Publishable by Death

by A C F Bookens

  Daniel, however, didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he was listening intently enough that when I started talking about how awful it must have been to have to wait for a bathroom that might be hundreds of miles off, he told me a story about an older man from St. Marin’s whose parents had once had to drive the entire length of the Eastern Shore, from Cape Charles, Virginia, to St. Marin’s – a distance of over 150 miles – with him as a toddler who had to go to the bathroom because they’d forgotten their Green Book and didn’t know where it was safe to stop.

  I shook my head. “People can be absolutely horrible.”

  Daniel nodded. “Yes. Yes, we can.”

  8

  The next morning, almost as soon as I got the shop open, the phone started ringing. I cringed every time, thinking it was going to be some reporter who wanted to write a story on “murder central.” But each time, it was someone inquiring about the street fair and often asking if there was a fund set up for Deputy Williams’ family.

  I was glad that the sheriff’s office had established a scholarship fund in her honor. She wasn’t married and didn’t have children, and the town was covering her funeral expenses, so this was a great way to honor her memory and give her a new legacy in the community. One local high schooler who wanted to go into law enforcement would receive a scholarship for training each year. By the sound of the callers, that fund was going to be set for a long time to come.

  Walter and Stephen came by on their way to BWI for their flight just before noon, and I gave them both huge hugs. “Thank you so much for coming. I wish you could stay longer, see how the street fair goes.”

  “Us, too, but work calls,” Stephen said with a frown. “I’m so glad we got to see you in your shop, my friend. Now, be safe, okay?”

  Walter put an arm around my shoulders. “No sleuthing without help.”

  I wrapped my arms around his waist and squeezed. “Agreed.”

  As I walked them to the door, I said, “Text me when you land, okay?”

  “You sure about that?” Stephen asked. “It’ll be late.”

  “I’m sure.” I’d always wanted my parents to ask that of me, so I tried to ask it of friends when they travelled.

  I watched them load their bags into the waiting Uber and brushed away a tear. Rocky sidled up to me and slid a hot cup of Earl Grey into my hands. The warm smell of bergamot soothed me, and when I took a sip, it was hot – but not scalding – with lots of milk and sugar, just as I liked it. “Thank you,” I whispered as I leaned my head on her shoulder.

  We stood quietly like that, looking out at the overcast day. It was a perfect reading day, and I hoped that would mean we’d have some customers. But in the meantime, I had work to do. I gave Rocky a kiss on the cheek and said thank you before heading to the counter to figure out what exactly I could have on hand for the weekend’s activities.

  Throughout the afternoon, the flow of customers was quiet but steady, with lots of folks picking up stacks of books and magazines and enjoying the café tables. Some booksellers hated that practice because it meant books got stained and grungy and that there’d be a lot of clean-up. But personally, I loved it. While I needed to make money, for sure, I also just loved when people read, and if that meant they camped out at a table for two hours with Garden and Gun and a copy of Into Great Silence, I was fine with that. Plus, they almost always bought something, and the most conscientious folks purchased anything they got a crumb on. I appreciated the courtesy even if I didn’t require it.

  While they read, I decided to order a bunch of children’s books – some picture books, some board books, some easy readers, some chapter books – and then do a “mystery book buy” for the street festival. I’d wrap the books in brown paper and let the kids pick any book they wanted from a bin for their age group. All books would be two dollars, but you had to keep what you got or find another kid to swap with. I figured this would cover my costs but give some families who might not be able to get books a chance to pick some up . . . and maybe it’d even be a social thing for the kids, too, like a less heartless version of that holiday gift exchange where you get to steal the gift you want most.

  Mart checked in about a billion times throughout the day, and even Stephen dropped a text from the airport to remind me to “use the buddy system when sleuthing.” My friends cared . . . and they were annoying.

  I knew Daniel was planning on meeting me at the shop at closing, so when the bell chimed as I was counting out the register, I expected to look up and see him. Instead, Max Davies was there. He had the studied stance of someone trying to look casual, one foot out to the side, a book in his hands. But he kept cutting his eyes over to me, and as soon as I got to a stopping place, I closed the register drawer and said, “Well, hello, Max. Nice to see you.”

  “Oh, hi, Harvey,” he said, “I didn’t see you there.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes, but I restrained myself. “Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”

  He put down the book – a copy of Michelle Obama’s Becoming – and walked over. “Since you asked . . . I was wondering if you could help me with something for the street festival.”

  I was surprised. Max hadn’t replied to my query of merchants on Main Street, so I figured he had chosen not to participate. This visit had just gotten much more positive than his last one. “Sure, what can I do?”

  “You can call it off.”

  I stepped back a bit. “What?! Why?” My hopes for a good conversation were dashed. I was back to finding the man annoying.

  “Because there’s a murderer on the loose, and you’re asking everyone to stand around out in the middle of all those people. We’ll be sitting ducks.”

  I didn’t take the opportunity to note that he had just walked into my store on a quiet Monday night when almost no one was around and that if the killer wanted to get him, they’d probably do so as he left. It didn’t feel kind to point out the obvious.

  I pointed toward the café and trailed behind Max just slowly enough to text Daniel, tell him to come on in but be discreet. “Max is here to talk me out of the fair.”

  Daniel’s response was perfect. “Oh glory!”

  Max took a seat by the window – another perfect opportunity for the murderer to take him out, I thought – and proceeded to tell me how it just wasn’t prudent to draw us all out in the open like that. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity.”

  I had to stifle a giggle when I remembered how a group of my college friends had come home to Chesapeake City with me and been terrified that an ax murderer would find us out on the secluded road to my family home. “There are no street lights,” my friend from Long Island had said. I had tried to point out that the chances of a murderer being around were far greater in a crowd, but their fear – like all fear – wasn’t based in logic. So they spent the weekend with every light in the house on so they’d see the ax murderer when he came for them.

  Now Max had the opposite fear – that the murderer would find it easier to kill someone in a crowd. I let out a long slow breath to steady my thoughts. “I see your point. But what makes you think the murderer will strike again?”

  “These things always happen in threes,” he said without any sense of irony or shame. “We’ve had two murders. We’re just waiting for the third.”

  I heard the bell tinkle and saw Daniel and Taco come in quietly and take a seat in the chair-and-a-half by the fiction section, close enough to hear but not close enough to intrude.

  “Ah, I have heard that theory about tragedy,” I said, drawing my attention back to Max. “But if that’s the case, wouldn’t the murderer want to act more quickly, get it over with rather than waiting another week?”

  He did not show me the courtesy of trying to restrain his eye roll. “Serial killers work on a schedule, Harvey.” He gave an exaggerated glance around the shop. “For someone who runs a bookshop, you aren’t very well informed.”

  I swallowed hard, gave Daniel a discreet raised eyebrow over Max’s shoulde
r, and said, “I hadn’t realized the person who killed Ms. Stevensmith and Ms. Williams was a serial killer.”

  He let out a long sigh. “Clearly, the killer has a type. Two women. Both in their forties. Both in public roles.” He paused and looked at the wall above and behind my head. “But now that I say that, I realize I need not worry. I’m not the killer’s type.” He stood up. “I’m sorry to have taken your time, Harvey. Carry on with the street fair.”

  He spun on a heel and headed toward the front door without giving Daniel even a nod.

  As soon as the bell rang, Daniel guffawed with such exuberance that I thought his belly must hurt from holding that in. “Someone’s been watching too much Criminal Minds,” he said as soon as he stopped laughing.

  I grinned. “Clearly, I need to spend more time in my True Crime section lest my ignorance of serial killer practices lead me astray into planning more fundraisers in my folly.”

  Still laughing, I gave Daniel’s arm a squeeze as I passed by him to grab my coat and set the alarm. Then, we headed out into the cool air of a spring evening.

  I spent the next morning arranging the new books on the front table. New release day was quickly becoming my favorite day of the week. I loved all those new covers, and the smell – all fresh wood and ink. It always took me back to the construction sites in my childhood neighborhood. Ours was one of the first houses built, but soon, new homes were going up everywhere. I spent many an afternoon climbing around on second floors that just had the studs up for walls and savoring the smell of all that fresh timber.

  Cate and Henri, the weaver from the co-op, came by mid-day and brought the most amazing curry soup – sweet potatoes, coconut milk, and just enough heat to make my nose tingle. I ate three bowls. We sat on stools behind the register and gobbled down the goodness. Henri had just started a catering business, and she had asked Cate to help her find people to sample her wares. I told the stellar cook that if everything was this good, I’d sample anything . . . and use her to cater bookstore events once I had more cash flow.

  “I’d love that,” Henri said. “Plus, I know Rocky and her mom Phoebe from church. Maybe we could coordinate together – they do the sweets, I do the savories.”

  “I’m getting hungry all over again at just the thought.”

  “Alright, back to work with me. Thanks for being a taste tester, Harvey.”

  “Thank you. Come by anytime, especially if you bring snacks.” Henri waved as she headed out.

  Cate helped me clean up the lunch trash and said, “I have to admit, I had another motive for stopping by.”

  “You’re looking for the friends and family bookstore discount?” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye as we tucked our stools back against the counter.

  “Well, no, but let’s come back to that,” she chuckled. “Actually, it’s about the murders.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Most things are these days. What’s up?”

  “Well, I was in Elle Heron’s stand the other day to pick up some roses Lucas needed for a museum event. Elle had gone into the back to get the flowers, and I was just standing around by the counter. I happened to notice a stack of newspapers, so I picked up the top one. It was from a few years ago, which I thought was odd. Who keeps old newspapers?”

  I nodded. I knew a few people, but their houses kind of looked like those mazes they force mice to run through in laboratories.

  “I got curious, so I rifled through the rest of the papers. All of them were old, some of them from a decade ago. I couldn’t stop myself, and I flipped through a few of the papers. You won’t believe what I found?”

  “A baby otter? No, wait, the secret for turning lead into gold? No, wait, this has to be it – articles?”

  Cate snickered. “Alright, smarty pants. Yes, articles. But the interesting part was which ones were highlighted.”

  Ah, now I was interested. “Which ones?”

  “Every article by Lucia Stevensmith.”

  “Every article? That’s a lot of articles. The woman was verbose to say the least.”

  “Yep, pretty much an article on every page had one or more headings highlighted in yellow.” Cate sounded pleased with herself, and I couldn’t blame her. This was very intriguing.

  “Anything else you noticed?”

  “Nope, Elle came back, and I didn’t want to get caught.” She paused. “I don’t really know why. It just felt like she might be embarrassed for someone to be snooping through her papers.”

  I nodded. “Right, especially when you’ve marked every article a murdered woman ever wrote.”

  “I know, right? That’s why it seemed a little suspicious to me.”

  I wasn’t sure suspicious is the world I’d use, but it was definitely odd and worth further exploration. “Thanks, Cate. I appreciate you telling me.”

  “Think I should tell the sheriff?”

  “That you found some old newspapers with articles highlighted? Nah. I’ll look into it.”

  “Harvey.” Her voice was low and foreboding. “What about being careful? Stephen and Walter made me promise.”

  I tried to give my most innocent look by batting my eyelashes. “I’m not doing anything dangerous, just going to talk to another storeowner.”

  Cate squinted at me. “Sure. Sure.” She picked up her purse. “Want to go now? I actually need to get more baby’s breath, so it’s a great excuse.”

  I took a look around the store. A couple of browsers, but nothing Rocky couldn’t handle. I ran over to the café and checked to be sure she was okay to manage things for a bit, got her okay, and rushed back. “I have thirty minutes.”

  “Let’s not dawdle then.”

  Elle’s stand smelled like chrysanthemums. It was a smell I loved, even though I resented the flowers themselves a bit. In high school, secret admirers always gave out mums on Valentine’s Day. I’d never gotten a single flower. It was easier to blame the bloom than the people.

  “You’re back,” Elle said as she came out from the cooler. “Forget something?”

  Cate stepped to the counter. “Actually yes. I need more baby’s breath. Right now, we look like we’re throwing a proposal party in the museum conference room. I need to lighten the intensity a bit.”

  “Well, then I don’t know if baby’s breath is the way to go. Too much like a boutonniere.” Elle put her hands behind her head and looked up at the ceiling. “What if you did small daisies instead? I just got a big bunch in, and they’re not only pretty but they’re cheap.”

  “Perfect,” Cate said. “Harvey, do you want something for the store?” She kicked me in the shin as she spoke.

  “Um, what? Oh yeah, for the street fair actually. I mean, I don’t want to get into your sales territory or anything, but I did think I’d put some small vases around the shop and café for Sunday. Have anything that would work?”

  “Hmmm. You’re thinking about using those antique bottles you used for the grand opening, right?”

  “Good memory,” I said. I’d collected old bottles from junk stores for weeks and then used them as vases for the shop. Unique and cheap. “Yeah, so something that looks good with a short stem.”

  “I suppose dandelions won’t work,” she said with a grin.

  “I’m not opposed, but I’d rather not have everyone blowing seeds around the shop on day three. Way too much sweeping for me.”

  “Fair enough.” She tapped a finger against the clear frame of her glasses. “What about hyacinths? Totally seasonal, very hardy, perfect size.”

  “I love it. Maybe forty to fifty stems?”

  “You got it. I’ll bring them over Saturday if that suits.”

  She started to head back to get Cate’s daisies, but before she went, I said, “So these murders, huh?” I felt like a bonehead – how obvious could I be? – but it was the best I could do on the spur of the moment.

  Cate wandered off to look at the arrangements in the cooler, presumably to take away a bit of the pressure and make it seem less like I wa
s interrogating Elle. I was grateful.

  “Gracious. Just awful.” She pressed both hands down on the counter. “I know that everyone says this, but I can’t believe someone was murdered in our town.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t believe it either. Somehow it had been easier to take in a murder in San Francisco. Not easy, of course, but easier. I guess I expected it more there. “Tell me about it.”

  Her head jutted up. “Oh, and it happened in your shop. Here I am thinking about the reputation of our town, and you had a murder happen in your new store. How awful!” She came around the counter then. “How are you?”

  I felt tears threaten, but I didn’t think I’d get much information if I was crying. “It’s been a hard couple of weeks, to be honest. But the shop is doing well in spite of everything.”

  She gave my arm a squeeze. “Maybe in part because of everything.” She winced. “Is that an awful thing to say?”

  I laughed softly. “No, it’s not awful. It’s the truth. The “no press is bad press” rule certainly applies here.”

  The counter was filled with buckets of daylilies, and I ran my fingers lightly over the petals. “What’s got me puzzled,” I said, “is why Stevensmith? I mean she wasn’t very likable, but what had she done to make someone mad enough to murder her?”

  Elle’s face went blank, and she looked down at the floor before quickly collecting herself and giving an exaggerated shrug. “That’s a good question. I expect whoever did it felt like they had a good reason – either that or it was a crime of passion. I mean, she made a lot of people angry, including our neighbor Max. Either way,” she said as she stepped back behind the counter, “I’m sure the sheriff will sort it all out. I’m just sad the murderer wasn’t caught before Skye was killed. That was such a tragedy.”