Publishable by Death

by A C F Bookens

  “Oh, absolutely. I didn’t say they didn’t like the tourists, but most of us would rather not be in the crowds unless we’re working.”

  I guess that made sense. After all, I was already feeling a little possessive about our little community. I didn’t know if I loved the idea of all these outsiders coming in . . . at least I didn’t know if I liked that personally. As a business woman, I loved the idea. “Ah, yes, I get that. Well, today I’m working – and, if you’re serious, so are you.” He nodded, and I put him to work. “Could you go get me some more paper bags from the storeroom? I think I’m going to need them.”

  Since the initial inflow, the stream of customers into the store hadn’t let up. This was clearly our busiest day yet, and it didn’t show any signs of slowing down. I handed the register over to Mart and began a sweep of the store – picking up forgotten coffee mugs and reshelving books as fast I could.

  Before I knew it, it was noon, and Rocky was swamped in the café. I trundled over to help her, and she pointed to the back room. “More sandwiches in the fridge . . . and bring all the pastries.”

  I glanced at the case. It was almost empty. We needed ALL the scones.

  By mid-afternoon, we’d found a rhythm. I floated, answered questions, and restocked the bookshelves and the pastry case. Mart ran the register and answered the phone to take special orders, which she jotted down on an Easter Bunny notepad she’d unearthed from somewhere. Daniel helped carry boxes of books out of the back room and kept Mart in change – even though that required not just one, but two, trips to the bank. It was my biggest sales day yet, and I had Galen Gilbert to thank.

  I took a minute to message him on Instagram. “Thank you, Galen. Your message has been a huge hit. Look at this.” Then I snapped a picture and sent it over.

  His reply was almost instantaneous. “Well, I know a good thing when I see it. There are other ways besides murder to drum up business, my dear. See you Tuesday.” He’d followed his message with a series of winky-face emojis, and I couldn’t help but laugh. People are not always what they appear to be.

  By early evening, the crowd had started to thin as we suggested restaurants in town and even a few places to stay. Folks who had never been to St. Marin’s before were enamored of the place, and when they heard about Sunday’s Street Festival, they were loath to go home. “Why not make a weekend of it?” was a phrase I heard more than once.

  Just as we were about to close, a tall, lean, black man came into the store. He stood just inside the doorway for a long time and looked around. Something about the way he studied the space made me wonder if he was remembering, and I thought of Berkeley Hudson and his gas station.

  “Thanks so much for visiting All Booked Up. Can I help you find something?”

  He looked down at me and blinked a couple of times. “Oh, thank you. I’m actually not here to buy books. I hope that’s okay.”

  I smiled. “Of course, it’s okay. Is there something else I can help you with?”

  He gazed out over my head into the store. “It’s just good to see the place again.”

  “Again? You’ve been here before?” I didn’t quite know how to ask about Berkeley Hudson since I didn’t want to seem like the dumb white lady who assumed all black people knew each other. But I forged ahead. “You came when it was a gas station?”

  He smiled down at me. “You know about the station? And about Berkeley, I presume?”

  I nodded. “I just learned about the station and how it was a safe haven of sorts, this building and the Hudson house I mean.”

  He folded his long frame and sat down on the edge of the window display. “My granddaughter sent me the picture she got from one of those online things, said she thought it was the gas station I always talked about. Sure enough, it was.” He kept looking out over the room.

  “If you told your granddaughter about the station, it must have been important to you.” I didn’t want to be nosy or push, but he seemed to want to talk, to know it was still safe to share here.

  “The most important . . . and also the saddest.” He looked me in the eye and raised one eyebrow. “You know the whole story of Berkeley?”

  “Um, probably not. I just know he owned the gas station and that he and his wife Divina let people stay with them when they came to town.” I felt myself leaning forward, aching to know everything, but this was the kind of curiosity the sheriff had warned me about.

  His face softened. “Ah, Divina. What a lovely woman. She still around?”

  “Oh yes. Still here in St. Marin’s for sure. I expect she’d love to hear from you if you felt like calling on her.”

  His face grew sad then, so sad that I felt like crying. “I’m not so sure about that. I bring a whole lot of hard memories with me, things she’d probably like to forget.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I just let the silence rest there a minute. Finally, I said, “Would you like to walk around? You’re welcome to go wherever you wish.”

  He stood up and walked toward the back of the building, then turned and looked out the front window. “The oil cans were kept right there. And he had a display of Michelin tires in that corner. A Pepsi machine over there . . . and he always kept a bag of salted peanuts so we could all drop our peanuts in those Pepsi and have us a good ole snack.”

  “Peanuts in Pepsi? Like in it?”

  He chuckled. “Girl, you haven’t lived until you’ve had that goodness.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it.” I grinned.

  He was smiling as he looked over the shop, but then that sadness crossed over his features again. “The bathrooms still here?”

  “Yep. In the same place, but now they open from the inside of the store. You’re welcome to use—”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t need to go in that room no way, no how. Thank you kindly, but no thank you.” He looked almost frightened.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’d like to know Berkeley Hudson’s whole story. I’d like to honor him well in this place. I’m Harvey Beckett. I own the shop here.”

  When I shook his hand, I noticed how soft his palms were and how long his fingers. “Ralph Sylvester. I was the last man to see Berkeley Hudson alive.”

  I felt my breath catch in my throat, and then we made our way back to the window display. “I’m sorry. Did you say you were the last person—”

  “To see Berkeley Hudson alive. Yes, I did. I was there when they murdered him. Right back there, in the men’s bathroom.”

  I felt faint. Another murder in my shop. “He was murdered here. Oh my goodness. When?”

  “1958.” His voice was soft, but firm. “The Klan got him.”

  I sucked in my breath. “The Ku Klux Klan? What?!”

  The shrillness in my voice drew his eyes to mine. “Yep, they’re the ones. Hoods, burning crosses . . . same everywhere, I expect.”

  I couldn’t even begin to fathom a Klan murder, much less a Klan murder in my shop. But now that I knew a bit, I needed to know it all. “Would you tell me the story?”

  He put a hand over mine. “It’s a story that needs telling, though it’s hard.”

  I nodded.

  “It was April, a beautiful spring. Warm but not humid. Perfect weather for sitting out with a picnic. I remember it was a Saturday because Berkeley and Divina had been over at the town park doing just that while I minded the station.”

  “About dusk, they were walking back to the station when a whole gang of Klansmen on horseback came into town. I saw them coming from the station window, but I couldn’t get to Berkeley in time. Normally, the Hudsons were very careful about being out in public, what with miscegenation laws and everything. But they couldn’t resist on this gorgeous day, and the wrong person had spotted them in the park, asked the Klan to send a message.”

  I felt the tears pushing against the back of my eyes, but I willed them down. This story didn’t need my tears, only my ears.r />
  “Berkeley pushed Divina into some bushes next to the garage there.” He pointed over to the alleyway between the shop and the hardware store next door. “Then, he ran as fast as he could for the front door. I was ready. Ready to lock the door behind him and head out the back door as fast as we could go. But they got him first . . .” he grew quiet.

  “Oh my word.” My voice was shaking.

  “They took him around back . . . and I found him after I heard them ride off. There was nothing I could do, so I just sat with him until he passed.”

  I put my hand on Mr. Sylvester’s knee. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  He placed his other hand over my own. “There are no words.” He took a long, slow breath, and then, his eyes met mine again. “But thank you for letting me share the story.”

  “Of course. And any time you want to come and be in this space, you are welcome. Any time.”

  He stood up, and I rose with him. “Thank you for telling me that story, Mr. Sylvester. I’m horrified, but also honored to carry it with me.” I looked up at him, and a soft smile crossed his lips.

  “I think he’d like that a bookstore was here . . . and you even got the smell of gasoline and clove cigarettes out,” he said with a small chuckle.

  “Lysol and candles make a great combination.”

  He looked out over the store again and then turned toward the door. “Thank you, Ms. Beckett. I’ll be seeing you.”

  I scanned the store quickly as he left, and seeing it was empty, locked the door behind him and slid to the floor against it, sobbing.

  A few minutes later, someone knocked gently on the glass above my head, and I turned, expecting to see Daniel. Instead, Marcus’s concerned face looked back at me. “You okay?” he mouthed.

  I nodded and unlocked the door.

  “I saw you sitting there and thought you might be hurt.” Marcus’ jaw was tight with worry.

  “Oh, thank you for checking on me, Marcus. I’m okay. Just a hard day. Lots of sad news.”

  He looked down at his feet. “Yeah, lots of sad things these days.”

  I didn’t know if I had the energy to have yet another intense conversation, but Marcus looked like he needed to talk. So I slid down to the floor again, and he sat down in front of me.

  “Marcus, you can tell me to mind my own business, but I’m kind of worried about you.”

  He looked up sharply. “You don’t need to worry about me, Ms. Beckett. I’m just fine. You got enough worries without adding me to the list.”

  This kid. “Okay, so tell me about you. Where do you come from? What do you do with your time, besides read really great books, I mean?”

  He smiled. “I’m from here in St. Marin’s actually, but my family hasn’t lived here in a while. Mom and I moved away a while back.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You said your mom was an English teacher. Did she teach here?”

  He nodded but wouldn’t meet my eyes. “For a while.”

  I leaned forward and caught his gaze. “Marcus?” I didn’t want to push, but sometimes, a little nudge was all someone needed to feel heard.

  “That reporter that got killed?” His voice was tight, and his jaw hard. Maybe this was the anger Lucas had noted.

  Suddenly, I remembered the newspaper article about the teacher and the Little Free Library. “Oh, Marcus, Lucia Stevensmith wrote those horrible things about your mom. I’m so sorry.”

  “You know about that?” He seemed wary, ready to bolt.

  I sat back. “I do. I was doing some research into the murder, and I read the article. It was so unkind . . . your mom had done a wonderful thing, and that woman—“ I couldn’t finish the sentence because I was too angry.

  “Yeah,” Marcus said. “She quit teaching after that. We moved over to Annapolis so she could start over as a librarian.”

  I was grasping at hope anywhere I could get it. “Does she like being a librarian?”

  “I think so.” There was some life in his voice again. “She loves helping people find books, and story time is her favorite. Plus, the library system is paying for her to get her Master’s. She loves that.”

  “But I bet she misses teaching, too?” I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be chased away from a job you loved, and this woman had obviously loved her job. You didn’t build a Little Free Library for the kids you taught if you didn’t have passion for what you did.

  “Yeah,” she does. “But she’s okay. Really.”

  “And are you okay?” I thought for sure I saw tears well up in his eyes, but he straightened up and looked away quickly.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Still trying to get my feet under me after moving back, you know, but I’m okay. I appreciate the work you’ve given me, Ms. Beckett. It helps.”

  I smiled. “Well, I appreciate the work you’ve done here, Marcus. In fact, if you’d like to work here part-time, I could really use the help.” I hadn’t been planning on bringing on part-time help so soon, but I needed it . . . and it looked like Marcus needed it, too.

  He looked at me warily. “I don’t want no pity job, Ms. Beckett.”

  “It’s not pity, Marcus. Have you seen how busy we’ve been the past few days? Between those two online posts that bring in the book lovers and the two murders that bring in the looky-loos, we are slammed. I would love the chance to get away from the register more and talk to people. If you worked for me, I could do that . . . and you’d get the hefty fifty percent discount on all the books in the store.”

  “Wait, what?! Working here comes with a discount? Alright then, when can I start?” He was grinning like he was kidding, but I knew – any book lover appreciates a good discount on books.

  “How about tomorrow? We open at ten, so be here at nine-thirty.”

  He jumped up. “Absolutely. Thanks, Ms. B. Is it alright if I call you Ms. B?”

  “I’d love that. I’ve never had a nickname, well, except for Harvey, of course.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—“

  I turned him toward the door. “Another time I’ll tell you the whole story. Tonight, you go get some food,” I handed him a twenty, “and get a good night’s sleep.”

  His eyes darted down to his feet for just a second before he looked back up. “Thanks, Ms. B.”

  I paused. “Marcus, do you have a place to sleep?”

  He looked down again, and I thought of all the paper towels. He’d been washing up in the bathroom. Why hadn’t I figured that out before?

  “That’s it. Give me my money back.”

  His eyes got really wide, and he held the twenty out to me limply. “I’m sorry, Ms. B.”

  “Oh, stop it.” I glanced out the window and saw Daniel and Taco waiting. “We’re all going to get dinner, and then you’ll stay with Mart and me tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll make a plan to get you a place.”

  “I can’t do that—“

  “You can, and you will. Listen, you don’t know me well yet, but I’m stubborn, and I like to be helpful. So let me help. It’ll make me feel good.”

  He grinned then. “Thank you, Ms. B.”

  “Truly, my pleasure. Now, go tell Daniel that we’re going to dinner at Chez Cuisine. My treat.”

  The bell rang, and I jogged through the shop, turning off lights, checking the doors, and arming the alarm. This might have been the most emotionally grueling day of my life, but something told me, I probably shouldn’t say such things.

  11

  By the time we opened the next day, we’d arranged to have Marcus move into the room above Daniel’s garage. It had, apparently, been a studio apartment at one time, so it just needed some appliances, a little repair to the floors and walls, and a good cleaning to be a perfect apartment for a twenty-year-old man. It took some convincing to get Marcus to agree to take the apartment rent free for the first month, but when Daniel pointed out that his rent would be sweat equity in fixing the place up, Marcus finally said yes.

  He even started talking about getting a cat
since he’d been so enthralled with Aslan at our place the night before. She had also been quite taken with him and had given up her spot at my feet to set up shop on the guest room bed with him. In the morning, when I peeked in, she had wiggled her way up to the pillow and was draped across Marcus’s forehead. If his snore was any indication, he didn’t mind at all.

  But we didn’t have time this weekend to move Marcus in . . . the aftereffects of Michiko Kakutani’s tweet combined with the response to Galen Gilbert’s Insta post were still sending book buyers from all over Maryland, Virginia, and Delaware. And the murder tourists – who knew there was such a thing? – were still coming, too. Plus, now, we added the people who had come to town for the street fair . . . and we were slammed. Lines at the register, five pots of coffee by eleven a.m. Rocky had to ask her mother Phoebe to come help, we were so busy.

  It was amazing.

  Marcus took to the register like a champ and was chatting with customers all the while he scanned books. If I hadn’t known better, I’d think he’d been doing this for years. Mart was on hand to help with bagging and to take over if he needed to walk a customer to a particular book recommendation. I’m pretty sure he hand-sold more than a few dozen books that day.

  I had my handy people counter out again, and by noon, we’d had 743 people in the store. Every seat was taken at almost every minute, and Rocky and Phoebe were doing a brisk business of customers both in the café and with take-out cups. I was very glad Phoebe had come in and also that I’d asked Woody if he could be on call to help out as needed. Turns out our need involved more paper cups, so he contacted the Baptist church down the street and asked if we could buy theirs. The pastor donated them, said she was happy to help support the local bookstore and would replace the church’s supply with her own money. I loved this town more and more.

  Daniel had a full slate of customers of his own that day, but he did drop by just after lunch to marvel. “Whew! Look at this place.”

  I took the minute to sit down in the chair I’d tucked in the storeroom first thing that morning just so that all of us could get a break for a few minutes at a time. I still didn’t love this room, but it was the only private space in the shop, and with this many customers, we needed a little private space. “I know! It’s amazing, but holy cow do my feet hurt.”