For Whom the Book Tolls

by Laura Gail Black

  My stomach rumbled as I started a pot of coffee. I’d forgotten to take my leftover salad from yesterday upstairs, so I retrieved it from the fridge in the back room and dug in, letting my gaze wander across the piles upon piles of books scattered up and down the aisles. This job would take over a week if I had to do this by myself.

  The bells over the entrance door tinkled to announce an arrival. I quickly stuck my salad under the counter and wiped my mouth on a paper towel before turning to greet my first customer who wasn’t trying to break my windows or threatening me with calling the police. Then I caught sight of who stood in my doorway. Oh my God! Maybe I was the one who should call the police now.

  “Hi, I’m Mason Craig,” began the well-dressed young man. “I used to work for Paul. I’m looking for the new owner.”

  Recognizing the name and his face from the newscast announcing his arrest for Uncle Paul’s murder, I resisted the urge to lie. For all I knew, he recognized my name and face from that same news channel and was worried about me too. “I’m Jenna Quinn. I own the store now. What can I do for you, Mr. Craig?” I hoped he couldn’t see the wariness in my eyes.

  “I wondered if I could talk to you for a few minutes.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “I suppose so.” I moved closer to the front windows to make sure I was visible to passersby. It never hurt to take precautions.

  “I guess you’ve seen my picture on the local news, since you look like you’d love to do anything but talk to me.” His shoulders sagged forward.

  “Yes, I have seen your picture. They say you killed my uncle.” Of course, they’d also accused me of the same thing. Nevertheless, I held myself tensed and ready to run while using my peripheral vision to scan for something I could use to defend myself if I needed it. Sadly, all I could come up with were clunky reference books. Not much help there.

  Mason sat heavily on the chair at the end of the counter and raked a hand through his sandy hair. “I swear to you on my life, I never did anything to Paul Baxter.” His piercing gaze met mine.

  “Give me one reason why I should believe you had nothing to do with Uncle Paul’s death after you told everyone you’d get revenge one day.” I watched him intently, hoping to see some sign that I hadn’t invited a murderer to sit and chat.

  “I don’t know. I guess nobody else does, so why should you?” Mason leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “But I’d sure like to explain if I could.”

  “I’m listening.” I stayed standing. No reason to tempt fate. While I of all people knew how easy it was to be charged for something you didn’t do, that didn’t mean everyone was innocent.

  Mason took a deep breath. “Some time ago, I worked for Paul. We met shortly after my mother’s funeral a little over a year ago, and I needed some extra cash to help pay for funeral expenses. Paul agreed to hire me full-time. He really didn’t need anyone to work here, but it gave him more free time to research his old books. It worked out well for both of us.”

  “And then you stole.” I crossed my arms over my chest, tilted my head, and glared at him, daring him to deny the fact.

  “Yes, I stole.” Mason ducked his head. “Paul could never prove it, and I denied it, of course, but he was right,” he mumbled at his shoes. “After Mom died, I started hanging out with a bunch of druggies. Dope helped dull the pain. I stole from Paul to pay my dealer.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to see through the story and emotion to get at the truth. “I still haven’t heard anything to keep me from thinking you had something to do with his death.”

  “There’s more. When Paul fired me, he also blackballed me at all of the other businesses around here. I couldn’t get a decent job.”

  “I’m still not hearing anything that says ‘I’m innocent.’” Logic dictated I throw him out, but something made me wait and listen. I wasn’t sure why, but after the way I’d been railroaded, it seemed only fair to at least hear him out.

  “When Paul ruined my chances here, I moved, and it was the best thing that could’ve happened to me. I got away from that stupid bunch of guys I’d been hanging with and got straight for the first time since my mom died. I wasn’t angry at Paul. He did me a favor, even if he didn’t realize it, but somehow I think he did. I had no reason to hurt him, much less kill him.” Mason shifted in his seat and sighed deeply.

  I watched him carefully as he spoke, and the tension he radiated was incredible. However, the desperate lilt of his voice was one I recognized from my own past, and I could tell he was close to tears, although he made a macho attempt to mask it by jiggling his leg and clenching his fists in his lap.

  Maybe it was female intuition, or maybe I was gullible, but in my opinion this kid was no more a killer than I was. “So why did the police arrest you?”

  “They found out I’d been in town the day Paul was killed. Actually, I had hoped to catch Paul at the cemetery. I wanted to explain to him what I just told you. I must’ve just missed him. I was going to try again next week, but then, well, he died.”

  “The only thing they had was that you were in town that day?” I filled a coffee cup and handed it to Mason.

  “Not really.” He wrapped his hands around the Styrofoam cup and stared into its depths. “My mother used to use the same kind of sleeping pills found in Paul’s bloodstream. They figured I kept some, which is stupid, because I took those to get to sleep for the first couple of weeks after she died. They’re what started me into drugs. Once they were gone, which was before I even started working for Paul, I looked for something else to knock the edge off the pain. It went downhill from there. But since the sleeping pills started it all, I obviously don’t still have them, although they’re trying to prove I could’ve gotten more.”

  “Either way, I don’t think that would be enough evidence to hold you.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, which I needed right about now, and took a sip as I let his words sink in, still looking for holes in his story in case my desire to champion those wrongly accused had won out over common sense.

  “I don’t either. Nobody saw me here that day, and my fingerprints weren’t here either. But they shouldn’t be, since I haven’t been here in over a year, and I’ve never been upstairs.” He took a long swallow from his cup, and it seemed to fortify him a tad.

  “Still not a very strong case.”

  “That’s why bail was set so low.” Mason sighed. “I barely managed to scrape up the cash as it was. And now they tell me not to leave town until this is all straightened out. I guess I’m going to lose my job over this too.”

  My heart broke for the boy, as I knew exactly how he felt. But this wasn’t about me. I needed to set the record straight. “Uncle Paul didn’t blackball you.”

  Mason’s head whipped up. “He didn’t?” Confused creases snaked across his brow.

  “No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t have betrayed you like that. The other business owners decided if he’d fired you, they didn’t want to hire you.” I watched for his reaction to this information.

  “But I thought …” He shook his head. “Wow. You know, I think he tried to tell me back then, but I wouldn’t give him the chance.” His shoulders slumped again. “Now he’ll never know he actually helped me.”

  I quickly changed the subject before he could slip deeper into despair. “Where will you stay while you’re here?”

  “I’ve still got a few friends in town. One of them will put me up for a while.” Mason caught my concerned gaze. “Don’t worry, I don’t mean any of the ‘friends’ I had back when I took drugs. Some friends from before.”

  “I guess that’ll do for a place to stay. What about your job?” My mind whirled. I knew this kid was being railroaded like I had been. Something clicked inside me, and I was determined not to let him face it all alone.

  “I hope they’ll let me borrow on my time off. I have a few days of vacation time and sick leave available. After that I’ll be on leave without pay.” He looked like a lost little boy.
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  I took a deep breath, hoping I was right and not simply letting my own situation make me blind to someone who really was guilty. “I could use some help around here going through these books. I’m trying to organize them so customers can find what they want. Are you interested in the job? It’ll only be for minimum wage. I can’t offer any benefits, but at least you could pay some of your bills so you won’t lose your apartment or have your car repossessed while you’re here.”

  Mason looked at me, his eyes wide and brows high. “You’d trust me to work here again? After what I did to Paul?”

  “I don’t think I’ll have that problem this time around, will I?” At least I hoped not. I tossed my now-empty Styrofoam cup into the trash, sat on the stool behind the counter, and crossed my arms.

  “No, ma’am! I swear.” Mason jumped up, sloshing his coffee a bit. He grabbed the paper napkins from my once-again-forgotten lunch and wiped up the spill. “You’ll see. I’ll be a lot of help to you. After a few days, you’ll figure out you can’t do without me.”

  “Well, then.” I waved an arm around to encompass the whole front room. “Let’s get cracking.”

  The rest of the day passed too quickly, but we managed to get about a quarter of the way through the stacks of books in the front room. Now, including what Rita and I had done the day before, half the stacks were sorted. Of course, they still needed to be alphabetized and reshelved.

  When it was time to leave for the day, I locked up with a smile, realizing how much closer I was to completing this huge task, thanks to Mason’s assistance. He really would be a big help in the coming days. My smile sagged. But he wouldn’t be for too long unless we could find a way to prove his innocence … and mine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday morning I donned a conservative black dress Rita had loaned me and went to church with her. I figured a lot of folks had seen that awful news report almost a week ago, but it still surprised me how many people knew who I was, even before Rita introduced me to them. Oddly enough, her prediction that folks wouldn’t be hateful still held true. Maybe because it was a church service, or maybe because small-town folks stuck together. I wasn’t technically from Hokes Folly, but Uncle Paul had been such a major figure in town, everyone accepted me as one of the family. Go figure. By the time church was over, I was sure my shoulder would show a bruise by bedtime from all the pats on the back, and the muscles in my face were sore from smiling and saying “Thank you” to all the offered “I’m sorry for your loss” condolences.

  Afterward, Rita and I ate lunch at a tiny café near the historic district, and I made a mental note of its location so I could broaden my lunchtime possibilities from driving to a local McDonald’s and eating at the pub where we’d first heard of Mason’s arrest.

  I wasn’t looking forward to the next event of the day. As I didn’t know where the cemetery was, I rode with Rita. Without the distraction of driving, I had too much time to think about where we were going and why. Instead, I filled her in on my afternoon with Mason, starting with his story and ending with why I believed he was innocent.

  On impulse, I’d invited Mason to the small gathering of close friends, since I figured he deserved one last chance to say goodbye to a man he had wanted to thank in person. When we pulled into the parking lot, he was in the far corner, standing beside his clunker. We took the space next to his. Rita stared him in the eyes for several long moments, and I had to hand it to the kid, he didn’t flinch. She nodded, agreeing he might not have killed Uncle Paul, but she’d withhold final judgment until further evidence came in.

  The three of us walked to the grave together and were met by Horace Grimes, Olivia and Ophelia Hokes, and a small handful of others I had yet to meet. The minister from Rita’s church stepped forward and read from the Bible. As he spoke, my mind focused on the large mahogany casket hovering over the open hole in the ground. A bouquet of lavender bearded irises lay on top, and I remembered these had been my aunt’s favorite flower.

  A tear slipped down my cheek. Even in death, he honored her. I looked at the double headstone, which now bore the inscriptions of both Aunt Irene and Uncle Paul. “Together for eternity” was carved at the bottom. I looked over at the Hokes sisters. Phillie wept quietly into a delicate lace handkerchief, while Livie remained stoic. Or maybe that was resentment I read in her expression. I couldn’t be sure.

  After the brief service and a sweet prayer offered by Horace, who it seemed had been not only Uncle Paul’s attorney but also his best friend, folks began to walk back toward the parked cars. Mason stepped forward and laid his hand on the casket, silently mouthing a few words to Paul. I waited, scanning the cemetery so I wouldn’t accidentally intrude on his private moment of farewell.

  Motion caught my eye, and I spied a man who looked a lot like Stan Jergins cresting the hill into another portion of the cemetery. I couldn’t be sure, though, as his back was to me, and I really didn’t know the man that well. Had he come to offer condolences? Was he simply here visiting another grave? Or had he come to gloat over his rival’s death?

  Mason shifted beside the casket, and I turned back to see him walking toward his parked car. Rita still waited for me. I moved forward and placed my hand on the warm wood of the casket for my last moments with a man I should have made more time for. Grief once again swamped me, and this time I let the tears run freely. I wept for the fun times, the laughter, the thoughtful gifts, the funny jokes, and all the moments we’d shared during my childhood. I wept for all the invitations to visit that I’d turned down in the last ten years. I wept for the not-quite-intimate emails we’d swapped, realizing we hadn’t really communicated beyond acquaintance pleasantries since I’d started turning him down. I wept for the loss of a man who had offered a home and protection at a time when I so desperately needed both. I wept for the loss of possibility and promise of a rebuilt relationship. I wept from gratitude for his thoughtful provisions, even in death, which meant I would never again be destitute. I wept for the loss of the next few decades of laughter and funny jokes and fun times that would now never come, not even in the form of scattered emails.

  A warm hand slid across my shoulders, and Rita hugged me from the side while pressing a tissue into my free hand. I gratefully accepted it, wiped it across my eyes, and blew my nose. I patted the casket one last time then removed several of the irises and placed them on Aunt Irene’s grave before turning to leave.

  Rita linked her arm through mine as we walked across the cemetery toward the mostly empty parking lot. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded and sniffed. “It’s just a lot to process.”

  She squeezed my arm with hers. “Shall we go home?”

  “Yes.” We’d arrived at her car, and I opened the passenger door and slid inside. “I’d rather be busy, though. I’ll probably change clothes and go downstairs to the store to work on the books for a while.”

  Rita walked around the car and got in. “Care for some company?”

  I smiled a still-watery smile and nodded, knowing Rita was processing her own grief as well. We rode the rest of the way home in silence, each of us lost in our own memories of Uncle Paul.

  After Rita and I arrived at the store an hour later, Mason popped in unexpectedly, offering to help out. It seemed Rita and I weren’t the only ones who needed to be busy after the somber start to the afternoon.

  Time passed quickly with the three of us working steadily, and when Monday morning rolled around, the store looked more like a real bookstore and less like a dumping ground. We’d managed to sort the rest of the shop and had begun the process of alphabetizing and reshelving, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, there were still all the books in the back room, but I pushed those to the back of my mind. There would be time enough for them later.

  I hummed as I made coffee for the morning, determined to honor Uncle Paul’s memory by organizing the store and making it appealing to buyers … or making it easier to run myself. I still wasn’t sure w
hich direction I’d go with that. The smell of perking coffee lifted my mood, and I determinedly procrastinated making a decision. With a smile, I unlocked the front door for Mason before turning back to get my first cup after the last of it came gurgling down into the pot.

  The bells tinkled over the door, announcing Mason’s arrival. He was barely inside when the door slammed open so hard it almost tore the bells down from the wall above. Mason and I both jumped as a man barged into the store.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he demanded, hands on his hips.

  What the hell? I stepped forward. “I’m Jenna Quinn. I own the store. We’re closed today, but is there something I could help you with?” I hoped my voice sounded friendlier than I felt.

  “The owner, huh?” The man sneered at me. “Not for long, babe. I’m here to claim my inheritance, and this is part of it.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong store.” I glanced at Mason, read his lips as he mouthed nine-one-one and raised his eyebrows in question, and shook my head.

  “Is this the store that belonged to Paul Baxter?” The man’s voice held a challenge.

  “It is. I’m his niece. I inherited this store, along with the rest of Uncle Paul’s holdings, upon his death last week.” Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I assumed he had mixed up the address he wanted and had stormed into my store by mistake.

  “I’m definitely in the right place.” His expression moved from sneering to leering. “I’m Paul Baxter’s long-lost son. I’ve got the papers to prove it. Thanks for helping straighten out the place, Cousin. As cute as you are, I wouldn’t mind if you came in every day to make the coffee, but the kid here has to go.”

  His slimy grin made my skin crawl, and I set my coffee cup down before I succumbed to the temptation to toss it in his face. “Mister … what did you say your name was?” I struggled to keep my voice calm.

  “Childers. Norman Childers. But you can call me Norm. After all, we’re family.”

  “Well, Mr. Childers.” I spit the words out. “I believe I hold the deed to this property, and until it’s proven you have a legitimate claim, I’m the owner of this establishment. For now, I would like you to leave.”