Scripted to Slay

by ACF Bookens

  Mom stood, picked up my phone, and helped me to my feet. "This sounds like a walk and talk kind of thing."

  I gave her a weak smile of gratitude for saving me from further embarrassment in front of our fellow burger lovers and let her lead me to the door. Outside, the brisk air immediately alleviated some of the tension in my chest, and I started to get control of my crying. But it didn't stop, and I didn't need it to. My mom was here, and she was listening.

  "So Max has been interested in you for a long time, my daughter, are you starting to be interested in him?" Mom's voice was neutral, but her face was soft and open when I looked at her as we walked along the strip mall sidewalk.

  "I don't know. Maybe, but maybe not. I really don't know. But Max is sort of the secondary point, the larger one is Daniel. He's such a good guy, and he's good to me . . ." My voice faded because I didn't know what else to say.

  "He is, Harvey. But good to you doesn't mean good for you, and if you're unhappy with him, then it's only fair to tell him." Mom took my hand under her arm as we continued to walk across the parking lot entrance into a tree-lined park. "Have you talked to him yet?"

  I shook my head. "We're having dinner tomorrow." I walked a few steps and then stopped and looked at my mom. "The thing is, Mom, I get the sense that he feels the same way, maybe. He asked for us to talk, I mean, so maybe . . ." I started walking again. "Or maybe that's just wishful thinking."

  "Could be either, but you'll know tomorrow." She patted my hand as we watched the birds skitter between the trees. "That feels like forever away, though, huh?"

  "Two forevers actually." I was not a patient person. I’d always been one to want to simply make a choice and live with the consequences. Waiting and overthinking made me feel a little unstable. "But at least I have the fundraiser to focus on."

  Mom nodded. "Exactly . . . and tonight, you and Mart are coming to dinner with your dad and me. We'll do it up right. Appetizers, drinks, dessert – a long drawn-out meal to help you spend the evening."

  I smiled and felt tears start to well in my eyes again. Sometimes kindness was the hardest but most important thing. "Thank you," I whispered.

  "Anytime, my dear. Now let's get you back to work." She steered us toward our car and put on soft music while I cried for a few miles.

  * * *

  In front of my store, I took a minute in Mom's car to compose myself, let her kiss my cheek, and then steadied myself to go back to work. We had a lot to do to prep for the fundraiser, including updating our selection of books and creating a T-shirt display, and I was so grateful for the distraction.

  After I texted Mart to let her know about dinner that night and the reason for it – and read her quick, "Good plan. Pick you up at four?" – I talked with Marcus about how to set up for tomorrow morning. He suggested a table near the door where we could set up with a small cashbox and our mobile credit card reader. That way, people could buy tickets or T-shirts easily, and we could keep the regular register open for book customers, with both spaces able to handle any purchase.

  I asked him to get the table and display space for the shirts set up while Mayhem and I made a visit to Elle to borrow a table cloth and ask if she had any flowers we could use to decorate. I knew January was not typically the best season for blooms, but Elle’s heated greenhouse let her keep ahead of the competition when it came to winter wedding bouquets. I knew she'd have something amazing.

  I wasn't wrong. As soon as I walked into her shop, I smelled sugar and cinnamon and saw the most gorgeous bouquets of silver and white flowers in her cooler. I expected those were for a weekend wedding but hoped she'd have a few stems leftover for our table. "Hey woman," I said, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt. "I'm wondering if you could help me."

  Elle was in her backroom, open to the shop floor by a curtained door and a pass-through window, and I could see she was working on what looked like a massive wreath of ice. "I expect so. Give me one sec, Harvey, I just want to get these last few Dusty Miller stems into the wet ring before they start to wilt. Come on back."

  I stepped around her counter and sat on a stool by her work table. Elle's fingers moved deftly from stem to wreath and back to the pile of stems. Within a couple of minutes, she had placed the last of her sprigs and held up the wreath for me to evaluate. "What do you think?"

  The ornament was gorgeous, all grays and whites like the bouquets, but with tiny, delicate sprigs of glittering silver in between. I wouldn't have been brave enough to use the glitter, but it really set the whole wreath off. "Gorgeous," I said. "A commission?"

  "Yep, for your mom, actually." She grinned at me. "She hired me to do the bouquets for her event and asked for something special for the rink's door." She held it up in front of herself and asked, "Big enough?"

  I hadn't seen the rink, but the wreath was huge. "I hope so. Otherwise, I'm going to need a permanent assistant for skating. A rink that big might overwhelm my wall-hugging skills."

  "Do you think we would put each other in danger if we just tied ourselves together for the night?" She laughed. "At least we'd be able to cushion the other's fall sometimes."

  I laughed. "Deal. But I'm also stuffing pillows in my jeans."

  Elle laid the wreath down and shook my hand to finalize our arrangement. "What can I do you for?"

  "I was actually hear to see if I could get some bouquets for our ticket table for the event. Anything you have leftover?" I squinted in an effort to lesson my request at such the last minute.

  "Gracious, Harvey. You don't know your mother at all. She already ordered two bouquets and a tablecloth, and she even requested small matching arrangements for the cafe tables. I'll bring them by in the morning if that's okay."

  "More than okay," I said with a smile. "Thank you, Elle. Want to join Mart, Mom, Dad, and me for dinner? We're going luxurious, or as luxurious as the Thai place in Salisbury can handle." I knew Mom and Dad wouldn't mind, especially given all the work Elle was doing for her event, and I could use another person to talk with just to keep things light.

  "Ooh, that sounds great. I'd love to. What time?" She followed me to the front door.

  "Meet at the shop at four?"

  "See you then," she said with a wave as I pulled her door shut behind me.

  I decided to take my time walking back. Marcus had things well in-hand, and I wanted a minute to ponder both our event next week and Lizzie's murder. I kept thinking about that prosthetic arm. Surely, Lizzie would have brought something so valuable with her. Unless, of course, she didn't want to use it. I didn't know anything about prosthetics, but when I'd had a broken ankle, I sometimes found all the tools – crutches, scooter, a friend's arm – more annoying than just hopping along on my own. Maybe she felt the same way about her arm. After all, from what Max said, she didn't need it to do her job and do it really well.

  I had taken the long route along Main Street toward the other end from my store, and it was only when I found myself in front of Daniel's garage that I realized the lights were off. That was strange. He was usually open every weekday and some Saturdays, too. I peered through the high, square windows on the roll-up doors, but there was no sign of life. Taco's bed was even empty. Odd.

  I didn't really know what to make of that situation, so I tried to put it out of my mind as I kept on walking. The big question about Lizzie's murder was the motive. So far, nothing anyone had said gave me any clues about why someone would want to kill her. But clearly she had left secretly or else why pay the rent in advance and leave most of her things behind. I'd only do that if I wanted people to think I was coming back soon, that maybe I'd only gone out of town for a couple of days. Lizzie had been running, and she didn't want anyone to know.

  My thoughts had kept me distracted and hyper-focused, so I almost jumped out of my skin when Max grabbed my shoulder and said my name, "Harvey. I've been calling you. Are you okay?"

  His face was concerned, and I was jarred a second time by his care. "I'm fine. Sorry, I was just thinking abo
ut Lizzie."

  He nodded. "Me, too. Do you have a minute?" He pointed toward his restaurant door with an urgent wave.

  I glanced up the street toward my store and didn't see a throng waiting to burst through the doors. Marcus could handle things a few more minutes, and I really wanted someone to talk with about what I was thinking. "Sure," I said, hoping I wouldn't regret this for any number of reasons.

  Max and I walked to the bar, where he poured us each a cup of Earl Grey and slid a cream and sugar set in front of me. I wasn't much of a tea drinker these days, what with the coffee bar in my shop, but I did love a good cup of milky, sweet tea when I was feeling agitated. And I was some kind of agitated these days. "Thanks," I said as I unabashedly put three teaspoons of sugar in my mug. "So what were you thinking?"

  "Well, Tuck let me know that the Bordeaux theory wasn't worth pursuing because Lizzie didn't like wine," he rolled his eyes but in a sardonic and playful way that lacked malice, "so I started thinking about the few things she had told me in our interview and brief conversations in the days between when I offered her the job and when she started."

  I took a sip of tea and said, "And did anything come to mind?"

  "I'm not sure." He stared at the bottles behind the bar before looking at me again. "At the time I didn't make much of it, but now . . ."

  "Now, everything seems weighted," I finished. "Hit me. Maybe I can help evaluate whether it's actually weighty or not."

  He smiled. "Well, she called one afternoon a couple of days before she was about to start and asked if I would mind keeping her off our Facebook page. She said she wasn't much for having her picture taken and would rather just be anonymous if I was going to make any kind of announcement or anything."

  "Do you usually announce your new hires?" I asked. I didn't follow Chez Cuisine's page, didn't spend much time on Facebook at all, so I wasn't familiar with the kinds of things Max posted.

  "Not typically, although I did do a big to do for Symeon's arrival because, well, he has a Michelin star." Max blushed, and I wondered if he was embarrassed that he'd flaunted someone else's accomplishment for his own gain or because he had managed to land such a talented chef.

  "Ah, so she didn't want you to do the same for her, and she didn't know you weren't intending to?" I could see why this might seem both really crucial and totally unimportant, especially since Max hadn't even thought about sharing news of her arrival. "You probably didn't think much of it at the time because you hadn't been intending to share the news."

  "Exactly," he said, and some of the tension slid off his face. "But now, well, doesn't that seem odd? I mean, sure it would help my business if the bar did well, but she'd also benefit if a post like that drew more customers. Better tips and all."

  I stared at the bottle of blue liquor whose name always failed me and nodded. "She clearly didn't want her name and face announcing her location. Tuck told you about what Mrs. Leicht said about her apartment."

  "He did. Sounds like she left no trace of her leaving much less of where she left for."

  I looked over at him out of the corner of my eye. "I think she was running. Far and fast. The question is why."

  "And from whom?" Max said solemnly.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, and then I said, "Did Tuck tell you about Lizzie's prosthetic arm?"

  He spun on his stool and stared at me. "No. She had a prosthetic arm?"

  "Apparently, and a really high-quality one, from what her mom said. It wasn't in her room, but I'm presuming you didn't see her wearing it either?"

  "No, never. In fact, in the interview she actually asked me directly if I was okay with her having only one arm." He shrugged. "I told her that as long as she could do the job, I didn't care one way or the other." He looked away from me for a moment. "She seemed pleased with that, I think, like I'd said the right thing."

  I could, in my own way, see why that would please her. When business associates found out I was a woman who went by the name Harvey, I was always buoyed when they didn't comment, as if my gender wasn't an issue. It wasn't the same thing as being valued for your skills in a job interview when you had a visible disability, but I felt like maybe it was akin. "So the arm isn't at her apartment, and she wasn't wearing it here. That seems important somehow."

  Max nodded thoughtfully. "But how?"

  I stood up. "I have no idea, but we don't have to figure that part out. Not our job. I'll let Tuck know." I walked my mug around the bar and washed it quickly in the small bar sink. "Thanks for the tea, Max."

  He stared at me and then down at the mug. "You didn't have to do that?"

  "I try to clean up my own messes," I said and walked into the cold afternoon feeling a little brighter.

  * * *

  When I reached the shop a few minutes later, Mayhem bolted into the warmth and then burrowed into the wool blanket I had added to her favorite bed in the fiction section. She'd been quiet and attentive to all the goings on of the street while I'd been at Elle’s and in the restaurant, but clearly, now, she wanted to send a message about how a single sweater was not adequate attire for extended outdoor time. She looked at me with her eyes and nose showing from the blanket she had somehow gotten over herself as if to say, "Take note, woman," and I did.

  But I didn't have long to ponder my dog's cold nature because Effie, Galen's friend, approached me as soon as I got my own scarf and coat off by the register. "I came by to say I read The Glass Castle in two days, and it was devastating . . . but in the best way. I had to say thank you."

  I smiled and saw the genuine enthusiasm in her face and knew the look: she wanted to talk about the book. Poor Marcus, I thought. I left him alone, and now I was going to get caught up in a book conversation. I was going to owe him an afternoon off for sure.

  But then he was there beside me with a smile. "Isn't that book amazing? Did you notice how she simply tells the facts of her life and her mother's choices without indicting her mom?"

  Effie nodded. "It was incredible. Somehow, even though I realized that a toddler should not be boiling water to cook her own food and that the adults in that house were highly negligent, I was far more fascinated with the child's resilience than with the parents' neglect."

  Now, I couldn't help myself. "I wouldn't have been able to be that gracious in her situation, but I think that's what made the book so powerful. It lets the reader come to a place of peace along with Walls while also holding great sympathy, empathy even, for how much the Jeanette in the book must have suffered."

  Effie nodded, and I saw a shadow of something pass across her face. Sorrow. Malice. I wasn't sure, but the emotion was dark, very dark, even in the split second it took Effie to slide her readerly face back on. "If I ever write a memoir, I'm going to take her lead. Tell the truth but tell it with an eye toward compassion."

  Her dispassionate visage was still there, but I could hear that darkness in her voice still. I glanced at Marcus and saw a furrow of worry in his brow, too. There was something this woman wasn't saying.

  "Anyway," Effie said cheerily, "I'm here for more book recommendations."

  Marcus leapt into action and only shot me a puzzled shrug after he headed toward the shelves. I tagged along, not because Marcus needed me – he knew more about the books in the store than I did most days – but because I wanted to listen in just in case Effie said anything that shed light on Lizzie’s death.

  He started off with a couple very popular recommendations, The Liar's Club by Mary Karr and Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. "If you find the stories of dysfunctional families to be intriguing, these two will definitely fit the bill," he said as Effie took both books from his hands and scanned the covers before tucking both into a stack under her arm.

  Then, as if he'd read my mind, he pulled The Center Cannot Hold by Elyn R. Saks down and said, "I just finished this one. It's about a woman with schizophrenia and how she came to be a professor and how her illness led her to her work as a psychiatrist. It really made me rec
onsider my view of people with serious mental illnesses. Until I read this, I hadn't realized how much prejudice I had."

  I watched Effie closely as Marcus talked, and while her face mostly read as interested and engaged, each time Marcus mentioned Saks's disability or his own feelings toward it, I saw a little muscle in Effie's jaw twitch. And when he pulled Laughing at my Nightmare by Shane Burcaw off the shelf and held it out to Effie, she actually hesitated before picking it up. The cover showed Burcaw in his wheelchair, and it seemed just the image made Effie uncomfortable because she began shifting from foot to foot as Marcus explained how funny the book was but, again, how it changed his views.

  "Well, thank you, Marcus," Effie said when he finished his pitch. "These all look great. I'll definitely consider which I'm reading next." She glanced over toward me as I leaned against the next shelf. "I do still have Calypso to read, so I might not get all of these."

  "Of course, no pressure," Marcus said. "Just let me know if you have any questions." He winked at me as he headed toward a customer in the military history section.

  I started to move back toward the register when Effie said, "Have you read this one?" She held Burcaw's book up with the tips of her fingers only, a fact I noticed only because I was a little worried she might drop the book and damage it.

  "I haven't, but Marcus has raved about it. Said it was so funny." I sighed. "I wish I could read every book here, though." I gave her my best "What can you do?" look and turned the corner.

  A few minutes later, while I was straightening the children's section after what looked like a herd of hippopotami had come through, I noticed Effie at the counter buying two books. After she left, I rushed over. "Nope, didn't buy either of the ones by people with disabilities," Marcus said before I could ask.

  "Figures," I said. "Thanks for trying."

  He smiled, "Always happy to help, Investigator Harvey." He saluted me and headed toward the cafe for his afternoon latte and catch-up with his girl.