by Lyn Key
“How could I speak with his lips planted on mine like a plumber’s helper? I’m sure after I came up for air I must’ve said I also loved him.”
“H’m.”
“Disappointed?”
“I was expecting you showed more zest and passion. It’s not a sweet story the way you tell it. You should embellish the tale by at least adding a soft jazz tune was playing in the background.”
I know I wasn’t there at the time, but I’m sure J.D. and Hope were confident in the knowledge of how much they loved and cared for each other.
“Where did you pop up from, stranger?” Hope asked. “I thought you lay flaked out asleep on top of the dryer.”
I’m delighted to report I’ve caught up on my snooze time, and I’m ready to boogie. So, what’s tonight’s excitement?
“I don’t know what you’re anticipating, but Stace and I are off to bed in a few minutes,” Hope replied. “She goes to school tomorrow, and I have to put in a full day at the bookshop. There are a ton of used books still packed away in the boxes Peggy Sue and I need to process and put out on the sales shelves.”
“Where did you get the boxes of used books?” Stacey asked.
“Peggy Sue went to the estate sale of the rich, eccentric June Crockett,” Hope replied. “Peggy Sue paid ten dollars for the entire lot before she and Travis loaded the boxes into the back of the van and hauled the boxes over to the bookshop. The stacked boxes are in the back room.”
“Have you found any keepers packed away in them?” Stacey asked.
“So far, I’ve selected the usual stuff we pick up at the estate sales,” Hope replied. “June was a fan of Hollywood memoirs and sweet romances, which is good because we can move them more quickly and get our full asking price.”
I say phooey on work and school tomorrow. Put on your gumshoes, grab your Maglites, and we’ll go do a little sleuthing. Night is the best time to prowl around the town. Or so I’ve heard from a reliable source.
“I have to turn in my history paper tomorrow to Mr. Stanhope, or I run the risk of him flunking me,” Stacey said. “I’d rather walk across a scorpion pit barefoot than repeat taking his history class this summer.”
I’ll have to go along with you party poopers. Sleep now, sleuth later. See you in the morning then.
“What plans do you have up your paw for tonight’s entertainment?” Hope asked.
Don’t sweat it. We cats know plenty of ways to amuse ourselves.
“I don’t want you tearing around the house to burn off your surplus energy,” Hope said. “Bear that in mind. Hear me?”
I’ll perch on the TV tray table in front of the window and silently meow at the full moon.
***
Hope set her nightstand alarm to go off ten minutes early the next morning so she had plenty of time to get her act together and make it on time to Greta’s exercise class held at the Sweet Spring’s Community Center. Hope dressed in a cool shade of pink, loose-fitting outfit before she wolfed down a black cherry yogurt with a granola bar. However, she postponed making her French roast coffee until she returned home. Working out on a caffeine buzz wasn’t a smart course of action as she’d learned from prior experience. The nearest restroom was a long three-minute hike from the gym.
“Good morning, Nozy Cat,” she said as he poked into the kitchen while yawning and stretching his legs.
Yeah, well, that’s a matter of opinion if you ask me.
“How did the moon appear in last night’s sky?”
The moon is still round, shiny, and yellow.
“Did you spot any witches flying on their broomsticks across it?”
Ha, ha, Hope made a funny.
“I hope your grumpy disposition improves as the day goes on.”
You know I’m not a morning feline. But thanks for the thought. Now feed me so I can slink off to the top of the dryer.
“Is it your new roosting spot?”
What if it is?
“It’s fine with me. Just be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to leave for the bookshop after I get back from my exercise class.”
Yeah. Whatever you say. Break a leg if you like. Where’s my breakfast?
Hope took care of feeding Nozy Cat. She found a felt tip marker and tried to scribble a note to Stacey on a paper table napkin, but it crumbled up while Hope wrote on it. Napkins were lousy for recording notes. She rewrote her message on a memo pad, reminding Stacey still in bed to wear her shoes to school (“do not go barefoot!”) and be sure to eat a healthy breakfast (“w/glass of milk, OJ, & cantaloupe slice!”).
With a sigh known to all the single moms raising spirited teenage daughters, Hope posted her note by Stacey’s table placemat. Hope knew Stacey would see and read the note. Whether she obeyed it was anybody’s guess. Hope filled her water bottle and grabbed her backpack holding the six-pound hand weights she used in the exercise class.
Though the Sweet Springs Community Center lay within easy walking distance, Hope didn’t feel like lugging the heavy backpack on foot so she drove over. Time was running tight. Greta was a stickler for punctuality, and no member had better arrive tardy, or the heads would roll. Although Hope and the other ladies smirked and murmured snarky comments about Greta, no member had quit taking her calories-burning exercise class.
Greta owned a silver police whistle, and she liked to toot it so loud and often Hope nicknamed Greta the “Drill Sergeant.” She also liked to tout her degree in exercise science from a college nobody had ever heard of, and she considered herself an expert on every aspect of personal training. She also held a few screwball ideas about physical workouts that flew in the face of common sense.
The two dozen ladies—the only old man in their class had hitched up the trailer and moved south to live in warmer Savannah—gathered in the community center’s air-conditioned gym kept sparkling clean. They placed the exercise mats on the newly laid maple parquet floor and brought their oversized beach towels from home to cover the exercise mats.
Each lady staked out her favorite position. Hope took up her carefully selected spot in the last row in case she suffered a wardrobe malfunction (a split seam or broken shoelace) or worse, a sneak attack of flatulence. She also sweated—a lot—and who wanted to stand near a sweaty person?
“Class, I’ll repeat my number one tip for your benefit this morning,” Greta said in her reedy voice, not a drill instructor’s bark. “Drink no water! That’s right. I said don’t touch a drop of water.”
A mutinous chorus of mumbles filled the gym, and no member tried to hide her water bottle from Greta.
“You shouldn’t have to sweat while performing my exercise routines,” Greta said. “I have tailored them that way.”
The mutinous chorus continued buzzing.
“Take a look at your instructor,” Greta said. “While I lead you in the exercise routines, I hardly break a sweat on my brow. That is the goal to which you should aspire.”
By now, the members’ skeptical eye rolls, raised eyebrows, and snorting scoffs cranked up in earnest.
“She’s nutty as a cheese log or at least a slice of Christmas rum cake,” said the lady who exercised the nearest to Hope.
“Humans are programmed to sweat,” another lady said.
“Not only that but I perspire profusely,” a third lady said. “I’m grateful for it, too. It indicates I’m getting up my heart rate.”
“Besides which, we ladies don’t sweat,” a fourth lady said. “We glisten.”
Hope nodded at them.
“If you don’t sip any water from your water bottles, you won’t sweat it out,” Greta said before she tooted her whistle. “Class, attention, please. Let’s begin our first exercise routine. Just follow my lead.”
They performed it to a snappy Shania Twain country music hit, and from the outset, Hope regretted how she’d skipped taking a couple of the classes. Her muscles and joints protested with the needle stabs of pain, but she steeled herself, refusing to slow down and keeping up with the brisk pa
ce Greta set.
She was a high-energy instructor who used a wireless microphone on a headset to shout her instructions and verbal encouragement while Shania went on singing how she felt like a woman. “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh.” Hope felt like a half-dead woman by the time the exercise routine grounded to a halt. She sneaked a glance up front at Greta. Sure enough, she looked as if she belonged in a TV vitamin commercial with hardly a hair out of place.
Greta has got to be a freak of nature, Hope thought as she used a towel to wipe the drips of perspiration off her forehead, shoulders, and arms. Anybody who’s human would be sweating as I’m doing right now.
“Wasn’t that invigorating?” Greta asked.
Oh sure, it was crazy awesome as Stacey likes to say, Hope thought, trying to catch her breath. Start up Shania and let’s do it again, girls.
“Do. Not. Drink. Any. Water,” Greta said.
Hope freely sipped from her water bottle as the other tired ladies also did.
Greta tooted her whistle and stirred her arms above her head.
“I said no water!” she screeched into her wireless microphone. “How many times do I need to say it?”
Say it until you turn purple in the face,” Hope thought. I pay for taking the class, so I’ll drink as much water as I darn well feel like.
“Everybody is doing super, and you guys are the champs,” Greta said. “Let’s take five while I queue up the new music.”
Just don’t put on any of that snoozer elevator music, Hope thought as her breaths evened out.
“Hope? Is that you? Do I have it right? Are you Hope Jones?”
At hearing her name spoken, Hope turned around to find Sarah Caldwell with her open smile. She was the murder victim Hugo’s weekend date for their Baltimore rendezvous.
“I thought it was you I spotted back here,” she said. “I’m Sarah Caldwell. We met and talked yesterday at your bookshop.”
“Hi, Sarah,” Hope said. “What’s going on?”
“Peggy Sue told me to come here since I want to speak to you again.”
Hope nodded.
“I’ve noticed Greta runs her exercise class like a boot camp.”
“Wait until she gets her second wind.”
“It looks as if you’re getting in a robust session.”
Hope smiled. “Like you said, Greta is an exuberant instructor, and everybody wants to get their money’s worth from her class.”
Sarah frowned. “I thought you said the money is tight for you.”
“Greta is an avid science fiction fan, so I give her first dibs on any of those titles we receive in exchange for my taking her exercise classes. I’m probably getting the better part of our arrangement, but she’s happy with it, so here I am.”
“What’s the deal with the no water and no sweating she harps about?”
Hope shrugged. “She follows unorthodox ideas about physical fitness. What else did you learn about Hugo’s murder?”
“Nothing important we didn’t cover. Everybody is shocked and doesn’t know who’d want to murder poor Hugo.”
“Did Sergeant Trogg catch up to you?”
“I’ve met no such person. Should he find me?”
“As you probably read online, Sergeant Trogg is the cop investigating Hugo’s murder and questioning everybody who was involved, and that would include you.”
“Maybe I’ll run into him somewhere today.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Sarah. Why are you so wrapped up in Hugo? Why did you come to Sweet Springs?”
“I told you yesterday about our Baltimore weekend.”
“Tell me again why it was more than just a hook up to jump into the sack together.”
Sarah’s eyes never wavered from boring into Hope. “Our weekend felt magical and special,” Sarah said. “By the end of it, Hugo said he’d fallen in love with me, and I believed him from the bottom of my heart. I know it sounds like something corny from a romance novel, but that’s how it was.”
“Did you buy any baseball souvenirs of your big weekend spent together?” Hope asked.
“Hugo bought a baseball cap for me from the team store.”
Hope felt a spurt of excitement quicken her pulse. “Did you happen to lose your Orioles cap?”
“No, I believe it’s still packed away in my luggage. Are you also an Orioles fan? You can order their caps and other merchandise from online, you know.”
Hope wondered if Sarah was lying and had actually lost her baseball cap when she dragged Hugo’s dead body into the bookshop. Did the rancor she must’ve felt over his ignoring her phone calls goad her into murdering him?
“That’s good to know,” Hope said. “When are you leaving Sweet Springs?”
“There’s no rush to hit the road, so I’ll probably take off early tomorrow morning. I can’t really do anything else here except wait for the police to find and arrest Hugo’s killer. Who knows how long that will take?”
“His funeral will be held pretty soon.”
“I know I won’t be attending it. Just about everybody there except you and Peggy Sue will be a stranger to me.”
“Greta is ready to toot her silver whistle for us to get started again. She’ll expect you to grab an exercise mat and join us if you stick around the gym.”
“Then I’ll get out of here and go grab a bite to eat.”
“Give Abdullah’s Diner on the bypass a try if you’re fond of Lebanese cuisine. My daughter Stace and I like it there. The service is a bit slow, but the delicious food more than makes up for it.”
“I remember passing by Abdullah’s Diner. Thanks for making the recommendation.”
Hope nodded. “Did you remember to buy your romances at the bookshop?”
“Peggy Sue sold me a baker’s dozen, so I’m stocked up. She talked me into trying a couple of old Mary Stewart romantic mysteries: The Ivy Tree, and I forget the other one’s title.”
The pleased Hope laughed.
“I adore your cat lying on the countertop. He makes the loudest purr, and he flashes the bluest feline eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“Just about everybody who visits falls in love with the bookshop mascot Nozy Cat.”
“Nozy Cat, huh?” Sarah smiled as she considered it. “His name is unique.”
“Unique defines his style, all right.”
“I should be running along,” Sarah said. “Good luck keeping up with Greta.”
“It’s not marathon training but it’ll do,” Hope said. “Have a safe trip if I don’t see you again.”
Chapter 11
Later that morning, Hope and Peggy Sue lugged the boxes packed with the used books to stack behind the front counter where they’d sort through each box. They’d sold four recipe books while only two romances. Hope didn’t point out how the recipe books were outselling the romances. The lady customer had also rushed in to grab her Danielle Steel reading fix before leaving with her family for the beach via the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
True to her first name, Hope hoped it was a good omen for the rest of the day. The bookshop could really use the money. She hadn’t let on to Peggy Sue how tight they’d stretched the finances. Bookshop proprietors faced challenging times with the recession on and the increasing popularity of ebooks, many of them freebies or sold at ninety-nine cents each. The bookshop proprietors had to find creative ways to reach their customers.
Hope didn’t feel her creative juices flowing when it came to hatching new ideas to keep the Brontë Bookshop going. The best solutions she could think of were to set up a counterfeit money press operation in Peggy Sue’s attic or plant a money tree in Hope’s back yard. Neither solution was practical much less possible.
Nozy Cat rubbed against her calf, and when she gaped down at him, he winked at her. The wild possibility he could read her mind struck her. Things couldn’t be getting that weird. Surely, he just sensed her tense nerves. When she peered at him again, he was back to being the old Nozy Cat.
“So, Travis got this wild hair stuck up his y
ou-know-where, and I don’t mean his nose,” Peggy Sue said. “We’d finished eating supper, and I’d driven downtown to go grocery shopping. In the meantime, I tasked him with washing and drying the dishes along with the pots and pans. That’s it. Nothing else needed doing around the house.”
Hope smiled. “Oh-oh, here we go again.”
“You know Travis almost as well as I do by now. If I’ve told my husband once, I’ve told him one hundred times to stay off the ladder when I’m not at home. He could tumble off it and break his fool neck, which he richly deserves since what I tell him goes in one ear and out the other.”
“Will this Travis story involving a ladder and high place end badly?”
“Is a hog’s rump made of pork? Anyway, I’m at the mango bin debating over the best ones to buy when I get a ring. It’s Travis. He never calls me unless it’s an emergency, so naturally my heart tears off beating at a frantic gallop. I answer the call, and can you guess what he tells me?”
“Shock me.”
“My so-called better half is stuck up on the roof after having climbed the aluminum ladder on a windy evening. The ladder has slid off the roof, and it’s lying on the lawn.”
“That’s a problem.”
“First, I ask him what is he doing on the roof. He tells me in his hangdog voice the gutters needed cleaning out. Then I ask him what he expects me to do about it. He says none of our neighbors are at home, so he wants me run the red traffic lights rushing back and stand up the ladder.”
“Did you fly home to the rescue of your dear hubby?”
“I did no such thing. Why should I? After I discovered only his pride was hurt, I told him to go suck an egg and hung up on him. I swear if the man had a brain, it’d die of loneliness.”
“What did you do next?”
“Once I arrived at home, I ignored the idiot on the roof hollering and waving his arms to get my attention. I carried the bags of groceries into the kitchen and put them away. All the while, he’s ringing me and texting me. He’s stomping his foot on the rooftop. But I pay no heed and let him stew in his own juices for a while.”