Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

“It tastes like a musty old boot,” Heathcliff glowered at his glass.

  I whipped it out of his hand. “I’ll have yours, then.”

  Heathcliff grunted, but I’d already slid down beside Quoth, sipping the delicious wine and watching his delicate brush-strokes. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay down here with Jo?”

  “I’m going to try,” he said. “I can focus on my painting, and maybe my head won’t go to the bad places it goes to before I shift.”

  “What bad places?”

  Quoth’s fingers pinched the brush so hard his knuckles turned white. “Not now. She’ll be here any minute. Later.”

  I rested my head against his shoulder. His hair fell across my face – luminous strands of the deepest black, tinged with indigo and gold. Quoth, what’s going on inside that head of yours?

  Jo’s face appeared in the doorway. “Hey. Hope you guys don’t mind, but I picked up some fish and chips on the way over.”

  I leapt up to embrace her. Morrie joined our hug, and placed a wine glass in her hand. Jo nodded at Heathcliff as she set down the hot parcel of food, and strode up to Quoth and offered her hand.

  I held my breath as she addressed him. “Nice to meet you, I’m Jo.”

  Quoth’s face tightened with concentration as he shook Jo’s hand. “Allan, but everyone calls me Quoth. You’re the forensic pathologist.”

  “And you’re the artist who painted those amazing pictures hung all over the shop. I want to buy the one with the L’Inconnue de la Seine hanging downstairs. If you’ll take cash, I’ll bring it home with me tonight.”

  Quoth’s entire face lit up. “You really want my painting?”

  Jo whipped out a leather purse and counted out a stack of notes. “Shut up and take my money. I must have that painting for my office. And I’m going to tell all my colleagues about you. Keep painting morbid scenes and you’ll have your artwork in every mortuary in the UK.”

  Quoth’s smile radiated through his whole body. His teeth glowed, his eyes dancing with flecks of orange fire. I slid back down next to him, and he reached behind my back and squeezed my hand.

  “Which ugly painting is The Unknown Woman of the Seine?” Morrie asked, flawlessly translating the French phrase Jo spoke before.

  “It’s the one hanging behind Heathcliff’s desk, of the woman staring with a serene expression through the dark water,” I recalled.

  “She was a real person,” Jo explained. “An unknown drowning victim found in the Paris river in the 1800s. A pathologist in the city morgue became so smitten with her tranquil features and exquisite beauty that he made a plaster death mask, which was then copied and became a popular wall hanging in well-to-do homes from the 1900s onward. Her likeness was also used to create the face of the first ever CPR doll in 1958, and she’s still used on all CPR dolls today.”

  “That’s a cheery bedtime story.” Heathcliff flipped open the edge of the paper and helped himself to a handful of hot chips. Grimalkin jumped down from his lap and put her paws on the edge of the table, her little black nose twitching in anticipation of a fishy treat.

  Jo sank into my chair opposite Heathcliff. “I’m guessing you told the Scooby Doo gang here about the arsenic?” she asked. I nodded. “That’s fine. I expected you to, but nothing I say leaves this room, right?”

  We all nodded vigorously, diving into the hot food. I tore off a piece of fish for Grimalkin, who ate it with gusto, spreading bits of fish through the carpet fibers. Heathcliff placed a bookmark into his book and set it aside.

  Jo turned to Quoth and I. “Hayes isn’t looking seriously at either of you as suspects. He is digging into Heathcliff’s background, but I think that’s racial profiling more than any serious belief in his guilt. All the witnesses reported he was nowhere near the crime scene.”

  I glanced at Morrie in concern. Would his fake background documentation for Heathcliff stand up to police scrutiny? But Morrie seemed unperturbed. “Maybe if our resident anti-hero had a better customer service manner, he wouldn’t find himself top of the suspect list.”

  Heathcliff growled. Jo leaned over and patted his arm. “I’d be the same if I had to deal with the living all day. They’ll cross you off the suspect list as soon as they determine you barely knew Gladys Scarlett. This type of poisoning is vicious. The murderer is going to be someone who knew the victim.”

  “Poor Greta at the bakery is absolutely distraught,” I said. “She thinks she’s going to get a reputation for selling poisoned pastries and no one will buy from her again.”

  “Well, she can relax,” Jo smiled, draping her boots over the arm of the chair. “I had the toxicology results back today. This was chronic arsenic poisoning, which changes everything.”

  Morrie’s ears perked up. “Fascinating.”

  I leaned forward. “What do you mean by chronic poisoning?”

  “There are two ways to kill a person with arsenic,” Jo explained. “The first is with a single, lethal dose. That’s how we assumed Mrs. Scarlett was dispatched, because that’s what we’d normally expect to see in a modern arsenic case. But that wasn’t true here. She was given continued smaller doses over a period of weeks or months. Over time the victims of chronic arsenic poisoning would experience nausea, headaches, vomiting, and other issues, until eventually the organs shut down.”

  “Mrs. Ellis said Gladys had been poorly for a while, with dizziness and stomach upsets,” I remembered.

  “Exactly. Mrs. Scarlett’s doctor wouldn’t have thought to look for arsenic, so he probably just assumed it was the normal kind of upsets older people experience regularly. Unfortunately, this means we can’t narrow our suspect pool down to just the ladies at the Banned Book Club. Right now, anyone could have been the murderer. They would have to be close enough to her to administer a regular dose, so Inspector Hayes will focus his efforts on her family and friends.”

  “That’s going to be a lot of people. According to Mrs. Ellis, she was on every committee in the village!”

  “Lucky for him, that’s his job.” Jo sipped her wine. “Plus, hardly anyone has access to arsenic these days, so it’s going to be easy to narrow the suspect pool.”

  “What’s arsenic used for?” Quoth managed to ask, his brush poised in midair.

  “Certain manufacturing and agricultural processes. Insecticides and pesticides. Wood preservation. One arsenic compound is used in laser diodes and LED lights.”

  “The Lachlans own a property development company, so they could probably get access to manufacturers who use arsenic,” I said, turning this information over in my mind. “And Mrs. Lachlan would have ample opportunity to slip Mrs. Scarlett poison in all those planning meetings and village events.”

  “I believe she’s been treated as a suspect, but there are other factors to consider. After all, arsenic could also be made in a lab if you knew what you were doing. The actual compound used as poison is called arsenic trioxide, and it—” Jo stopped. “Sorry, I was about to get terribly boring.”

  “I disagree,” Morrie said. “Tell me more about how to make deadly poisons.”

  I glared at him across the room, but his face remained angelic.

  “You and I can discuss chemistry later,” Jo downed her glass and bit into a piece of fish while Grimalkin eyed her with wide-eyed jealousy. “I’m off the clock, so I want to know who’s seen anything good on the telly?”

  “We don’t have a television,” Morrie said. “Heathcliff doesn’t approve of the noise.”

  “People need to read more books,” Heathcliff growled.

  “If you think that, why do you snap at every customer that comes in the door?”

  “I don’t want them to read my books.”

  “Meow,” Grimalkin agreed, settling her head on top of her paws.

  “Okay, so no one wants to dissect the latest American Horror Story series with me, that’s fine. Anyone up to anything interesting over the weekend?” Jo asked, looking pointedly at Heathcliff. I glared at her. What’s she doing?


  “No.” Heathcliff growled.

  “You aren’t going on a date with Mina?”

  Heathcliff grunted, but didn’t answer. Beside me, Quoth itched his neck. A black feather floated into my lap.

  “My mum wants you all to come to dinner on Saturday,” I blurted out, desperate to change the subject.

  Heathcliff’s head whipped around. “Does she, now?”

  “Yep. I can’t get out of it, so let’s just get it over with.”

  “Food that doesn’t come from a takeout container?” Morrie perked up. “I’m in. Can your mum make coq au vin?”

  “Don’t get excited. We’re not… we live on the council estate. The menu will probably be cheese toasties and a Tesco’s chocolate cake.”

  “I never knock a cheese toastie. My doctorate thesis was fueled by cheese toasties.” Jo arranged chips on a slice of buttered bread, slathered it in tomato sauce, and took a bite. “Count me in.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “I’m not leaving the shop twice in one weekend,” Heathcliff grumped.

  “It’s fine, you don’t have to—”

  Morrie kicked him in the shins. “We’ll all be there,” he promised.

  “Yes.” Quoth’s finger traced a line along the edge of my hand.

  “Are you sure?” My nerves fluttered. I’d half expected them to say no. How are we going to keep Quoth in human form for so long? How are we going to make Heathcliff act like a human being for an evening? By Isis, how am I going to make Mum act like a human being? “My mum’s a little weird. She’s going to try to sell you all dictionaries for cat language.”

  “Good.” Morrie patted the cat’s black head. “Grimalkin stands on my face in the middle of the night and makes this chirrup sound and I’d love to know why.”

  A lump rose in my throat. I swallowed hard. Why did their reactions affect me so much?

  “When you consider what goes on in this shop,” Quoth whispered, his soft lips brushing my ear, “how crazy could she be?”

  A strangled laugh escaped my throat.

  “Mina, you okay?” his face twisted with worry.

  “No… I’m fine. It’s just… Quoth wondered how crazy could she possibly be.” I sighed. “You’re about to find out.”

  Chapter Twelve

  When Jo drove me home, Mum wasn’t there to give me the third degree. A note pinned to the fridge informed me she’d gone to the bridge tournament at the wrinkly village to sell her cat dictionaries. Apparently pensioners loved wasting their super payments on Mum’s junk.

  I sat down and made a list of all the information I knew about the case so far. I didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Ellis, but it seemed likely that Mrs. Lachlan or her husband were responsible – they certainly had the clearest motive. I did a quick online search through the Argleton Gazette for historical articles about Mrs. Scarlett to see if she was involved in any other town events that might breed resentment. Apart from coverage of heated planning committee meetings, the only other thing of interest was a letter to the editor from Mrs. Scarlett in defense of Sylvia Blume’s aura readings and her right to open a witchcraft shop in the village.

  I studied the letter with interest. It appeared that some members of Argleton Presbyterian had taken offense to the establishment of ‘pagan rituals’ in the village and Mrs. Scarlett had – quite rightly, in my opinion – taken them to task. In particular, she focused on one member of the committee who seemed to be leading the charge; the same Dorothy Ingram who had Mrs. Winstone banned as youth group leader.

  I wonder if Mum remembers this. The article was from ten years ago, which was around the time Mum started offering tarot readings from Sylvia’s shop. Asking Mum about her life would also make her happy. I saved the article to show her later.

  I took a shower, changed into my pajamas, and crawled into bed with a vampire novel I’d borrowed from the shop. I jammed my headphones in my ears, stared up at the poster of the Misfits on the roof of my bedroom and all the photographs of me and Ashley, and thought about how I might never see a photograph again. When I went blind, would all my memories imprint in my mind? Would I remember the world before I could see? Would it fade over time, or would I be stuck forever looping visions I could no longer experience?

  Fear rippled through me. All my life I’d known exactly what I was going to do – leave this stupid estate and this village and make it in the fashion industry. But now I was just as lost, just as stuck as the guys—

  A weird blue light flashed and wiggled across my vision, like a neon sign in Times Square.

  I bolted upright. What’s that?

  I rubbed my eye. The blue squiggle flashed again, then disappeared.

  My body froze. Don’t panic. It could be anything. A reflection from the street outside, a hallucination of my tired, wine-fueled brain.

  But I knew. My ophthalmologist warned me that at some point my eye condition would advance, and I’d start to notice random explosions of color or colors swapping around as my brain tried to rewire itself to see again. They’d become more and more frequent and then, eventually, colors would fade to black and I wouldn’t be able to see at all.

  He told me I’d have years before I started noticing the lights. Years. But I hadn’t mistaken the blue flare.

  Sid Vicious screamed in my ears. I bit back my own urge to scream.

  I grabbed my phone to text Morrie. I started typing a message. I got as far as, “I just saw a weird light in my eyes. Think I’m going blind. Need to talk to someone.”

  I stopped. My finger hovered over the SEND button.

  Morrie wasn’t the person to talk to about this. He was good for forgetting. But I needed… I didn’t know what I needed. I flicked through my address book, my finger hovering over Quoth’s name. I sent him a message. Can you call me?

  I stared at the screen, willing the phone to ring. But it remained silent. He’s probably out, flying around the village. He can’t exactly carry a phone under his wing—

  Something rapped at the window.

  I threw myself off the bed, my heart pounding. I peered through the frosted glass. A black bird sat on the ledge, peering in at me with dark, soulful eyes.

  My heart soared. I stood up and flung open the window. “Quoth?”

  “Croak!” The bird fluttered inside and hopped across the bed. He nudged my hand with the top of his head. I stroked his soft feathers, and he swiveled his head and stared up at me with brown eyes filled with pain.

  “You didn’t have to come,” I whispered.

  He shifted, the black feathers retracting into his skin. A pair of muscular legs slid over the side of my bed, and a moment later a pale-skinned man with hair like a waterfall of midnight sat beside me.

  He threw my bed sheet over his naked crotch and flashed me his brilliant smile. “Of course I came. You’re upset.”

  “Have you been listening to my thoughts?”

  Quoth shook his head. “I was painting and I saw your message. I thought… you needed me.”

  I turned away. Looking at his perfect face and his soft eyes and knowing that after everything he endured every day, he was still there for me, made shame bubble inside me. Losing my sight was nothing compared to what Quoth had gone through, was still going through – no memory of his past beyond a shadowed chamber and a dreary night, a body that betrayed him, a lonely and confined existence. A fat tear rolled down my cheek.

  The corner of the room, where the light didn’t reach, collapsed into a black hole of darkness. I’d been ignoring it lately, but my night blindness was getting worse, too. I’m a mess. My whole life is a mess.

  “I feel so stupid,” I said to the wall.

  “You’re not stupid.”

  “I can’t ask you to come running every time…”

  “Mina, tell me what happened.”

  In deep, halting breaths, I explained about the light, and what it meant. “I’m scared, so scared, Quoth. I thought I was getting better. After meeting you guys, I haven
’t been feeling so depressed and hopeless. But I’d convinced myself it was still years away, and now…”

  Warm fingers brushed my hand. Quoth knitted his fingers into mine, squeezing tight. I squeezed back. “I’m not going to say that it will be okay,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “To quote some writer I’ve never heard of, your soul is ‘with sorrow laden.’ You’re allowed to cry, or scream, or punch things. You will mourn your eyes the same way we all mourn things we’ve lost. But there will come a time when you don’t want to mourn any longer. You will have other things to do. You are strong, Mina.”

  “I don’t feel strong,” I sniffed.

  “You made me believe that there is more to this life than surviving. I don’t doubt you’ll believe that yourself again.”

  My heart did a squeezing, fluttering thing. Quoth’s words hurt so good – with that velvet voice of his, he sung the stars and the rain. I leaned my head against his bare shoulder. The tear rolled out of my eye and fell on his chest, rolling over his alabaster skin to leave a salty slug trail.

  “What happens now?” Quoth whispered, his voice tight. His lips brushed my forehead, sending flutters through my skin.

  “I have to go to an ophthalmologist – that’s a specialist eye doctor. They’ll do some tests and tell me what’s changed in my eyes. They’ll give me an idea of how long I have and what I can expect next.”

  “I’ll go with you, if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” I knew what a promise like that meant to Quoth – every moment he risked exposing what he was. I squeezed his fingers. If I was crushing him, he gave no indication.

  I flopped back on the bed, my eyes focusing on the bright circle of light from my single bulb, illuminating the Misfits poster and the outline of Quoth’s head, his hair flowing down his back – a river of midnight.

  Quoth lay down beside me, his head inches from mine. I watched our chests rising and falling in perfect synergy. My body buzzed with emotion. I itched to roll over and kiss him, but I held back. I didn’t want my first kiss with Quoth to be with tears in my eyes and snot running out of my nose.