Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  Quoth dug his talons into my arm. We’d swung by the shop on the way and picked him up, with a promise to return him in twenty minutes so the ladies could visit the hospital. I learned from Ashley’s case just how useful it was to have a raven when one was breaking and entering.

  “We’ll have to be quick,” Morrie said as he led us around the side of the house and through a tidy garden. “I don’t want to leave Heathcliff alone with the old biddies any longer than necessary.”

  “That’s sensible.” I nuzzled Quoth’s soft feathers as Morrie scanned the facade for an entry point.

  Mrs. Ellis pinched his bum this morning, Quoth said inside my head. He told her that was against the rules. She said there were no rules, so he wrote a list and nailed it to the wall.

  “Of course he did.” I shuddered to think what rules Heathcliff might include on what was sure to be an exhaustive list.

  “Ah.” Morrie pointed to an open window on the second floor. “There’s our way in.”

  You owe me for this, Quoth’s voice echoed between my ears as he took off. He soared up and cleared the window, landing inside with a faint plop.

  A few moments later, the back door unlatched, and a naked Quoth ushered us inside. I peered around the tiny, immaculate kitchen, admiring how Ginny had modernized the old home with distressed furniture and industrial fittings. Bitch or not, the woman had impeccable taste.

  “There’s a study in here,” Morrie whispered, creeping through the living room into a small alcove. He set down his bag of computer gadgets. “I’ll search here. You two take the bedrooms. Don’t rub your naked arse on anything, little birdie.”

  I followed Quoth up the steep staircase, my heart pounding. From somewhere in the house, a faint scritch-scritch of something scraping against wood jumped my nerves into overdrive. It’s just the old house, nothing to worry about.

  Photographs hung from every wall – a young Ginny smiling as she hung off the arms of important-looking men. There was a different man in each picture, and I recognized some of their faces as minor celebrities and football players. A bunch of glamour shots and magazine covers featuring Ginny on the landing revealed that at some point in her past, she’d been a model.

  I wonder if that’s how she made her money. It might explain why she’s now in Argleton, instead of up in London. Ginny was still beautiful, but she was definitely past her prime in terms of modeling and attracting footballers, and I had the feeling she wouldn’t have wasted time hanging around a scene where she wasn’t the center of attention.

  The first bedroom was a guest room, containing a bed worthy of a boutique hotel covered in a mountain of pillows. I pulled out the drawers in the dressing table – they were filled with clothing, but no secret blackmailing notes. Quoth opened the wardrobe and inspected rows of shoes. “Why does one person need so many shoes?” he asked.

  “That’s one of life’s eternal mysteries.”

  Scritch-scritch. There was the sound again.

  We moved on to the master suite. Quoth started on the drawers while I pulled boxes out from under the bed. In a battered shoebox, I found stacks of love letters – real filthy stuff – between Ginny and a man who was simply called ‘H’.

  “Look at this,” I held up one of the letters. “This ‘H’ must have been the father of Ginny’s baby. She kept copies of all the letters she sent him, and this letter was dated two weeks ago. Ginny wanted H to leave his wife and marry her.”

  Quoth leaned over my shoulder, his hair tickling my skin. “Is there a response?”

  I riffled through the stack of letters. “Not that I can see. But I’m guessing it didn’t happen, otherwise she’d have had a ring on her finger.”

  Scritch-scritch. Scritch-scritch.

  “Quoth, can you hear that?” I glanced around the room. It was even louder in here.

  “Termites,” Quoth said. “In an old house like this, there must be all sorts of bugs in the wood.” He licked his lip hungrily, as if the thought of gross wood bugs excited him.

  “Squeak!” whispered an unknown voice.

  “Do termites usually make a squeaking noise?”

  “That’s just a hinge… no, wait, I smell something…” Quoth muttered, sniffing as he bent down to pull another box from under the bed. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Quoth was part bird. It was especially hard when he crouched beside me, completely naked, his long thigh brushing against mine.

  Scritch-scritch, scritch-scritch, creeeeeak…

  “That scratching is coming from the wardrobe,” I cried.

  I’d barely got the words out when the wardrobe door burst open and a tiny ball of white fur barreled toward me, squeaking with jubilation. The mouse streaked across the room and under the curtains. As its hind legs disappeared up the fabric, I noticed an all-too-familiar brown patch above its hind leg.

  “It’s the Terror of Argleton! Oh, Quoth, I wonder how he got stuck in Ginny’s wardrobe—”

  “Croak!”

  Raven feathers exploded across the room as Quoth’s animal instincts kicked in. He dived for the window, forgetting he’d closed it earlier. I cried out as he smashed against the glass and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  “Quoth!” I scrambled toward him, touching the corner of his wing just as he picked himself up and shook out his head, his eyes rolling.

  The Terror of Argleton took that moment to streak past Quoth again, squeaking with glee as it rocketed up the dresser and along the picture rail. Quoth lurched after it, his body wobbling and crashing as he chased it around the room.

  “No, guys, stop!” I scrambled after them. Something smashed downstairs. Morrie swore.

  “Morrie, help!” I scrambled up on the bed to shoo Quoth down before he tore out the chandelier. I couldn’t see where the mouse had got to, but from the way Quoth scratched at the top of the wardrobe, I could hazard a guess.

  I threw the window open again and after flapping my arms around madly, managed to get Quoth to fly outside. I sank to the floor to catch my breath.

  What was I just thinking about having a raven around making things easier?

  Morrie’s head appeared around the door. “Time to fly, gorgeous. We’ve already been here too long. Hey, where’s the little birdie?”

  I held out a hand and he helped me up. “You shouldn’t call him that. And he’s outside. The Terror of Argleton showed up and he went Full Metal Raven on us.”

  Morrie shuddered as he yanked me to my feet. I noticed a stack of papers under his arm. “If that mouse is here, we’re leaving now.”

  He dragged me downstairs and out the open back door, locking it and pulling it closed behind him. We raced down the side of the yard, where Quoth fluttered down from a nearby tree and perched on my shoulder, his talons digging into my skin.

  Morrie didn’t stop running until we reached the corner of the street. He checked the legs of his trousers for any resident mice before straightening up again.

  “Croak,” Quoth said, his head bobbing up and down as if he was laughing.

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t fare any better, did you? Smartarse. While you two were making new friends, I found something actually useful.” Morrie held up his stack of papers. “Records of Dorothy Ingram’s abortion, as well as this doctor’s report of a mysterious death. And an official name-change application. According to these articles and papers, a Mr. Wesley Bayliss died in the old hospital after ingesting hemlock. Shortly afterward, his wife – Sally Bayliss – changed her name and moved from a nearby village into Argleton. Want to guess what her name is now?”

  “What is it?”

  Morrie grinned. “Miss Sylvia Blume. Which means, Ginny Button was blackmailing our spirit medium.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I stared at the paper in Morrie’s hand, a sick feeling pooling in my stomach. “Miss Blume said she’d never been married.”

  “She lied,” he said.

  Hands shaking, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jo’s number.

&n
bsp; “Hey, Mina. I hope you’re calling to tell me how your date with Heathcliff went.”

  “It went… well.” I blushed as Quoth nudged my hand with his head and Morrie brushed his finger over the welt around my wrist, and I remembered what happened last night. I have a lot to catch Jo up on. “But I can’t talk about that now. I need to ask you about hemlock.”

  “That’s the poison that killed Socrates. What about it?”

  “Do you know anything about it, like how someone might use it to kill?” I paused, trying to think of a plausible reason I might be asking about hemlock. “I’m trying to win an argument with Morrie.”

  Jo laughed. “I’m happy to help with such a noble cause. Hemlock is from the Apiaceae family, the same as carrots and parsnips. It’s been used in small amounts in herbal remedies for centuries. It acts as a neurotoxin. Numbness creeps through the body from the feet to the chest. The victim remains lucid through the whole process, as Plato reported Socrates speaking with his pupils right up until the moment the poison reached his heart. As far as forensic records go, no one has been murdered with hemlock since ancient times. We do see a lot of hemlock deaths, but they’re always accidental – usually, foragers who think they’re found a choice crop of wild parsnips, or rich nobles in Italy dining on songbirds, which become carriers of the poison when they consume hemlock seeds. Although, of course, it’s always difficult to say. There might be many poisoners who’ve gotten away with using hemlock over the years.”

  I can think of one. “Thanks, Jo. I appreciate it.”

  “Hang on, don’t keep me in suspense. Did you win?”

  Morrie’s hand stole under my shirt, his fingers stroking my nipple through the fabric of my shirt. “Yup,” my voice strained. “I absolutely, definitely won.”

  I rang off, pushing Morrie away even as my body screamed for more. “None of that. We might’ve left Mrs. Ellis alone with her murderer.”

  “She’s not alone.” Morrie kissed along my neck, his hands roaming freely down my body. “She’s got Heathcliff to protect her.”

  I shoved him away, harder this time. “Maybe you’re not worried about your friends being fed hemlock or arsenic by some crazy fortune teller, but I am. We’ve got to get back to the shop!”

  I tore myself from Morrie and fled across the village toward Nevermore Bookshop, Quoth flapping along behind me. Morrie’s expensive brogues pounded on the footpath. “Mina, wait up!”

  Something’s wrong. I can feel it.

  I shoved the door open. “Heathcliff? Mrs. Ellis?” I cried. “Are you in here?”

  “Oh, Mina darling, you’re back!” Sylvia called. “We’re right here where you left us, just dying to get out.”

  Heart pounding, I picked my way around the stacks of books and found the three of them in the World History room. To my surprise, Heathcliff sat across the table from Mrs. Ellis, Grimalkin curled asleep in his lap and a game of Scrabble spread out in front of him. He wore a pained expression and clutched a teacup in his hand. Behind him, Miss Blume stood beside the tea trolley, pouring another cup.

  “She forced me to play this insipid game,” Heathcliff muttered, glaring at Mrs. Ellis. “And then she dances around the room when she wins. There are bloody shawls and carpet bags flying everywhere. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an I—”

  The tea! Of course. Sylvia makes her own tea, which she served at the Banned Book Club. I bet she added arsenic to Mrs. Scarlett’s cup!

  I snatched the teacup from Heathcliff’s hands and held it out of reach. He glanced at me in concern. “It wasn’t that bad a joke. Hers have been much worse, take my word for it.”

  “Take my word for it! Ha ha!” Mrs. Ellis hooted in delight, but her face creased with concern when she noticed me. “Are you all right, honey? You’re looking a little pale.”

  “Perhaps your chakras need aligning,” Sylvia put in. “I’d be happy to help.”

  My mind whirled. All I could think about was getting Sylvia away from the bookshop, away from tea and liquids and things she could use to hurt my friends.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I gasped. “Didn’t you want to go to work today?”

  “Yes,” Sylvia glanced at her watch. “I have two appointments this afternoon.”

  “Well, Morrie and I will happily accompany you if you’re ready to leave now.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose so, if you really don’t want me to take a look at your chakras?” Her puzzled expression turned my stomach. “I have to pick up some things from my cottage.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll walk you there. It would be good to check if the killer has been to your home.”

  “That would be a relief, thank you.” Sylvia bent down to hand the tea to Mrs. Ellis, but I whipped it out of her hand. “Sorry, Mrs. Ellis. I just saw a spider fall into the tea. It’s not drinkable.”

  “Croak!” added Quoth from my shoulder.

  Heathcliff stood up and followed me into the main room. I shoved both cups into his hands. “Take those upstairs and leave them on Morrie’s desk. Don’t let anyone drink or eat anything Sylvia has touched.”

  Heathcliff’s dark eyes studied me. “I can assume from this erratic behavior that you have a new suspect?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “And you’re about to run off into the woods with her,” he growled.

  “Morrie will be with me. I’m not in any danger.” I leaned up and pecked his cheek. “I promise.”

  Heathcliff grumbled under his breath as he shuffled up the stairs. Grimalkin trotted around his ankles, assuming if he was heading up to the kitchen, it would be to offer her a treat.

  Quoth stayed behind to accompany Mrs. Ellis to the hospital. Morrie and I flanked Sylvia as she gathered her tote bags and left the shop. Glass jars and bottles clanked inside. What horrors she had hidden in the depths of those bags, I couldn’t fathom.

  She poisoned her husband and started a new life. And now she’s doing it all over again. But why?

  Miss Blume kept up a steady stream of chatter as we walked out of the village and along the road toward King’s Copse. Morrie’s hand hovered over his pocket, and I knew without asking he had some kind of weapon stored inside. That made me feel better, and I hated myself for that. I should not be looking to James Moriarty for protection.

  We passed the narrow path where Heathcliff and I had entered the wood. Another half-mile down the road, a dirt driveway curved through the trees. We followed it into the wood, down to the half-circle of cottages.

  In the daylight, the homes looked small and drab. Chimney pots collapsed against dilapidated roofs. Piles of rubbish were stacked along the stone walls. The boardwalk leading into the wood where Heathcliff and I had stood appeared to sink into the ground around it, boards broken and collapsing in several places.

  “Here’s my humble abode.” At the last house, Miss Blume pulled a jangle of keys from her flowing skirts and inserted one into the lock. She shoved open the door, revealing a gaping blackness within.

  I followed Morrie inside, waiting for the grey light from the windows to illuminate squares of the internal space. Inside, Miss Blume’s home resembled a cross between a prepper’s bunker and a witch’s lair. Narrow shelves lined every wall, crammed with cans of preserves and large bags of flour and sugar, along with hundreds of medicine bottles and jars of herbs. My stomach tightened as I noticed several bottles labeled with a black skull and crossbones. She’s got poisons everywhere in this house. Stacks of lopsided onions and dirty vegetables lined the benches in the tiny kitchen, while sprigs hung from large drying racks under the largest window.

  “What’s all this?” I asked, scanning the carefully-lettered labels on the jars.

  “Herbs. I forage and dry all of them myself.” Sylvia pointed to square wooden molds and cutting tools on the kitchen table. “I make herbal soaps and skin creams, as well as remedies, tea blends, and spell kits for my shop. The wood gives me such a bountiful harvest.”

  I spied a round
drum in the corner. When I bent to inspect its contents, my stomach tightened. Inside were several carved wooden walking sticks, all of different lengths and designs. I fished through the drum and found one identical in style to Dorothy Ingram’s floral design, and another that matched the one we found in Mrs. Winstone’s bushes.

  Behind my shoulder, Morrie’s expression hardened.

  “These are beautiful walking sticks,” I said, plastering a smile on my face as I held the moon-phase one out to her.

  “Ah, trust Mina the artist to find those,” Miss Blume beamed. “I’m very proud of that particular design. Woodturning and carving are hobbies of mine. I make ritual bowls and statues for the shop. I carved all those walking sticks by hand, and they’re some of my best sellers. I use only fallen trees and branches I find in the wood. Would you like to see the studio?”

  No. I’d like to get out of here and go straight to the police. “Very much so.”

  Sylvia led us through the tiny cottage and out a rickety back door. As I stepped outside, I noticed buckets spread across the floor to catch drips from the leaking roof. I shivered in the damp conditions. These cottages really weren’t habitable.

  Outside, an overgrown path led down to a small corrugated iron structure. Sylvia opened a narrow door and gestured for me to go inside. I glanced at Morrie and he nodded, leaning against the doorframe.

  She can’t hurt me while Morrie’s here.

  My nerves jittering, I stepped into the shed, casting my eyes around the shelves of carved bowls and trays and wooden clocks. In the corner, several more walking sticks stuck out of an umbrella holder.

  “Most of the cottages have workshops attached. Lots of artists live here because the houses were so cheap. I stock a lot of their artwork in my shop, and we swap supplies and overstock where we can. We have our own wee community.” Miss Blume pointed across the low fence to another shed. “That’s Helmut’s shed. He’s a talented blacksmith, and I sell many of his magical knives and other implements in my shop. He lives with his sister, who bakes the most amazing treats.”