by ACF Bookens
Tuck wasn’t laughing when I sat down beside him, though. In fact, he looked downright furious. So much so, that I pushed my chair back just a bit so as to give the anger a little more space in the room. It didn’t look like Tuck was ready to talk yet, so I looked around the room for something to keep me busy. Normally, I’d do a jigsaw puzzle on my phone or read a book or something, but I’d left my phone at the counter, and I didn’t think rifling through the boxes of books for a new title was appropriate at the moment. So I settled for counting how many doorknobs were in the room. It was a short count – four to be exact – but it gave Tuck a chance to collect himself without me pressuring him to talk.
When I swung my eyes back to him, he was staring at his hands, and now his expression had turned to sorrow. “What is it, Tuck?” I asked as I leaned forward across the table.
“I just learned that our victim was a nurse at the hospital.”
I sat back with a thud. “Man. Do you know his name?”
“Rupert Bixley, but everybody called him ‘Rope.” Tuck sighed.
I stifled a giggle and cleared my throat before speaking. “Rope?” The way Southern people give each other nicknames always cracks me up, and that’s saying something because I’m a woman who goes by Harvey.
“Guess he got it in high school gym class—”
I interrupted, “Because he could do that freakish thing of climbing the rope to the gym ceiling?”
“Exactly. That plus Rupert . . .” Tuck’s face looked a little less tense, but something else was on his mind. Anyone being killed was tragic, and the death of someone who had dedicated their lives to helping others added a level of distress. But this reaction from the sheriff seemed to be about something more.
“Okay, but what aren’t you telling me?” For a second, I thought about adding, “And why are you telling me anything since you tell me to butt out of your investigations all the time?” but I didn’t want to scare him off. I had an undying – no pun intended – fascination with murder investigations, and if Tuck was going to let me behind the scenes, I wasn’t about to miss this chance.
He met my eyes for the first time. “I have no evidence, Harvey, and I’m mostly just here because I needed to talk this through with someone. Lu’s at the truck, and I don’t want my deputies having this information yet. I need someone with a good head who can keep things quiet while I investigate. I saw you in the café, and so, well, here I am.” He put a hand on my arm. “But seriously, Harvey, nothing I say here can go behind this room, not even to Daniel or Mart, okay?’
I nodded, sincerely, and hoped I was better at keeping a secret this time than I had been in the past. “What’s going on?”
“I have reason to believe that Bixley was an angel of mercy.”
Images of convents and those creepy angels from Doctor Who flashed through my mind until something snagged, and I said, “The people who kill patients?”
He nodded. “Yes. They start out thinking they’re helping people who are suffering too much, but then, sometimes – and that looks like the case with Bixley – they can’t stop and kill healthy people, too.”
I took a long, deep breath. “Can you tell me what makes you think this is a possibility?”
“A couple of the nurses I talked to hinted at it. No one wanted to say anything directly, but they suggested I look into a few recent deaths.” He ran his hands over his shaved head. “When I did, well, I need to have a medical professional look at what I found, but ten people died on his shift for reasons that don’t make sense.”
“How do ten people die for no reason and no one asks questions?” I could feel my anger rising.
“Most of them were sick, really sick – cancer mostly – so I guess people thought that it was natural. Only two of them had autopsies.” He took his notebook out of his breast pocket. “Now that I say that, that’s weird isn’t it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t really know. If they were dying already, maybe the family didn’t want or think they needed to know the literal cause. Maybe cancer was enough reason?”
“That makes sense, but what I don’t get is why no one at the hospital looked into it.” His jaw clenched as he leaned back in his chair. “Surely someone must have noticed.”
“Sounds like those two nurses did. Maybe they just didn’t know what to do about it?” I’d been in plenty of situations like that, where I knew there was a problem but had no idea how to address it. Still, this was people’s lives we were talking about. Plus, these things were happening at a hospital. I could see Tuck’s point. “You’re right, though, something is off.”
He stood up and slid his baseball cap back on his head. “Thanks, Harvey. You’re a good listener.” As he put his hand on doorknob #1 that went out into the shop, he looked back. “Not a word, though, okay?”
I nodded. And then I prayed I could keep my big mouth shut.
4
My prayers were answered, albeit a little unexpectedly, when all my friends showed up at the store for one of our now pretty regular impromptu picnics. This time, though, it was Daniel – not Cate and Lucas – who brought the main course – a big aluminum foil pan of North Carolina-style pork barbecue. I could smell the tang of vinegar in the air as he set the pan on the counter by the register and immediately scanned everyone else’s hands to be sure that the other three essentials – cole slaw, hamburger buns, and hot pepper vinegar – were on their way. I was not disappointed. Woody, a first-timer for our bookstore gathering, carried a mason jar of what looked like pickled peppers, and behind him, Henri and Bear had bags of potato buns and a bowl of cole slaw. Lucas traipsed in soon after with a platter of his delectable cupcakes, and Marcus pulled out two gallons of sweet (but decaf) iced tea from behind the counter. Even Pickle brought a contribution, a container of St. Marin’s finest potato salad which was, much to most tourists’ surprise, made at the local gas station.
By the time I got out the plates, cups, napkins, and forks I’d begun buying in bulk and storing in the back room, Lu and Tuck had joined the group, as had Mart with her love-sick beau, Symeon. Fortunately for Mart, she was as head over heels for him as he for her, or it would have been annoying how he doted on her. It annoyed me a bit in fact, just because I missed my best friend and roomie, but I remembered my rule about new relationships – everyone gets four months to forget all their friends without remorse before people can stop complaining about their PDA and incessant relating of every cute thing about their new partner. Mart and Symeon were just about at that point, but given that we were in the holiday season, I was willing to extend their grace period.
I had just made myself not one but two barbecue sandwiches with lots of hot pepper vinegar and coleslaw on the side – the heathens who marred that beautiful pork with slaw on the sandwich never made sense to me – when Stephen and Walter arrived with a thermos of something that smelled amazing. “Gentlemen, what did you bring?”
Stephen grinned. “I’ve been trying my hand at hot toddies and thought I might beg for some taste testers.”
“Please. I cannot drink one more sip of cardamom,” Walter said as he rolled his eyes at his husband.
“Beg your pardon. This one has cinnamon.” He grinned and held up the thermos.
Rocky jogged back to the café and came over with to-go cups so that all of us could taste “St. Stephen’s Hot Chocolate,” and before long the thermos was empty, and our bellies were full of good food and warm chocolate and coconut. “I didn’t even know they made coconut liqueur,” Daniel said as he slid to a fully reclined position against the arm of the wing-back chair I’d scored by being first in the food line.
“I didn’t either, but it’s good, huh?” Stephen said without a hint of false modesty. “I’m trying to figure out what holiday-esque drink involves banana for my next experiment.”
I shuddered. If there was one flavor I did not like, it was fake banana. Left a film on my tongue that I couldn’t shake for hours. But I kept my mouth shut because, clearly, this new h
obby was giving my friend joy.
Cate scooted her matching wingback over closer to mine as everyone else continued to talk about their favorite holiday drinks. I clinked my paper cup against hers and raised an eyebrow. “What’s up, woman?”
“Angel of mercy, I hear.”
My eyes darted over to Tuck, but he was thoroughly engrossed in conversation with Lucas. “Where did you hear that?” I asked, hoping I sounded more unaware than I was.
“I knew you’d already heard,” Cate laughed as I realized that I hadn’t asked the logical question: “What are you talking about?”
I sighed. “Yes, I heard. Who did you hear from?”
“Oh, two of the janitors from the hospital come clean the co-op after they finish their night shift. They were talking about it while they mopped.” Cate was the owner and manager of our local art co-op and a talented photographer herself. “Those poor people. I mean, I’m pretty sure that I’d be trying to find a way to end my pain if I was suffering at the end, but I’d want that to be my decision, not someone else’s, you know?”
I did know. It’s all I’d been thinking about since Tuck had stopped by. I wasn’t sure what I thought about assisted suicide, but I definitely knew what I thought about homicide. And while I didn’t think Bixley had gotten what he deserved, especially since we weren’t sure he had committed any crimes, I could understand why someone might revenge if they thought he had killed a person they loved. “It’s all just horrible.”
“What’s horrible?” Daniel asked into the now-quiet room. “You okay?”
Again, I looked at Tuck, and he rolled his eyes. “It’s okay, Harvey. The rumor is out. You can talk.”
I let out a burst of air and said, “Thank God. I hate secrets.”
“It’s been two hours, Harvey. Not even,” Tuck said.
“The longest two hours of my life,” I said with intentional hyperbole as I glanced at Mart.
She shrugged. “Care to clue the rest of us in on what you’ve had to keep quiet about for an excruciating one hundred and twenty minutes?”
I looked at Tuck again and he made a little shooing motion with his hand, like he needed to push me onto stage. “Apparently, the man who died here last night was an angel of mercy.”
Henri gasped. “You mean one of those people who kill dying people?” The color washed out of her face. “I thought that was only a TV thing.”
“Wait, what?!” Pickle said. “I’m confused. Someone kills people who are dying anyway.”
Tuck cleared his throat and explained that for angels of mercy, they get a thrill from feeling like a hero, even though they’re a murderer. “They’re serial killers, just not sensational ones,” he said as Lu squeezed his forearm. “It’s horrible. Worse than even the really sick killers, in my opinion, because these people have usually sworn an oath to do no harm and yet they take the privilege that oath provides and use it to kill.” His voice was quivery, and Lu pulled him close.
“Despicable,” Lucas said with a glance at Cate. “When my sister was dying of ALS, a lot of people offered ways to help her end her suffering. She considered some of them, and,” he swallowed hard, “I often hoped she’d do something because it was so awful to watch her die that way. But it was her decision to make, not someone else’s.”
I sighed. “I’m so sorry, Lucas, and you’re right. It was her decision.”
The bookshop got very quiet for few minutes, but finally, Marcus spoke. “If that’s true, this dude, he was a monster – but I still believe that even monsters deserve justice, not murder.”
A small murmur of affirmation went through the room as we all turned toward Tuck. “Anything you need, Sheriff?” Daniel asked.
Tuck smiled a tiny grin. “Well, now that you mention it, I do need someone to go undercover.”
At the exact same moment, Mart and Daniel grabbed my arms and held them down, which was an annoying reaction on their part, albeit justified since my hand was already on the rise when they got hold of me.
“Volunteer for what?” Bear asked. As a doctor in the ER at the hospital, he must be having a particularly hard time with this news, but his face was placid.
“I suspect Bixley wasn’t working alone, and I need someone to play a dying patient,” Tuck said tentatively.
Mart’s and Daniel’s grips on my arms tightened, and before I could wrench free, Cate said, “I’ll do it.”
Lucas looked as his wife and said, “Are you sure?”
Cate nodded, her black hair bouncing against her porcelain skin. “What do I need to do?”
She, Lucas, Tuck and Lu moved to a café table to strategize, and the rest of us sat in a heavy silence on the floor of the bookstore. Absentmindedly, I scooped all the frosting off the remaining three of Lucas’s cupcakes and then stared in horror at the naked cake beneath.
Daniel handed me a napkin as he shoved an entire chocolate cupcake in his mouth. “Thank you. The frosting was too much for me tonight.”
I leaned over and kissed his cake-filled mouth. “You are too sweet.”
“Hey, if all I need to do to get a kiss is eat some cake, I’ll buy a dozen of Lucas’s goods every day,” he said as tiny pieces of chocolate fell from his mouth.
“That won’t be necessary.” I smiled at him, but I still felt uneasy, helpless. I needed to do something.
I stood up and stretched and then began to pace the store. Books – as artifacts, as art, and as things to read – always gave me sustenance, and so walking around the store, my store, calmed me and helped me think. I was just on my second pass through the shelves when I stopped short in the “Death and Dying” shelf of the Psychology Section. There, I had carefully curated a few dozen books on the subject, trying to represent the various ways people might find what they needed to prepare or to grieve. I ran my fingers along the spine of The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion and then I remembered listening to Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air on one of the drives I took along the backroads of the Eastern Shore on my rare days off. His wisdom about death, his peace with his own death gave me an idea.
I marched back to my friends and said, “I have an idea. Let’s do a fundraiser.”
Marcus handed Rocky a five-dollar bill and said, “How did you know?”
“If there’s one thing that Harvey does just as well as she sells books, it’s raise money,” Rocky said with a wink at me. “Who are we raising money for this time, boss lady?”
I looked over at Lucas and thought about his sister. “Hospice. Let’s raise money for our local hospice.”
Bear grinned and stood. “I like this idea, Harvey. I like it a lot. There aren’t many better organizations than hospice. Let me help you organize this one?”
I grinned at my friend and took his dark brown hand in my white one. “You lead, and I’ll follow. Want to meet tomorrow and make a plan?”
Bear nodded. “Thank you, Harvey.”
I squeezed his fingers and nodded. Yep, this situation was hard for him. I looked down at Henri, and she let out a long breath and then smiled at me.
“It’s a date, then,” I said as I began to gather up the trash.
“What’s a date?” Cate asked as she and Lucas came back over to join us.
“You’ll be shocked to hear,” Woody said as he pried himself out of a super comfy chair and a half, “that Harvey is planning another fundraiser, this one for hospice.”
I glanced at Lucas and saw tears pool in his eyes before he looked away.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Cate said. “You know I’m in.”
“Me, too,” said Mart with Symeon echoing her immediately. And around the room, everyone offered to help. I felt tears prick my own eyes at the joy of my friends.
“Okay, let Bear and me get the plan in place, and then we’ll loop you all in. Sound good?”
Everyone nodded and then began to gather their dishes and return the chairs to their respective places in the store. As I bent to pick up the last of the hot chocolate cups
, Tuck stepped beside me and said, “This is a good idea, Harvey. People are really upset about this situation. It’ll help them to have something else to focus on.”
I smiled and let myself feel happy for just a moment in this weird, hard weekend. Then, I walked all my friends to the door, set the alarm, and took Daniel’s arm as we closed the shop for the night.
* * *
It was a lovely, crisp evening, and while I was bone-tired, I didn’t feel like going home yet. And Mayhem and Taco were apparently invigorated by the cold air and from an entire day of sleeping because they were adamant about sniffing every single tree, twig, and lamppost in sight. Daniel and I decided to meander the streets of downtown, and as we walked, I started to brainstorm ideas. “What if we brought in experts to talk about death and grief and let them have a forum in the store? Then, we could take donations for hospice at that event but also provide some resources for people who needed them.”
Daniel had been with me long enough to know that I didn’t really need to have him say anything when I got on these jags of creative talk. His listening ear and calm presence were more than enough to spur me on.
“When Mart’s mom was sick, hospice came regularly to visit with her mom, but they also sent a chaplain to meet with Mart and her dad and help them with what the dying process would look like.” I remembered that in the last few weeks of her life, Mrs. Weston had become skeletal. She hadn’t looked like herself at all, and most days, she simply slept. Mart had moved home to Iowa from San Francisco to help her dad when it looked like the end was near, and she’d gotten training from hospice about how to lift her mother to help change her bed linens and about how to help keep her comfortable.
I leaned my head against Daniel’s shoulder as we walked. ”I remember that Mart said the hospice nurses warned her that her mother would rally just before the end and that while this was a moment to cherish, it did not mean she was improving, but just the opposite. Mart said that was the most helpful piece of information she ever received because when her mom did, indeed, rally, she was able to wheel her outside and let her enjoy the sunshine, to have a last conversation with her, and then to prepare for her death.” I felt tears sliding down my face as I thought about how devastated Mart had been when her mom died, but she had also been ready, or as ready as someone can be.