Tome to Tomb

by ACF Bookens

  “Mart has always said that hospice helped her mom, but it saved her.” I paused and filled my lungs with the cold night air. “I’d like to dedicate this fundraiser to Mrs. Weston, to honor her and Mart.”

  Daniel put his hand on my cheek and kissed me. “I think that’s a beautiful idea, Harvey. A beautiful idea.”

  We had made our way back to Main Street, and, given the late hour, only a few people were out and about, mostly leaving Chez Cuisine, Max’s restaurant. One young woman with skin the color of burnished cedar was speaking loudly to the other women in her group. “I can’t even believe it. Bixley. I mean he was a royal jerk, but a killer? I did not see that coming. Sounds like he got what he deserved.”

  Just then, she caught sight of Daniel and me and stopped short. I smiled at her, trying to put her at ease, but she glowered back at me.

  I leaned into Daniel and feigned interest in whatever Mayhem was sniffing now as we made our way past. That woman’s stare made my skin prickle.

  5

  The next afternoon at three, Henri and Bear showed up at the café for our fundraising meeting, and they had prepared.

  “I made a couple of calls this morning, and while I haven’t committed to anything, I wonder how you’d feel about having John Green come and speak about his experience of writing The Fault In Our Stars and his own views on death and dying,” Bear said as nonchalantly as if he’d just asked me if I liked the old weather.

  I stared at my friend for a long moment before I could speak. “John Green? The author John Green? Maybe the most popular young adult author in the country, John Green?” I looked at Henri, and she nodded with a sly grin as she twisted one of her dreadlocks around and around her finger.

  “I met him a few years back through work.” I knew better than to ask for more details. Bear was beyond respectful of patient privacy. “We’ve stayed in touch, and he said he’ll be in DC in a couple of weeks and could fit in a reading and conversation here for such a good cause.”

  I blinked several times and tried to form sentences. “You’re telling me – Are you saying – What?!”

  Henri took my hand. “Just say yes, Harvey.”

  “Yes, yes. One hundred million times yes. When?”

  “Two weeks from today,” Bear said.

  My stomach lurched a bit. I was going to have two weeks to pull off the biggest event of my life with an author I admired immensely. I started to panic, but Henri spoke slowly and softly. “You don’t have to do much, Harvey. John’s publicity team will do the bulk of the work, and really, the event will sell itself.”

  “Which brings up another thing we need to discuss,” Bear said as a surge of panic flushed my body.

  “Where in the world are we going to have this? We can’t do it here.”

  Henri stood up, walked over, and began giving me a shoulder rub. “Relax, Harvey. We have options.” Her hands were so strong from weaving, I presumed, and I immediately began to relax.

  “Okay, what options? I’d like to have it here in town if we could, give St. Marin’s a little boost in the off-season.” Our adorable town was kept financially alive because of the water-based tourists who came from April to October. The winter months were often lean for business owners.

  “Agreed,” Bear said. “Two options – we could do it at the maritime museum auditorium. It holds a couple of hundred people. Or we could use the high school gym, which will seat considerably more and—”

  “And,” I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, “would be ideal both because of the capacity and because Green writes YA novels?”

  “Precisely,” Bear said with a smile. “You took the words right out of my mouth.” He winked at me, and I tried to shrug my shoulders but found Henri’s massage held them down.

  “Sorry, Bear. I‘m just excited. This is a huge deal.” I tried to lean forward to hug him, but Henri’s kneading fingers, once again, kept me in my seat. “Thank you. Really.”

  Bear leaned back in his chair. “Well, there is something you can do for me?”

  “Anything,” I said, this time tapping Henri’s right hand and then breaking free to lean closer to her husband. “What do you need?”

  “I need you to keep me in the loop about the investigation.”

  My stomach plummeted again. “Bear!” I could hear the whine in my voice. This was the last thing I wanted to do. Okay, it was the thing I most wanted to do AND the last thing I wanted to do. Daniel and Mart would kill me if I got involved.

  “I know, Harvey. It’s a big ask, and I’ll still help you with the fundraiser, even if you say no, but this hits very close to home, you know?”

  I did know. Bear took his work as a physician very seriously. He served on the hospital board, and he took a trip every summer to provide medical care in Haiti. I couldn’t imagine how it must feel to have someone use your profession in such an awful way. I was, once again, glad I ran a bookstore. At least people didn’t kill people over books. At least I hoped they didn’t.

  I took a deep breath. “I can’t make any promises, but I will let you know what I learn when I learn it, okay?”

  He smiled and patted my hand. “Deal. Now, let’s get started with the nitty gritty of this event, shall we?”

  Henri took at seat and pulled out her calendar. I set mine beside hers, and we delved into what we needed in terms of ticket sales, publicity, etc. By the time we had pinned down all the things we could think of, it was starting to get dark, and I needed to close up the shop.

  I was just moving toward the first customers to give them the fifteen-minute warning, when the bell over the front door rang. I groaned inwardly because this was my least favorite thing about retail work – the people who came in at the last minute. Once in a while, they knew exactly what they wanted, grabbed it, and checked out. But usually, they were the epitome of browsers. They hadn’t looked at the store’s hours as they came in, and they planned to sit and look at every astrology book I had for the entire night.

  I shot Rocky a look as I passed in front of the café, and she shook her head a little. Then, I saw her grab the coffee carafes off the bar and turn off the light in the pastry case. Good woman, I thought. At least this person wouldn’t be able to sip an espresso while they lingered.

  The next ten minutes passed quickly as I went to the few remaining customers and asked them to head to the register to make their final purchases. Most nights, this was a pleasant task, a chance to talk with my shoppers personally, but tonight, I was exhausted and was just wishing for a PA system where I could make one announcement and get on with the other closing duties.

  I rounded the final shelf of my sweep and nearly stepped on a woman sitting on the floor. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see you there.”

  She looked up at me, and I recognized her as the woman who had been talking about Bixley the night before. Tonight, though, she seemed even more angry than when she caught me staring the previous evening. At first, I thought it was because I’d never crushed her with my yarn-covered Dansko, but then she spoke. “Oh, it’s you.”

  Previously, when people described someone as saying their name with venom, I always get a little confused. What exactly does snake poison sound like? I’d think. Tonight, I learned the answer to my question. This woman was ready to strike, and I took a step back.

  “Um, yeah, it’s me. I’m Harvey Beckett. This is my shop. And you are?”

  “Cynthia Delilah.” She stood gracefully from the floor and rounded on me. “You need to stop this nonsense.”

  I stared down at her beautifully manicured hand and thought about deflecting her very intense anger with a comment about her choice of polish color. I thought about it, that is, until I looked into her face again and saw she was probably going to crack a tooth if she clenched her jaw any harder. I took another step back and said, my voice cracking, “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She stepped toward me, and I instinctively moved back again only to find
that the shelf of Western novels stood in my way. “You. You and that sheriff. You think you have this all figured out. But you have no idea. Bixley was scum, but this idea that someone was working with him—”

  Here, my confusion and alarm got the better of me, and I interrupted. “Where did you hear that?” I mean, it was true, but Tuck had only mentioned that to me in the break room the day before. The sheriff was not loose-lipped about cases, so I was thoroughly confused.

  “That doesn’t matter, now does it.” Cynthia was so close that I could see the porcelain fillings in her back molars. “It’s a ridiculous idea. Bixley was a monster, but that doesn’t mean anyone else is. So back off.” She jabbed her immaculate finger into my chest and then spun on her heel and walked away, a copy of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly under her arm.

  I fumed after her to tell her that she had no right to talk to me and that she owed me twelve dollars for the book, but by the time I stepped out onto the street, she was gone. I stood there in the cold air and let it calm me, and then I walked back in and called Tuck. He needed to hear about the lady who doth protest too much.

  * * *

  My conversation with Tuck was short and to the point. He said he’d look into it, and I felt good having passed along the information. Now, I can let it go, I thought, but of course, I couldn’t. I cleaned up the store and helped Rocky wipe down the café tables. We locked up together, and Mayhem and I escorted her to her car.

  Then, I decided to take another walk. Walking always helped me think, and I wasn’t eager to go home to the empty house just yet. Mart was away on business until tomorrow, and while Aslan, my cat, would surely punish me for not coming home and letting her ignore me, I needed to let the anger I’d felt from that confrontation wander out of me. Plus, there was something niggling at me about the book Cynthia had stolen.

  Mayhem was calmer tonight, so our pace was leisurely. I wandered down the other side of Main Street, peeking at the cute clothes in the new vintage and consignment shop that had just opened. I peeked in to Elle’s farm shop to be sure she still had a couple of butternut squashes so that I could fix my hankering for butternut squash soup. I gazed at the necklaces in the jewelry store and pondered, not for the first time, why I didn’t really care about diamonds or fancy bracelets when, apparently, so many women did.

  As I made my way back to my store and on toward home, I thought about Cynthia. The book she’d stolen was one that had been immensely popular about fifteen years earlier when it first came out. It told the story of a man who became trapped in his own body after a stroke. It didn’t seem coincidental that Cynthia had been looking at a book about someone who, some would argue, was suffering tremendously in his current physical state, someone who might become the victim of an angel of mercy, perhaps.

  I could feel myself getting to some sort of insight about that when an arm slid across my shoulders, and I looked over into the face of Max Davies. It was only then that I realized I had been staring into his restaurant while I was lost in thought, and I wanted to kick myself for my own lack of self-awareness. “Hello, mon amour,” he whispered almost directly into my ear.

  I jumped back and pushed him at the same time. Then, I stepped off the curb and turned my ankle. Badly. I felt tears spring to my eyes, and I sat down. Mayhem, thank goodness, pushed between me and Max and sat against me. Good dog.

  “Oh darling, are you hurt?” Max asked as he leaned down directly into my face.

  I was not in the mood for anyone, but especially not Max, to get in my face again tonight, so I snapped, “I am not your darling. Now get out of my face.” I pushed hard against the curb and tried to stand in as big a posture as I could manage, but my ankle gave way beneath me. The worst part of that was that for a split second I was glad Max caught me.

  That second was very short, though, because Max said, “Oh, my clumsy woman, let me carry you inside.” Then, he bent and tried to sweep my feet out from under me, bringing us both crashing to the pavement and knocking my temple against the curb.

  I groaned and forced myself to sit again. Out of reflex, I looked to see if Max was okay and found that I had broken his fall. I expected he had let me drop to protect himself, but my head was throbbing too much to say anything. “Get away from me, Max.” I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and dialed.

  “Hi. It’s me. I’m okay, but I could use a ride home. I’m in front of Chez Cuisine.”

  6

  Thank goodness Daniel’s apartment was just a block away because he was there in a matter of moments. Not soon enough, though, to keep Max from spreading out a cloth napkin on the sidewalk beside me and then sitting down far too close. “How do you make it through the day with such a lack of grace?” he said with a smile.

  This was, of course, Max’s idea of a friendly joke, but given that I had, at least, a terrible sprain to my ankle and what was quickly becoming a massive goose egg on my head, I was not in the mood to even try to humor him. I’m not usually in that mood, but tonight, less so.

  I glowered. I’m pretty sure I looked ridiculous, but I’m certain I didn’t look amused because Max slid a few inches away from me and tried to look embarrassed. He didn’t succeed, but he tried.

  A moment later, Daniel pulled up in my truck, a truck he bought me but that he really drove most of the time. He took one look at me and marched over to Max. “Thank you for keeping Harvey company, Max. I’ll take over from here.” Daniel’s voice sounded much deeper than his usual medium timbre, and I smiled a little at my not-very-macho guy trying to seem tough.

  Max took the hint – or the escape maybe – and said good night. Then, Daniel reached down a hand and pulled me to my feet . . . well to my foot. There was no way I was putting weight on my sprained ankle again. Nope. With my arm around Daniel’s shoulders, I hopped to the truck and levered myself in. Daniel got Mayhem into her custom kennel in the bed, and I heard Taco yip a word of greeting. While Daniel drove to my house, I relayed the events of the evening.

  I downplayed the Cynthia part of the story because I was still fuming over Max’s bravado and clumsiness, and Daniel gladly obliged by offering to plant rats in his kitchen or stand outside with a sandwich board about Armageddon. By the time he has listed all the ways he could exact our revenge on Max Davies, I was crying from laughter and had almost forgotten about the timpani-sized pounding going on in my head.

  When we got to my house, Daniel grabbed a dolly that Mart had left parked by the front walk after she’d brought us a case of her winery’s newest vintage and helped me climb aboard. Then, he tied Mayhem’s leash to one side and Taco’s to the other and escorted all three of us inside for the night.

  He walked me to my room, but ever the gentlemen, he stayed back and fed the pups and Aslan, who gave us a good talking to before, as expected, ignoring the fact that we existed. I slid into my emoji pj bottoms and the largest T-shirt I could find, slipped a headband onto my curls, and hopped down the hall to the couch.

  “Still can’t walk on it?” Daniel asked as he handed me a bowl of peanut butter popcorn that was as good as any I could make myself.

  “Nope. But maybe I’ll be better by morning.”

  Daniel looked skeptical, but he didn’t say anything. I knew, though, that if the sprain was as bad as I thought it was, I’d be taking a trip to the hospital for X-rays in the morning. Tonight, though, I was going to enjoy a quiet Sunday night with my guy and try to figure out what exactly was so appealing to him about watching YouTube videos of giant machinery.

  I didn’t get very far in that pondering, not far at all. I woke up in my own bed with Aslan on my feet and the sun on my face. The smell of bacon from the kitchen was the only thing that drew me out. My head still hurt, and I could feel, as soon as I moved my leg, that it was double its usual size. Time for X-rays.

  When I hopped my way to the kitchen, Daniel was at the griddle, and I could see pancakes with the special orange sauce my mom had taught him to make and what appeared to be a whole pound of ba
con. “I mean, I love the stuff, but I don’t think even I can eat that many pieces of bacon.”

  Daniel winked at me. “Someday, I’ll test that theory, but today, we’re having guests.”

  As if on cue, my mother and father walked in, without knocking of course, and my mom beelined for me with her hands out. My mom wasn’t exactly the nurturing type, but if there was a problem to solve, she was the one you wanted on your side. “Harvey Beckett, what happened to your face?”

  I reached two fingers up and felt my temple and then down my cheekbone. I felt like one of those kids in an old-timey TV show who had the mumps. My face was swollen. VERY swollen. “I just fell, Mom.”

  She frowned. “This is not a simple fall, Harvey. I mean Daniel told us you had a hard night, but I didn’t expect to find my only daughter looking like she’d been in the prize fight in Atlantic City.”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I said as I jumped down from the bar stool and immediately collapsed with a cry of pain.

  Daniel rushed around and lifted me up, half guiding and half carrying me to the couch.

  “Well, if that’s fine, then I’m Diana Ross.”

  A vision of my slim, very white, not-at-all-musical mom singing “I Will Survive” in a slinky, sequined ball gown passed through my mind’s eye, and I started to giggle. Then, I looked at my dad, and he snorted as the laughter he’d been holding in burst forth. Soon, all four of us were in the midst of one of those laughing spells that almost always leads to someone rushing to the facilitates before they have an accident.