by Kym Roberts
Mateo strolled up behind us. “You can’t leave town.”
I turned on him. I couldn’t help it. That appealing voice of his may as well have delivered a death sentence. “I have to get back,” I insisted.
Sherriff Mateo Espinosa looked down on me with those dreamy eyes. I hate dreamy eyes. They make you melt when you shouldn’t. Buckle when you know better. Dreamy eyes hadn’t worked on me since I was seventeen. Even if the sheriff’s eyes were the color of aged whiskey glistening in the bright Texas sun, I was immune.
Ignoring their drunken allure, I repeated my plea, “I need to go home.”
Although he was shorter than Cade, Sheriff Espinosa still had more than a few inches on my five-foot, seven-inch frame. I could have sworn his eyes softened, but it could have been my tears of frustration blurring my vision.
“I need you to stay,” he said.
I gulped. “Are you telling me I can’t leave?”
“No, I’m telling you that it would be better for me and you, if you stayed until we had a suspect in custody.”
“Why is that better for me?”
“Then your name will be cleared.”
“I thought my name was cleared yesterday?” I gulped.
His eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t say a word.
I turned back to Scarlet. “Can I borrow enough money for a bus ticket?” I’d checked out the price on my phone earlier that morning: $149, plus tax and fees. With meals, $200 should be enough to get me home and pay for my parking at the airport in Denver. Otherwise, every day I waited the amount of cash I needed to pay for parking increased.
Scarlet looked at the sheriff and I wanted to scream. He didn’t know what was best for me, just what was best for his case.
“I’m . . . I’m really sorry . . .” she started, refusal written all over her crimson cheeks.
“I’m looking to buy a bookstore here in Hazel Rock.” Another unwanted voice joined our conversation.
I looked up at Cade. Last night he’d wanted to lock lips and talk about finding my dad. Now he was talking about buying the bookstore so I could leave town. I looked back at the sheriff, who was now leaning up against the exterior of the Bluebonnet Quilt Shop. His arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms corded. He was either very tense or he had the most ripped forearms I’d ever seen. His face, however, remained emotionless.
Scarlet cleared her throat, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with this trio.
“Why do you want to buy The Book Barn?” I asked
“The Book Barn Princess,” all three of them said in unison.
I rolled my eyes. “Why do you want to buy The Book Barn Princess?”
“Because your dad wanted to sell it and I don’t want the town to lose the only bookstore within a twenty-five-mile radius.”
It sounded heroic. At another time, I may have swooned. But now I wasn’t buying it. If Cade was the heroic type, he would have defended my honor, and Scarlet and the sheriff wouldn’t be acting as if life was about to get really weird.
Which it already had. I had no clue where my father was hiding out. Nor did I understand why he wasn’t here to take care of Marlene. It made no sense.
“Has anyone seen my dad?” I asked, wondering if I should confess that he was no longer living in the apartment.
Cade looked across the street. “No.”
The sheriff was more direct. “He’s a person of interest in Marlene’s death.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I exclaimed.
Sheriff Espinosa stood up straight. “Is it?”
Yes. Yes, it was. Yet I didn’t say it, because even though my heart knew it was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard, my brain wasn’t sure.
“The Book Barn Princess isn’t for sale,” I heard myself say. I’m not sure why I blurted it out. The last thing I wanted to do was stay and ruin my hopes and dreams, yet that’s exactly what I’d just done. I’d doomed my future.
I turned away before my frustration spilled the tears down my cheeks. My dad was missing and he was a person of interest in the death of his girlfriend. I had no money other than the petty cash fund, which amounted to forty-three dollars after my lunch. And the one person I thought was a friend had turned down my plea for help.
I was officially stuck in Hazel Rock, Texas . . . indefinitely.
It seemed my daddy had raised a fool after all.
Chapter Eleven
Once I was in The Barn, the silence was unbearable. I felt trapped and alone, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in years. I needed to take control of my future, not let anyone stand in my way. That included a dead Realtor and an absent father.
I looked out the front of the store to make sure Scarlet, Cade, and Mateo were gone, then went back outside and locked the door. I went around the back of the building, just in case Scarlet was looking out her window, and felt like a teenager sneaking out to meet her boyfriend. I headed for Yellow Jacket Realty two blocks down and one block over and looked for my father’s truck along the way. Not that I expected to find it, I just hoped to see it.
The front of Yellow Jacket Realty hadn’t changed since my childhood. A light yellow one-story house, it was accented with black shutters and a black door. Though the color scheme was the same, it had obviously been repainted over the years because the exterior looked clean and fresh. Including the yellow jacket wasp image on the sign out front.
Red-tip photinia shrubs lined the front of the house and the driveway leading to the parking lot in the rear of the business. I followed the well-maintained brick pavers to the front door and climbed the three steps to the covered porch where several black rocking chairs were placed neatly across the front of the structure. I was completely relieved to find the front door unlocked and that I’d at least get the opportunity to talk to someone. A cool blast of air-conditioning hit me in the face as I entered.
“May I help you?” With those four words I could tell the elderly woman sitting behind the reception desk was Southern born and raised. She may not have been a Hazel Rock native, but she pronounced help without the l.
I smiled and poured on my own Southern charm. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Charli Rae Warren,” I started.
The smile dropped off her wrinkled face.
Dagnabbit. I should have gotten answers before I identified myself.
I changed tactics and pulled a tissue from my purse as I let my face crumple. “This whole thing has got me so upset, I’m not sure what to do with myself.” I might have felt guilty except so far, I’d told the complete truth.
The woman behind the desk—Ruth, if the nameplate was correct—jumped up immediately. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”
I sniffed. More allergies than tears, but that coupled with, “Do you have sweet tea, Ruth?” did the trick. Her wrinkles smoothed.
“Of course, dear. I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared into a back room and I took the time to blow my nose. Loudly. When Ruth returned with my glass of tea, I thanked her graciously and took a sip. It wasn’t as good as my daddy’s, but it was pretty close.
Ruth sat down next to me. “I want you to know that even though our dear Marlene is no longer with us . . .” She paused and closed her eyes. She inhaled through her nose and then exhaled through her mouth. Guilt blossomed in my chest. I squelched it. I was trying to find Marlene’s killer, not hurt anyone. Ruth continued, “We here at Yellow Jacket Realty will do everything in our power to continue on with the sale of The Book Barn Princess.”
I clasped her hand. “I appreciate that, I really do. I know this must be so much harder on you than it is me.” I sincerely meant that. The death of a coworker in a small business could be devastating all the way around. I’d heard it in the voice of the receptionist when I’d called. “After all, Marlene was a literal stranger to me. But to you . . .”
Ruth stiffened. “Yes, I had to send our receptionist home this morning when I flew back early fr
om my vacation. The loss has been . . . hard. I’m Ruth Busby, Marlene’s partner.”
Disappointment scattered my thoughts. In one sentence, Ruth had exonerated herself as a potential suspect. Marlene’s partner had been on vacation when Marlene was killed. Unless she’d hired a killer, which I didn’t think she was capable of, Ruth wasn’t involved in Marlene’s death.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ruth,” I commented. “I was hoping you could help me contact the previous buyer, I know your receptionist said the deal was no longer on the table, but if I could just talk to them . . .”
Ruth was shaking her head before I’d finished my sentence. “I’m sorry dear, but MCM is no longer interested in the property. Marlene’s death . . .” Her voice faded.
I nodded. “Of course, I understand. Could you tell me what type of business MCM is?”
“MCM Incorporated was hoping to make The Barn into a mini mart.”
I cleared my throat. Disappointed that I couldn’t make the sale move forward. “I can see where that would appeal to the community of Hazel Rock.”
“Yes, dear. That was always Marlene’s goal. To serve the community.” Ruth’s voice became gruff, but it didn’t sound as if sadness was the cause. More like irritation.
I tried for one more bit of information. “I have some of Marlene’s belongings in the apartment at the store, where I’m staying . . . indefinitely.” Again, that wasn’t a lie. “I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t spoken to my father, but I know he and Marlene recently bought a house together? We may not be on the best of terms, but I know her items would bring him comfort.”
“Bless your heart, of course they would. And seeing your concern may mend the damage you caused in your relationship with your daddy.”
I pulled another tissue from my purse and shoved it to my mouth before I blurted out that I hadn’t caused a bit of damage in my relationship with my father. Obviously, she’d heard otherwise, and it had probably been from Marlene.
Ruth patted my leg in comfort and I swallowed down my pride, despite the kicking and bucking it was doing all the way down my throat that was worse than any horse pill a doctor could have given me. “Do you think you could give me the address?” I managed in a strangled voice.
Ruth grabbed a business card from the desk and hesitated. “I guess I’ll have to remove these.” She shook her head and wrote an address on the back before handing it to me.
“I wish you the best with your daddy. If the two of you could come in after Marlene’s funeral, we’ll work on a plan to move forward to sell The Barn.”
I thanked her for her time and left before looking at the card. Marlene stared back at me—smiling like there was no tomorrow. And for her, there wasn’t.
Chapter Twelve
The side door opened to The Barn and Scarlet walked in. “This is the last place you want to be, isn’t it?”
“Not really.”
She looked at me with disbelief.
“In the middle of a swamp filled with alligators would be a lot worse,” I told her.
“Not if you had one of those alligator hunters with you.”
“Really? Which one? From what I’ve seen, I’d be lucky if they didn’t shoot me in the foot and bring a whole school of alligators to the scent of my blood in the water.”
She laughed. “That’s sharks, not alligators. Alligators are solitary animals who like dead chickens.”
“They’re reptiles,” I corrected her.
Princess waddled into the room and sniffed my feet. Part of me wanted to punt her in the opposite direction. The other part was curious as to what she was up to.
Scarlet beamed that thousand-watt smile and pulled a chair up to the table I was sitting at in the tearoom. “Being stuck in a wrestling ring with a professional wrestler would be worse.”
I couldn’t help it; I smiled. Whether it was because of the rodent sitting up on her hind legs and twitching her ears and nose at me, or Scarlet cracking jokes, I wasn’t sure. “How would that be worse?”
“You want to be slammed on a mat by a huge, sweaty guy with long, greasy hair who’s got a female sidekick who will tear every curl out of your head because you’ve got better hair than she does?”
Princess squeaked. My smile grew. “I was picturing holding the mike and standing between a military hero and a mystery man in black—both of them with killer bodies.”
I winced at my choice of adjective.
“We can’t escape death, Charli. Even in Hazel Rock,” Scarlet announced.
I stopped sorting through the books on the table, wondering what the heck I’d missed.
“Suzie Simpson died of lung cancer a month ago. I had to do her hair for the funeral,” she said.
I flinched. I couldn’t help it. The thought of touching the dead was too much.
“John Cavendar died in an accident last year on highway 152. He was going to pick up an engagement ring for his girlfriend. His casket was closed.”
“That’s a little different than what happened to Marlene.” I looked over at the spot where she’d died. Even though I’d cleaned and there was no sign of a crime ever having occurred inside The Barn, I found my gaze constantly returning to the spot.
“Is that where she died?” Scarlet asked, following my gaze.
“What? No. No,” I lied. The sheriff had asked me not to disclose the location and I’d agreed. I wanted her killer caught and thought it was better for business not to divulge the information to anyone, lest I get another memorial started inside the store. “I was just lost in thought. Sorry.”
Scarlet nodded, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. “What are you doing?”
“Going through some of the books that were damaged by the fingerprint powder.” I placed a hardcover mystery novel off to my left.
“You could make stuff out of them,” Scarlet suggested.
“What?”
“Book art.” She said it like I was supposed to know what the heck she was talking about.
“What’s book art?”
“It’s when old books are repurposed into art or something useful.”
I looked at her as if she’d grown a horn in the middle of her forehead. “Who would ruin a book?”
She looked at the stack of books on my left and right. The covers were blackened, pages torn, and several looked chewed up. I was hoping it was the work of my dad’s rodent and not due to any other residents that may have made their home in The Barn. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d fought off mice.
I bit my lip. “I suppose we could do something with these . . .” I put my hand on the stack of damaged hardcovers.
At the first sign of weakness, Scarlet pounced. She scooted closer. The sound of the chair screeching against the concrete floor made Princess perk up her ears and head in the opposite direction. That was fine with me.
Scarlet picked her Michael Kors bag off the floor and pulled out her phone. Next thing I knew, we were scrolling through photo after photo of the coolest things I’d ever seen—all made out of books. From ornaments to flowers to wreaths to beds and chairs and tables, counters, and even walls—entire rooms covered with book pages and book jackets.
“Wow. I never would have dreamed someone would destroy so many books to make a bed.”
“People destroy beautiful living trees to make beds . . . and to make books.”
She had a point. As much as I wanted to argue in the name of my love for books, the ugly truth was that trees died in the name of the written word.
Scarlet closed the app, then opened some personal photos. “I’ve made these out of books your dad gave me.” She scrolled through picture after picture of beautiful decorations. Decorations I’d pay good money to own, like her trio of gourds of different heights and shapes. They had wooden stems, with twine to create the vines and leaves made out of colorful covers that kept the title and the author’s names intact. The edges of the pages had been lightly painted different shades of orange.
“Two of the
three gourds you can still read the book. The third was chewed up by Princess, so I was able to make its shape a little bit different,” she explained.
“They’re incredible.”
“Thank you. I was thinking you could sell them in the store to help raise some money.”
“But they’re yours,” I protested.
“Technically they belong to you. Your dad gave them to me.”
“He gave the books to you . . . and you created something special and unique.”
It turned out, Scarlet was equally stubborn. “And I’m giving them back so you can do something wonderful with them.”
I could tell she wasn’t going to budge, and I honestly didn’t know what to say. I was touched by her generosity, but I didn’t see how buying a plane ticket home was something wonderful for anyone but me. Plus, sometime in the middle of the day I’d resolved not to sell the store so I could stay and help clear my dad’s name. “Thank you, but I can’t—”
“Look, it’s going to take you at least a week to make enough money to go home. In the mean time we can do some snooping and see what we can find out about Marlene’s death and why your dad has disappeared.”
How she knew what I was thinking was beyond me. If she’d wanted to help me buy the plane ticket or even just a bus ticket, she could have just loaned me the money. Instead, she was offering to help run the store. But since Marlene’s funeral was scheduled for Thursday, I had to wait at least until Friday before I could even open the store. That was six days away.
“I appreciate your help, I really do. But I can’t even open the store until Friday.”
“You could have a backdoor sale.”
“What?”
“A backdoor sale. As gruesome as it is, people want to see where Marlene died and they’ll feel obligated to buy something. But you don’t just want them to come in and buy a used book. You want them to buy more expensive items. With book art placed throughout the store, people—especially the women around here—won’t be able to resist buying a piece of rustic-chic décor. Especially if it’s got gossip attached.”