Booked for Murder

by RJ Blain

  The last thing I needed was a man as a birthday present, especially one with a good track record of driving me to the brink of madness. I eyed the pricey bible, wondering if it counted as a religious artifact. Did the new bill attack religion, too? I’d been so concerned about the massive changes to society I hadn’t thought to check.

  “Do you like it?” the older man prowling the stall asked, waving a scarred hand towards the wooden sculpture. “It’s my second-best piece.”

  “It’s exquisite,” I replied, grateful I didn’t have to lie. “If this is your second-best piece, what is your first?”

  “It’s a bible much like this one, but the pages can be turned, and the entire scripture has been carved for all to read. I taught my apprentices how to carve by having each one carve several pages, and only when they perfected their art would their contributions be added to the book,” he announced, coming to me, although he kept his distance as though afraid my wheelchair might rise up to bite him. Then he noticed my cast and relaxed. “What happened to your foot?”

  “I broke it in an accident.” I regarded my cast with a wrinkled nose. “I should be out of it in a few weeks, and then I can start physical therapy with some odd medical boot, assuming everything is healing well.” As being honest made it impossible to catch me in a lie, I thought about what I could say without revealing too much.

  “May you have a quick and painless recovery. What is your faith, for you to find my bible so interesting?”

  No matter what I said, I would be inviting trouble over. “My family isn’t religious, but it’s still a beautiful book.”

  “That’s a pity. There are many faiths for you to choose from to help you find peace. I’m multi-denominational.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I believe in more than one faith, although they’re all some form of Christianity. I enjoy the differences between the denominations and embrace them all.” He headed to his money box, opened it, and pulled out a variety of flyers, which he offered to me. “One from each of the churches I attend. When Senator Maybelle is in our area, she attends this church.” He pointed to one of the flyers, which declared itself as a Lutheran church located in Brooklyn. “She’ll be at the Sunday early morning service before she leaves the New York area. It’s a very welcoming congregation, although the building is old and accessing it might be difficult for you right now.”

  A lot of places in New York didn’t believe in wheelchairs, although the more modern and renovated buildings made some efforts to become accessible—usually. I took the flyers, making a show of looking through them. “Thank you.” However much I didn’t enjoy the idea, checking out the churches might tell us a lot about the type of person Senator Maybelle was based on the kind of services she attended. I dug out a pen, picked a spot on the appropriate flyer, and wrote the date and time of the service and circled it as a reminder to myself. “Is there a dress code?”

  “We prefer for worshippers to wear their Sunday best.”

  I stared at him, unable to comprehend what he meant by Sunday best.

  He chuckled. “I see your parents didn’t take you to services as a child. A pity. Your Sunday best is your best clothing. Usually, this means a tasteful dress for the ladies and a suit for the men, although a vest with a tie is acceptable. One of my other churches is more casual.” He reached over and tapped one of the flyers, and I dutifully wrote a note that the church welcomed more casual attire. “The general rule is to wear your best to services, so if your best is a good pair of jeans, that is your best, but it is generally considered to be bad form if you own better and choose against wearing it.”

  “Would slacks be acceptable for a woman?”

  “Generally not, but some do wear a tasteful blazer and slacks. Most women generally wear dresses. Of course, if there is an outreach program after services, we have casual Sundays, but everyone is aware of when we’re doing outreach.”

  “Outreach? What sort of outreach?” I asked, well aware I’d be opening Pandora’s box.

  As expected, the artisan regaled me with twenty minutes of tales of working the local soup kitchens, building homes for the homeless, and other programs his churches participated in. While they built homes for the homeless, outside of volunteering at soup kitchens, his churches didn’t become involved with homeless shelters, education for the poor, or anything I viewed as important for the members of society who needed the most help.

  They stuck to the more affluent areas and tried to stamp out poverty, but only among those they deemed worthy.

  Instead of asking why the churches avoided the more destitute parts of New York where they could do the most good, I listened, smiled, and wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into. When his lecture came to a close, I turned the conversation to some of the smaller of his wares, including carved figurines depicting religious figures and various other religious symbols I hadn’t realized were religious symbols until I’d asked what they were.

  A rosary, each wooden bead lovingly etched with some symbol or another, caught my attention, and I pointed at where it hung tucked into some corner. “That’s a rosary, isn’t it? Catholic?” I guessed.

  “It’s a mala rosary. I blended elements from Hinduism, Buddhism, and Catholicism to create it. There are 108 beads, but I have carved the mala with Catholic and Christian symbols and meanings. I opted to marry these religions in particular, as they often share similar beliefs expressed in different ways. This is meant for mantra style of prayer.” He pointed at a rose-draped cross decorated with a tassel. “The image of Christ is a symbol of salvation, and I have used wood from an olive tree to carve the beads, for it represents the promise of peace.”

  “It’s a beautiful work of art.”

  “It is one of my lesser pieces,” he admitted. “Flawed from its very conception. Some things simply do not marry well, and these elements are among them.”

  “How much are you selling it for?”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  I raised a brow at that, as with so many beads and the intricate carving of the cross, he must have spent a long time creating the piece.

  I wondered what Bradley would discover if I were to take the necklace to him. If I purchased it, perhaps I would learn more about the artisan and his connection with the senator, too.

  For fifty dollars, it didn’t hurt to try. Grabbing my purse, I dug out the bills and offered it to him. “While you may think it a lesser piece, it’s beautiful, and it would be my honor to treasure it.”

  Unlike everything else at his table, it could serve a purpose, too. I could roll it between my hands, wear it as a necklace, or even smack my ex-boss and current fiancé. I would need to spend a lot of time thinking about how I’d gone from hiding from him to in line to marry him—even if the marriage was a safety precaution to keep me from becoming a permanent fixture in the military.

  He took my money, smiled, and crouched, pulling out a carved wooden box depicting the four horses of the apocalypse. “I hope you do not find this box offensive. It is something I carved but could never sell. It seems fitting to send it off with something meant to bring peace. It keeps things in balance.”

  If he’d tried to sell the box, he could have received a lot more than fifty dollars for it. Maybe he found the box offensive, but I loved everything about it, the realistic horses gracing its surface, and their riders. While I didn’t know a whole lot about Christianity, I recognized the four horsemen of the apocalypse when I saw them. “It is a work of art. Shouldn’t I pay you more for the box?”

  “No, no, my dear. It is something I carved during a long winter.” He took out several pieces of black velvet, which he wrapped the mala in before setting it inside the box. He also wrote a receipt for me, tucking it within the box and wrapping it in more velvet before slipping it into a velvet bag. “Should you be asked upon leaving, simply show security the receipt. It’s unlikely they’ll ask, but just in case.”

  “Thank you.” I tucked the box into my purse, p
leased I’d brought one big enough to hold it. “Are there any other crafters here you recommend I should visit?”

  He smiled at my question. “What sort of art do you like?”

  “I’m usually pretty practical,” I admitted. “I like things I can use.”

  “There is a pottery vendor at the end of the row who crafts cups, bowls, plates, and so on. They are works of art, but they are also functional works of art. That might meet your needs. You’ll find it difficult to get such things at this rally, though.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Senator Maybelle asked us to bring works of art rather than artistic works of function, preferably works of art that showcase what it means to be human. The ceramics artisan is one of her relatives, and all of his art tends to be functional, but he brought pieces inspired by various cultures with him, which she approved of. She wants art to be showcased more than anything else.”

  Considering the price tags of his wares, I suspected the rally targeted the wealthy. I had no idea what she meant to accomplish by excluding functional items, but I hoped to find out. I thanked him, and after a moment of thought, decided I’d hit every stall I could before it was time to head to the main rally site, wondering what I might learn before even reaching the senator or listening to her speech scheduled to take place in several hours.

  It would be a long day.

  I needed to stop issuing challenges to life in general, as every vendor had some sort of morality they wished to impart on me while selling their wares and pushing Senator Maybelle’s political agenda. As warned, very few vendors had anything practical or functional in nature, with most of their goods meant to entice the high-ticket buyers that political campaigns wanted to lure in for contributions. However, aware of the secrets handcrafted items could tell, I bought a ridiculous number of trinkets, most costing within five to ten dollars, from barely polished worry stones to carved wooden balls that might have become beads if the artisan had been bothered to drill a hole through them.

  One vendor had a collection of wooden bookmarks for twenty dollars apiece, and I ended up buying a set of four of them, each one depicting a different season. I particularly liked the tassels, which were made of thin, braided wire decorated with glass beads. I’d likely regret the expenditures later, but I appreciated beautiful things with a purpose, and I refused to sully one of my books by folding the corner to mark my spot. I’d have to be careful of the wire and wood to make sure I didn’t damage any spines, but some prices were worth paying.

  It took me two hours to find the ceramics stall, which had a lot of people milling around for a chance to talk to the crafter, a young man who had ignored his natural calling to be a model to work with his hands, which bore enough scars I couldn’t help but wonder how many hours he’d struggled and suffered to learn his art.

  I purchased a set of eight hand-thrown pinch bowls with a blue and green glaze that reminded me of the ocean. After I had Bradley check them to see if he could learn any secrets from them, I’d give them to my mother, who appreciated having little bowls littering her kitchen when she cooked.

  They’d be wasted on me, who could handle the simplest of dishes and little else.

  I needed to warn Bradley we’d both need some cooking classes if we wished to survive on our own while maintaining decent health. I’d need a lot of classes to be able to handle anything more than following the directions on a box.

  The preprocessed foods I favored would do their best to kill Bradley with their dairy content.

  Aware of my ongoing feud with my wheelchair, the short distance I could go before needing to catch my breath, and the perils of dealing with a crowd of people who couldn’t be bothered to give me room to move, I abandoned the craft stalls. Dodging people on my way across the park to where the senator would make her speech tested my patience. Somehow, I made it without incident, although I would need several hours to recover from the unwanted exercise.

  The park’s setup reminded me of a concert venue with a stage, massive overhead lights and speakers, and everything else needed to put on a show for the masses. Hundreds of people crammed close to the stage for a chance to get close to the woman they wanted to win the presidency. While the rest of the grounds hadn’t been precisely accessible, the inclusion of a ramp leading to the stage caught my attention. I came to a halt not far inside the general waiting area for the rally, close to the exit so I could escape before everyone blocked my ability to leave until the crowd dispersed.

  Waiting an extra hour for thousands of people to leave would annoy me. Bradley would inevitably add to my annoyance, as he’d hover if I didn’t make it back to my apartment at the scheduled time, approximately two hours after the conclusion of the rally.

  Considering how many people were packed into the park, it would take a hell of a lot longer than two hours to make it home.

  I needed to have a long chat with my life and negotiate for a minimum of three calm, peaceful weeks with no hospital visits, minimal pain, my foot behaving to the best of its ability, and not a single annoyance. I could use a few weeks of working on the library renovation, spending some rich donor’s money to turn my favorite place in New York into a work of art. I indulged in daydreaming about a good few weeks at my job, making a mental note to tell Bradley I absolutely would not be giving up my life as a librarian any time soon.

  He’d just have to cope with a librarian fiancée.

  I’d also double his required bribes to visit me and my cat during my three perfect weeks of life.

  It took me all of ten minutes to figure out most of the attendees viewed the obviously disabled with disdain, skirting me and my wheelchair far more than necessary. Several times, I caught someone complaining about my presence, and I almost snorted my disdain when one of the security guards pointed at my casted foot.

  I’d been dealing with the scorn long enough to understand reacting wouldn’t do anything to help. Instead, I selected the summer wooden bookmark from my new collection, dug out a psychological research book I’d picked to help me get a better understanding of why humans did terrible things to each other, and spent more of my time watching the crowd than reading.

  It took me all of five minutes to figure out Senator Maybelle’s primary demographic was old, rich, and white. The pictures I’d seen of her offered the illusion of youth, although she was in her early fifties and defined rich. The Hamptons had more money than they knew what to do with, primarily because everyone in the family expanded their empires independently of each other, pooling their resources together to make everyone stronger. Bradley’s businesses belonged fully to him, although his parents had helped him get started. His parents’ business affairs remained thoroughly tangled with each other, although I remembered a clear division existed between their various corporations; they offered advice to each other but little else.

  I needed to rectify my ignorance on their current state of affairs, especially if the haphazard engagement papers held.

  I was not at all equipped, ready, or able to inherit a business. Being a librarian challenged me enough. Being a librarian expected to solve a series of gruesome murders might do me in. Assuming I survived through that, I might be able to help Bradley handle his paperwork.

  Paperwork liked me, and I liked paperwork. Maybe I could become a librarian who did some secretarial duties. Could a librarian pick up the skills a secretary needed?

  What, precisely, did a corporate secretary even do?

  I’d been too busy paying attention to who might try to hurt Bradley to care about the various tasks his secretaries managed for him.

  When had life become so damned complicated?

  My book, while insightful about human nature in some ways, offered no answers regarding my current dilemma. I flipped to the index, checked for any relevant sections regarding obsession with other people, and turned to the correct page.

  Somewhere along the way, I had developed a severe obsession with the heir of the Bradley family fortune, and with luck,
the book could offer some advice on how to deal with my problem.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” a woman asked, drawing my attention away from my book.

  While I’d been warned Senator Maybelle would target me due to my temporary disability, I hadn’t expected her to actually show up or talk to me. I placed my bookmark between the pages and closed the book, careful to avoid damaging anything. What was I supposed to say to a senator, especially one who wanted to see me sent to the military and killed on the front lines?

  Damn it, why had I agreed to go along with the crazy scheme? “I’m as fine as can be, Senator Maybelle. I hope you’re having a good day.”

  What the hell was I supposed to say or do? Nobody had briefed me on what to say to the woman in the event she wanted to speak to me. Since cursing at my misfortune wouldn’t do any good, I went with the only thing I could do.

  I smiled until it hurt and pretended there was nothing more I wanted in life than to meet a senator with presidential aspirations and a dislike for the rest of humanity.

  The senator held out a hand and regarded the sky with a sigh. I took that as my cue to get my book in my purse and zipper it up, which would make it as waterproof as possible, as I typically went the pleather route due to its general indestructibility and its lack of care if it were to become wet in New York’s finicky weather. “It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but it’ll probably pour halfway through the rally. At least it’s warm, so a little rain won’t hurt much. This is too important to reschedule due to a little bit of rain.”

  “A little rain hasn’t hurt anyone before,” I replied, maintaining my smile. “It’s only when it’s a lot of rain that we should worry. I’ve had my fill of hurricanes for a while.” The last one to blow through had done a ridiculous amount of flood damage, although to my disappointment, I hadn’t spotted any stray sharks swimming down the streets.

  “Haven’t we all? They’re saying it’s going to be a bad season this year. I’m hoping we can push through some reforms to our disaster management, as we need better accountability for the response teams, tighter control of spending, and better use of contributions supporting disaster relief. It would also influence the operation of charities to prevent skimming from non-profit funds.”