by ACF Bookens
We took a couple of moments to dress our coffee – me with extra sugar and enough cream to make it an almost-latte – and then Tuck said, “Okay, Mr. Petra, what was that about?”
Javier took a long draw from his mug and then said, “She was always around when Bixley was. I almost never saw him if I didn’t see her, too. She was there the night my dad was killed, too.” His voice was quiet, but I could feel the tension ratcheting up as he spoke.
“So you suspected her of working with Bixley to do what, exactly?” Tuck’s question was cautious. I had no doubt he knew exactly what Javier suspected, but he wasn’t about to reveal anything, especially not about a potential serial killer.
“To murder people, sheriff.” Javier’s eyebrows furrowed. “I know you’ve heard the talk. Bixley was killing people who he felt had lived too long, who he thought would be ‘better off’ on the other side.”
“Do you have any proof of that, Mr. Petra?” Tuck’s voice was, again, neutral, but I could tell by the tiny tightness in the corner of his eyes that he hoped Javier did have something, anything, to help him figure out what Bixley had been doing and why someone wanted to kill him.
“I’m not sure.” Javier looked down at his hands. “I stole a vial of my father’s blood the day before he died. He was getting weak so fast, and it just didn’t seem right.” He looked up at met my eyes. “I mean, he was definitely dying, but this seemed different. Like, he’d never had a cough before, but now he did.”
Tuck took out his notebook and jotted something down. “So his symptoms changed?”
Javier nodded vigorously. “Yes, exactly. If he was sick from cancer, I expected the symptoms would stay largely the same as each time, only worse. But he’d never coughed before. Never complained of stomach pain either.”
“Could the cancer have spread to his stomach?” I asked, not sure how cancer worked exactly but confident that it did spread if not treated.
“Not according to his last CAT scan, no.” Javier’s voice was firm. “No, this was just different. So when the nurse took his blood, I took a vial.” He sucked a breath through his teeth. “Was that illegal?”
“I’m not sure, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that question,” Tuck said. “Do you still have the vial?”
“Right here.” He patted the breast pocket of his plaid, button-down shirt. “I didn’t want to lose it, but I hadn’t figured out how to get it tested.” He sighed. “I didn’t even really know what to test it for.”
I put out my hand after getting a quick nod of approval from Tuck. “I can get this taken care of, Javier. Discreetly. We’ll know tomorrow whether there was something amiss about your father’s bloodwork.” Javier handed me the vial.
Tuck stood. “Until then, Mr. Petra, no more threats, okay? Let’s not show our hand until we know what we’ve been dealt.”
Javier let out a long slow breath. “Thank you. You’re the first people who have really listened, well, besides Danita.” His shoulders slumped. “You’re looking into her murder, too?”
“Oh, I look into every murder, Mr. Petra. And hers has my special focus for the rest of the day.” He put a hand on Javier’s shoulder. “I’ll be in touch once we get the results of the blood work.”
Javier shook Tuck’s hand and gave me a small smile before turning and leaving the shop.
“I can’t ask him, Harvey. Just in case there are legal questions about that blood, but ask Bear to rush it, will you?” Tuck said quietly as I scooted beside him to the door.
“You got it,” I said as I wrapped my fingers around the blood of a man who also might have been murdered.
* * *
Bear came as soon as I texted and picked up the vial. He didn’t ask questions beyond what I was looking for, and all I could tell him was that the patient had had cancer but that he’d started coughing and complaining of stomach pain that seemed out of the ordinary.
“That’s enough to go on. I’ll get a full panel worked up on rush. Have you some results in the morning.” Bear hugged me.
12
Wednesday is that day of the week that I usually feel myself waning. The big joy of new book releases on Tuesday has passed, and we’re not into the weekend burst of sales. So I often take Wednesdays and do some maintenance for the store – check our inventory, plan a new window display, look at what book event I could schedule.
So that’s what I did. I ordered books, and I planned a snow-related window display for after the holidays. I was eager to feature Billy Coffey’s Snow Day since I’d just come across his work and was loving the sort of supernatural timbre and mountain folklore of his stories. Then, I decided to see if I could get him to come read for us in the new year and was delighted when he immediately replied to my email and said yes.
Between those tasks and chatting with customers who stopped by my throne, where I’d added a lap blanket, a side table, and a foot stool just to completely own my incapacitated status, I totally forgot to check the ticket sales for the John Green event until late afternoon. And when I did, I let out a loud whoop and got stares from customers and employees alike.
Tiffany trotted over – the woman ran everywhere – and said, “So what brings about that shout of delight?”
I was fairly bouncing in my thoroughly padded seat. “We’ve sold out for the Green event already. I can’t believe it.”
“Are you kidding? I’m not that much of a reader,” she blushed, “No offense – and even I know John Green’s books. Plus, do you know how many teenagers just begged their parents for an early Hanukkah or Christmas present? I’m not surprised at all.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” I stood up and stretched. “Still, that’s a huge relief. That means we’ll have a big donation to give to hospice just from the ticket sales, and anything we make in book sales will be bonus.”
“Speaking of which,” Marcus said as he toted a huge box from the back room. “ The books are here.”
My stomach suddenly plummeted, and then I felt a rush of relief. I had totally forgotten about the books – I mean, I’d ordered them, but with all the events of the past few days, I had totally forgotten to check on the delivery status. Thank goodness they’d arrived. I sat back down as the waves of anxiety passed into peace of mind.
“What do you think we should do with them, Marcus?” I asked because I couldn’t even begin to formulate a plan just then.
He tossed the box in the air like it was full of marshmallows and said, “Well, what do you think of doing a big four-sided Christmas tree of books right in the front of the store?”
“I love that idea, but isn’t that a lot of work since we need to take a bunch of the books to the high school for Green to sign Saturday night?”
“That’s why we made this,” Rocky said as she came out from behind her café counter with what looked like a cardboard M.C. Escher sculpture. “It means you don’t have to use many books to display them festively.”
I eyed the cardboard and then shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t ever picture things like this. Can you show me?”
“Give us ten minutes,” Rocky said and bustled her way to the front of the store with her cardboard cutout.
“You know what they’re up to?” I asked Tiffany as she watched Marcus pick up two more boxes and carry all of them to the front with nary a waddle.
“Not a clue, but I’m dying to find out.” She jogged to the front of the shop, and I leaned my head back and shut my eyes. I really needed some caffeine, but if I drank it now, I’d be up all night. So I opted for a quick rest.
A quick rest that ended when Damien woke me up by asking, “Do you always drool?”
I shot to my feet and then immediately groaned as the ache in my ankle reached my head. “Darn it.” I gave my head a little shake and then focused on Damien’s face in front of me. He had his Santa beard hanging below his chin, so he looked like a black, super-elderly member of ZZ Top. “Did I sleep that long?” I looked up at the clock – only f
ive.
“Nope, I came in early. Thought maybe I could help out some. You know, spiff up Santa’s sleigh and such.” He held up an armload of the tackiest gold garland I had ever seen.
“You’re not putting that on the sleigh,” I said as I shifted my scooter under my leg and started to make my way to see what Rocky and Marcus had created.
“Why not?” Damien said in a tone that was only slightly less than a whine. “It’s gold.”
“Yes, I can see that. It is also ugly. Thanks for the offer, but I think Santa’s sleigh looks great as is.” I stopped short when I saw that right next to said sleigh, Marcus and Rocky had created a beautiful tree that shifted from gold to aqua to green and back to off-white in just such a way that it looked perfectly like Christmas. “Oh, guys, this looks amazing. Wow.”
Marcus stepped back. “You like it?”
“I love it. It’s perfect.” I scooted a little closer. “And it’s only two copies on each tier? Wow.”
“Yep, so you see the books, and you can pick them up easily, but it doesn’t take our full inventory to create the effect.” Rocky was fairly beaming. “I saw something like it on Pinterest and wanted to try it out.”
“Well, anytime you want to create something for my shop, you have my blanket permission.” I noticed that behind the sleigh, Marcus and Rocky had stacked extra copies of each title so that we could keep the tree fresh. “Another task for our elf?”
“Exactly,” Marcus said. “Easy enough. When they return from helping a kid sit with Santa, they can grab any books we need.”
Damien sighed. “There we go again. Santa’s labor being stolen for the man.”
I looked at the not-quite Santa and said, “Seriously? Why doesn’t Santa go wait in the back until it’s show time? We don’t want to give away the show with you out here in your Nikes and no beard.”
Marcus looked at Damien’s shoes. “Nice Airs.” The two men walked into the back room talking about Air Jordans like I might talk about first editions of Margaret Atwood’s The Cat’s Eye.
A few minutes later, Marcus returned with a couple more boxes of books to finish out the display and supply the backstock table, and I headed to the back room to grab the dinner I’d packed and to take a break before the Santa rush began. The conversation on Instagram hadn’t slowed down since Damien’s original post, especially since he kept feeding the fire with more sexy Santa selfies, and I thought our crowd might be big. I was just glad it was a school night because then at least the children wouldn’t have to mingle with the folks hoping to date Santa.
Damien was lounging on the loveseat in the corner, and I could see he was checking out his likes on Insta. I thought it might be wise to slow his roll a little with the fandom, help him get in the mood to be Santa a little, so I decided to take one for the St. Marin’s community and make small talk. “Damien, what did you do for Christmas as a kid? Did you go sit on Santa’s lap somewhere?”
He sat up and smiled. “Actually, yeah. My dad brought me right here to this spot every year. He said it was a place I needed to know, and he told me all about when it was a gas station, about all the famous folks who stopped here because it was in the Green Book.”
I remembered when I’d learned all that history about my store, about the years it was the only place black people could stop in St. Marin’s. The plaque by the door helped remind people of that history, and I was proud to be a small part of it. “So going to see Santa was special. I can see why you wanted the job.”
“Yeah,” his voice grew wistful. “Dad worked a lot, so anytime I got to do something with just him, it was special. Mom wasn’t so keen on Santa, thought it was teaching me to believe in lies, I guess, but Dad always said it was about magic. ‘Magic is real, son. Never forget it.’”
For a minute, I thought I saw a tear in Damien’s eye, but he turned away and cleared his throat. “Those memories are extra special now.”
I sighed. “Your dad is no longer with us?”
“Died two months ago. He had Alzheimer’s, early onset kind. He still knew me though. Knew my sister, too.” Damien’s voice got very soft. “Died just before he got to meet my niece, his first grandchild.”
I got up from the table where I’d been picking at my stew and hopped over to sit next to Damien. I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t think he’d take kindly. “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”
“Yeah, yeah it is.” He took a deep breath and then stood up. “Mind if I get into character early. I can just wave to people if you want.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Just short of six. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead and get started. It might be slow since we didn’t advertise you’d be here until six thirty, but feel free to get going. I’ll make a note to pay you for the hours.”
He smiled then and bent down to hug me. “Thanks, Harvey.”
I stiffened in surprise but then patted him on the back. “No problem, Damien. Your dad would be proud.”
A cloud passed over his face. “I hope so.” Then the sly smile popped back up on his cheeks, and he swaggered out after putting his beard in place and slipping his boots over his Nikes.
I shook my head with a laugh. What an odd Santa he was.
* * *
The line for Santa was steady if, as I expected, a bit older than our intended demographic. The amount of giggling was about the same as the previous nights, though, so I took it as a win. Book sales weren’t that brisk, but Rocky’s mulled cider and holiday-themed lattes were a hit. I figured that was just fine because word of mouth about good coffee was just about as effective as word of mouth about good books. Surely everyone had at least one book-loving friend, and my hope is that the copious number of Instagram photos and TikTok videos that were being taken would reach those readers better than any newspaper campaign.
After I shooed the last few flirtatious young women away from the sleigh and thanked Damien for a good night’s work, Mayhem and I closed up shop and enjoyed the quiet walk home. This time, I hadn’t even had to cajole my friends into letting me leave on my own, thank goodness. Apparently, they trusted me, at least a little, and it seemed they trusted the town to protect me, too. It was one of my favorite things about life in a small town: everywhere, even home, was close enough to reach in even the coldest weather.
* * *
The next morning, I got to the store bright and early, eager to replenish the John Green tree, which had been a steady seller even to Damien’s fan club. I had just opened the door and was turning to lock it behind me when Tuck popped into the window with his hand over his eyes to help him see past the early morning glare on the glass.
I swung the door open and said, “Looking for me.”
He stepped back with a gasp and said, “Yes, um, yes I was.” He put his hand on his chest. “Sorry, you scared me.”
I laughed. “Got the jump on you, huh?”
He shook his head and gave me a bit of side eye. “I suppose. Have a minute?”
“Sure. Let me start a pot of coffee, and then we can sit in the fiction section.” I looked out the window. People were just starting to make their way onto Main Street, but I wasn’t ready for customers yet. “The back room is a little too dark for me this bright and sunny morning, and I don’t really want to have customers just yet.”
“Makes sense to me,” the sheriff said as he scooped a copy of Turtles All The Way Down off the Green Christmas tree and headed deeper into the store.
A few moments later, I balanced two steaming cups of coffee on my scooter, a new skill I had acquired, to our wingback chairs and handed my friend his. He took it without looking up from the page and read for a second more before saying, “This guy is good. Have you read this?”
I smiled. “I have. I’ve read all of his book actually. I didn’t peg you for a YA fiction type, though.”
“What? You think I’d read only true crime or something,” he said with a smile.
“Actually, I was thinking Saul Bellow might be more your speed. Or
Randall Kenan. Maybe Wallace Stegner.”
“So you think I’m an atmospheric, methodical person who appreciates subtle detail rather than big action?”
My jaw dropped open. “Well, yes, now that you say it. I do.” I loved that about Tuck. He was a jokester, and a fine police officer. But he always surprised me, too. I wasn’t surprised, mind you, that he was well-read, just that he was that thoughtful about his own reading tastes. Most people weren’t.
“I take that as a fine compliment, Harvey Beckett. But now, well, I have to get to something more fast-paced, I’m afraid. I have the findings from Danita’s autopsy.”
I sat forward. “And?”
“Want to guess?”
“Not really. Insulin poisoning again?”
Tuck nodded. “Seems we have a rash of murders all committed the same way.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.” I sat back and looked at my cast. Ollie’s crying Santa was still the perfect portrayal of how this holiday season was turning out. Still beautiful and lit with joy but also so sorrowful, too.
“No, it can’t. But listen, Harvey, I’m only telling you this because you have, somehow, ended up with connections to everyone involved. I wanted you to have the full story because – and hear me now – I didn’t want you trying to dig anything up on your own. No sleuthing.” His face was very serious, and I knew he meant what he said.
“No sleuthing. I’m not exactly subtle at the moment, if you haven’t noticed.” I pointed toward the cast and the scooter.
“What do you mean ‘at the moment?’” Tuck said with a wink. “I don’t think subtlety is your specialty.”
“Touché,” I said with a laugh as he stood. “Seriously, though, I just really want all this sorted so we can go back to pretending like we live in a movie and enjoy the holidays. But I will gladly let you sort it. I’m going to sit right here and enjoy this coffee.”
“Good plan, Ms. Beckett.” Tuck drained his mug and dropped it in the café sink before he headed out.