A PAGE MARKED FOR MURDER
“When you did discover the book missing?” Detective Brookes asked. “Anything jump out at you then?”
“No, I made the assumption that Martha had second thoughts and either took it when we were packing the bag or went back for it,” Addie said.
“Martha, the same person we’re holding on suspicion of murder?”
Addie’s gaze dropped. She knew full well that any kind of emotional appeal to this woman would be a waste of breath. Detective Ryley Brookes was all evidence-based in her investigations, and Addie couldn’t argue with the evidence. Martha was seen having two public squabbles with the victim, who had a rocky history with Martha’s youngest daughter, and the body was discovered behind Martha’s bakery. However, Ryley’s flippant attitude regarding the missing book was another thing. This was something Addie could press.
“Look, I know that you’d like nothing better than to think of this as just a misplaced children’s book, and it will turn up at some point. But I’m convinced, because of the worth of this book, that something else is going on here. . . .”
Books by Lauren Elliott
MURDER BY THE BOOK
PROLOGUE TO MURDER
MURDER IN THE FIRST EDITION
PROOF OF MURDER
A PAGE MARKED FOR MURDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
A Beyond the Page Bookstore Mystery
A PAGE MARKED FOR MURDER
Lauren Elliott
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
A PAGE MARKED FOR MURDER
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Elliott
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2711-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2712-1 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2712-6 (eBook)
Chapter One
Addison Greyborne heaved her hip against the front door of Beyond the Page, her book and curio shop, to open it, and skittered through. As it began to close back on her, she clasped the box in her arms tighter to her chest and zigzagged around the wooden edge of the door. A wind gust slammed it shut behind her. She exhaled a sigh of relief—disaster avoided.
Or was it?
Another gust of wind kicked up a mini-cyclone of snow. It danced across her face, blinding her, sucking at her breath. She staggered forward and gasped. The air, heavy with the scent of wood smoke, caught in the back of her throat—a reminder of the well-stoked fireplaces residents of Greyborne Harbor used in their latest arsenal to ward off the bone-chilling cold of the past weeks. When the mini–snow twister passed, she glanced down at her cherished cargo still fully intact and smiled weakly.
Was it her imagination or did the briny tang of the wind gusts off the ocean seem warmer this morning than they’d had in weeks? She glanced at the sky. If the rays of sunshine peeking through the low-hanging clouds were any indication that the storm had finally changed course, just maybe the Fire and Ice Festival planned for the upcoming weekend would be a success after all.
Addie slid the last box of Christmas decorations from her bookstore into her Mini Cooper and closed the back hatch. Thoughts of the weekend ahead played on her mind as she eyed the now barren window displays of her bookshop.
It was already Friday, and she needed to come up with a plan fast. It was always tough for her to think up a window decoration concept to complement the Fire and Ice Festival since the event came on the heels of the Christmas season and lasted only one weekend—the one leading up to the twelfth day after Christmas.
She never really knew what to do to depict Greyborne Harbor’s version of the celebration of Epiphany, or as some residents call it, the Feast of the Three Kings. A number of towns honored the twelfth day—which had been celebrated in Europe since before the Middle Ages—by holding community potluck dinners and dances, food festivals, or as Greyborne Harbor did at the end of the weekend—with a Christmas tree bonfire on the beach. However they chose to mark the day, it was their way of celebrating the old-world tradition of taking down the Christmas tree.
Greyborne Harbor had opted years ago—under the direction of Addie’s great-aunt Anita, the woman whom she inherited her three-story Victorian home from—to incorporate a weekend ice carving festival along with the long-standing town tradition of the twelfth day Christmas tree burning.
Her aunt, who spent many years traveling the world and collecting books and mementos, many of which Addie still held in reverence, had made a trip to the Québec City Winter Carnival. It was said that she had been so taken by the craftsmanship and beauty of the ice sculptures she’d seen, that it didn’t take her long to convince the town council to add an ice sculpture competition to the two days leading up to the bonfire.
According to Addie’s friends, the event had grown over the years not only in the number of carving teams registering to participate, but also in the increased tourist traffic drawn to the spectacular display of ice sculptures. Addie knew her windows would have to appeal to both contestants and fans, and that was the tricky part—creating an all-encompassing design.
She stood in front of the window wracking her brain to come up with something new that she hadn’t attempted in the previous two years. She hated the thought of letting the town or her late aunt down. So today, creating something magical would have to be her top priority.
Paige Stringer, Addie’s shop assistant, poked her blond
head out the door. She took one look at the patches of blue sky, giggled like a schoolgirl, and then scampered outside, dragging the small Christmas tree from the bookstore behind her. She promptly dropped it at the curb. After brushing off her hands, she stood, her pale face turned toward the intermittent shafts of light. Addie couldn’t suppress her urge to laugh. Paige looked exactly like her mother Martha’s cat when she sunned herself in the window of the house Paige and her young daughter, Emma, shared with Martha Stringer.
“What?” Paige shielded her eyes and squinted at Addie.
“Nothing.” Addie gave a husky laugh. “I was just thinking of how much you looked like Cleo right now.” Addie ruffled her hand through Paige’s curly hair.
Paige scoffed at Addie, obviously not impressed with being compared to her mother’s indolent cat. “But speaking of my mother,” she said, lowering her voice and glancing at the bakery window, “I can’t believe the nerve of her dropping her store tree at the curb in front of your shop.”
Addie eyed the pile of trees at the curbside where volunteers would pick them up today or tomorrow to take down to the beach for the tree burning on Sunday. “I think the culprit who started it was, in fact, Serena. That one on the bottom looks suspiciously like the one she had in SerenaTEA.”
“Couldn’t the pile have been in front of her store?”
Addie shrugged. “When I figure out what goes on in that cute little red head of hers, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I think she has a bad case of wedding-planning fever of the brain.”
“I know. Last week I went into her shop to buy a tea, and she was standing at the counter, looking lost in another world. When I glanced down at what she was writing on an order pad, I saw she had written ‘Serena Chandler’ and then crossed it out and doodled ‘Mrs. Zach Ludlow’ over the entire page. I’m thinking the next few months leading up to the wedding might be tough on all of us.” Addie chuckled. “But we have to deal with the here and now, and right now I need your help brainstorming what we should do with these windows for the festival this weekend.”
“Sure, what are you thinking?” Paige asked, sliding up to Addie’s side as the two stared into the bleak abyss of what, not long ago, had held cheery fairy lights and an array of colorful Christmas decorations.
“Did you manage to place the order last week with our book distributor?”
“Yes,” Paige said, “and the shipment should be here this morning. I think I ordered at least one copy of each book in the catalogue that had anything to do with the history of ice carving, sculpture design ideas, or patterns, so we’re covered there.”
“See?” Addie said, clapping Paige on the back. “That’s exactly why I made you the assistant manager.”
“I try,” she said with a wide grin, her cheeks unmistakably rosier now than they had been earlier. “So, that takes care of the nonfiction. What about the fiction display?”
“As far as the books go, we might as well do what we’ve done the last two years and showcase any and all books with a winter theme.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. I already put aside Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago, and guess what? It’s the original 1957 edition.”
“Excellent, we have one or two regular customers who might be fighting over that one.”
“Should we call Edna or George beforehand and let them know we have it or wait and see if they discover it on their own?”
“Ooh, I like that idea. That way, we’re not appearing to play favorites.”
“I know.” Paige snapped her fingers. “We can give them little clues each time they stop in, and then the first one to find it wins the prize—that will be hiding in plain sight—front and center in the window.” Paige’s petite body shook with laughter.
“We’ll need to insert a couple of red herrings into the mix to tease them.” Addie grinned, glancing sideways at Paige. “What about that 1931, US publisher’s edition of Agatha Christie’s The Murder at Hazelmoor? Do we still have that?”
“No, we sold that one, but a copy of it by the UK publisher came in just before Christmas. I think it’s still in the back room.”
“That’s the one with her original title, isn’t it? Before the US publisher changed the name?”
“Yeah, it’s called The Sittaford Mystery. I’ll make sure we display it, too.”
“Perfect, it might even be more attractive to Edna, and that way they both win. But getting back to the display in general, I think I also saw a later edition of The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen in the children’s books that would work in the showcase, too.”
“Okay, I’ll start pulling any books that have a winter theme or snowy cover. What about the decorations? What are you planning for the diorama?”
“I have no idea. I’d like to have one window display the concept of ice, for the sculptor competition, especially since our little festival has recently been recognized by the National Ice Carving Association. And the other window should represent the grand finale to the weekend with the annual Christmas tree burning. But I’m at a loss.”
“Ooh-ooh, I know. In the fire window we can showcase books like Dan Brown’s Inferno, and then the winter-themed ones in the ice window.”
“That sounds good.” Addie hoped her disappointment didn’t show on her face or in her voice as she was hoping to come up with something a bit different this year. She glanced from one window to the other. “Yeah, I guess we’ll have to stick to the tried and true. We really don’t have any decorations that I can think of that would make it the magical winter wonderland I had in mind.”
“Wait a minute,” Paige said, looking at her. “What about that small solar garden lighthouse you picked up at the end of last summer when you and Simon went to the medical convention in Boston?”
Addie’s pulse quickened. “I forgot all about that. It would be perfect in that far window.” She pointed to the left of the door. “We could make a little campfire scene on a rocky shoreline to depict the tree burning on Sunday down by the lighthouse. Then some of the miniature Victorian village Christmas ornaments I just packed up, like the Christmas trees, could be stacked in piles beside it.” Addie giddily clapped her hands. “We could add the Dickens village gaslight lampposts along with the ornamental wooden garden bench I bought at the same time as the lighthouse. Well, it’s ideal to represent the ice carving displays in the park in this window. Plus that garden bench is the perfect size to display a few books on.”
“Yeah, and we can leave the fake snow mat in place until next week when we’ll have to come up with a new idea.”
“Yup, but one celebration at a time,” Addie said, standing back, her gaze darting from one window to the other. “I can see it now, and it’ll be the ideal representation of the Fire and Ice Festival,” Addie said excitedly. “I have another idea! At home I have a copy of the 1924 edition of Robert Frost’s Pulitzer Prize–winning volume of poems, New Hampshire. We could use a couple of those cute little bookmark clips we have and open the page to Frost’s ‘Fire and Ice’ poem and display it on the garden bench. What do you think?”
“Perfect! I think we have a plan, then.” Paige’s face lit up in a smile that reached her sparkling blue eyes. “And I know exactly where that box with the lighthouse and the small garden bench is. I’ll haul it out of the back room and get to work.”
“Excellent, and make sure Kalea gives you a hand pulling the books we’ll need.”
“What, and risk her breaking a nail?” Paige stopped her hand on the door handle. “I think I’d rather do it all myself than have to listen to your cousin, the high and mighty Miss Hudson, complain for the rest of the day.”
“Come on, Paige. You’re her manager, remember? Just ask for her help, and I’m sure she’ll get the message.”
Paige raised her brow. “What message would that be?”
“That to collect a paycheck one has to actually work for it.” Addie’s words brought a chorus of laughter from both women as Paige h
eaded back into the bookstore.
Addie shook her head. She knew she was going to have to speak to her cousin and soon. She had avoided having the talk through the holidays so as not to put a damper on the season, but if Paige was feeling frustrated enough to say anything to Addie about Kalea’s lack of enthusiasm for work, it was clearly time for Addie to put her foot down and stop her cousin’s prima donna nonsense. Addie had taken one more fleeting look at the empty window and started for her shop door when raised voices behind her brought her to a halt. She swiveled around as two men came out of the door to Martha’s Bakery, vying for dominance over the narrow opening.
“I said back off.” The taller, dark-haired man elbowed the shorter, gray-haired man, whose return jab indicated he had no intention of stepping aside.
“I told you to stay away,” the gray-haired man shouted back at him. “But you just couldn’t listen, could you? Now see what you’ve done.”
The taller of the two staggered out onto the sidewalk, shoved his hands in his navy-blue, puffy jacket pockets, and stomped across the street to the park. The shorter man thrust his hands into his pockets with such force that Addie feared he had torn clear through the seams of his black wool peacoat. He huffed out a deep breath, turned abruptly, and marched off toward Main Street. Addie spotted Martha through the bakery window as Martha reached over the snowy landscape backdrop she had for the gingerbread castle displayed through Christmas, snatched the last gingerbread man from what once was a full display, and bit its head off. Martha spied Addie, took another bite, and grinned at her.
The look of deep satisfaction on Martha’s face said it all, and Addie was unable to stop the laugh that bubbled out as she remembered her own experiences with biting the heads off gingerbread men a year ago. Still smiling, Addie reached for the door handle to Beyond the Page, but a soft whimpering sound stopped her. She glanced around and saw nothing of concern. She shrugged, grasped the handle, and then danced a step backward. Nudged against her boot was a miniature Yorkipoo. She cocked her head at book club member Gloria McBride’s little dog, its tricolored body shaking violently against Addie’s leg.
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