by Avery Aames
Staring at the display now, I felt something was missing, but what? A split second later, I snapped like Ava. Books. Duh! Yes, we sold lots of unique cooking items in our store, but mostly we sold books—and the display had none.
I roamed the shop and plucked a few titles that I thought would appeal to passersby. Two children’s books: The Gingerbread Cowboy, and Little Red Cowboy Hat. As a savvy marketer, I realized that children often pulled their parents into stores. “Mommy, buy me that!” they would cry. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I expected to get paid back in spades when I had children—if I had children. They would tug me this way and that, and I would have to comply. Too-ra-loo, as my aunt would say.
I added a fun adult book called The Cowboy Hat Book, a coffee table–style book that contained the history of the hat, and I placed a used edition of The All-American Cowboy Cookbook: Over 300 Recipes From the World’s Greatest Cowboys next to that, used because it was out of print, which was too bad. There were colorful stories within about a few old-timer Western stars like Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. I had purchased the book for a song at a garage sale. I vowed I would never sell it, but I probably would. For the right price.
“Jenna!” Ava beckoned me with a snap. “Help me with these.” She had collected a dozen books.
I hurried to her—see what I mean? That snapping gets people to obey—and carried her haul to the checkout counter. “What a lot of books. Are you having a party?”
“Just between you and me, shh”—she winked twice—“yes, I’m having a private party. Private because a certain somebody will not be invited to attend. I’ve asked a few of my neighbors, including your father, to come for cocktails and heavy hors d’oeuvres tomorrow night. I think your father has invited his beloved. That’s entirely all right.”
My father, a former FBI man, is a widower and retired and currently dating Bailey’s mother. Seeing them together always makes me smile. Dad was lost after my mother died.
“Why the secrecy?” I asked as I packed her books into one of our specialty shop bags and tied the handle with rattan ribbon.
“It’s a community gathering, if you will, but that certain someone is not, I repeat not, to hear of it. Do you understand?”
I nodded, but how could I tell that someone if I didn’t know who it was?
Ava peered over her shoulder and back at me, a triumphant—or was it malicious?—gleam in her eye. “See you.”
As she left, a shiver ran down my spine. At the same time a door slammed. Outside the shop.
I glanced through the window at the parking lot and saw the rear lights of a dark blue Prius flare. Something else flickered, too, inside the car, like sunlight bouncing off a lens of a camera or binoculars. Was someone spying on the store? On Ava? No. Of course not. I was being silly. The driver of the car—I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or woman—was probably doing business on a cell phone or using the utility mirror on the visor.
In spite of that logical explanation, another shiver cut through me. Sheesh, Jenna. Lighten up! I flicked my fingers at the air as my aunt had taught me, trying to rid myself of bad vibes, but it didn’t work. A third shiver jolted me to my core.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Agatha Award–winning author Avery Aames loves to cook and enjoys a good wine. She speaks a little French and has even played a French woman onstage. And she adores cheese. As Daryl Wood Gerber she also writes the Cookbook Nook Mysteries. Visit her at averyaames.com.
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