Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  “Greta. I know her.” I forced a smile.

  “Yes, she’s lovely. I’ve been working closely with her and her brother these past few months as we’ve made submissions to the planning committee to get the housing development expedited.”

  “You… you wanted the housing development to go ahead!”

  “Of course! They needed this land for the new houses, and they were going to pay each of us a huge sum of money, much more than these old shacks are really worth. Helmut was going to build a proper forge, and I planned to buy my shop outright and live upstairs.” Sylvia rolled her eyes toward the roof, where rust had eaten large holes in the iron. Water dripped onto the cold stone floor. “Oh, to live in a warm, dry, home, I cannot even imagine the luxury! Of course, with all the hullabaloo over the planning application, we haven’t got our payout yet. And if the Lachlans go away for dear Gladys’ murder, I’m not sure we ever will.”

  Sylvia wanted the development to go ahead! Mrs. Scarlett’s protest was getting in her way!

  “Thank you so much for showing me your workshop, Sylvia. If you collect the things you need, we can walk you to your shop.”

  “Of course. Thank you very much. Mabel and I really appreciate everything you’re doing. The police have been less than helpful. They still believe the Lachlans poisoned Gladys, can you believe it?”

  No, I really can’t.

  As Sylvia bustled around, filling two more tote bags with soaps and crystals and jars of weird leaves, Morrie and I pretended to hunt for signs of the killer’s presence while we carried out a hushed conversation.

  “There are more poisons in this room than in Lucrezia Borgia’s parlor,” Morrie said.

  “Agreed. And did you see all that chemistry equipment next to the soap-making molds? Miss Blume has the tools and the skills to isolate arsenic. I think she gave Mrs. Scarlett some of her tea laced with arsenic. And the walking sticks…”

  “The evidence is certainly pointing toward one person. And we have a motive for the first old lady’s murder. If Mrs. Scarlett managed to sway the committee against the development, none of the cottage owners would get their payout.” Morrie shuddered as he wiped at a wet stain on his shoulder. “With all this damp and misery, having the money to buy a warm, dry, home would be worth killing for.”

  “Quick, she’s coming back!” We straightened up just as Sylvia arrived, laden down with tote bags.

  “Shall we be on our way?” she grinned. “Thank you again for helping me and checking for the murderer. Last night was fun, but I’m dying to get back to work.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “You’ve just outlined a Machiavellian plot worthy of an Agatha Christie novel,” Heathcliff muttered as I filled him in on what we discovered at Sylvia’s cottage.

  “I know that, but it happens to be true. I’m telling you that we’ve found the murderer. We have to go to the police before Sylvia kills Mrs. Ellis, too!”

  “But what evidence do you have apart from a wooden walking stick that anyone could have purchased from her shop?” Heathcliff demanded. “It’s not even the same poison she used on her husband, if that even is what happened.”

  “It shows she has a knowledge of different poison types! And Morrie searched the geotechnical reports conducted in King’s Copse and they show arsenic deposits in the soil and ore leftover from the old mines.”

  “But it doesn’t explain the other two murders, or the assault. Even if she did kill the old bint and the posh bitch who was blackmailing her, why attack that third woman?”

  I had to admit I was in the dark about that, too, but I was sure we’d find a connection if we looked deep enough. “You’re supposed to be the brooding, passionate bad boy. Since when were you such a slave to evidence?”

  “Since the police insisted you stop meddling in their cases, else you’re liable to end up in custody again,” Heathcliff shot back.

  “Well, if you’re so clever, who do you think killed Mrs. Scarlett and Ginny Button and attacked Mrs. Winstone—”

  “Wait, hold on!” Morrie rubbed his chin. “We’ve been looking at this all wrong.”

  I twisted around. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s just occurred to me – although it should have occurred to me sooner, which is a concern – that we’ve got three different crimes, yes? A malicious poisoning, a shove down some stairs with a stolen necklace, and a brutal beating with a wooden walking stick. What does this tell you?”

  “That the killer has a thing about the Banned Book Club?”

  “No! Think about it. Why go to all the trouble of slowly poisoning Mrs. Scarlett in a way that all but ensures you’d never get caught, if you then just shove Ginny Button down the stairs, nick her jewels, and beat up Mrs. Winstone with a walking stick in broad daylight?”

  Morrie’s protests dawned on me. “You think we’re dealing with different murderers.”

  “I do.” Morrie grabbed his phone and started doodling on a notes app with his finger. “Ginny’s death and the attempted murder of Mrs. Winstone – if it even was attempted murder – are the acts of desperate people. Mrs. Scarlett’s death was clever and insidious because of the amount of planning involved. Which means we’re either dealing with two different killers, or your suspect’s situation is becoming precarious.”

  “We need to figure out if Mrs. Winstone—” My phone buzzed. I pressed it to my ear.

  “Wonderful news,” Mrs. Ellis chirped on the other end. “Brenda’s been released from the hospital. I’m helping her with the paperwork now, and then I’ll take her back to her house and get her settled. She’s still in a lot of pain, but the doctors said she can recover at home.”

  “What about her husband, Harold? Wouldn’t he want to take her home himself?”

  There was a pause on the other end before Mrs. Ellis said, “Dear Harold is still out of town on business. Will you come, Mina? Your beautiful friend came with us, but he seems to have disappeared somewhere. I hate to think of who might be waiting for us at Brenda’s home.”

  “Of course we’ll come.” I hung up the phone and filled in Heathcliff and Morrie on what Mrs. Ellis had said. “Quoth must’ve had trouble holding his human form. I’m going to go round to the Winstones to check out the house. Maybe Brenda could tell us why Sylvia would want to kill her.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Morrie grabbed for his jacket.

  “No need. Quoth will follow the ladies in his bird form, so I’ll be protected. I need you to go to Sylvia Blume’s shop and make sure she doesn’t leave. And if my mother’s there, don’t let her eat or drink anything Sylvia offers.”

  “What about me?” Heathcliff barked.

  “Stay here. Mind the shop and be your usual charming self. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  I bolted from the shop and across the green, panting as I reached Mrs. Winstone’s house. There was no car in the driveway, but I assumed they’d taken a ride share. Mrs. Ellis didn’t have a license because she loved to flirt with the drivers. As I’d predicted, Quoth perched on a branch above the door. His gaze flicking from the front window to survey the street. I waved at him, and he nodded at me.

  I haven’t let them out of my sight. No one followed them here, he said inside my head.

  Thank you. I knocked on the door.

  “Just a minute.” Mrs. Winstone shuffled through the house.

  “Oh, do sit down, Brenda. I’ll get it.” Mrs. Ellis flung open the door. “Mina, I’m so pleased to see you. Your friend dashed off unexpectedly in the hospital and left some of his clothes behind. I don’t know where he got to in the buff, but I do hope we see him soon. Do come in and help me get Brenda settled.”

  I followed Mrs. Ellis through the front hall into a comfortable sitting room. On every surface, photographs had been flipped down or leaned backward against the wall. As I walked past the hall table, my dress caught the edge of a frame and it slid onto the rug. I bent down to pick it up. It had flipped over, revealing an image of a young Mrs.
Winstone, beaming from ear-to-ear as she embraced a man.

  “My husband, Harold.” Mrs. Winstone said, her voice rising in pitch. She sat in a reclining chair beside the window, her feet up on a sheepskin footstool. Mrs. Ellis fussed with a coffee table beside her. “Isn’t he handsome?”

  “Oh yes.” The man in the photograph did exude a sort of slick charm. “Mrs. Ellis said he was away on business. Whereabouts did he go?”

  “Lord only knows,” she spat, her tone suddenly bitter. “Twenty-six years of marriage, and he’s left me.”

  Poor Mrs. Winstone. I placed the photograph back on the table, feeling stupid. Of course, that was why she’d turned all the photographs the wrong way around, and why he wouldn’t come to the hospital to see her. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He was always a rotten bastard. You’re better off without him, dear.” Mrs. Ellis knew to say the right things, the things girlfriends said to each other the world over after some man broke another heart.

  “He was wonderful,” Mrs. Winstone sighed. Her eyes swung to the ceiling, a thousand miles away. “He was so handsome and clever. I never really understood what he saw in me. I did everything right, everything a good wife is supposed to do. I begged him for children, but he said he could never take time away from his work. I gave up my dream of being a mother for him, and he left me!”

  “There, there. I’ll get the kettle on,” Mrs. Ellis stacked another pillow behind Mrs. Winstone, standing back to admire her work. “I’ve bought some groceries. Mina, will you help me in the kitchen? The paramedics put all Brenda’s food on the countertop and some of it’s gone off.”

  “I’ll wash my hands and I’ll be right out.” I spied a bathroom at the end of the hall.

  As I passed the kitchen door and linen cupboard, a foul smell rose up to meet me – a whiff of rot. It’ll just be that food Mrs. Ellis was referring to. It’s what happens when you’re taken to the hospital suddenly.

  The bathroom decor was exactly what I expected of Mrs. Winstone – fluffy towels and a plastic shower curtain covered in a pattern of prancing cats. I did my business and washed my hands with soap shaped like a conch shell.

  Mrs. Winstone is looking a little pale. It was a lot to deal with, your husband leaving you and then being beaten up all in the same week. I wonder if she has anything in her medicine cabinet that might help.

  I opened the mirror door, peering into shelves of cosmetics and perfumes and soaps. As I pulled a bottle of ibuprofen off the shelf, something slid out and clattered into the sink. A necklace. Something about it seemed familiar, a nagging sense that it was important.

  I picked up the necklace and held it up to the light. Stones sparkled in elaborate drops – deep red rubies surrounded by diamond clusters. My hand trembled.

  Diamonds and rubies.

  I remembered where I’d seen the necklace before.

  Around Ginny Button’s neck.

  “Harold gave that to her, you know.”

  I whirled around. Mrs. Winstone stood in the doorway, her bruised face twisted in an expression of quiet rage.

  Danger prickled at the edges of my conscience. “Your husband gave a necklace to Ginny Button?”

  “That’s the sort of thing men like Harold do for their mistresses.”

  Her words took a moment to sink in. Harold Winstone. The ‘H’ in Ginny’s love letters, the man who’d fathered her baby, who she wanted to marry… he was Mrs. Winstone’s husband.

  Oh no.

  Mrs. Winstone nodded, her eyes sad. “Harold had plenty of women over the years. It was expected, a man as handsome as him, traveling for work. He did get so lonely. I put up with it because I knew that one day he’d give me a child and I’d never feel lonely again.”

  I cast my gaze over Mrs. Winstone’s shoulder to the hall beyond, hunting for an escape. She’s weak from the attack. I could shove my way past her and run outside. Quoth could transform and help me tackle her. “Why do you have this necklace, Mrs. Winstone?”

  “I took it from the trollop, and I am taking her child. It’s mine by right. He’s my husband.”

  “But how…”

  My mouth fell open. The necklace slipped from my fingers, clattering against the tiles.

  Mrs. Winstone killed Ginny Button.

  Mrs. Winstone laughed. “There, you see, dearie. I knew you’d understand. I ripped it from her before I pushed her down the stairs. The crunch as her neck snapped was like choir music – so beautiful, so righteous. It had to be done. Thank heavens the doctors were able to save the child. My child.”

  “You killed Ginny?”

  “She brought it on herself. She shouldn’t have been sleeping with my husband or having his baby, the baby that should have been mine. She wanted to rub it in my face; that’s why she joined the Banned Book Club, so that I’d have to look across the teacups and see Harold’s baby growing inside her. That’s why she had Dorothy Ingram kick me off the youth group, so I’d have nothing, so I’d be so humiliated that I’d just fade away and she’d become the new Mrs. Harold Winstone.” Mrs. Winstone gave a sad shake of her head. “But one can only deal with so much before one bites back.”

  “But if you killed Ginny, then who attacked you?”

  “Oh, I knew that I’d be the first person suspected if Ginny was killed and it was discovered Harold was the father of her child. I figured she kept copies of her letters, in case she needed to blackmail me or Harold at a later date.” Mrs. Winstone’s eyes turned glassy. Mrs. Ellis came up behind her, a tea towel over her shoulder and a pursed expression as she listened to her cousin’s confession. “Ginny loved to use blackmail to get what she wanted – that’s why she had herself assigned as the assistant at Harold’s old hospital history project in the first place – she had access to all kinds of fascinating records. She had something on Dorothy Ingram, of that I’m certain.

  “Anyway, gossip in this town works much faster than the police. And I needed everyone to look elsewhere for a murderer. So I set up my own attack, staged it perfectly, with just the right clues to lead the police to the other truly guilty person. I was saving the necklace to plant in Dorothy’s car as soon as I got out of the hospital. It’s the perfect way to ensure all involved get their just punishment.” Mrs. Winstone pointed to her bruises. “It hurt terribly, but not as much as Harold’s betrayal.”

  “The other truly guilty person… you mean Dorothy Ingram?”

  “Dorothy railed against me because of the Book Club, and yet she allowed that harlot to steer the church committee to fire me? It was not fair. The youth group was my one pleasure in life, and Dorothy took it away from me. With dear Gladys gone and me in the hospital, I was certain she’d be blamed because of her hatred of the book club, but the police are so incompetent, they want to make out that Ginny’s death was an accident!”

  “Oh, Brenda,” Mrs. Ellis cooed, rubbing her cousin’s shoulder.

  “I even left the walking stick in the bushes so they’d find it! But only you were clever enough to suspect Dorothy,” Mrs. Winstone said, tears pooling in her eyes. My stomach churned to think that I’d very nearly helped her frame an innocent woman. “All I ever wanted was a baby all of my own. Harold was going to have one with her. I couldn’t abide it. I just couldn’t. That child should have been mine.” She sank to her knees.

  “There, there,” Mrs. Ellis patted her shoulder. As she did so, she drew her mobile phone from her carpet bag and tossed it to me, motioning for me to head outside with it. I marvelled at how calmly Mrs. Ellis was dealing with her own cousin’s murder confession. “Mina and I are going to help you. We’ll make sure that the police understand why you did what you did.”

  “I wanted them all to suffer for what they did to me. Dorothy and Ginny and Harold are the ones who did wrong!”

  But if you punished Ginny and Dorothy, then why not Harold? She must have loved him something fierce.

  “We’ll make sure the police know that,” Mrs. Ellis cooed. Her eyes widened as she made a dialing mo
tion at me behind her cousin’s back. “But you’ll have to come with us and tell the whole story, so they understand.”

  “Yes, I suppose they should know everything,” Mrs. Winstone agreed.

  My finger hovered over the keypad. A couple of things still didn’t add up. “What about Mrs. Scarlett? Why did you poison her? What part did she have to play in this?”

  Mrs. Winstone tsked. “No, no. I never hurt Gladys. She was the one who told me about Ginny and Harold in the first place. Her unfortunate death gave me the perfect opportunity to ensure Dorothy would pay, but it was not my doing.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After making the call, I had to wait with Mrs. Winstone and Mrs. Ellis for the police to arrive. Every second stretched for eternity while I turned the question of Mrs. Scarlett’s murder over in my mind. If Mrs. Winstone hadn’t killed her, did that mean it was Sylvia Blume?

  Quoth, if you can hear me, go back to the bookshop and tell Morrie and Heathcliff what happened.

  I’m not leaving you until the police get here, Mina, was his only reply. Brown eyes ringed with fire peered in through the window, shadowing my nervous pacing across the sitting room.

  Mrs. Winstone sat in her chair and rocked and rocked. She occasionally spoke to tell me more about Harold and how wonderful he was. Again, I wondered at how she could brutally murder an adulteress, frame another woman, and yet let her husband go on with his work like they were still the perfect couple.

  I tried to ask her about Harold, but Mrs. Ellis shushed me. I guess it can wait for the police. It’s better not to aggravate her.

  An eternity later, the doorbell rang. Inspector Hayes and Detective Sergeant Wilson stood on the stoop. Jo was behind them, carrying her crime scene kit. In the tree behind them, Quoth took off, soaring over the village in the direction of the shop.