“If the woman wearing a shirt depicting a cat dressed up as Xena, Warrior Princess riding a fire-breathing unicorn with lightning in the background thinks this guy is eccentric, well, I just don’t even know what to expect,” I said as the door opened.
Greeting us was a man who looked to be in his fifties, balding, and scowling at us. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, showing off his beer belly, and had on leopard-print pants and a black fedora. He certainly did make Cat’s fashion choices look almost normal.
“What?” he growled at us. This certainly didn’t seem promising.
“We want to talk to you about Edith Chalmers,” Cat said boldly, refusing to cower in front of the man’s obvious distaste of our mere presence.
“Yeah? You aren’t the police. What do you want to know about her for?”
“We know you had breakfast with her the day she was poisoned. So, that makes you one of the prime suspects for actually poisoning her. So either you can help us find out who actually killed her, or you can sit around waiting for Chief Griffin to figure out you’re a suspect and come knocking,” Cat told Forsyth. He considered her words for a minute, and then opened the door.
“Fine. Come in, then,” he scowled, walking further into the room.
The house had seemed large from the outside, but the interior was just straight-up palatial. There had to be some magic involved in the building of the houses in Brixton Road; they just seemed so much larger inside than they did from the outside.
The entrance hall in Ernest Forsyth’s home had to be the size of a football field. Marble floors, marble walls, a shining crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and ancient Greek style statues adorned the room. Honestly, while I was pretty sure the guy was going for a classy look, it was so overdone it was definitely more along the lines of gaudy.
We walked through the entrance hall, which seemed to take us five minutes, and into a sort of library. Except, rather than having any actual books on the shelves, there were a number of plush couches and a single Kindle sitting on a pedestal in the middle of the room. I had nothing against e-books myself; in fact, I read on my iPad all the time, but to use this as a library seemed just wrong somehow. I wondered what Francine, who had obviously loved books, would have thought.
Peaches, Cat and I sat on a long, overstuffed, maroon colored couch while Forsyth chose a dark green velvet chair, which creaked under his weight. “So. What are you here to bug me about?” he asked.
“What did you and Edith talk about at breakfast the other day?” Cat asked. I was more than happy to let her take the lead in this interview; this didn’t seem like the kind of guy I wanted to spend any time around. He pointed his finger to the desk next to him and a big glass of whiskey showed up. Picking it up, he took a sip. There was no offer of a drink coming to the three of us, evidently. This guy definitely didn’t keep up with his manners.
Taking a long sip of the amber liquid, Ernest Forsyth looked at the three of us.
“We discussed the remaining steps that need to be taken in order for the Sapphire Renaissance project to go ahead.”
“Ok, what were those?” Cat asked.
“And you’re sure that whatever we discussed had to do with Edith’s death?” Forsyth asked, looking to each of us. The three of us nodded.
“Fine. After all, it’s not like this is super sensitive, secret information. My company has already received approval from the state to use some of the state lands for the project. We’re in negotiations to purchase that land right now, and I don’t foresee any problems. Once that’s finished, I need to get approval from the city council here in Sapphire Village. A majority of them have to agree with the project. I don’t expect that to be an issue either.”
“Who’s on your side right now?” Peaches asked.
“Delaney, Melnichuck and Helm.”
“That leaves Price, Frenette and Palm against, making it a tie.”
“And the mayor has the tie-breaking vote. He’s on my side. The project will pass the final council vote, that isn’t even up for debate.”
“So then assuming you’re right, what happens then?”
“There are a few more plots of land I’d have to buy, this time from private citizens and companies. They’re not developed or anything. There’s just the forest out the back of the Hallman farms, the large plot of land on the far side of Sapphire Lake where the water park is going to go and some of the area out by the bottom of the ski lifts on the far side of the mountain. After I’ve bought all that land–and I already have agreements with the owners to purchase at a certain price–work can start straight away.”
“And at that point there won’t be anything anyone can do about it,” I replied. “So basically, anyone who wants to do anything would have to do it before the city council makes their decision regarding the permits.”
“Exactly. And there won’t be any changes in anyone’s votes. The lefties who are opposed to it will stay that way, the reasonable people who see what a good impact increased tourism will have on Sapphire Village, who embrace capitalism, will vote correctly. The mayor will cast the deciding vote, and the project will go ahead.”
“And you’re not at all worried about what the huge increase in visitor numbers will to do the infrastructure in this town? Traffic is already bad enough here for such a small town, especially on weekends.”
“Well, I can let you in on a little secret if you’d like. This won’t be announced until a press conference tomorrow, but my company will be buying new trains for the Oregon Express, and we’ll be re-starting the service as soon as we get the council approval for the project. With an express train between Portland and Sapphire Village, a lot of the traffic should disappear.”
“That’s far from the only issue,” Cat muttered.
“No, but you’re wrong. You’ll see. Besides, we’re not here to talk about the merits of the development. That’s going ahead regardless.”
“So that was the only thing you spoke about with Edith Chalmers at breakfast?” I asked.
“Yes. I outlined for her what the next steps were, and she told me that she would do whatever she could with her group to make it easier for us. She even insinuated that she might be able to convince Ellie Price to vote in favor of the development; then we wouldn’t need the mayor at all. Although personally, I can’t see that dumb hippie changing her vote. That’s literally all we spoke about. It was all business. Nothing there I can think of that would have been a reason to kill her.”
“Hm, ok, thanks,” Cat said, and the three of us got up off our chairs and made the long trek back toward the front door. Five minutes later we were back in Sapphire Village, sitting at a table in Cat’s empty café, discussing what we’d just learned.
Chapter Sixteen
“There was nothing there that counts as a reason to kill Edith Chalmers,” I sighed, cupping my hand in my chin.
“I know. Unless he’s lying to us. Which I definitely wouldn’t put past him,” Peaches said.
“Yeah, that guy sure was something,” I replied.
“I don’t think he was lying to us, though,” Cat said. “I mean, the guy’s creepy and weird, but he’s also a good businessman. He’s not a total idiot. He knows that he was seen having breakfast with Edith the morning she was poisoned. If we can figure out who did it, well that gets him off the hook.”
“Assuming he didn’t do it,” Peaches said.
“Yeah, but why would he? As he said, Edith was on his side. She was even trying to get Ellie Price to change her vote to make it even more certain that Forsyth was going to get his stupid development approved.”
“I think we should talk to her,” I said. “After all, what else is there to do, now? We’re out of leads. Maybe Ellie Price can give us some insight.”
“Good plan,” Cat nodded. “I’ll text the two of you tomorrow, I’ll set up a meeting with her.”
“Try and make it sometime for when people don’t really buy books, ok?” I asked. “I’m re-opening the bookshop tomorrow.�
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“Ooooh!” Peaches squealed. “That’s exciting! I’ll come in and have a look in the morning.”
“I would too, except some of us have actual jobs,” Cat said. “I will come by when I get a chance, though.”
“I have a job, too. You’re just jealous that mine allows me the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want. I am an artiste, perhaps I will take inspiration from Alice’s re-opening.”
I smiled as I saw Cat roll her eyes at her sister. “You’re both welcome whenever you can make it, obviously.”
“Do you mind if I tell the family? They might even venture into Sapphire Village to have a look.”
“Of course! That would be nice. I made a couple of changes, but I think I kept the spirit of Francine’s store pretty well.”
After a few more minutes of chatting the three of us left the store and went our separate ways. It was starting to get late, and I was expecting to be accosted by a cat waiting for his dinner as soon as I walked through the door. Instead, I found myself accosted by a hundreds-of-years-old ghost.
“It ended! The book ended, and I had no way to listen to the next one! This machine of yours is a travesty!” Archibald practically whined, floating around me in circles like an overly eager puppy.
“So I take it you liked the book, then?” I asked with a small smile.
“It was… all right,” Archibald admitted. “I would like to confirm by listening to a second book. I dislike the fact that Hercule Poirot is a Frenchman, but seeing as he had the good sense to move to England I suppose I can look past his nationality.”
“Ok,” I smiled, making my way to the iPad and loading up Death on the Nile for Archibald. “But Poirot is a Belgian, not French.”
“They are, quite frankly, exactly the same to me.”
“Ah,” I said, a twinkle in my eye. “I can understand that. After all, you Irish are all the same to me.”
“Ugh!” Archibald sputtered. “Do not call me an Irishman ever again!”
“So long as you don’t refer to Poirot as a Frenchman, then,” I replied, sticking my tongue out at the ghost. I didn’t know why I bothered; Archibald had carried his old English superiority complex for hundreds of years, my pointing out the irony to him now certainly wasn’t going to make a difference.
“Just put the book on, woman!” he ordered, and I shot him a look. “Please,” he added hastily, and I pressed the play button on the iPad. The narrator’s crooning voice began to tell the story of two English best friends.
I looked over at Muffin, who was still sleeping soundly in the bean-bag, although now he had curled himself up into a little ball. “Do you want dinner?” I offered, and he opened one eye to look at me, then closed it again. “I’m not bringing it to the bean bag,” I warned. Instead, I made my way to the cupboard where Francine had kept all of Muffin’s food and put it in a bowl for him. About two minutes later, when he realized I wasn’t going to bring the food over to him, Muffin got up, stretched, and made his way to the bowl, happily gobbling down his dinner.
I smiled and said goodnight to Muffin, giving him a pat, and Archibald, who, fully engrossed in his new audiobook, grunted a reply, and went up to the apartment and straight to bed. After all, it had been a big day, and tomorrow was going to be even bigger.
* * *
For the first time since I’d moved to Sapphire Village, I set my alarm on my phone. Eight in the morning gave me enough time to get dressed, shower, give Biscuit some breakfast, find some breakfast for myself–even though when I woke up I found I was still completely full from dinner the night before–and get the store ready for the new grand opening.
I wasn’t going to lie, there were definitely a whole bunch of butterflies going off in my stomach. After all, while I’d been an assistant manager at the coffee shop I used to work at, that was more of a job title in name only; making coffee still made up the bulk of my duties. And yet, now here I was, running a bookstore as the only employee. Everything was on me. I’d never worked in sales before. What if I was terrible at it? What if I ran the family’s bookshop out of business?
As every worst case scenario possible flew through my mind, the clock ticked closer to nine. As soon as it hit, I unlocked the front door and propped it open with a flower pot. It was a beautiful spring day in Sapphire Village, even the Miami girl in me had to admit that. The temperature was already well into the fifties, and the sun shone down onto the main street, giving everything a nice warm glow.
“Why won’t you give me another book to read?” Archibald complained when I made my way back into the shop.
“It’s not good for the customers,” I replied. “I want nice, soft, classical music on. It fits the mood of the store better. I’ll put another book on for you when I close, how does that sound?”
“I would like to listen to another book now, rather than in however many hours you see fit. I’m your elder, you should obey me.”
“You’ve gone hundreds of years without reading Agatha Christie books, I’m pretty sure you can go another eight hours,” I replied, rolling my eyes. I smiled to myself as Muffin crept into the room and made his way back to the bean-bag chair. It seemed he had definitely found his favorite place in the whole shop. A ray of sunlight shone through the window and onto the chair, and Muffin spread himself out contentedly in the light. Archibald muttered about the new generation of people not having any respect for their elders, then went off and did whatever it was the ghost did when he wasn’t in my store.
As for myself, I made my way to the back counter and familiarized myself with the point of sale system as I waited for the first customer to make their way through the doors. It was a pretty simple system, and after a few practice sales, I was fairly certain I’d be able to handle a customer coming in.
I didn’t have to wait as long as I’d expected, either. At quarter past nine a woman dressed in skinny jeans and a coat that was way too fancy for a ski resort, along with three-inch heels, made her way into the store.
“Well, isn’t this just lovely?” she drawled in a southern accent. “I must say, this store is absolutely gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I blushed, as though I’d come up with the entire concept myself. Still, even though this had been my aunt’s pride and joy, I had made some changes and I was proud of them as well. “Is there anything I can help you find?”
“Oh no, dear. Thank you. I’m just going to have a look around, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Please let me know if you need anything,” I replied, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt like I was sixteen again, when I’d gotten my first job as a cashier at the local grocery store. I’d spent my entire first shift after my training trying to meld into the background, hoping that customers with their carts wouldn’t see me and would assume that my station was closed. I sat at the counter and waited while the lady browsed for about five minutes, then finally picked out a first edition copy of Voltaire’s Candide and put it on the counter.
“My daughter studies French literature at Stanford,” she told me. “She’ll love this.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied, ringing up the sale and then carefully wrapping the book in tissue paper before putting it in a plastic bag, then a recycled brown paper bag stamped with ‘Magical Books’ on the side.
“Thank you so much,” I told the lady with probably too much enthusiasm as she left. Still, I didn’t care. I’d made a sale! My first sale ever in this new bookstore. I knew that I’d taken orders for probably thousands of coffees in the past, but this was definitely different. This sale came with a sense of accomplishment! And it hadn’t been that hard, either. Maybe I wasn’t going to be too bad at sales after all.
My second customer of the day, unfortunately, blew my good mood out of the water.
Chapter Seventeen
She walked in around half an hour after my first customer had left. Wearing Lululemon pants and a long-sleeved athletic top, the woman looked as if she was heading toward the gym. She loo
ked to be around 40, with her platinum blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a Louis Vuitton purse at her side.
“Hi there,” I said, a smile on my face. “Can I help you?”
“This is a bookshop?” she asked, looking around.
“Yes,” I replied, resisting the urge to ask her how she figured that one out all on her own. After all, there were literally thousands of books in here. “Are you looking for any title in particular?”
“I have a flight back to Los Angeles in six hours, I want the new James Patterson book, the Women’s Murder Club one.”
“I’m afraid I don’t carry James Patterson,” I replied. “This is more of a niche bookstore. However, if you like mysteries, can I interest you in Agatha Christie, or perhaps Sherlock Holmes?”
The woman scrunched up her face. “Ugh. All that old stuff. No, absolutely not. What kind of bookstore doesn’t carry the paperback I want anyway?”
“Well, we’re not exactly your local Barnes and Noble, Magical Books is more of a place to get collectors editions or older books.”
“Is there anywhere in town that is willing to sell me what I want?” the woman snapped.
“I’m not sure,” I replied, trying to stay polite. “I’m afraid I just moved here a few days ago, so I don’t know the village really well yet.”
“Well what kind of use are you?” she snarled. “First you don’t carry one of the books that every bookshop on the planet should have, and then you can’t even tell me where I can go to buy the book for real? Thanks for nothing,” she replied, stalking over toward one of the bookshelves. “What kind of crap do you have here, anyway?” she muttered.
I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I wanted her looking at those books, as I didn’t really trust the woman, but I also didn’t know how to politely kick her out of the store, either. She really didn’t seem like she was going to buy anything.
Suddenly, the woman grabbed a couple of books off the shelf and knocked them to the floor. She looked at me and a small smile curled on her face.
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