For Whom the Book Tolls

by Laura Gail Black

  “I don’t think so. I’m only visiting.” I tried to sidestep the woman, practicing my best powder-puff football moves I’d used in high school.

  “That doesn’t matter.” The woman was definitely fast on her feet, in spite of the pencil-thin high heels she wore below calf-length, black stretch pants, and she countered my dodge with one of her own, shoving the clipboard into my face again as she did so. “We don’t care if you’re from here or not. We need a bunch of signatures. You’ll sign, won’t you?” Her bright-red mouth stretched open to reveal perfectly whitened and straightened teeth.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t really know all the issues at stake. I would simply like to get a few groceries, if you don’t mind.” I made another play to skirt around the woman.

  When she tried to shove the clipboard at me again, a man marched out through the doorway to my rescue. “You guys better get back. You know the law. City ordinance says fifteen feet from the door. You don’t stay out of the way, I’ll call the sheriff!” He grabbed my arm and pulled me past the frustrated petition taker and her friends, letting go once he had me safely inside.

  “I’m sorry about that. They’ve been running off my customers all day. I’m about fed up.” The man stood, arms crossed, staring daggers at the group gathered on the other side of the glass doors.

  “Thanks for the rescue. Sorry to say, but I was about to give up and find another store myself. The only problem is, I don’t know where any other grocery stores are.” When he turned, I grinned at him.

  He seemed to relax a bit and smiled. “You take your time. I’ll help you past them when you’re ready to go.”

  I thanked him, grabbed a cart, and started down the first aisle. At least I’d managed not to pick one with a squeaky wheel. If I was going to be here for any length of time, I might have to find another store with more variety, but for my immediate needs, this one seemed to have pretty much all I could want.

  Loud voices interrupted my comparison of two pasta sauces, and I peeked around the end of the aisle and looked toward the checkout counter.

  “I told you, Stan, I’m not interested.” The grocer’s hands rested on his hips, and his red face glared at the other man.

  “I should have known better than to approach you.” The newcomer pounded his fist on the counter. “After all, you were one of Paul Baxter’s main supporters when he killed my deal last year.”

  My ears perked up. The newcomer’s voice held a nasty tone when he said my uncle’s name. I leaned out a bit, hoping to get a better look at him without making it obvious I was eavesdropping. Mentally I swatted away my Mom-conscience again.

  “Yes, I was, and I still think the same way.” The grocer looked ready to bodily throw the other man out the door.

  “I figured, what with Paul dead and out of the way, you’d finally come to your senses and see the good things this project has to offer this backward little town.” The man huffily hitched up his pants and turned to go. “I can see I was wrong. So long, Benny.” He stormed out the door and into the crowd of petition takers, who had heeded Benny’s warning to stay away from the door.

  I ducked back down the aisle, hoping I hadn’t been seen, and continued shopping, giving Benny time to cool off. I rounded the last aisle, relieved to see Benny smiling at me from behind the checkout counter. My determination to get justice for Uncle Paul and save my own skin once again overrode my mother’s training. Slowly I placed my items on the belt and listened to the soft beeping as the register rang up the items Benny slid past the scanner. As my buggy emptied, I knew I had to get over my reluctance to be forward with my questions, or I might end up in jail for a murder I didn’t commit.

  “Does he always barge in here and yell at you like that?” I gestured over my shoulder toward the leader of the group of petitioners on the other side of the glass doors.

  Benny shrugged. “He’s just the pushy sort. He wants what he wants, and what anyone else wants doesn’t matter to him.”

  “So, what’s this about a project you squashed?” I dug in my purse for a little of the cash I still had left.

  Benny cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, apparently reluctant to answer what was indeed a rather nosy question from someone he didn’t know at all.

  “I’m sorry.” I chuckled and tried to look sheepish. “My mom says I’m nosy. It’s just that I’m thinking of moving here, and I want to make sure it’s a safe place to live. That guy sounded like he was about to take your head off. Kind of scared me.” I smiled and hoped he bought that load of crap.

  Benny stared at me another long moment then nodded once. “Fair enough. Stan’s harmless, I suppose, unless you’re a part of the Hokes Folly Merchants Association. He had a project he wanted to move forward. The Merchants Association disagreed. One of our members spearheaded the efforts to stop the project. That member is now dead, and Stan thinks we should all now jump on his bandwagon.”

  “I take it that’s not going to happen?” I zipped my purse and loaded a couple of my bags into the buggy.

  “Not even close.” Benny crossed his arms. “Especially if he runs around treating us all like mindless idiots that only disagreed with his project because Paul Baxter told us to.”

  I finished loading my bags into the buggy. “Sounds like a great guy.” I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

  Benny shrugged once more. “As I said, he’s pretty much harmless. Just don’t get in his way.”

  I nodded and headed for the door. The petition takers seemed engrossed in a group pep talk, and I crossed my fingers they’d stay that way until I could get to my car. I managed to avoid the buxom blonde, but I almost had to break into a run to do it, finally glad I’d developed at least one skill while learning to dodge persistent reporters.

  When I got home, I lugged my purchases inside. After the third trip out to the parking lot, I had a slight idea why Uncle Paul hadn’t stocked more in his pantry. I’d have to keep an eye on things and forestall another large trip.

  When I’d put everything away, I fixed a quick lunch and was out the door on the way down to the store as soon as I’d cleaned up. As I walked out into the front room, I let the familiar sense of loss and sorrow wash over me. Giving myself these few minutes before the appraiser arrived would allow me time to gather my thoughts and rein in my galloping emotions before I ended up crying all over some poor agent.

  Deep, calming breaths stilled my churning stomach as I approached the spiral stairs. The white lines still glared at me. Damn it. I had hoped they’d be gone already, not just for my own sanity but also to keep the appraiser from focusing on the fact that a man had been murdered in the store. I supposed it didn’t matter, though. It wasn’t like a real estate agent could keep from disclosing that little tidbit to any prospective buyers.

  I glanced at my arm, where my watch face showed it was ten minutes to one. I snagged Alice in Wonderland off the counter where I’d left it the night before and tucked it under my arm for the trip back upstairs.

  Promptly at one, a solid knock sounded on the door, and I credited it to my mother’s training in how to be a proper southern hostess that I managed to keep my jaw from dropping at who stood on the walkway outside.

  Chapter Eight

  Not only did the buxom petition taker from the grocery store stand there with an expectant smile on her face, but Stan, the man with whom Benny the grocer had argued with about my uncle, stood there as well. Had they followed me home? Man, these people must be desperate for signatures.

  “I’m sorry, I’m still not interested in signing your petition.” I stepped back to close the door.

  A brown leather loafer stuck itself in my door before it could close. “I’m Stan Jergins. I own Jergins and Associates. I’m here to appraise the business and home for the purpose of a possible sale.” He stuck a business card through the opening.

  I took it and read it as I reopened the door, checking to make sure the face before me matched the picture on the business card.
His graying, light-brown hair ruffled in the slight breeze, and his dress shirt sleeves, rolled up, exposed a tan that had the telltale hue of a spray-on. A large gold bracelet glinted in the sunshine. However, the slightly worn toes of his loafers, which peeked out from under his slacks, contradicted the well-off broker look he seemed to be pushing. Maybe he wasn’t doing as well as Mr. Grimes suspected.

  Behind him, the shapely blonde woman with whom I had played chase all but bounced on her toes in what seemed to be childish excitement. Surely he wasn’t training her to be a professional appraiser or real estate agent.

  This should prove to be an interesting couple of hours.

  Warily, I looked for a clipboard, mentally preparing another no in case they tried again to get me to sign that petition. Thank God the woman didn’t have it handy, and she seemed to be taking a back seat to Stan.

  Holding out my hand, I stepped closer, speaking as his hand engulfed mine. “I’m Jenna Quinn. Mr. Grimes said you would be by. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.” What I hoped was a naïve and trustworthy smile crossed my face. I wanted Stan comfortable enough for me to get information from him without seeming like I was digging.

  “I’m Stan, and this is Barbie. She wanted to come see the apartment. I hope you don’t mind.”

  A chuckle burbled up, and I barely managed to choke it back as our hands dropped. Barbie, indeed. It fit. The fluffed-up blonde hair, the obviously artificially enhanced figure, the skintight clothing, and the incredibly high heels. She looked like the dolls I’d had as a child.

  Barbie peeked out from behind Stan with a hopeful look on her artfully painted face.

  I really didn’t want the annoying woman in what was now my home, even if only for a short time, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse without risking irritating Stan. While I’d probably failed Mom recently with my prying into the grocer’s conversation, not to mention Rita’s past with Uncle Paul, at least she might be proud of how I handled this. Okay, maybe not the subterfuge, but definitely the manners. I kept the smile plastered to my face and nodded. “Of course I don’t mind. Shall we get started?” I motioned them inside.

  While mostly uneventful, the trip through the loft tested my willpower to obey Mom’s etiquette training. More than once I had to resist an overwhelming urge to smack Barbie’s hand away from tiny knickknacks on shelves and family photos tucked away in corners. It was all I could do not to order her out of my house after she made yet another derogatory comment about how disappointed she was that it wasn’t bigger or that there weren’t windows in the guest bedroom. I might also wish there were more windows, but it wasn’t her place to voice it. She needed to keep her bright-red mouth shut.

  Rather than start a catfight, I concentrated on my business with Stan, hoping to finish it before I gave in to the impulse to strangle Barbie. They received the full tour, and Stan seemed to be quite thorough with his assessments. He looked in each closet, took measurements, tapped on woodwork, snapped pictures of furniture—which would be sold with the loft, as I couldn’t think of anything else to do with it—and checked the flow of water from each tap.

  While he worked, I tried to come up with a reasonable way to bring up the argument I’d overheard at the grocery store. So much for willpower. I finally got my chance when Stan insisted we go down the spiral stairs to the store.

  “Is that …?” At last Barbie was at a loss for words, and she blanched at the sight of the body outline.

  While the white lines still sent a chill up my spine, I was grateful it gave me the opportunity to find out why Stan Jergins hadn’t liked my uncle. Thank you, Elmer Peabody. “Yes, that’s where I found Uncle Paul’s body.” I did my best to avoid the lines as I hopped over the last few steps to the floor.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Stan’s sad eyes and pitiful puppy look seemed about as sincere as his clipped words. But I had to hand it to him for the attempt. Obviously he wanted the sale, and if it meant offering condolences for a man he hated, he’d suck it up.

  I mentally asked Uncle Paul’s forgiveness for what I was about to say, especially since I was standing next to the spot where he died. “Thanks. I’m okay, really. I hadn’t seen him in almost a decade. But it seemed everyone in town loved him.” Crossing my fingers behind my back, I plastered what I hoped was an innocent expression on my face.

  Stan gritted his teeth behind his attempt at a friendly smile. “Yes. Many loved him, although not all.”

  Bingo! “And you, Mr. Jergins? Did you love him, or were you on the ‘not all’ side?”

  Stan shifted back and forth a couple of times, and he looked at his notepad and cleared his throat. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, and when he looked back up, his eyes held a fire that hadn’t been there before. “Unfortunately, I must count myself in the ‘not all’ contingency.”

  I raised my eyebrows, trying to maintain the innocent look. “Why didn’t you like him?”

  “About a year ago, I put together a really sweet deal to build a shopping mall out by the interstate on the edge of town. It would’ve had ninety-five stores, complete with three huge department stores, a food court, and a parking garage. Your Uncle Paul and his friends managed to gather enough petition signatures from Hokes Folly residents to stop the whole deal dead in its tracks.” His eyes held a manic expression, and his fists gripped his notepad so tightly they bent the cardboard backing.

  I ignored the uneasy feeling roiling in my gut. I hoped he wasn’t about to lose it completely while we were alone in the store, where no one could hear me scream, and I doubted Barbie would help me, but I couldn’t stop now. I needed answers. “Why would he do that?”

  “They whined about loss of property values in the neighborhood and loss of peace and quiet. And he got everyone from here in the historic district to sign too, because they thought it might take a few sales away from them.” He faced me squarely now, as if he expected me to argue with him and was bracing for a possible fight. “He and everyone else should’ve thought about all those jobs in the stores, and there would’ve been security people, janitors, parking attendants.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “All that new opportunity for employment might’ve really boosted the economy in this little town. But no.” Stan’s eyes hardened to flint. “Mr. High-and-Mighty Paul Baxter had to stop it before it could even get started.”

  I resisted the urge to step back while I wiped a bit of spittle off my arm that had flown out of his mouth during his tirade. “Is that what your current petition is about?”

  “It is.” He cracked his first big smile, but there was something a bit off about it. “I was already wining and dining my way into this deal with a new group of backers when Paul … met with his unfortunate end.” Stan had the grace to attempt another solemn look.

  Barbie chose this moment to rejoin the conversation, seeming to forget the white outline while grinning hugely at Stan. “Without Paul around to organize another petition to stop progress, Stan’s big, beautiful mall is practically a done deal. Right, baby?”

  Stan’s grin was almost predatory. “That’s right. With your uncle gone, I’m already getting more support for the venture.” He pulled Barbie to him and gave her a side squeeze.

  Sure, Stan creeped me out with his freakish rant, but I could understand his point. I could also see the point of the townsfolk. A mall like the one Stan proposed really would take away from the quaint charm I’d seen in Hokes Folly.

  Would it bring more jobs? Absolutely. It might even help the town grow. But it would also bring more crime, as was always the case when a town grew too quickly. As for the sales in the historic district, those would suffer too. Rainy days would be spent at the new mall rather than in the historic district. New shops would abound, running out the tiny stores that had been there for decades. It was a matter of choosing what was more important: growth and modernization or staying true to the historic significance and turn-of-the-century styling.

  Hoping to end the conversation
without another unsettling lecture, I smacked on another fake smile. “I’m sure things will work out as they should.” Then I changed subjects. “Shall we check out the rest of the store? As with the furniture upstairs, the fixtures and books will sell with the store, but a few decor items and all personal papers will go with me.”

  We walked through the store, cataloging things to stay and checking off things that might need repair before the sale. But my mind wasn’t fully on the task. How much had Stan really hated Uncle Paul? I shuddered, pushing away disturbing thoughts while still stuck with the man. Finish up, usher them out, lock the doors. That was the new plan.

  I breathed an inward sigh of relief when we finally moved to the front door. Stan added a few suggestions to increase curb appeal and promised to send me a copy of his list.

  I thanked him, sagging against the door gratefully as they walked away. I stood there for a bit, needing a few moments to calm myself. Mr. Grimes believed the police were considering murder instead of an accidental death. At this point I was heavily leaning in that direction too, and I needed to find out who had killed Uncle Paul before I ended up with another murder hung around my neck. I assessed my conversation with Stan in the store and wondered how badly he had wanted Uncle Paul out of the way. Enough to kill? I shook my head.

  With a list of service providers to visit, I jumped Uncle Paul’s outline again and went upstairs to grab my purse and keys to head toward the first address on my list.

  After two hours, I’d visited all the companies and signed all the paperwork. I then took an extra hour to explore the town. I found two larger grocery stores, although Benny’s place was still more convenient, and located the library, post office, and a couple of dry cleaners.

  By the time I got home, the sun was setting, and my stomach was rumbling. I pulled out a couple of cans of stew and set them on the stove to heat. My second supper here. Alone. I winced, remembering my promise to myself to start trusting more. When the stew was ready, I marched out the door and strode purposefully toward my neighbor’s home, trying to remember if it was an olive branch of peace I should bring. Or maybe it was the pineapple of hospitality. Whatever. She was getting the stew of I’m-sick-of-eating-alone. I took a deep breath and rapped on her door.