Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  “Look at this,” Morrie held up the frontispiece, running his finger over two tears in the corners. “I’ll bet the secret code to my safe deposit box that these correspond to the paper under the tape on your other envelope.”

  “I bet you’re right. So what’s this?” The envelope was brown, different from the one in Ashley’s luggage that contained the cash. I couldn’t see any writing. I slipped my finger under the tape holding it shut, and pulled out another one of Marcus’ drawings. This one was a ballgown – panels of leather and lace fixed to a metal frame. I knew it was intended as the centerpiece of Marcus’ show.

  My hand trembled as I realized that in my hand I held the proof we needed. Ashley Greer had been killed over fashion.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I turned over the meaning of this discovery in my head. The money in her wallet, along with the stack of drawings. The text message about the meeting in the shop. Holly Santiago’s too-similar design and Ashley’s new purse.

  Ashley had already sold some of Marcus’ designs, and she’d been trying to sell this piece when the buyer killed her.

  “This explains everything,” I whispered. “We have to tell the police.”

  “On the contrary, this only raises more questions.” Morrie took the image from me and held it up to the light. “You’re thinking the buyer killed Ashley, yes? Perhaps so he or she could get their hands on this drawing without giving up any more cash? But then why did they not take this drawing with them?”

  He had a point. “Perhaps they were intending to, but Quoth interrupted before they could grab it.”

  “Yes, that could be the case.” Morrie fingered the spine of the book. “But if they were in such a hurry, why stop to rob the till downstairs? Unless they took the till money first… Or it was the other way around. Maybe Ashley was the one paying for drawings. Maybe this Marcus Ribald of yours can’t actually design for shit, so he’s hiring other people to create his designs for him, and they have to exchange them in secret so the fashion world doesn’t discover the truth.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I worked with Marcus for a year. I’ve seen him draw. He’s a genius. He definitely drew these.” I held up the envelope. “We should take this to the police. It would help clear my name.”

  “Wrong move, gorgeous,” Morrie swiped the envelope from my hands and tucked it into his jeans pocket. “All you’ve got is some drawings and a wad of cash, both of which you took from the victim’s suitcase and the crime scene, and both are now covered in your fingerprints. If anything, it’s just going to make you look more guilty, because you knew exactly where to look for these items.”

  “But if I don’t do something to start them looking for Ashley’s buyer, they’re going to arrest me.”

  “Ah, but you forget one thing – you have the Napoleon of Crime on your side.” Morrie waved his hand at Heathcliff and Quoth. “Also, those two fellows might be of some use.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not filled with confidence.”

  “It would help if we could identify the end buyer,” Quoth said.

  Moriarty flipped the envelope over, studying it from every angle. “Agreed. I’d bet my vast and considerable fortune that whoever committed this foul deed was an agent working for someone who wanted to keep their hands clean.”

  “This has happened once before.” I explained to them about the fur jacket and Holly Santiago. “She was in New York preparing for Fashion Week when she released that first design. Ashley could have easily met her or an agent at one of the Fashion Week events.”

  “Where is Ms. Santiago now?”

  “She has a fashion house in London.”

  “Perfect.” Morrie tapped the name into his phone. “We have our first suspect. I’ll dig around in her financials, see if I can’t find anything to connect her to Ashley. Heathcliff, you’re on your own tomorrow. Contact this Marcus Ribald and figure out if he really is in Martha’s Vineyard. Mina and I are going to pay this fashionista a visit. That is,” Morrie turned to me, “if Mina doesn’t mind disobeying a direct police request to remain in the area.”

  And miss the chance to clear my name and spend the day in London with Morrie? “As the title of my favorite Pennywise album says, ‘Fuck Authority.’ I don’t mind at all. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Drizzle pelted me as I walked in from the estate to meet Morrie at the shop. I checked my watch as I rounded the corner of Butcher Street – 6:55 a.m. Good, five minutes early. Morrie seemed the type to appreciate punctuality and besides, we had a train (and then another train, and then another train) to catch.

  I smoothed back my hair as I pounded on the shop door. After getting up at five to choose the perfect outfit, I felt happy with my decision of a military-style black jacket with velvet epaulettes, black leggings laced up the sides, and my red patent Docs. The rain may have wet my jacket, but it hadn’t dampened my spirits. My heart raced at the thought of the long train ride with Morrie, our legs touching in the seats, his hand accidentally brushing mine—

  Where is he? I knocked again. “Morrie?”

  “Tut, tut, Mina Wilde, waking up the neighborhood again!” Mrs. Ellis called down from her window. “Look at you, out at all hours in that getup! Which one are you courting, the tall one or the grumpy one?”

  My cheeks burned. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ellis. I just don’t have a key yet.”

  “Make sure you get one. Folk around here take their sleep seriously. I don’t want any more murders in this neighborhood, you hear?” She gave me another wink, which made her round face scrunch up like a prune. “If I were you, I’d have both of them. Imagine being the pickle in the middle of that beef sandwich? Why, I would—”

  Morrie threw open the door and yanked me inside. “Good morning, gorgeous.” He kissed my forehead, raising trails of goosepimples across my skin.

  “You took your time! Mrs. Ellis was about to lecture me on my sex life.”

  Morrie gave me a shove toward the door. “Get back out there. I want to hear this.”

  My cheeks flushed. “No time. We’ve got a train to catch. I need my own key.”

  “You can tell that to Heathcliff while I finish getting ready. That is, if you can rouse him.”

  I followed Morrie up the stairs to the flat. Heathcliff was sound asleep in his chair, Grimalkin curled up in the crook of his arm, purring like a buzzsaw. Quoth preened himself on his perch.

  I shook Heathcliff’s shoulder, but he didn’t stir.

  “Get me a key,” I growled in his ear. He snorted in reply, but his eyes didn’t open. From the perch, Quoth made a hyuh-hyuh noise that sounded suspiciously like a raven laughing.

  Morrie emerged from the hall carrying a large black birdcage. “Quoth wants to go with us, so we’ll have to carry this on the train.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Morrie opened the door as Quoth hopped down from his perch and stepped inside. “They won’t let us take that on the train.”

  “Sure they will. They let cyclists on the train and they’re way more obnoxious than ravens.”

  From inside the cage, Quoth beat his wings and let out an indignant “Croak!”

  “Sorry, mate,” Morrie closed the cage door. “We can’t risk you shifting on the train, so this is the safest option. I’ve put some lovely berries in there for you.”

  “Croak!”

  Inside my head, Quoth let forth a string of expletives.

  “Such foul language in front of a lady,” Morrie tutted, picking up the cage in one hand and a sleek leather satchel in the other. “Let us away.”

  Morrie didn’t own a car either, hence our train journey. I had to jog to keep up with his long strides as he wound his way through the narrow streets and lanes, down to the station by the river. We arrived just as the train pulled up and, as Morrie predicted, not a single person batted an eye as he lifted Quoth’s cage onboard. We found our reserved table in the first class carriage, and I grabbed a window seat. Morrie settled Quoth into the s
eat opposite mine, wrapping the seatbelt around the cage to stop it from moving around, then slid in beside me.

  I’d made myself a playlist of old school punk tunes and packed two books for the three-hour journey. But Morrie had other plans. He pulled out a magnetic chess set and arranged the pieces, turning the board so white faced toward me. “Ladies first.”

  “How magnanimous of you. You won’t be so nice to me after I kick your arse.”

  For all my smack talk, I’d barely even got my knight into action before Morrie had me in checkmate. And he wasn’t a gracious winner, smirking and smack-talking as he again won the game in five moves. I could see why Heathcliff wouldn’t play with him. We played a few more rounds. Even though I gave the game all my attention and tried not to get distracted by Morrie’s tattooed forearms or the way the corner of his eye twitched when he had a plan, he beat me every time.

  “You’re good at this,” he said as he set the board up again.

  “I am not. You just checkmated me in nine turns.”

  “That’s three turns more than most people get with me,” Morrie’s wicked grin made my chest turn somersaults.

  I picked up a pawn who’d only lasted two turns and waved it in Morrie’s face. “You’ve given this poor guy PTSD. Next time I’m choosing the game, and it’s going to be something dumb that relies purely on luck.”

  “There’s no such thing as luck. It’s all a balance of probability—”

  I punched him in the arm. “Spoilsport.”

  We fell into an easy conversation, speckled with flirtations. Morrie asked me about my life in New York and growing up in Argleton. He spoke about his mathematical studies and fascination with asteroids, how he might one day look to return to his studies or teach again or enter the space program.

  I asked Morrie why he didn’t just do those things now. He wasn’t bound to the bookshop and the answers it might yield in the same way Heathcliff and Quoth were.

  “How do you think Heathcliff would fare without me, or our feathered friend over there?” Morrie entwined his long fingers in mine.

  I resent that. I am perfectly capable of catching rodents and foraging for my own berries, Quoth’s voice reverberated inside my skull. I jumped at the intrusion of it. This whole shapeshifting thing would take some getting used to.

  Morrie’s icy eyes warmed. “Even someone like me relishes the innately human desire to be needed by my friends.”

  I suspected that wasn’t the whole truth of it. Behind the facade of Nevermore Bookshop, James Moriarty was re-establishing his criminal empire for the twenty-first century. On the one hand, his hacking skills had already come in handy, but on the other hand, he did bad things and made no apology for them. He stole money from people and who knew what else…

  If he wasn’t so hot, if his fingers in mine weren’t causing electrical impulses to sizzle through my body, would I be able to stomach his presence? I wasn’t sure I liked my answer to that question.

  Morrie slid his finger over my knuckles, and all moral postulating flew from my head.

  We changed trains twice, running across platforms with Quoth croaking in protest. Before I knew it, the announcement blared for Paddington Station. I hadn’t even opened my book. Morrie had to drop my hand in order to gather up the chessboard and Quoth’s case. My fingers tingled with the ghost of his touch.

  We alighted and wound our way out onto the street. Quoth’s head swiveled every which way as he took in the throngs of people, the skyscrapers, the honking cars and bright red buses clogging the streets, the polyglot of languages spewing from mouths and loudspeakers and radios. Smells assailed me – sweat and exhaust fumes and overflowing garbage and fancy soaps from a nearby store and all manner of ethnic foods – disgusting and wonderful in equal measure.

  “Is it weird being here?” I asked as we stopped at a traffic light and Morrie consulted the map on his phone.

  “Why would it be weird?”

  “When you knew London, we didn’t even have automobiles. It must have been a very different city.”

  “The London I knew never existed. It was a fiction – one man’s interpretation of what he wanted London to be, a backdrop for his pantomime of good versus evil. Arthur Conan Doyle was right about one thing, though. London has always been and will always be the great meeting place of culture, as well as the nexus of all crime. Everything of interest that happens in this world links back to London.”

  I couldn’t tiptoe around this issue any longer. “Morrie, did you really do all those things Sherlock Holmes said of you in the books?”

  No hesitation. Morrie grinned. “Of course.”

  “You were… you are… the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city?”

  “That’s what it says on my business cards,” Morrie held his phone up to rotate the map.

  “You realize that makes it difficult for me to like you, to trust you. Why do you have to be a criminal now? You have a new chance at life, a chance to be better. Why fall back into the same pattern?”

  Morrie pulled one of the books out of my bag and held it in front of my face. It was a collection of feminist essays I’d grabbed from the shop. “Because of this.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “I found that book in the shop when I first arrived in this world. This ‘feminism’ was not even a concept when I first built my empire, but it immediately appealed to me. In this author I sense a kindred spirit. The power structures of this world are heavily weighted in favor of a handful of people, many of whom obtained that power by nefarious means while convincing themselves they are morally just. I have no patience for morals, but I do so love chaos. The world this author advocates, this fair and equitable world, it is the chaos. I am here to be better, Mina. Instead of reinforcing the power structures I helped to build, I aim to throw a wrench into the works and jiggle things out of place.”

  “But you’re a privileged white man!”

  “Exactly,” he grinned. We crossed the street and Morrie steered me into a deserted alley. “I’m bringing down the system from within.”

  “I’m not sure you’ve entirely grasped the concept of feminism, but I’ll give you points for trying.”

  “Do I get points for this?” Morrie growled. He whipped me around, pressed my back into the stone wall, and slammed his lips against mine.

  Heat coursed through my body as his tongue fought its way between my teeth to tangle with mine. Every part of me sparked to life – hot, achy, needy. I angled my body toward him, capturing more of his heat.

  Quoth squawked in protest as his cage clattered on the cobbles. Morrie’s hands skimmed my sides, tugging at the hem of my jacket, fighting to access the naked skin beneath. I gave into the temptation that had lurked in the back of my mind ever since we first crossed paths and surrendered myself utterly to his expert lips. Rough stone teased my thighs and Morrie’s hands were everywhere and Oh Isis, it feels so good.

  All the fear and hurt and tension of the last two days welled up inside me, burning up beneath Morrie’s touch. His tongue teased out something deeper – the black hole of my uncertain future that threatened to devour me. His fire lit up the darkness and I glimpsed the void, and in that moment I thought that whatever awaited me, I could face it down and defeat it.

  My hands reached up, moving of their own accord, drawn by the heat like a moth to a flame. I twisted my fingers through Morrie’s hair, messing up his perfectly coiffed locks, dragging him closer, stoking the fire that raged between us.

  Rough stone scraped my back, but I didn’t care. My heart pounded in my ears as Morrie dipped his hand under the waistband of my leggings. His finger stroked the outside of my panties, which were already wet. He pinched the fabric and tugged it aside.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  “People will see,” I whimpered as Morrie’s finger slid inside me.

  Oh Ishtar, I don’t care.

  “Let them see,” Morrie murmured
against my lips. “Let them see a woman in charge of her own pleasure.”

  My protests died away as Morrie thrust a second finger inside me and swirled his thumb against my clit. He moved with a steady rhythm, slow at first – controlled. I squirmed as the heat bubbled inside me.

  Morrie didn’t let me move, didn’t ease his relentless pace. His thumb pounded against my clit as those fingers worked their way inside me, faster and faster until stars exploded in my eyes.

  “Bite me, gorgeous.” Morrie placed his other hand across my lips. I bit down on his skin as the heat bubbled over and an orgasm exploded through my body.

  Talk about seeing stars. The world went black for a moment, bursting with bright lights as my body shuddered against the rough brick. Morrie’s hand slipped out of my panties and gripped my hip, holding me against him while I regained the use of my legs.

  “Whoa,” I whispered.

  “Plenty more where that came from. You have only to inquire.” Morrie held up my hand and kissed it. His finger grazed my cheek and I smelled myself on him, and the way he didn’t try to wipe his hand but kept grinning at me with that evil smile was nearly enough to melt me into a puddle all over again.

  I smoothed down my jacket and steadied myself. As soon as I peeled my back from the wall, guilt and shame slammed into me, nearly knocking me back again.

  What am I thinking? This isn’t me, being finger-fucked up against a wall in broad daylight where anyone could see. I can’t let this happen again, not with him. That’s James Moriarty. He’s not just any criminal, he is the criminal. He should be reprehensible to me, not irresistible.

  Another guy might’ve noticed my abrupt mood shift and asked it I was okay, or at least made mention of this change in our friendship status. But Morrie glanced at his watch and frowned. “We shall be late if we don’t hurry.”