For Whom the Book Tolls

by Laura Gail Black

  With shaking fingers, I reached for the offered pen, staring at it in my hand for a moment, my mind a complete blank. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and signed the papers, grateful my signatures were legible.

  “At least I can pay for a nice funeral for Uncle Paul now.” While not technically a bonus, since he’d had to die for me to pay for his funeral, at least it wasn’t one more instance where I would let him down.

  Mr. Grimes pulled out another paper from his file. “No need. Paul carried a burial policy, which will pay for all funeral expenses. He’d already purchased a plot next to your aunt.”

  I shook my head again. “He thought of everything.” That ache in my heart was becoming all too familiar. “What steps do I need to take?”

  “None.” He slid the paper back into the folder. “Your uncle wanted a quiet ceremony at the grave site. I’ve already notified the few he wanted to attend, including your parents and now you. However, your mother told me about her recent back surgery and that she’s not able to travel this far yet.”

  What? Mom hadn’t said anything to me about back surgery. Now a new guilt slammed through my head with the realization that she’d tried not to give me anything else to stress over. I knew she had a disk that was going bad in her lower back. It must have finally gotten to the point she needed it fixed, and she must’ve decided I didn’t need to worry about what she considered a minor thing in the face of all my unavoidable drama. Wait, Dad had said she was under the weather. He must have been helping her hide her surgery from me. My mind warred between loving them and being mad at them. However, Mr. Grimes didn’t need to know all my family laundry, so I nodded as if I had already been aware.

  “In their absence,” he continued, “it will be you and a few close friends. Everything is ready as soon as they release the body. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, still processing both my uncle’s foresight and my mother’s sacrifice.

  Mr. Grimes neatly tucked the signed papers into a manila folder and stood. “I’ve spoken with Frank Sutter, and while we cannot get into the business or apartment today, they should finish up by tomorrow afternoon and will release the scene. If you’d like, I can meet you there around three PM.”

  I nodded mutely and garbled out a somewhat coherent goodbye, numbly walking out of his office to my car.

  Chapter Five

  After a restless second night at the Hokes Folly Budget Inn, I’d spent the day processing my new circumstances and the loss of my uncle. My brain had ridden a carousel of thought, circling round and round until I thought I’d scream. Mom had had surgery and hadn’t told me, I was now a millionaire and business owner, Uncle Paul might have been murdered, and I could be a suspect. But why would he have been murdered? And by whom?

  As three PM approached, I grabbed at the chance to stop my circuitous thoughts, snatched up my purse, and left the motel. When I arrived in the parking lot at the end of the street to the historic district, I stepped out of my car into a light drizzle and rushed down the alleyway to the back of Uncle Paul’s—my—store. Horace Grimes must have seen me coming, as he held open the door and ushered me inside. The smell of fresh coffee met me, and the attorney handed me a cup of the steaming liquid.

  For the first few minutes, Mr. Grimes kept up a running chatter. I took a deep breath, forcing my brain to focus on what the attorney said, and I picked up enough to get a feel for the town. Since Hokes Folly had only five thousand residents, give or take, the city council wanted to make sure it kept its historic feel. It seemed that, in an effort to draw vendors and customers alike, the council had rezoned an area of downtown as a historic district. The old warehouses, which had long ago been converted into stores with apartments above, had been given facelifts and facades to add turn-of-the-nineteenth-century charm. The town had blocked off both ends of the section of Center Street that ran from one end of the district to the other, allowing only foot traffic access along the cobblestone street to the storefronts. This had provided a quaint feel that appealed to customers, both locals and tourists. The moment vendors discovered the number of new customers, they had flooded into the area, snatching up empty units and even buying out existing businesses in order to obtain space. Some businesses, like Uncle Paul’s bookstore, had been there long before it was a popular place to be.

  As Mr. Grimes wrapped up his monologue, I took in the back room. Good Lord, it was a disaster, and I couldn’t stop a groan from escaping. Books sat haphazardly on wooden and metal shelves, lay packed in cardboard boxes, and stood in tall piles on the floor. In a tiny corner kitchen area, heaps of books filled the double sink.

  Apparently catching my startled look, Mr. Grimes answered the question I’d been afraid to ask. “It was always like this. No one tossed the room. Paul rarely got around to pricing the books back here and putting them out on the shelves. Every once in a while he’d find a rare book worth a lot of money in one of the lots he purchased from estate sales. He spent his time back here assessing and preparing them for auction. He generally procrastinated about the rest until it was so crammed he had no choice but to price them and put them out in the showroom.”

  “Oh.” Taking a deep breath, I took in the rest of the back room, which ran the width of the store. An old rolltop desk sat in a corner, with a green-shaded brass lamp waiting to offer light after hours. Bookshelves surrounded the desk, stuffed, as was the rest of the back room, with random books in stacks and piles. I could almost see Uncle Paul hunched over the desk. I squeezed my eyes shut against the image and waited a moment to regain control.

  Horace placed a warm and gentle hand on my shoulder, almost my undoing. “We don’t have to go into the front room today if you’d prefer not to.”

  I stiffened my shoulders and shot him a tight smile. “No, it’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “I’d rather not do this alone, if that’s okay.”

  He nodded and squeezed my shoulder softly before dropping his hand. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I waited a moment longer, steeling my resolve, and stepped through the curtain to the front area to get my first real look at the place. The only other time I’d seen it, I’d been too wrapped up in police lights, ambulances, coroners, and dealing with having found my dead uncle. Though I was prepared, a deep sadness enveloped me at the thought that I’d never see Uncle Paul here, never banter with him as we worked. My throat squeezed. I could almost see him among the shelves. My eyes closed against the sting of tears, and I took a slow breath before turning to let my gaze sweep across the other side of the large room.

  As in the back, books sat willy-nilly on every surface available. My fingertips skimmed book spines as I wandered up and down aisles made narrow by stacks of books balanced precariously on the floor, occasionally pulling a book off a shelf when one caught my eye. I couldn’t see any order to the way they were arranged. Paperback romances with hero and heroine draped across each other in a steamy embrace sat next to last year’s low-carb cookbooks and antique poetry books with brass bindings and gold-edged pages.

  “After Irene died, Paul spent most of his time here.” Horace led me into another aisle. “If the store was open, he was here. If the store wasn’t open, he was still often here, pricing and researching.” He swept an arm down the aisle at the overflowing shelves of books. “These became his life, because books never die.”

  I pulled another book from the shelf and smiled softly. Alice in Wonderland. Uncle Paul had given me a copy of this book on my sixth birthday and I’d dragged it everywhere I went, forcing anyone I met to read sections of it to me again and again until I all but wore it out. I had been especially enthralled with the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter’s tea party. With another lump in my throat, I let my gaze wander down the rows of books. What other treasures would I find here?

  Clutching the book to my chest, I skirted standing piles of books scattered down the aisle I was in and picked my way to the front counter. At last something organized. Sort of. A beautiful antiq
ue cash register sat on the long counter, and I stepped behind the counter to run my fingers over the keys, shaking my head at the incongruity of the oversized modern calculator next to it. A large cardboard box full of used plastic shopping bags hid under the counter, and a chest-high shelf with books on hold for customers and a few well-used reference books ran along the wall behind the counter, short enough to allow a view through the windows above.

  As hard as I’d tried to ignore it, my brain finally zeroed in on the spiral staircase to one side of the front counter. In a last attempt to pretend things were normal, I focused on the nook under the steps, which contained a small folding table with a phone, a couple of phone books, and a coffeepot with a stack of Styrofoam cups. Well, that was one way to keep customers from running away when they started down those horrible aisles. They’d at least stay long enough to finish a cup of coffee, and maybe they’d luck into finding something to buy.

  Involuntarily, my gaze swung to the stairs. My heart skipped and my stomach dropped at the white tape outlines at the bottom. An image of my uncle sprawled there, arms and legs at odd angles, clawed its way out of the recesses I’d stuffed it into, and I mentally shoved and stomped it back into place, determined not to break down.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Mr. Grimes from behind me. “I thought they’d sent out Elmer Peabody. He’s our only crime scene cleanup man. He must be down with his gout again. I’ll make sure he’s here tomorrow, or I’ll call in someone from another township.”

  I sucked in a breath and didn’t look away from the awful white lines. “You said they’d released the store and apartment. Did they tell you what happened?” I tried not to remember the image of my uncle inside those lines.

  “No, but my granddaughter works for the police, and she told me,” the attorney replied gently. “He apparently fell down the stairs after taking some kind of sleeping medication.”

  “So it was an accident?” A deep sigh left my body. What a lonely place to die.

  “From what I hear, the police aren’t absolutely certain yet. My granddaughter wasn’t quite sure why, though.” Mr. Grimes took my elbow and turned me away from the white-taped floor. “She only heard there are a few unexplained details concerning his death that simply don’t add up.”

  “Oh.” I paused, wishing I hadn’t always been too busy to visit when Uncle Paul had invited me here on my college breaks or the Christmas after I graduated. If only I could see the sweet man I remembered one last time … the sweet man someone might have murdered. A chill crept up my spine. I took a deep breath, pushing away the guilty feeling, as if I’d let him down somehow by never visiting, and now I was assessing his business—my business only now that it was too late to change things.

  “Well.” I cleared my throat, chasing away the tremble in my voice and sweeping my gaze across the room in any direction but toward the stairs. “It certainly is a bookstore.” I’d definitely have my work cut out for me getting this place whipped into shape to sell. Or who knew? Maybe I’d keep it. It wasn’t like I had any other job prospects. At least, if I owned my own business, no one could accuse me of embezzling and fire me.

  Mr. Grimes chuckled again. “Yes, it is that. Paul was definitely not the most organized person in town. He did have someone working for him for a short time, but it didn’t work out. Would you like me to go with you to the apartment above?”

  I blinked, and my brain jerked to catch up to his abrupt subject change. “No, that’s okay. I’ve already been up there.”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “If you’re sure …”

  I assured him I was, and we carefully wove our way back through the stacks of books to the back door. “However, I’m not sure I’m staying in Hokes Folly. Is there anyone in town I could speak to about the possibility of selling?”

  Horace’s gaze softened, and he reached out to squeeze my shoulder gently. “I understand. It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

  I nodded. “It’s just that … I found him … he died here …” I took a shuddering breath.

  “I know Paul would only want you to stay if you wanted to be here. I’ll arrange for you to meet with an appraiser. Just do me one favor.” He waited for me to raise my gaze to meet his. “Don’t make any rushed decisions. Give it a little time. Sure, see what your options are, but make sure you know what you want before you act.”

  I thanked him for his advice and promised not to choose too quickly.

  Before he exited, he pulled a set of keys to the store and the apartment out of his pocket. “You’ll need both the store key and the house key for the door at the top of the stairs. The store key locks the deadbolt and the house key locks the knob. This is the only set of keys, so you might want to make a spare set, in case the police need them back.”

  “Need them back?” I looked at the key ring he gripped.

  “They were on the coffee table in the apartment. The police found them during their search after you found the body. Since they were the only set, they were taken to secure the premises after they were done.”

  “Why two keys?” I held out my hand.

  “Not every store owner lives in the apartment above. Some rent the apartments out. Having the two locks means the store owner can’t enter the apartment, and the apartment owner can’t use the stairs down into the store.” Horace laid the keys in my palm.

  At least now I knew why the deadbolt locked from the other side. “Got it.”

  “Be sure to lock up, whether you’re staying here or not.” His fingers kept a grip on the keys until I nodded. “If you need me, call.”

  I locked the door behind him and returned to the front room, stopping just past the curtain and closing my eyes. The quiet of the room settled into me, and I let the tears flow as my brain conjured images of Uncle Paul bustling up and down the aisles, helping customers, and using the antique cash register to ring them up. My chest expanded in a deep breath, and I opened my eyes and moved through the store.

  The white lines glared at me from the bottom two stair treads and the floor below. My stomach churned, and I didn’t think I could possibly touch any of it. I said a silent prayer that Elmer Peabody would be healthy enough to show up tomorrow. Until then, I’d have to use the outside stairs I’d used when I first arrived. I placed Alice in Wonderland on the counter. I’d clutched it like a shield since I’d pulled it from the shelf, but I didn’t want it damaged in the rain on my way up to the apartment.

  Guilt washed through me as my regrets over not seeing my uncle once more battled with my relief at now having a place to live. I’d had only a few more days’ worth of funds. Uncle Paul’s generosity had given me a fresh start, but it was only mine because he might have been murdered. Detective Sutter was so convinced I was the killer, I doubted he was even looking for someone else. I clenched my jaw and squared my shoulders, resolve settling in my core. If the police weren’t going to find out about my uncle’s death, then I would. I owed Uncle Paul that much. I’d stay in town long enough to at least accomplish that, even if it wasn’t for the reason Horace Grimes had suggested I wait.

  I turned and moved toward the back door, jumping when a loud knocking on the front glass shattered the silence.

  Chapter Six

  A woman huddled under the cover of a raincoat pulled over her head as she motioned for me to let her in. Not wanting to leave her standing out in the rain, which had begun to fall from the sky in buckets, I scooted to the door and turned the deadbolt. Bells jingled overhead as the door swished open, and the woman stepped in, letting the dripping raincoat fall away from her head. I relocked the door and turned to face her.

  Bright red waves frizzed with damp hung to her shoulders, and she brushed a stray strand from her face. “I’m glad I caught you. I’m so sorry about your uncle.” She grabbed me in a bear hug.

  Somehow comforted by this stranger’s hug, I felt the all-too-familiar sting of tears and took a deep breath to clear my head.

  She squeezed once more and stepped back. “I�
��m sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Rita Wallace. I live over the store next door. I was friends with Paul.”

  I cleared my throat to push away the lump and smiled. “I’m Jenna Quinn, his niece.”

  “I know. He told me you were coming.” Rita let her gaze sweep across the store, and a wistful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It seems odd not to see him in here bustling around. He always seemed so busy, but it never got any less messy.” As her gaze reached the spiral stairs, she gasped. “Is that …?”

  I nodded. “Someone named Elmer Peabody seems to be sick, so it hasn’t been cleaned yet.”

  Her gaze flew back to my face, eyes glittering with unshed tears. She sniffed once and hooked her arm through mine. “We’ll go up to my place. Do you have a raincoat?”

  “No, but I did spot an umbrella in the back room earlier.”

  “Perfect.” Rita tugged me toward the back door.

  I grabbed the umbrella, and we stepped out into the rainy alley, running to the closest end of the stairs and up to the covered walk on the second floor. Her door was before mine, and she stopped me as I moved toward Uncle Paul’s—my—front door.

  “I was serious about you coming in. I’d really like to chat, if you’re up to it.” She opened her door and held it wide.

  “Are you sure?” I took a tentative step forward. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

  “I’m sure.” She nodded and walked through her door, leaving it open.

  I stepped through the door into a replica of the apartment that was now mine. The furniture and knickknacks were different, but the layout was exactly the same.

  “Sit.” Rita gestured at padded bar stools beside the kitchen island bar. “I’m just putting on a pot of tea.”

  My upbringing kicked in. “Is there anything I can do to help?”