by Lyn Key
“Did Travis ever get down, or is he still marooned on the roof?”
“I returned the ladder for him. Then we talked again. He won’t go up it again when I’m not at home.”
“Dare I ask why that is?”
“I sold the ladder for scrap aluminum paying thirty-five cents a pound. We’ll hire a roofing company to take care of our future gutter cleaning needs.”
“We could say Travis has been grounded.”
Peggy Sue’s exasperated sigh ended her ladder story. “I’m stuck with him till death us do part.”
Hope thought Peggy Sue didn’t know how fortunate she was to have a husband. She’d even miss Travis’ most annoying habits like his snoring if he should die, perish the thought, and leave her a widow like Hope. Still, Peggy Sue’s ladder story was funny, and they could use a laugh after the past couple of nerve-racking days.
After lugging the final box of books to the front counter, Peggy Sue volunteered to make the bank trip and deposit their receipts. Hope had Nozy Cat to keep her company while she rummaged through the packed books. The quiet interlude afforded her the chance to indulge her early memories of J.D. Jones, her late husband.
***
J.D. wore his signature blue plaid fedora at a rakish tilt every place he went. He called himself a “retro throwback,” and if it made him stand out, so much the better. He dared to be different, and he did it with pride and panache. Maybe his distinctive flair is what caught her eye and captured her heart. Something sure did because she fell for him so fast and hard it made her head spin like a blender.
He was who turned on Hope to jazz music. Not the experimental jazz fusion, but he loved the vintage jazz classics. He dug the frenetic bebop pioneered by Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie from the 1940s. The later mellower jazz of Miles Davis and John Coltrane from the 1950s enthralled J.D. even more. He liked to say he’d been born too late until Hope pointed out how they would’ve never met and gotten married if he’d made his mark any earlier. He sensed her chagrin and never made the remark again when she was around to hear it.
“Before I consent to marry you, I have a few questions,” Hope had said one summer evening. The lead track “So What” on Kind of Blue—their song—played low in the background. They hung out in his walk-up apartment over the flower shop. A dog’s barks came from below on Main Street. The empty Chinese takeout cartons, fortune cookie slips, and chopsticks lay on the coffee table. “Are you ready to hear them?” she asked.
J.D. smiled as he shrugged. “Sure thing but I thought we’d already covered everything.”
“So we did but I’ve thought of these follow-on questions since then.”
“Do I have to raise my right hand with my left hand placed on a stack of bibles and swear I’ll tell the truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I’ll assume you’ll give me honest answers because you’ve always been truthful with me. Isn’t that right, Jules Dennis Jones? You haven’t been toying with my affections for your pleasure, have you?”
“You know I’m always straight as an arrow with you. Your new questions are leaving me confused as a billy goat standing on AstroTurf. Are we going to get married, or what?”
“As soon as I get your answers, we’ll address that but not until then.”
“All right, let’s get started. What’s your first question?”
“I know you’re a dog person since your dad kept a pack of blue tick hounds in his kennel for hunting.”
“I loved those dogs.”
“How are you set for keeping a cat as our household pet?”
J.D. made a sucking on a lemon face while he shook his head. “I take a dim view of cats.”
“How can you say that?”
“My dog will obey my commands and show his affection, but a cat just does what it darn well pleases and ignores me. Who wants to keep such an aloof, ungrateful creature for a pet?”
Hope crossed her arms on her chest. His construction boots sat by the door, and the strawberry scent came from the burning joss stick. She suddenly didn’t like being there. “Cats aren’t like that at all. I love and adore them, and I’d keep a full house of them if Mom and Dad would let me take in every stray cat I found.”
“I didn’t know you’re so hung up on cats, but I’m glad you said something now before we became Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”
“We face what’s known as our first standoff.”
“One of us will have to give in order to make this deal between us work.” J.D. looked at Hope.
She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t be giving me the stink eye. I believe you can be flexible and allow me to keep my beloved cats.”
“What? Are you saying you keep more than the one cat?”
“I’ll have you know I love my fur babies, and we’re a package deal.”
“You come with a feline dowry, eh? How many cats do you spoil?”
“There’s Heathcliff, Catherine, and Nell Dean. Edgar and Hindley recently passed away, so I brought in Isabella and Mr. Lockwood. How many cats does that make? I’ll count them up on my fingers.”
“I already did, and my tally comes to five who are named after the characters found in Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights.”
Hope smiled. “I’m in love with a man who likes to read the literature classics. How could I do much better than that?”
“Hold on because I haven’t said I’m agreeable with your cats always underfoot. What happens if they all meow at the same time?”
“Close your eyes and imagine it’s a mellifluous feline jazz to soothe and transport you.”
“It’ll sound more like I’m trapped on the top floor of the insane asylum.”
“Just so you know I get cranky when others poke fun at my beloved cats, and you don’t want to face that side of me, Jules Dennis.”
“As I can well imagine. How about if we make a compromise? We’ll let me have my dog Hieronymus while you can also keep your quintet of cats.”
“Everybody, including the dog and cats, will have to make a few minor adjustments, but we’ll find a way to be a family.”
“Cool. Are there any other follow-on questions?”
“I have a few more, but they can wait until after we tie the knot. Am I right to say that last part, J.D.? Are we tying the knot?”
“Yeah, what the hay, let’s go on and get married.”
“You know I’m a big dreamer. What do you see us doing in twenty years?”
“I’m not good with the vision thing, and I can barely see my way past what’s coming up for tomorrow. What’s on your distant horizon?”
“My lifetime dream is to open my used bookshop here on Main Street in Sweet Springs. Does that dream sound too far-fetched to come true?”
“Not at all and one possibility is to move away from Sweet Springs when you’re ready. Our small town might be a bit too small to support a used bookshop.”
“I’m always a hometown girl at heart, and I have no wish to ever leave Sweet Springs. My used bookshop will be a special one and like no other drawing the book patrons from everywhere.”
“Are the bookworms really that obsessed?” J.D. asked. “Will they drive so far to buy their favorite books from you? Will they enjoy their bookshop experience so much they’ll return to your bookshop again and again?”
“I’m going to make the big leap and say they’ll keep on returning,” Hope had replied.
Chapter 12
Hope and Peggy Sue toiled behind the front counter, unpacking the boxes of used books surrounding them. Nozy Cat, busy working security, snored away while nestled against the cash register whose drawer had seen fuller days.
“Have you heard any word lately from your mom and dad?” Peggy Sue asked.
“I haven’t since Christmas when Mom phoned me and also spoke to Stace,” Hope replied. “They’re doing as well as can be expected.”
“Then is it your turn to contact them in San Diego?”
“I keep forgetting to do it.” Hope frowned a
little. “I didn’t say anything when they sold the house and moved clear across the country to the West Coast for their retirement. I don’t begrudge them for settling where they want to live, but they know I can only afford to fly out there every other year.”
“You might invite them to visit and stay in your guest room.”
“What makes you think I haven’t already invited them? It’s getting more complicated. Mom’s worsening flying phobia keeps her rooted to San Diego, and Dad says he doesn’t like to travel much anymore. Getting through the heavy airport security is a big turnoff, and he’s not the only person in our family who feels that way.”
“They’re just growing older and slower. At least San Diego is a gorgeous place to live out their golden years.”
“Southern California is a gem of a place to live. I’ll drop them a call as soon as this messy stuff is behind us.”
“Did I give you Travis’ latest and greatest advertising idea? He’s over the moon about it while I’m lukewarm at best.”
“I always appreciate and welcome hearing about his ideas.”
“He suggests we should consider using a sandwich board advertisement.” Peggy Sue rolled her eyes. “When’s the last time you saw one of them used in Sweet Springs?”
“Not lately and I don’t know who’d be the lucky person strapping on our sandwich board.”
“Would Stace be interested in doing it this summer?”
“She’ll handle the bookshop duties so she can gain work experience and learn what it takes to run a small business. I want her to grow up and do a little better than taking a job as a movie theater usher or pancake house server.”
“Learning the ropes here is more valuable to her than wearing a sandwich board.”
“What if we made a little sandwich board to fit on Nozy Cat? He could parade up and down Main Street while meowing away to plug our bookshop.”
Peggy Sue laughed. “Though the idea tempts me, we should keep our mascot at the bookshop.”
“Be sure to thank Travis and tell him to pass along anything else he thinks might work for us.”
“You know Travis. He’s never bashful about sharing his big ideas which seem to have no end.”
“I just had a different thought. How many keys to the bookshop door have we had made? Any of our murder suspects may’ve borrowed or stolen a key to enter and leave us the surprise of Hugo’s dead body.”
“You and I have the only keys I know of in existence. Changing the door locks requiring new keys is a prudent idea.”
“I’ll go out and price the door locks sold at the hardware store. Then I’ll get in touch with Gus.”
Peggy Sue nodded. “Now that I think about it, I paid the hardware store to cut a key for Travis. He gave us a big hand in setting up the bookshelves, and I thought we might need to use him again to do more heavy lifting.”
Hope tensed her lips. She didn’t place much confidence in Travis keeping the bookshop key safe if he couldn’t manage to prevent the aluminum ladder from sliding away from the roof of the Roswells’ house.
“If Travis isn’t too busy at the office, you might give him a quick call and double check,” Hope said. “I’ll sleep better tonight knowing he still has the bookshop key.”
Peggy Sue did, and Travis admitted he’d misplaced—but he hadn’t lost—his bookshop key. With a frustrated expression as if she wanted to bang her head on the countertop, she hung up and gave Hope the disheartening news.
“At least now we know how the killer may’ve gotten into the bookshop with so little trouble,” Peggy Sue said.
“Ouch,” Hope said. “Darn it all.”
“Did you break a nail?”
“I got a paper cut on my forefinger.”
“They’re just as bad.”
“The darn thing hurts like the dickens. I’ll put a Band-Aid on it.”
“Paper cuts are painful.”
“It’s an occupational hazard for a bookseller and I’ll live.”
“Even with a key to get inside here, the killer still had to lug in the dead body.”
“How does one go about lugging around a dead body?”
Peggy Sue drew a blank expression. “It must take some oomph. Use the hand trolley, perhaps?”
“Dragging the dead body might be easier and faster.” Hope chanced a glance through the front glass door. “Sergeant Trogg is parking on Main Street.”
“He’s just the person I don’t want to lock horns with this early in the day.”
“Hiring a criminal attorney wouldn’t hurt. I wonder if any of them would be willing to work pro bono for a pair of struggling bookshop owners.”
“Our doing that would make us look guilty in Sergeant Trogg’s eyes. We’ve done nothing criminally wrong, and that’s how we should act in front of him.”
As Sergeant Trogg stepped into the bookshop, Nozy Cat woke up, yawned, and gave him a bored look.
Maybe I’ll dial him in to hear a snatch of my telepathing words to you. I’ll use enough hocus pocus to rattle the old boy’s nerves before he grates on ours.
“Don’t you dare say anything,” Hope said.
“Don’t I dare say anything about what?” Sergeant Trogg asked. “I have the police authority to say or ask anything whenever and wherever I wish.”
Tell him to get on with it.
“What’s the purpose of your visit this time?” Hope asked.
“I’m acting on a cop’s hunch,” Sergeant Trogg replied. “I get those from time to time. You see, I’m a calculating lawman, and I calculate I’m looking at who murdered the late Mr. Hugo Spangler.” Sergeant Trogg didn’t smirk but shrewdly gauged their reactions.
Tell him the accusations he’s making without a shred of evidence to back them up won’t stick.
“You can’t make these accusations stand up without the right evidence, and you know it,” Hope said. “Have you got any new questions to ask us? If you don’t, we have plenty of work to finish.” She gestured at the packing boxes filled with the used books to process between waiting on the bookshop customers.
“The late Hugo Spangler has interested me, so I did a little checking around about him,” Sergeant Trogg said. “Did you know he led a double life?”
“No,” Hope replied. “But do go on.”
“He learned the seedy stuff about folks’ personal business while performing his small jobs around town,” Sergeant Trogg said.
“He was just the town’s good-natured handyman,” Hope said. “He didn’t go out of his way to peep into anybody’s private affairs.”
“So, he led us to believe, but I suspect he was too nosy for his own good,” Sergeant Trogg said. “He learned folks’ grubby secrets—probably compromising photos, love notes, and intimate films—and was cunning enough to exploit them for profit. He regularly made deposits of the same amounts into his bank account. Are you following me?”
“Blackmail?” Hope was surprised.
“You said it first,” Sergeant Trogg said, smirking at them. “So, here’s what I have to ponder. Was he blackmailing you? Is that why I hear the rumors your bookshop is going bankrupt? Did you kill him to save it and keep him quiet?”
“We’re just weathering the bad economy like the other small shopkeepers are struggling to do,” Hope replied.
“But the other small shopkeepers haven’t reported finding a dead body on their premises,” Sergeant Trogg said.
“Peggy Sue and I lead squeaky clean lives, so you can drop the blackmail theory,” Hope said. “Neither of us knew Hugo except to say or wave hello to if we happened to see him. Neither of us paid him to do any handyman jobs here or at our homes.”
“So you say but I’m going to keep pursuing my blackmail theory just the same,” Sergeant Trogg said.
“Will that be all, Sergeant?” Hope asked. “You’ve had your say, and we heard it. You happen to be wrong, and you’re wasting your time on us when you could be out catching Hugo’s actual killer.”
“Why is your cat gl
aring at me with those cobalt blue eyes?” Sergeant Trogg asked. “Make him cut it out. He’s giving me the heebie jeebies.”
“You’re imagining things,” Peggy Sue replied. “That’s the way he looks at everybody who comes into the bookshop.”
“You’ll have to cope with your heebie jeebies when you’re here,” Hope said. “Nozy Cat as the bookshop mascot will remain a fixture like the covert surveillance cameras are in the ceiling.”
“I should keep my eyes on him, as well,” Sergeant Trogg said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I get the sense there’s something weird going on with your so-called bookshop mascot.”
Keeping a straight face, Nozy Cat snickered under his breath.
“Don’t let your black cat cross my path either,” Sergeant Trogg said. “I have enough challenges in my line of work as it is.”
Nozy Cat snickered harder.
“You know where to find us,” Hope said, trying to keep from smiling. “We’ll be here with our books and black cat, neither of which you much like.”
“I haven’t forgotten where I can get ahold of you,” Sergeant Trogg said. “I’ll be back.” He nodded with an affirmative grunt. “You can depend on it like tracking the time on a fine Swiss watch.”
Chapter 13
Since it was an indigo blue-sky day, Hope arranged to take her brown bag lunch and meet Stacey at a picnic table in the town park. Peggy Sue remained at the bookshop in case a lunchtime customer should stroll in and inquire about buying a tote bag of “trashy” (i.e., fun and entertaining) used paperbacks to devour while vacationing at the beach or in the mountains. She always had a bookseller’s eye out to recommend a bonus paperback or two that the customer just had to read.
Their mystery fans held a nostalgic spot in their hearts for rereading the early Sue Grafton titles in her alphabet private detective series. Titles penned by such deceased female mystery authors as Dorothy Uhnak or Margaret Millar attracted the adventurous readers willing to dip into the vintage stuff. Of course, the old standbys like Agatha Christie and Dorothy B. Hughes were always in demand.