Scripted to Slay

by ACF Bookens

I sighed. "Yep, and if we're right, tomorrow is going to be another chance for that person to reveal their rage." I just hoped we saw their anger before someone else got hurt.

  * * *

  I slept fitfully, and when I woke on Tuesday morning, I didn't feel the usual joy I do on new book day. A softball-sized lump of dread was sitting in my belly, and it took all the energy I had to pull myself out of bed. Luckily, Aslan helped by kneading her needle-like claws through my quilt and into the flesh of my ankle. Nothing like pain to start the day.

  Once, I was up, though, my anxious energy had me moving so fast I forgot to put sugar in my coffee and had to endure the bitter taste of the mainstream stuff we kept at home until I got to the store. Once again, my pets saved me, though, because about halfway through our walk to town, Mayhem and Taco each spotted pigeons and tried to go in different directions with great vigor. So much vigor, in fact, that they caused me to stumble and drop my coffee. I looked forlornly at the caffeine as it soaked into the lawn of a cute Craftsman cottage and then reined in the pups for the last few blocks of our walk. Now, I had no excuse but to have two lattes.

  When I got to the store, Marcus was already on hand, despite the fact that it wasn't even nine a.m. I'd gone in early to prepare for the day, but I hadn't asked him to do the same. Still, I was thrilled to see him, especially today. "Bless you," I said as I unwound my scarf.

  "Big day. Figured you could use the help opening up and getting things ready for this afternoon." He had already set up a table near the front windows where we could put the food for the wake. "I'm putting up the table so we don't have to do it later, but for now, I'm going to use it as a bonus releases display. Okay with you?"

  I grinned. "Perfect. I don't know how many people will come this afternoon, and I don't know when they'll arrive. I have a feeling it'll be mostly local folks, but you never know. Definitely best to get as many things done now as we can, but yeah, I don't want empty tables either."

  He gave me a quick salute and then threw a light blue tablecloth over the plastic table and created a lovely display that featured Ellen Hopkins's much-anticipated Sanctuary Highway. I always marveled at Marcus's displays with their various levels and casual symmetry. I could keep books neat and tidy, but visual creativity had never been my strong suit. Add that to the ever-expanding list of reasons Marcus was amazing.

  With the opening chores done, the new releases clearly stocked both on our usual table and Marcus's new display, and my latte retrieved from Rocky's talented hands, I felt my anxiety about the day start to creep in – and at exactly the wrong time. The store was opening, and I could see a few people waiting outside. I took a deep breath, flipped on the neon, and unlocked the door.

  I said good morning to each customer and did my best to look enthused to see them, and I was – at one level – but at my core, I really just wanted to be home, on the couch, with a blanket, a mug of hot cider, and a book. I could feel the tightness in my chest that warned me I was close to being overwhelmed and needed to focus on doing something that relaxed me. Unfortunately, relaxing and managing a business are not usually the best companions, but I decided to take a few minutes and slip into the backroom for a quick yoga series. Sometimes, all I needed was to focus on my breath, stretch my body, and let my thoughts skip by like pebbles across a pond.

  Marcus was steadfastly handling the customers, and so I made my way to the backroom, where I'd stashed an extra yoga mat when the holiday season had gone sideways for a couple of weeks. I realized then – just like now – that if I was going to make it, I had to spend some time taking care of myself, even on the busy days. Yoga classes were out of the question because of my schedule, but I'd had enough of them in the past that with a YouTube video playing in my wireless earbuds through my phone, I was able to get fifteen minutes of a morning yoga routine in.

  When I was done, I slipped my earbuds out and into their case, rolled up my mat, and took a long swig from the really cute new water bottle I'd picked up. It said, "Book Lover" on it, and the books were stacked in the shape of a heart. Mart had gotten it for me for Christmas, and I adored it . . . even if I neglected it in favor of coffee-based beverages far too often.

  I was just stashing my mat in the back when I heard the click of the breakroom door as it closed. I spun around, expecting to see Marcus ready to ask me a question. Instead, I almost bumped into Mrs. Leicht. She was standing with her hands folded at her waist, and I couldn't read her expression. She looked exhausted. Her skin had a sort of green-gray hue to it, and her shoulders were hunched forward. But there was something in her expression, a steely edge that made me think she was upset, very upset. She was between me and the only way out.

  I took another deep breath and willed my fear to the purposeful place of determining how I was going to get to that door if I needed to. Then, I said, "Mrs. Leicht, good to see you. Let's go out on the floor to talk. We really only allow employees in our breakroom." I stepped forward to gently take her upper arm and spin her back toward the door, but she slid away from me without moving out from in front of the door.

  "I wanted to thank you, Harvey." Her voice was quiet, soft, like she was afraid to speak too loudly.

  I thought about the way I always overcompensated by speaking far too softly when I'd been at a loud concert or near heavy machinery. "Thank me for what?" I was hoping she was going say the wake later today, but something about her expression didn't make me think this was gratitude for cordiality.

  "For finding out why someone killed my daughter." She spread her feet wide as she studied her hands in front of her, and I got the impression of a soccer goalie ready to cover all the corners.

  My heartrate kicked up, and I took a deep breath to slow it down as I wondered if I could make it under the table in the corner and out the door before she grabbed me. She was a little plump and a decade older than me, but I thought she could take me. Rage makes a woman powerful I decided against an escape attempt.

  "Well, I didn't really do that." I caught myself before I revealed what I thought was the motive and felt my heart race ahead again after my near slip. "I still don't know why someone killed Liz- Cassandra?" I knew it was risky to ask a question at this point, but I literally couldn't help myself. "Why do you think I know why someone killed her?"

  She took a step toward me. "Because you're smart. And I think you're compassionate, too. Those two traits, well, Cassandra had them, too, and she always understood why someone did something." Tears welled up in her eyes. "You're a lot like her you know."

  My fear slid back a notch, and I let out a long sigh. "Thank you for that compliment. I think I would have really liked her."

  That word of kindness broke something open. Her face crumpled, and she sank down to her knees as the sobs shook her shoulders.

  13

  I stepped behind Mrs. Leicht, still aware that I needed to be savvy about my safety, and then put my arm around her. "I'm so sorry," I said.

  She leaned into me, and I held her up as the grief washed through her in waves. When she quieted a few moments later, I helped her to one of the chairs in the breakroom and then sat down beside her, wishing I had a cup of chamomile tea.

  As if on cue, Rocky slipped through the door and set two mugs of steaming tea in front of us. "Enjoy," she said, and as she passed me, she dropped a piece of paper in my lap. I covered it with my hand and then turned back to Mrs. Leicht.

  "I can't imagine what you're going through," I said. I really, really wanted to know why she thought I knew about the reason Lizzie was killed, but this woman needed my support far more than my interrogation.

  "You hear people say it's the worst thing in the world to lose a child, but until . . ." she stopped and took a shuddering breath before looking at me. "She really was wonderful. And I'm not the only one who thought so. Everyone said it. She was strong and smart, but people loved her most because she listened so well."

  I patted her arm as she took a sip of tea. "That's what Max said about her as a bart
ender. That the patrons loved her because she really listened to them."

  Mrs. Leicht nodded. "She'd always been that way, even when she was a little girl. I'd take her over to a friend's house to play, and when I'd come back, the parents would say how nice Lizzie had been to their child, that she'd been so quiet but so there."

  "That's a real gift, to be able to help people feel heard." I had friends who always made me feel that way, but other people in my life who should have done that for me, didn't . . . so I never took that gift for granted anymore. "You must miss her."

  Mrs. Leicht's face tightened. "I've missed her for a long time, I'm afraid. I was stupid and didn't listen well myself. I pushed her away." Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn't cave in again. Instead, she met my eyes and said, "I need to make that right."

  Of course, I had a sense of what she was talking about given what people had said about how she felt about Lizzie and her decision not to use her prosthetic arm, but even though Mrs. Leicht probably knew that had come up – how could it not in a murder investigation – I decided I'd try to follow Lizzie's lead and listen. "What do you mean?"

  Then, this grieving mother told me about their car accident, about Lizzie's amputation, about how the assumption had been made by herself and Lizzie's doctors that Lizzie would want a prosthetic. "I just didn't listen. She didn't want it. She hated it, in fact."

  There was a plea in Mrs. Leicht's eyes. "It's so hard to understand when someone wants something different than what you'd want or what you want for them. You loved her. You did the best you could. I'm sure she knew that."

  "I hope so." She sighed. "I said some awful things, though, things I can't take back. Things I can't even apologize for now." Tears flowed down her cheeks again.

  There was nothing to say to that. "I know. Someone stole that chance from you." I was going out on a really shaky limb here, but I had to push this conversation forward.

  Mrs. Leicht gritted her teeth. "They did. And I want them to pay, Harvey. I want them to pay." She looked at me with a plea.

  "They will. Tuck is very good at his job. He will catch whoever did this." Fortunately, I thought ahead and didn't reveal Effie's job with the FBI. "You'll see justice served." I felt confident about that, and I hoped I wasn't overconfident. Or totally misguided about Mrs. Leicht.

  She stood, pushing herself up from the table, and turned to me. "I really just came here to thank you for holding the wake today. It's very thoughtful."

  I reached over and gave her a quick hug, and when I pulled back, she was flushed and looked startled. "Sorry, I’m a hugger," I said.

  "Listen," I moved us to the breakroom door. "I know nothing will take away your pain, but tomorrow, we're having that fundraiser for the National Disability Rights Network. I'd be honored if you'd come as my guest. It's quietly in Cassandra's honor, and I'd love to see you there."

  She nodded. "I’d like that. Maybe it's a chance for me to do some things that would have helped my daughter, things she would have actually wanted."

  I smiled, and we walked out onto the main floor. I caught Marcus's eye as he stood not too far away with his cellphone in his hands. He nodded, slipped the phone into his pocket, and went to the register.

  "See you this afternoon, Mrs. Leicht," I said at the front door.

  "Helen, please call me Helen." She gave me a wan smile and went out the door.

  I headed back to the register and kept myself busy straightening bags while Marcus finished the customer's purchase. As soon as the customer left, though, I stood up and said, "Okay, how did you know about the tea? And what were you doing near the door?"

  Marcus blushed and said, "I forgot to tell you this morning. I wasn't planning to use them until I did, but then, I got worried. You don't have the best track record with keeping yourself safe when talking to suspects, so I went ahead and turned them on."

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to seem skeptical, but I knew that whatever Marcus had done was smart . . . and he wasn't wrong about how I had a tendency to put myself in danger. "What did you do? Bug the backroom?"

  The red in his cheeks deepened. "Not exactly. I put in a camera." He turned his phone so I could see the screen and there, clear as day, was our breakroom. "It's a really good picture, huh?"

  I nodded and then stared at him. "Is this legal? I mean, I thought it was illegal to film people."

  "I checked with Tuck. It's all totally fine. It's illegal to record someone's voice but not to film them. And just to cover the bases, I put some stickers in the windows to let people know." He pointed toward the front of the store.

  I walked to the front, and there, sure enough, in the bottom of the two display windows was a discreet but clear sticker about video cameras being in use as well as a line in braille that I presumed said the same thing. "I totally missed those when I came in."

  "Um, well, I didn't get them up until after she was in the back. Sorry." He smiled and winced and said, "Is it okay?"

  I smiled. "Actually, I think it's a great idea. Might help deter shoplifters, too, and given that we've been the site of some unsavory acts in the past, it's probably something we should have done a long time ago." I scanned the upper corners of the store. "I expect they're not just in the breakroom?"

  "No, there are six – one in the back, one by the doors to the bathroom, one by the back door, one in the cafe and two here on the main floor." He tapped his phone's screen and turned it to me again. "See?"

  Six tiny windows showed all the various sections of my small store, and I smiled. "Now, have you already scoped out the blind corners so that when we are the site of a major heist, we'll know exactly when they donned their masks and changed their appearance?"

  "I purposefully left a blind spot in the thriller section because, well, that seemed fitting." Marcus grinned and then walked me over to an alcove by an overstuffed arm chair. He had me look at the camera pointed that way and then watch as he disappeared from view for just a few seconds. When he reappeared, his hood was up, and he had the front pocket of his sweatshirt filled with mass market copies of James Patterson's books.

  "Perfect," I said. "We wouldn't want to ruin the thieves’ fun."

  As we headed back to the register, I thanked him for his smart thinking and for keeping an eye on me while I talked with Helen. "She's really just a grieving mother," I said and hoped I was right. While we'd been talking, I'd been sure, but now, with a little space to reflect, I wondered if I had been just sold a really convincing performance. Either way, we'd have a chance to read her again in just a few hours.

  * * *

  Just after one, Tuck and Effie came in, and Marcus showed them where all the cameras were located. Then, the four of us sat down in the cafe to go over the plan. We'd set up a small conversation nook in the fiction section, and Stephen was ready to start off the conversations there with Helen after Walter led the small public program. Marcus would go next, and then he'd tap our friends one by one to go talk with the grieving mother. Everyone would be instructed to pay careful attention to what she told them about Lizzie, and we had a plan to gather after the store closed to compare notes.

  "We also need to keep an eye on Davis, though," Effie said. "If he shows."

  "He'll show," Max said, as he pulled over a chair and joined us. I'd invited him to come over and plan since it had been his idea on how to lure Davis back.

  "He told you that," Tuck said.

  "He said he'd try," Max noted, "but the way he said it . . . he's coming."

  Tuck nodded. "Max, then, I suggest you be our key contact with Davis. He knows you, trusts you, it seems, and it'll appear natural for you to stay with him for most of the day since you both were Lizzie's employers."

  Max let out a long, slow breath. "Okay. I'll prepare some small talk about running a restaurant, see if I can flatter him by asking for his advice."

  "Good plan," Effie said. "Harvey, you'll need to be overseeing things, but let's have you be Max's back up with Davis jus
t in case."

  "Okay," I said . . . but didn't look forward to more hard conversations today. Not at all.

  * * *

  At about one thirty, my friends started to arrive, and like the good, thoughtful people they were, they brought food. Mostly comfort food. Mart brought my favorite orange soda and tucked a couple of bottles of white wine under the register for later. Lucas and Cate brought cupcakes. Mom carried in a pound of fudge, and Dad followed behind with a tin filled with the only thing he could make, no-cook mints.

  I was beginning to wonder if I'd be unconscious from a sugar crash by the time the wake began when Lu and Tuck arrived with trays full of taco makings. Then Elle came in with a cheese tray, and Woody arrived with a chopped salad that looked amazing. Henri, Bear, and Pickle brought in a spread of pickles that featured a photo of Pickle's face right in the middle, and I laughed out loud. When Stephen and Walter carried in bottles of sweet tea and lemonade, we were all set.

  Everyone set up things in the breakroom, and I sent Marcus back first so that he could be sure to get enough food. The man could eat like no one I had ever seen, and the fact that he continued to be thin as a rail was not lost on or appreciated by me. Mart hung back with me and staffed the cafe while Rocky filled a plate for herself.

  Then, the rest of us tucked into the food, and by the time I'd eaten tacos, salad, pickles, two mints, a piece of fudge, and a peppermint cupcake, I was still ready to crash out, if not from a drop in blood sugar then from a too-full belly. But instead, I broke my own no-caffeine after noon rule and picked up a caffeinated latte from Rocky and set everyone to work.

  It was too much effort to shift the bookshelves far, but we did manage to spin a few of the smaller ones out so that we had a sort of book-filled fan around a small central area. Marcus brought out our music stand and microphone set-up, and Walter did a test while Stephen pulled together the conversation corner that was mostly but not entirely separate from the larger space. He set a bouquet of tulips – the first ones Elle had forced in her greenhouse – on a small table between the two chairs and then slid two small footstools into place before each seat. Discreetly, he also tucked a box of tissues under the table, just in case.