Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  “I can see lights!” I cried. On the horizon, bright orbs arrested my vision, throwing up the dark shapes of buildings.

  As we walked closer, the lights resolved themselves as windows and lanterns, casting shadows on stone walls and steep gables. A row of stone workers’ cottages stood on the edge of the meadow, backing onto the open fields beyond. A copse of trees bent over them, the branches scraping against the crumbling stone and broken tiles as the wind twisted through them. Smoke billowed from ancient chimneys, and overgrown gardens spilled over low stone walls.

  “Oh, I’ve never seen these houses before,” I breathed. A puff of mist rose from my mouth, catching the light and floating into elegant curlicues. “They’re beautiful.”

  “They’re practically falling over.” Heathcliff pointed to the house on the end of the row, where part of the roof had caved in. It was patched over with corrugated iron. “Isn’t that one of your Banned Book Club biddies?”

  I squinted where he pointed. In front of the cottage, an expensive-looking red sports car idled in the driveway, the headlights illuminating two white circles on the side of the house. A car door slammed, and a figure jogged through the headlight to the front door of the cottage. No matter how much I strained my eyes, I couldn’t see the figure. “What does she look like? I can’t see.”

  “Dark frizzy hair, tie-dyed dress under a vomit-colored trench coat—”

  “Oh, that’s Sylvia Blume. What’s she doing?”

  “She’s got a key, and she’s opening the front door. There’s another person in the car, she’s getting out…” Another door slammed. Heathcliff leaned forward. “This one is a snotty-looking woman wearing a king’s ransom in diamonds. She’s heavily pregnant. They’re arguing.”

  Ginny Button!

  What are they arguing about? Something in my gut told me this was important. Whispered words rushed past my ears, too quiet and too far away to be heard. Frustration welled inside me. How could I find out what was going on?

  “What’s happening now?” I hissed at Heathcliff.

  “The pregnant one just leaned in real close, like she was threatening Frizzy-Hair. Now she’s going back to her car, and—”

  “You may think you’re untouchable, Ginny Button!” Sylvia Blume’s shouted words stabbed through the night. Her voice had risen an octave, the pitch betraying her fear. “But I know what you did. You’re rotten, and you won’t get away with it!”

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic, Sylvia!” Ginny spat back, her posh voice thick with venom. The car door slammed again.

  “Is something the matter?” A man’s voice – deep, with a thick German accent – called out.

  “Oh, look, it wouldn’t be England without a nosy neighbor poking his head in,” Heathcliff whispered.

  Wheels spun and the red car backed into the shared driveway, then blew off up the gravel road, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake that obscured my vision even worse.

  “It’s fine, Helmut,” Sylvia Blume called back, her voice wavering. “I just had a little argument with a friend, is all. I’m sorry for waking you.”

  “I understand. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.” I strained to hear a door creaking open and shut again. A couple of the cottage lights popped off.

  My heart pounding, I turned to Heathcliff. “What do you suppose that was about?”

  “Pregnant Bitch took Frizzy-Hair for a drive to intimidate her,” Heathcliff said matter-of-factly. “Then she brought her home and threatened her, but Frizzy Hair knows more than she’s letting on.”

  “They were talking about Mrs. Scarlett’s murder!”

  “We don’t know that for sure. Are these cottages part of the King’s Copse development?” Heathcliff asked.

  “I don’t know, but I bet Morrie can find out. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking if you lived in a tiny stone cottage in the middle of nowhere, you wouldn’t want a huge modern development going up next door.”

  “That’s true. I read in one of the newspaper articles that there were some nearby residents whose houses would need to be bulldozed.”

  “It seems likely they’re referring to these cottages. I’m also thinking that if you owned said cottage and you were annoyed at certain developers sniffing around, you might be feeding a certain neighborhood busybody information about any untoward earthworks or bad behavior, and that might make you a target.”

  “Are you suggesting that Mrs. Blume could be in danger, too?”

  “If someone is desperate enough for this development to go ahead that they’d poison an old lady,” Heathcliff said darkly, drawing me close to him and wrapping his arms tight around me, “then they’ll do anything.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Do you have anything by David Copperfield?” an elderly man asked me as I carried boxes of stock out to the two shopping trolleys Morrie purloined from the market early this morning. It was the day of Mrs. Scarlett’s funeral, and I’d arrived early to sort stock for the church fete.

  And also to see Heathcliff and try to get some reading from him about last night, but that was bloody hopeless. The two grunts I’d received upon presenting him with coffee this morning could hardly be interpreted as Mina is hot as fuck and I want more of her body.

  If Mum could come up with a Heathcliff-to-Human dictionary, I know at least one person who’d buy a copy.

  “Ma’am?” The customer waved a hand in front of my face. “Where would I find the famous author David Copperfield?”

  “Oh, sure. That way.” I plastered a smile on my face and waved him in the general direction of the Literature section. Maybe he’d grow a brain by osmosis.

  “Last night must’ve gone well,” Morrie mused as we pushed the trolleys over to the church and found our table. “You’re not correcting a customer’s literary knowledge, and Heathcliff was singing in the shower this morning.”

  Despite myself, my stomach fluttered. “What was he singing?”

  “I wouldn’t take it personally, but ‘You Give Love A Bad Name.’”

  I punched Morrie in the arm. “Shame on you for being mean to me through Bon Jovi.”

  “You love it, gorgeous.”

  “If you must know, the date did go well.” I leaned over our boxes to peck Morrie on the lips, too scared to do anything else lest I incur the wrath of one of the choir ladies bustling around the church car park. “How much are you wanting to know?”

  “Give me every gory detail.”

  “I can’t do that.” My cheeks burned, and Morrie laughed. “But I can tell you that we discovered something interesting about King’s Copse. There’s a row of tiny stone cottages on the edge of the wood. From the looks of them, they’re old workers’ accommodations. I know there used to be an ancient wood mill out there. You can see some of the ruins in the wood if you’re there during the daytime. I’ve never seen the cottages before, but they must be standing on the land Gray Lachlan needs for the development. And we saw Ginny Button drive up to one of the cottages with Sylvia Blume. Miss Blume got out of the car and went to the door. She had a key so she must live there. Ginny ran after her and was threatening her. Miss Blume yelled back that she knew what Ginny had done, and she wouldn’t get away with it. It might not mean anything in relation to the murders, but…”

  “It’s another connection.” Morrie nodded. “I’ll find out everything I can about Sylvia Blume and her cottage, and about this Ginny Button.”

  Morrie lifted the boxes from the trolleys and I arranged the books across two trestle tables, careful to keep the religious books separate from the popular fiction. Beside us, a man draped a blue cloth over his own table and arranged iron pokers and wine racks in a pleasing display. As he turned to speak to a customer, I thought I recognized his deep voice and German accent. He was the man who spoke to Miss Blume from his window last night!

  Maybe I don’t even need Morrie doing an illegal search to find out what’s going on. I stepped into the man’s stall.


  “These are beautiful.” I picked up one of the wine racks. It was shaped like a dog, and when you inserted the wine bottle, it became the dog’s body. I thought Mum would love it, but it was more than I could afford. “Did you make them all?”

  “Ja,” was the reply. “Thank you for compliment about my craft. I am blacksmith. I have a small forge on my property, and I even extract and smelt the ore myself.”

  “Is it difficult to do?”

  “It is hard work for one person. In Germany, I worked with three other craftsmen, and we would travel around medieval markets and sell our work. But then my parents died and left us only with this small house here in England, where we used to come for holidays in happier times. My sister and I moved here a few years ago and I turned small outbuilding into my forge, so I have not the space to hire more craftsmen. But I do okay. I travel around the markets in the area, and I do commissions for people – gates and balustrades and such things.”

  “You live out by King’s Copse, in one of the little cottages.” His face twisted in surprise, and I added quickly. “I was walking with a friend there yesterday, and I noticed your truck. What do you think about that big development that’s going in?”

  “The new houses are very ugly and I will be sad to leave the wood. But they have offered a lot of money to buy our land and tear down the cottages. The money would build a bigger forge somewhere else, and maybe hire a team again.” He glanced toward the church, where the Banned Book ladies bustled about, arranging flowers and setting out program baskets for the funeral. “I suppose with her dead now, the development might go ahead.”

  “You live next door to a woman in my book club, Sylvia Blume. She was the friend I was walking with.”

  “Yes, Sylvia. The fortune teller.” It was hard to tell from his tone what he thought of her.

  “How is she as a neighbor?” He frowned at my nosy question, and I thought quickly. “It’s just that she’s seemed a bit quiet and reserved lately, and I’m worried about her.”

  “She reads fortunes and forages for herbs. She had argument with other woman last night, but that’s all I know. I don’t like to gossip about neighbors. I just work in my forge. Not care about what happens around me.”

  “Helmut, ich habe dein Mittagessen mitgebracht.” A familiar voice said behind me. Greta from the bakery held out a plate piled high with sandwiches and cakes, and the blacksmith – Helmut – accepted it with a smile. Greta nodded at me in her curt way. “Hallo, Mina.”

  “Hi, Greta. It was nice of you to come for the funeral. I know Mrs. Scarlett was a frequent customer of yours. She spoke so highly of your baking.”

  Greta nodded again. “Ja. It is very sad. Mrs. Ellis asked me to provide refreshments. I have a stall over there.” I followed her finger to a table groaning under the weight of cakes and sausage rolls and pasties.

  “It looks amazing. You’re doing fine even with the Terror of Argleton still at large.”

  “That rotten mouse!” Her features reddened with anger. “He has been back to my kitchen many times. I see his little droppings everywhere, but he does not fall for my traps. Well, I will show him. I have nasty trap that not even clever mouse will escape.”

  Interesting, so he must have escaped from the past. “That’s good. I really hope you catch him.”

  “Yes,” Greta threw a look over her shoulder at her stall where a small crowd of people had already gathered. “I had better get back.”

  “Yes, me too.” I noticed the man who asked about David Copperfield at the shop was now sifting through one of my boxes. “Customers always need so much help. Good luck today, Helmut. I hope you’re able to move to a bigger forge soon!”

  Helmut nodded his understanding. I returned to my stall just as a customer thrust a book under my nose.

  “Why have you brought these books along to a church fete?” a female voice demanded.

  I looked up and met the piercing eyes of a severe-looking middle-aged woman, her greying hair pulled so tight off her face it creased her forehead along the hairline. In one hand, she gripped the handle of an ornately-carved wooden walking stick. In the other, she held up Of Mice and Men, thrusting the cover under my nose.

  “I’ve brought along a wide selection of titles,” I explained. “This happens to be a book Mrs. Scarlett enjoyed—”

  “This is a vulgar work,” she jabbed at the cover with neat, unadorned fingers. “It has no place within the House of God.”

  Wow, taking puritanism to a whole new level. “We’re not technically in the church.”

  “Young lady, don’t answer me back!” The woman rapped her stick on the ground. “We are on sanctified ground, and God watches every move you make. He is not pleased that this filth is been sold on His land to corrupt His children. I demand you go through these books right now and remove anything that isn’t wholesome.”

  Nothing made me angrier than censorship, except parents who abandoned their children and when Morrie chatted through a movie I really wanted to see. “You haven’t read this book, have you? It has a powerful message about love and acceptance. I think every person here should read it, and I will not act as the censorship police.”

  Behind me, Morrie sniggered. I stepped back and stomped on his toe. You might help me out here.

  The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re the girl who works in the bookstore run by that detestable gypsy. No wonder you have no sense of decency.”

  She did not just say that.

  “Excuse me.” My cheeks burned with anger. I hope you’re prepared for a war, lady. “You use a racial slur against my employer – a perfectly decent member of this community who pays his taxes – and then lecture me about decency? I don’t think so—”

  Mrs. Ellis came running over, her carpet bag flapping against her side. She grasped the woman’s arm. “Ladies, what’s the matter here?”

  “I expected when you organized this fiasco, Mabel, you would at least inform stallholders of our standards,” the woman snapped back, rapping her stick for emphasis. “I want this vulgar bookstore and its rude employees gone before the funeral is over.”

  “Please, Dorothy,” Mrs. Ellis’ voice wheedled. “This is Gladys’ funeral. The books are doing no harm.”

  So this is Dorothy Ingram? She was certainly fearsome. I could easily believe her getting kind Mrs. Winstone fired from the youth group.

  “Doing no harm?” Dorothy sputtered. “These books will fill our innocent children’s minds with evil, un-Christian ideas. It’s bad enough that vile woman’s funeral must be held in our fine church, but I’ve had just about enough of your book club being a corrupting influence in this village—”

  Mrs. Ellis flapped her hands. “Yes, yes, but it’s almost eleven. We’ll be starting the service soon. If Mina leaves now, she’ll interrupt the procession.”

  Dorothy shot me a dirty look, then nodded to Mrs. Ellis. “Very well. Pack up your books, girl, and prepare to leave as soon as the procession leaves for the cemetery. Mabel, I’ll see you inside. I’ll tell the organist to start the service.” She stormed off, throwing me a final dirty look over her shoulder.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, Mrs. Ellis made a rude gesture behind her back. I snorted a laugh.

  “So that’s Dorothy Ingram,” I said.

  “She’s bursting with good Christian charity,” Morrie grinned from behind me.

  I glared at him. “You might’ve helped me deal with her.”

  “You looked like you were handling it. Besides, if I got too close to you, the steam coming out your ears would’ve flattened my hair.” He ran a hand through his perfectly-styled close-cut locks.

  “Don’t you worry about Dorothy. She’s all fire and brimstone, but it’s just because she’s got nothing in her life apart from the church. She’s never been married, you know, unless you count being married to God, which to my mind offers none of the benefits of a husband—” Mrs. Ellis frowned. “That’s odd.”

  I followed Mrs. Ellis’ gaze.
All around the church, mourners gathered in small groups, talking in hushed voices and glancing over the stalls as they waited for the service to begin. Standing apart from the crowd, on the steps at the back of the church, were Dorothy Ingram and Ginny Button. They bent their heads together in intense conversation.

  “Dorothy would never associate with the likes of Ginny, a harlot bearing a child out of wedlock,” Mrs. Ellis tapped her chin. “What could be going on?”

  My heart plunged to my knees as several elements clicked into place. What’s going on is that Dorothy Ingram has it out for the immoral Banned Book Club, and especially their outspoken leader. If she wanted to hurt Mrs. Scarlett, she’d need someone on the inside to do it. Someone like Ginny.

  “Morrie, help the customers!” I cried, pushing my way through the crowd. I pressed myself up against the side of the church and peered at the ground, pretending to look for a lost piece of jewelry along the edge of the garden. I felt my way along the wall, creeping close to where the two ladies stood. I strained to hear what they were saying.

  “… got her out of the way for you…” Dorothy said, casting a furtive glance around the church car park. She didn’t sound so high and righteous now, and she leaned heavily on the stick, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. “She’s paid for her sins, and now you and I have no more business together.”

  “We’re not done here,” Ginny said. “There’s something else you’re going to do for me.”

  “I’m not your puppet, Miss Button. God detests a blackmailer.”

  “He also detests a murderer, Dorothy. I hope you’re not threatening me, you self-righteous cow,” Ginny made a big show of yawning and fondling her diamond-and-ruby necklace. “I don’t care what God thinks of me. I only care about getting what I want. You do what I’m asking, or the whole village will know your filthy little secret.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Dorothy huffed. She spun on her heels and stormed away.

  Ginny as good as said that Dorothy’s a murderer! I’d expected to hear Dorothy threaten Ginny to keep quiet, not the other way around. But there was no mistaking what I’d heard. Dorothy said, “I’ve taken care of her for you.” The her was Mrs. Scarlett.