come back to Staunton and resume your life.”
Her heart sank. “That’s impossible right now. There’s just too much to settle here. Along with my mom’s murder, I’ve inherited a very busy and successful bookstore. I have decisions to make about it.”
“Have you heard from the dean?”
“Not at all.”
“I’d suggest you give it a few days and then call him. Fall is right around the corner. You can’t keep hiding from this.”
God, her therapist sounded like her mother. She didn’t consider herself hiding—not now, and not when she left for England. She was removing herself from the situation to get distance so she could think.
“I’m not hiding. I’m dealing with the fallout from Mom’s death.”
“Okay then.” He breathed into the phone. “Resolve to call the dean tomorrow. That’s your assignment. I need to go. I have a call coming in. But Summer, please, call the dean. You need resolution.”
And how. She needed resolution everywhere. Her job. Her mom’s death. The bookstore. The job situation wouldn’t be complicated at all if she were well liked and successful. She couldn’t think of one of her colleagues that would stand up for her when push came to shove. Her mom had said she was paranoid, but her mother didn’t understand what academia was like. Summer hadn’t understood until she’d gotten there. The backbiting. The pressure to publish. The pressure to keep the students happy. Which wasn’t an issue when she was in school.
Somehow today’s students had become customers, not students—at least not in Summer’s book.
Maybe she should seriously give up the academic life. But it was what she’d always wanted. A popular Shakespeare quote came to her mind: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.”
Many parts. What if she didn’t give them a chance to fire her? What if she quit? As a kind of pause. She could look for another university position while managing the bookstore. Nothing wrong with that.
She’d definitely phone the dean tomorrow.
Had she made a decision about her life? Maybe. Maybe she had.
She was so tired of trying to fit in. Trying to please everyone. Giving her energy to unappreciative people.
She lay back on the couch, picked up Nights on Bellamy Harbor and read until she fell asleep.
She dreamed of Omar, the main character, who, in the dream, had an office next to Beach Reads. Their eyes locked from the moment she entered his office. And the next thing she knew, they were on the thickly carpeted floor, tearing the clothes off each other.
Summer awakened in a sweat, startled by the ferocity and passion in her dream. Then she found herself laughing. Perhaps this was one thing that kept the women in the book club coming back for more romance.
She rolled over and drifted back to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, while on the porch, with her coffee and a notebook, she scribbled a list of to-do items to follow up on hunches she had about her mother’s death.
1. Check up on the women’s shelter
2. Talk with Henry again (only suspect?)
3. Call Levi, the fire investigator
4. Call Ben Singer
5. Continue to question book club members
The last item on the list bothered her. As she contemplated it, she couldn’t believe any of them would hurt her mother. But maybe they knew something she didn’t know.
The phone buzzed, and she picked it up. “Summer, you need to get to the bookstore. There’s been a robbery.” Poppy’s voice quivered.
Fear and confusion pierced through the center of her. “What? Come again?”
“Robbery—Beach Reads. Come now.”
Summer drew in air and released it slowly. “I’ll be right there.”
Beach Reads had never been robbed. Never. It was a measure of pride with Hildy, who would’ve been turning over in her grave if she had one.
Chapter Forty-One
Summer rushed to the bookstore. The beach and the boardwalk, along with the people dotted on it, all blurred as she hurried toward Beach Reads. Her mom’s lifetime project. Her dream made into reality. Someone had the audacity to rob it!
Her heart thundered as she approached Ben Singer, who was standing outside the store, looking at the door.
“Summer—”
“What happened?” she managed to say.
An odd look came over his face before it returned to its normal, stone-cold expression. “I’m trying to find that out. But there wasn’t any breaking and entering. If there was, I can’t find it.”
“What was taken?”
“Five hundred fifty dollars, petty cash. And the first editions.” He frowned.
Pings of anger zoomed through her. “Henry is the only person on this island who cared about those books—other than us, her family.”
“We already have him down at the station. The girl who manages things here told us that.”
“Okay.” Summer turned to enter the store.
“Summer, wait. Before you go in, there’s something you should know.” He grabbed her arm to stop her from moving any further.
Her eyes met his, and he let go. “What is it?”
“There was some vandalism. Graffiti.”
Vandalism? That hurt and angered her almost more than the robbery. That someone would mar this lovely bookstore galled her. She took a deep breath and walked through the door.
There on the wall behind the register were spray-painted words: “Go home or die, bitch.”
“I’ve already called a painter to take care of it,” Poppy said as she came up to Summer.
Summer’s head swirled with anger, fear, and confusion. “How did someone get in?”
“It looks like they had a key or picked the lock so well that there wasn’t any damage,” Poppy said, folding her arms. “I hope they catch him. I’d wring his neck myself.” Her voice quivered. “How dare he?”
A strong waft of patchouli breezed past Summer. Stronger than normal. The store held patchouli in every crack and crevice, but it was a lingering scent. This time it was stronger. Usually the scent an
noyed her, but right this moment, it comforted her. Mom.
She spun around to find Ben chatting with a man in a suit. Forensics? Did St. Brigid even have a forensic team?
“Ben? I’m sorry to interrupt. What do you make of the graffiti?”
“Summer, this is John Quincy. He’s here to take paint samples for the lab in Wilmington,” Ben Singer said.
Summer eyed him. “Good. Thank you. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you as well. I’ll get my equipment and get to work.” He smiled and then left.
“Summer, I know what you’re thinking,” Ben said after a few beats.
“I doubt that, Ben.”
He stood awkwardly and folded his arms. His leather belt and holster squeaked as he moved. “Okay, I admit, all this activity put together is very suspicious. Your mother’s death. The notes. The fire. Your attack. Now this.”
Summer tried to feel warm and fuzzy toward him. But this robbery might never have happened if he’d listened to her in the first place. Instead, he’d patronized her.
He held his hand up. “I don’t conclude all of this means murder. But I’m going to find out.”
Summer fought the urge to strangle him. “We might start by finding out who had a key to this place.
“That won’t do very much good,” Poppy spoke up. “Hildy was always giving people copies of the key. I tried to maintain a list, but I gave up on it last year. Half the time, she didn’t even tell me when she had copies made.” Poppy’s voice was edged in emotion—frustration, fear, anger.
Singer shook his head. “That’s Hildy for you.”
“She didn’t know she was going to die, and we’d need to know her every move to be able to figure out what happened,” Summer quipped. As she did so, bells and whistles popped in her head. It would be difficult because Hildy was such a flibbertigibbet, but Summer had a new plan. She planned to trace her mother’s footsteps her last day. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
“We?” Singer said. “I appreciate your concern. But I’ll take it from here.”
“Now you’re getting involved?” Summer voice rose in a crescendo. A warm hand touched her shoulder. She spun around.
Agatha stood, looking barely awake. “Now, Summer, let him do his job.”
“There no evidence of a murder.” He lowered his voice. “But there have been plenty of suspicious circumstances since she passed. So much so, I’m going to check into it. Me. Not you.”
Summer opened her mouth to object but decided not to waste her breath. Since when did Ben Singer’s opinion hold sway over her life? If she wanted to continue with her own investigation, she would. Besides, how would he know?
“Let’s keep the shop closed this morning until we can get that mess cleaned up,” Agatha said.
“They took your first editions,” Summer said. “Looks like your trap worked. Kind of.”
Agatha growled. “I hadn’t gotten the cameras set up yet. I planned to film with a nanny-cam.”
“Too late,” Summer said. “They’re gone. Every one of them.”
“Except for the ones in the safe deposit box.”
“I didn’t know Mom had one.”
“It’s where that Shakespeare’s thing is, plus some other books.”
“Oh, I see. How do we get into it?”
Agatha shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps her lawyer knows.”
“Aunt Agatha, why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”
“I thought I had. I’m sorry.”
If her mom had a safe deposit box with books in it, what else could be in it? Could there be clues to what was happening in Hildy’s life? How she’d spent her last few days? Who would have had the means and the motive to kill her?
* * *
After they put the shop back in order, Summer took off to the police station to file a report. Ben Singer was nowhere around. Which pleased her. Even though he’d come over to her way of thinking, she wanted to throttle him. All of this time lost. He could have already found the killer. Instead, he refused to believe Hildy had been murdered.
Even though he’d told her he planned to investigate, Summer had no intention of stopping her own inquiries. No, indeed. She didn’t trust Ben Singer.
She made her way back to the bookstore to check on things and to talk with Poppy.
Poppy stood behind the register, checking out a customer. The scent of fresh paint lingered. From the looks of things, nothing had happened. Which was good.
“Poppy, when you get a moment, I’d like to talk with you,” Summer said after the customer left.
Poppy’s eyes widened. “Okay.”
Summer figured she made Poppy nervous. She had that effect on young women. She was a woman with agency, who wasn’t into the niceties—hair, jewelry, fashion. It threw some people off balance, mostly young people.
“Doesn’t appear to be anybody ready to check out. Let’s slip in the back for a moment.”
Poppy nodded and followed, reminding Summer of a doe. Long, lean, with huge innocent-looking eyes framed in long lashes.
When they entered the back room, Summer was surprised to find Glads and Marilyn unpacking books.
“Hi, Summer! Are you okay? What an awful thing to happen. Who would do such a thing?” Marilyn said.
“Ben Singer is working on that.”
“Pshaw, Ben Singer,” Glads said. “Waste of space.”
Summer laughed. “What are you doing here? Did Mom have you on the payroll?”
“Heavens, no. We’re just helping. Both of us love checking out the new books. We’re thrilled to do it.” She paused, grinning. “It takes so little to thrill us.”
Wheels clicked in Summer’s brain. “Well, since the three of you are here, I’ll tell you all what I’m trying to do.”
They all stopped what they were doing and looked at her.
“I want to retrace Mom’s footsteps, as it were, on the day she died. I’m hoping it will lead me to her killer.”
“Killer?” Poppy said.
Summer nodded. “What time did Mom come in that day, Poppy?”
Poppy blinked nervously. “I need to think.”
Lord. It looked like it pained the young woman to engage her brain.
“She was a little late. She’s stopped at the bank first.”
“Perfect. That’s exactly the kind of thing I need to know.”
Poppy looked relieved.
“Were you two around that day?”
“I was in Charleston,” Marilyn said, “so I didn’t see her. I wish I’d been here.”
Glads stepped forward. “Both Doris and I were here. Plus Poppy was here.”
“So you two, along with Doris, were here when Mom died?”
“Yes,” Marilyn said.
Summer’s “So what happened?” was met with silence.
Glads finally turned her head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I get it. We all loved my mom. But if someone hurt her …”
“Who would hurt her?” Glads snapped.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Summer paused. “I just need a little help here, ladies.”
Glads spun to face her. “It was dreadful, Summer.” Fear and sorrow played across her face. “I don’t want to revisit that scene.”
“No. Wait,” Marilyn said. “They told me all about it. I’ll tell you what happened, if you promise not to speak of it again.”
What the heck? Summer nearly rolled her eyes. But she felt as if she’d stepped into something tricky here and held her own counsel. “Certainly.”
Marilyn swept her arm. “They were all right here, shelving books in the vampire section. Poppy in and out. Glads and Doris.”
Summer took in Poppy. “Where were you?”
“When she first came in, we were all right here, chatting about the weather. It had stormed the night before,” Poppy said. “Then I had a customer and stepped back into the front of the store.”
“Leaving you, Glads
and Doris?”
Marilyn and Glads nodded, almost in unison.
“There was a huge box with books in it right over there.” Poppy gestured. “We all gathered around and emptied it. Those lovely historical romance books. What was it? The Earl of something or the other …”
“The Earl of Cambridge, wasn’t it?” Glads said.
“It doesn’t matter what the name was.” Summer tamped down her impatience.
“Oh, okay,” Glads said. “Then Poppy came back in and asked for help upstairs. So I joined them.”
Summer imagined the scene. “Is that right, Poppy? What did you need help with?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Her eyes were still as wide as saucers. “Someone had knocked over an end cap. It was quite a mess.
“Didn’t Mom usually tend to these things?”
“Yes, but she was busy,” Poppy said. “I just asked for help. And then Glads followed me.”
“Okay. So that left Mom here with … who? Doris?”
“Yes,” Glads said.
Silence for a few beats.
“Then what?”
“We were upstairs when we heard her scream.” Poppy said with a hush in her voice.
“She screamed?” Summer’s heart raced.
“Yes, it was … bloodcurdling, dear. Are you sure you want to hear this?” Glads said, pale, gray.
Was she? Her mother had screamed. That must mean that she had been startled or in pain or . . , both. Would she scream if she were having a heart attack?
“Then Doris yelled for help. But we were already on our way.” Glads paused. “I don’t think I felt one step. I flew down those steps.” Her blue eyes bulged.
“When we got here, she was on the floor. Doris was cradling her and trying to give her CPR,” Poppy said. “I called nine-one-one.”
“I tried to call you, but the number I had was wrong,” Glads said quietly.
Summer felt the air leave her lungs. “I wasn’t home.” I was in England, insisting on space, not allowing phone calls because of my bloody research. And I was running away from the joke my life had become.
Chapter Forty-Two
Summer needed a breather. Going through the last few moments of her mom’s life had taken more of a toll than she’d expected. She thought the goal of finding the killer would help her plow through the emotions. But she couldn’t get over the fact that her mom had screamed. She had been hurt, which was disturbing. Intellectualizing was Summer’s way of getting through things, through life, but it didn’t work with this.
Little Bookshop of Murder Page 16