“Do you mind telling me what’s so significant about those keys?” Bert asked, curious as to what he was getting at.
“We found this on the desk in front of the victim,” he tapped the brass key with his index finger.
“That isn’t surprising. He kept many things on his desk.”
“It was sitting in the middle of the desk, instead of one of his piles.”
“Piles?”
He pulled the lid off the box and showed her the items inside. “There was a whole slew of items like these—wallet, change, a stick of gum, a loose breath mint, and his keys—sitting in a neat little pile to the side.”
Bert noticed that the detective hadn’t grabbed the pocket lint with it all, but examined the rest of the varied items.
“There were also some books, pens, and his paper organizer.” He held up the shop key. “However, this wasn’t in any of the piles. It was just sitting there right in the center of the desk in front of him.”
“He told me he was going to drop it through the mail slot when he locked up last night. Maybe it was his way of making sure he remembered to leave it behind. If he left it on his keyring or in one of his piles he’d have probably forgotten.”
“Was the victim often forgetful?”
“I’d say so,” she agreed.
“And, did you have to unlock the shop when you arrived this morning?”
Bert paused, finally understanding where this line of questioning was taking them. The detective was inferring that Bert might have something to do with this whole murder business.
“Well?”
“Yes, Detective. I did have to unlock the shop.”
“I see. Very interesting.”
“You’re implying that, without a key, the killer couldn’t have gotten in and out?”
Caught in his own theory, the detective scowled. “If what you say is true, Mrs. Hannah, then the whole shop was locked up tight. Whoever killed our friend, Mr. Pennyworth, had to have locked up when they left.” He held up Brinkley’s key one last time. “And they couldn’t have done it with this key. Therefore, I must conclude that the culprit either has a key themselves, or borrowed one.”
“Are you accusing me?” she blurted.
“No, I’m not. Not yet, anyway.”
“I can assure you, I had nothing to do with his death,” Bert argued breathlessly.
“What time did you and Mr. Jankes leave?” he asked without skipping a beat.
“Sometime just after nine-thirty.”
“And were you two traveling together?”
“No, we walked out the door and went our separate ways.”
The detective only nodded as if he’d learned something significant. “Did you notice anything unusual either last night or this morning?”
“You mean like a dead body?” she stated dryly, getting tired of Detective Mannor’s pompous attitude.
“There is no need to get an attitude, Mrs. Hannah.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied firmly and without sincerity.
Mannor went on, unbothered by her slight outburst. “I meant, did you notice anything that was missing, something that may have been there the night before that had suddenly disappeared.”
Bert paused, taking inventory of her memory of the office. “Wait. Was there a letter opener on the desk this morning? A long silver one?”
The detective pursed his lips. “No, not that I’m aware of.”
Placing her palms flat on the table, she stood up with a start. “Oh, my goodness.”
“What is it, Mrs. Hannah?”
“Don’t you see? That was the weapon. Someone stabbed him with his own letter opener.”
Chapter 7
* * *
After getting another two cups of coffee in her system, just to keep alert, and eating two donuts, Bert headed back to the bookshop. Thankfully, the police had finished most of their initial walk-through and the coroner had officially taken the body away. A simple police barricade was situated around the doorway to discourage customers from coming inside, but no other measures were deemed necessary at that point. They were getting closer to finishing their work at the crime scene.
They had a wagon parked out in the back alley and were carefully labeling and loading all the significant evidence and boxes from the office. That way they could properly search each one for the murder weapon.
Detective Mannor allowed Bert in the left side of the building where there was the most work to be done. While the detective continued his investigation of the back office on the right side, Bert got down to business organizing books; she needed something to keep herself busy.
The left side of the shop had its fill of shelves, all crowded in and stacked up high. There were, of course, labeled sections, but none of them seemed to be alphabetized by author as was the usual method. Comics, self-help books, and more were all among the many shelves. There was even a cookbook section.
Bert took a few minutes to search the titles for 300 Percent Pies. Unfortunately, she didn’t find a copy.
She made a mental note of the space, thinking she’d leave one wall for shelves of books. It could be the new releases and featured titles section of the shop, enticing dessert lovers to pick up a bestseller while they enjoyed some sugary delights.
However, there was a lot to do before she could even think of getting the pie shop up and running.
The first order of business, in her mind, was clearing out the doorway. It was a tedious task, to say the least, as she went ahead and started unloading the floor to ceiling shelf of its contents. She found some cardboard boxes and began stuffing them full of the hefty books.
After some time, the shelf was cleared and ready to be moved aside. Using a rusty hand truck from the crowded stock room, she carefully eased it under the piece of furniture and gently rocked it back, pulling away.
The instant the shelf was moved, a ray of fresh morning sunlight flooded through the glass doors and windows, giving the room a cheery atmosphere where the dim gloom had been moments before. She sighed with a happy satisfaction, receiving her first glimpse of how her shop would turn out, but the moment faded the instant she spotted a woman peering in.
Her face was smashed up against the window, her nose and forehead creating marks on the glass. She had her purse in one hand and a hefty tome of a book under her other. Clearly, she had ignored the plastic orange and white police barricades and stepped in between them to get to the shop.
Before Bert could call out a warning that the shop was closed for the day, Pearl came waltzing through the front door on the right side—which had been left propped open for the police to come and go as they pleased.
“Excuse me, but we’re closed today, Pearl,” Bert informed her as she approached the woman, passing under the bricked archway which acted as a portal between the two shops.
“Huh?” the old woman mumbled, heading off to look at books like she hadn’t heard the new shop keeper. Either that or she was just completely ignoring her.
“Ma’am, the shop is closed,” Bert said again, following the woman and tapping her on the shoulder.
The woman let out a surprised squeak and spun around. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, scaring an old woman like that?”
“Didn’t you hear me? This place is closed.”
Clutching her large book closer to her chest, a copy of the complete works of William Shakespeare, Pearl stared intensely. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
“I’m the new owner of this shop, and we’re closed.”
“New owner?” she blurted out, her eyes widening in utter surprise.
“That’s right.”
The woman looked around herself in awe, still clearly not having seen the police activity in the back, or the police cars still parked out front. “So, you own everything in here?”
“Yes, and we are closed,” she reiterated.
“I was wondering if you could sell me a book,” she interrupted, not listening at all to Bert�
�s fourth insistence that they were not open for business.
“No, I cannot.”
“It’s the copy of Macbeth, the one behind the counter,” she motioned toward the book that was still propped up in the same manner as it had been the day before.
“I’m sorry, no.”
“I’ll give you a hundred for it.”
“Ma’am, we are closed, and in case you didn’t see, there is an active police investigation going on right now. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”
The woman’s face went slightly pale. “A police investigation? Why? What’s happened?”
“There was an accident, that’s all,” Bert answered, not wanting to get caught up in a long discussion when there was so much work to be done.
“Is someone dead? Is it Mr. Pennyworth?” she asked, absently walking off between the shelves. Clearly, she assumed she would be able to get a glimpse of the crime scene.
“Ma’am, come back here,” Bert shouted, following the woman.
Darting in between the shelves, the woman had seemingly disappeared.
“Pearl? Pearl?” Bert called, desperately trying to locate the woman.
Suddenly, she popped out her head from one of the book nooks.
“Ma’am.”
“How about this book? How much do you want for it?” she asked, holding up a worn copy of Emma by Jane Austen.
“No, I can’t sell you that.”
“What about Macbeth? You never gave me an answer.”
“I told you, we are closed,” she groaned, wanting nothing more than to clear this troublesome customer out and get back to work cleaning up the area where the pie shop would be.
“So, you won’t sell me anything?” she gasped, her face going slack as if she was appalled at Bert’s lack of customer service.
“What’s going on?” Detective Mannor asked as he appeared between the shelves, his large shoulders almost touching both sides of the skinny aisle. Upon seeing Bert, he frowned. “Mrs. Hannah, I believe I told you, you could work on the left side of the shop, but not over here.”
“I was, but this nice lady mistakenly came in to do some shopping,” she motioned toward Pearl, gritting her teeth at having said nice.
The detective turned to the woman and folded his arms. “Ma’am, did you not see the very clear police barrier we have set up outside on the sidewalk?” he snapped.
“I saw no such thing. I suppose there were a few things in the way that I had to squeeze around.”
“The shop is closed for the day, Ma’am, for a police investigation. You’ll have to leave.”
Pearl’s jaw dropped open and she huffed. “Well, why the heck didn’t you just say so in the first place?” Setting down the copy of Emma, she dug into her purse and pulled out her orange medication bottle, dropping two little white round pills into her mouth.
“Ma’am, can you please leave?” the detective demanded.
“See what you bring me to? You’ve made me so anxious that I have to take my emergency heart medication.”
“Ma’am, please,” the detective insisted, narrowing his eyes at Bert to get rid of the woman.
“I’ll be contacting the station and filing a complaint about the way I was treated here today. And you,” she jabbed a bony finger into Bert’s shoulder, “don’t expect me to ever come into this shop again, not while you’re the proprietor.” Pointing her nose high in the air, she pushed past Bert and made a dramatic exit, not unlike the one from the day before.
“Thank goodness for that,” Bert whispered.
Detective Mannor raised a scolding eyebrow at her. “You really need to keep your customers under wraps. Don’t let anyone else in,” he ordered, stomping off back toward the office.
Bert groaned, letting her shoulders slump in an exhausted gesture. This was turning out to be an overwhelming first day as a business owner.
Chapter 8
* * *
Heading back toward the left side of the shop, Bert took note of the copy of Macbeth behind the counter. Picking it up, she gingerly flipped through the pages, examining the yellowed edges and raised ink lettering. It was clearly an old book, likely printed around the turn of the century by the looks of it.
What bothered Bert was, why was the woman so dead set on getting her hands on it?
“I said the left side of the shop,” the detective barked at Bert, spotting her stalling at the counter.
Working very hard not to make an angry face or roll her eyes at the overbearing police officer, she walked into the left side of the store, keeping the little hardback book in one hand.
Once out of the Detective’s sight, she took a seat on a red Victorian style chair and continued her examination. Opening the cover, she read over the front matter. This particular edition of Macbeth had been published by Bartleby Books, a company she had never heard of. Additionally, her assumption had been correct about the date of publication. This printing was put out in eighteen-ninety-eight.
Realizing just how old it was, she was almost afraid to handle it too much. After all, she had no idea who it belonged to now that Brinkley was dead and gone. It was the only item, as per the contract, that didn’t fall into her possession upon taking over the shop, and she doubted it belonged to her now either.
Straining to remember if Brinkley had a wife, children, or any other family, she couldn’t come up with any memories of such. As far as she knew, the former shop owner had no one else in the world.
“I wonder if this is worth anything?” she whispered, turning the book over in her hand. If it was, she was sure Brinkley didn’t know about it. He may have sold old and out-of-print books, but his business sense wasn’t that great. Generally, he just charged two or three dollars for used paperbacks and five to ten for hardcovers.
He likely didn’t know how to use a computer and didn’t have one in the shop at all. He was old fashioned like that, even used an old manual cash register where you had to punch in every price.
Bert, on the other hand, while not the most tech savvy woman in the world, had taken it upon herself to learn about computers, cell phones, the internet, and all the rest of it as it became popular over the years.
“It’s important to keep up with the times,” her husband was always saying. He was generally referring to the carpet laying business and the necessity to contact customers over e-mail, text, and other forms of digital communication. Bert, being the one to handle the finances and books, had also learned the latest budgeting software.
On top of all of it, she had grown fond of computer games, though she’d never have told that to any of her friends or peers. She worried they’d think she was batty, but something about getting a perfect score in a game was very satisfying for her.
It was a great stress reliever.
In addition to her own home computer, she also had one of the fancy smart phones that could get on the internet from anywhere.
Pulling out that phone now, she turned it on. It had the largest screen of any phone on the market, which made it easier for her to see whatever it was she was reading.
Glancing at the copy of Macbeth again, she opened her internet browser and began typing some information into the search engine—the book title, the publication date, and the publishing company.
The results that came up astounded her.
On multiple used book websites and other second hand online shops, there were copies of the same book in question. According to the listings, this little book was worth over five thousand dollars. Additionally, there were only twenty-five of these ever printed.
Did that mean that Pearl knew all about the book’s real value and was trying to rip Brinkley off? If that were true, Bert was sickened by Pearl’s complete lack of any sense of honesty or discretion.
Knowing the true worth of the family heirloom, Bert became determined to get the book into the right hands—whoever that may be.
“There she is,” came an insistent woman’s voice from the open doorway.
“Oh, heavens. Now what?” Bert exclaimed, hopping up from the chair to stop any more customers from waltzing in.
While the investigative team had dwindled down to only the detective and two extra officers, she wondered why they didn’t have at least one officer standing at the front door to stop people from coming in if the detective cared about it that much.
She guessed it was her responsibility as the shop owner, now, to manage it.
“We’re closed,” she said, walking over to the woman with the permed dark hair standing in the door. Upon getting closer, she recognized the person.
It was Rebecca Stallion, the ornery owner of the Candy Emporium where Bert always bought an ice cream each week. Standing behind her was Kyle Jankes. “Mrs. Stallion, did you not hear me? There are police barriers up,” the young landlord protested, trying to get the woman to leave.
“Tell her, Mr. Jankes. Tell her she can’t do it,” Rebecca charged forward, pointing at Bert with an accusatory finger.
“I will do no such thing, now let’s get out of here,” Kyle demanded, never leaving the safety of the open doorway.
“Mrs. Hannah,” came an angry shout from the back of the building.
All three people turned to face Detective Mannor as he stomped his way to the front of the store.
“Who are these people? I told you that no one else was allowed on the premises. Why have you directly disobeyed my orders?”
Bert had enough, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “Detective Mannor, I have done no such thing. It is not my responsibility to make sure people aren’t coming and going as they please. These two have simply waltzed past your police barricade the same as the previous woman. I’ve had nothing to do with either of these intrusions. In fact, if anyone is at fault it’s you for not having a guard on duty.”
Mannor paused, taken aback by the woman’s outburst. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way. “My fault?” he finally blurted out, his face turning red. “I have all of the men available to me, which is only a small handful, working to get things sorted out so that you can have control of your shop back. I thought I was doing you a decency.”
Killer Apple Pie Page 4