Table Of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Classic Peach Cobbler
About the Author
Murder by Page One
Copyright © 2020 Olivia Matthews
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Print: ISBN: 978-1-952210-12-9
eBook: ISBN: 978-1-952210-13-6
www.hallmarkpublishing.com
Dedication
To My Dream Team:
My sister, Bernadette, for giving me the dream.
My husband, Michael, for supporting the dream.
My brother, Richard, for believing in the dream.
My brother, Gideon, for encouraging the dream.
And to Mom and Dad, always, with love.
I’d also like to express my sincere thanks to Maria F. and Toni B. for their invaluable help and insights on Georgia culture.
Chapter 1
“I was promised chocolate.”
I directed the reminder toward my new best friend, Jolene Gomez, after entering the bookstore. I threw my gaze into every visible nook and cranny of To Be Read in search of chocolate-covered pecan clusters.
Jo owned To Be Read, an independent bookstore on the southeast side of Peach Coast, Georgia. It wasn’t that I needed the food bribe to come to her bookstore—or any bookstore—especially when a bunch of authors were signing their books. It was just that, well…promises had been made.
“Marvey.” The tattooed businesswoman’s tan features warmed with a welcoming smile. Her coffee-colored eyes shifted to my right. “Spence. I’m glad you both made it.”
Jo seemed relieved, as though she’d worried we wouldn’t come. Why would she have thought that? I kept my promises, especially those made to another book fanatic. Jo and I had bonded over our love of books, our newcomer status—she was from Florida and I was from New York—and chocolates, which reminded me today’s stash was still conspicuously absent.
“Of course we came. We’re readers. On top of that, we’re here supporting our friend.” I nudged Jo’s shoulder with my own.
“The others are on their way,” Spence said, referring to the members of the Peach Coast Library Book Club.
Spence and I had walked over from the library after our Saturday afternoon meeting. It was about a fifteen-minute walk, and the weather on this May Day had been comfortably warm. As geographically challenged as I was, I’d been glad to have Spence with me. On my own, I probably would’ve still been circling the library’s parking lot.
Spencer Holt was a local celebrity, although he’d deny it. The Holts were the richest family in Peach Coast and one of the wealthiest in Camden County. They owned a bed and breakfast, a hotel, a local bank, and the town’s daily newspaper, The Peach Coast Crier. It was considered required reading among the residents, and Spence was the publisher and editor-in-chief.
The family was also philanthropic: Peach Coast’s answer to Gotham City’s Wayne Foundation. Spence’s mother, for example, served on the board of directors for the Peach Coast Library—which technically made her my boss.
For all his money, prestige, power, and good looks—think Bruce Wayne with a slow Southern drawl—Spence was very humble. He was more interested in listening than talking about himself, and he seemed to prefer comfort over fashion. I once again noted his brown loafers, faded blue jeans, and the ruby-red polo shirt that showed off his biceps and complimented his warm sienna skin.
Spence shifted his midnight gaze to mine. “If you want pecan clusters, we can get some at the coffee shop after the signing.”
After the signing? “It wouldn’t be the same.” Translation: that would be too late. Far too late. I continued scanning the store, my mind rejecting the truth my eyes had confirmed.
“I haven’t put the chocolates out yet, but I’ll get you some in a minute.” Jo waved a hand as though the treats weren’t important. The right sleeve of her citrus-orange knit sweater, which she’d coupled with leaf-green jeans, slipped to reveal the University of Florida Gators logo inked onto the inside of her small wrist. Jo was a proud alumna. “First, let me introduce you to Zelda Taylor. She’s the president of Coastal Fiction Writers. The authors who’re signing today are members of her group. Zelda, you know Spence.”
“Ms. Zelda, it’s nice to see you again.” Spence’s greeting rumbled in his Barry White voice.
“Mr. Spence, it’s always such a pleasure,” the redhead gushed. Her porcelain cheeks glowed pink. “How is your mama?”
“She’s very well, ma’am. I’ll tell her you asked after her.” Spence’s smile went up a watt. The poor woman seemed dazed.
I tossed Spence a laughing look. “Is there anyone in this town you don’t know?”
Spence’s smooth forehead creased as he pretended to consider my question. “Well, nearly one thousand people reside in Peach Coast. I’m sure I’ve yet to meet one or two of them.”
Jo gestured toward me. “Zelda, this is Marvella Harris. She moved here from New York—the city—four months ago. She’s the library’s new director of community engagement.”
Zelda tugged her attention from Spence. Her appearance was flawless: well-manicured nails, perfect makeup, and salon-styled hair. She was camera-ready for a photo spread in a Southern homes magazine.
“Oh, yes. I read the article about you in the Crier a couple of months back.” Her voice was now imposing, as though she were reading a town proclamation. “Welcome to Camden County. What brings you all this way, Ms. Marvella?”
Referring to the county of residence instead of the town was taking some getting used to. I supposed it was like New Yorkers saying we were from Brooklyn, The Bronx, Queens, or Staten Island. Only people from Manhattan said they were from “the city.”
“Just Marvey, please.” The Southern custom of adding a title to a person’s name was charming, but it was a lot to say before getting to the point. “I want to help the library increase its outreach and services. Do you have a library card?”
Zelda’s eyes widened. “Why, yes.” Her commanding tone had faded. “Yes, I do.”
Although suspicious of her response, I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
“Excellent. I look forward to seeing you at the library. You should join our book club. We meet the first Saturday of each month.”
“Oh. That sounds nice.” Zelda smoothed her silver cotton dress in a nervous gesture. I sensed her casting about for a believable excuse to get out of the meetings.
Spence offered an incentive. “Marvey serves Georgia Bourbon Pecan Pie and sweet tea after every meeting—but you have to stay till the end of the meeting for the refreshments.”
Panic receded from Zelda’s eyes to be replaced by interest. “Oh, well, now. That would be nice indeed.”
I turned my attention from Zelda to survey To Be Read. I loved the store. It was like a giant welcoming foyer, flooded with natural light. Closing my eyes briefly, I drew in the scent of crisp new paper from thousands of books and magazines. Fluffy furnishings in pale earth tones popped up at the end of aisles and in quiet nooks. A multitude of blond wood bookcases stuffed with stories offered the promise of adventures and the thrill of knowledge.
A couple of Jo’s employees were setting up for the book signing. They’d already arranged the wooden chairs and matching tables. The twenty-somethings transferred books from wheeled metal carts to each author’s assigned table. Jo’s third employee processed purchases at a checkout counter while engaging each customer in conversation as though they were lifelong friends. Every now and then, a burst of warm laughter rolled across the store.
But there still wasn’t a single chocolate-covered pecan cluster in sight.
“I’m sorry I missed the meeting.” Jo’s gaze swung between Spence and me, twinkling with curiosity. “How was it?”
“It was great,” Spence said. Slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, he turned to me. “I’m impressed you were able to get the club up and running so quickly, within a month of your arrival.”
“We librarians are known for our efficiency.” It was a struggle to keep the smugness from my tone.
Spence’s compliment filled me with a massive sense of achievement—and relief. Even though it was only our third meeting, I’d known the book club would be a success. We’d already attracted twenty-five book lovers, all from diverse backgrounds and each strengthening our argument for a bigger budget. That continued to be my motivation.
Leaving my parents and older brother in Brooklyn to relocate to Peach Coast with my cat had been hard. My roots were in Brooklyn. I’d lived my entire twenty-eight years in the New York borough, but I’d grown increasingly frustrated by my lack of opportunities to shine in my public library system. There, I was just one of many small fishes in a very big pond. I couldn’t generate any waves. Not even a ripple. But I’d been confident that, if given a chance, my ideas for growing the community’s interest in and support of the library could make a big splash. Here, in this small town, I’d finally be able to try. The library’s success would make at least some of my homesickness worth it.
Jo grinned. “So who came in costume, and what did they wear?”
Spence ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. His voice was devoid of inflection. “Mortimer painted himself blue and called himself Aquarius.”
This month’s member-selected read was the latest paranormal fiction release by Bernadine Cecile. I loved paranormal stories. This one featured a world in which meta-humans used the power of their zodiac signs to defeat villains—hence Mortimer’s costume. He wasn’t the only one who’d gotten carried away. Most of the members hadn’t wanted to read Born Sign, but the first rule of book club was to keep an open mind. To my relief, the novel had been a hit.
Zelda spoke over Jo’s laughter. “Marvey, if you don’t mind my saying, that’s a lovely pendant.” Her gaze had dropped to my sapphire cotton T-shirt, which I wore with cream khakis and matching canvas shoes.
“Thank you.” I touched the glass pendant. I’d suspended it from a long antique silver chain. It held a silver-and-black illustration of the cover of Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun, the version depicting the Younger family’s dream home.
Jo inclined her head toward me. Her long raven ponytail bounced behind her narrow shoulders. “Marvey makes those herself. And the matching hair barrette. She draws the pictures and puts them in the pendants and barrettes.”
Zelda glanced at my shoulder-length, dark brown hair, but she couldn’t have seen my barrette, which gathered my hair behind my head.
“You’re very talented.” Her eyes glinted with admiration—and longing. “Do you sell them?”
This question came up a lot. Each time, I stood firm. “No, it’s just a hobby. I’d like to keep it that way.”
I’d been making those pendants and barrettes since high school. The craft fed my love of art and jewelry making, and allowed me to pay homage to great works of literature. It was the kind of activity I could do while listening to an audiobook. Although I often gifted sets to family and friends for birthdays and holidays, the hobby was something I did for enjoyment, not for money. If I mass-produced them, it wouldn’t be fun anymore.
Jo’s dark eyes twinkled with mischief. “With all the interest people have shown in your pendants, you may have to break that rule.”
Spence flashed his silver-screen smile. His perfect white teeth were a dentist’s dream. “Maybe you should give a class. That way, you can teach people how to make their own pendants.”
“That’s a great idea. The course could be a fundraiser for the library.” New books. Updated software. Additional periodical subscriptions. Every little bit would help. I shelved the idea to consider in depth later.
“Ready for another great idea?” Spence’s lips twitched with humor. “Run the Cobbler Crawl with me.”
The man was relentless. I responded to his winning smile with a chiding look. “For the fourth time, no, I will not.”
The Peach Coast Cobbler Crawl was an annual three-and-a-half-mile race to raise money for the local hospital. Each two-member team had to stop and eat a large, heaping spoonful of peach cobbler at the one-, two-, and three-mile points. The first team to cross the finish line together won.
“I can’t enter the Cobbler Crawl without a running partner.” Spence had been trying to convince me to form a team with him almost since the day we’d met.
I was running out of ways to say no. “Why don’t we both just give a donation and watch the event from the sidelines?”
Jo laughed. “You should do it, Marvey. You run six miles every day. Three and a half miles will feel like nothing.”
Now they were ganging up on me. “If we only had to run, I wouldn’t hesitate. But I don’t think I can run and keep down the cobbler.” I shuddered to think of the consequences.
Zelda came out of her spell, dragging her attention from my pendant. “I’m the exact opposite. I could eat the cobbler, no problem. But I couldn’t run a mile in a month of Sundays.”
Determined to change the subject, I turned to Zelda. “How many members of the Coastal Fiction Writers are published?”
“We’re a small group, but we’re growing. At the moment, there are twelve of us. Four of our members are published.”
“Five.” Jo lifted the requisite number of fingers. “I ordered books for five members. I think you’re missing Fiona.” She addressed Spence and me. “Fiona Lyle-Hayes just released her first book, In Death Do We Part. It’s a mystery, and it’s gotten great advance reviews.”
Spence sent me a look before switching his attention to our companions. I could tell he wasn’t giving up on the Cobbler Crawl. “We ran a piece about her book in the Crier.”
“Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten Fiona?” Zelda clutched her pearl necklace. Her smile seemed fake. That was curious.
“Fiona helped coordinate the signing.” Jo glanced at her employees who were setting out the books before returning her attention to Spence and me. “She’s also the writing group’s treasurer.”
“Yes, Fiona
manages our money. She’s good at that.” Zelda flashed another tight smile, then looked away. Tension was rolling off her in waves. I really hoped it didn’t bubble over and ruin Jo’s event.
I glanced toward the entrance again to see more of our book club members arriving, as well as quite a few strangers—each one a potential new library cardholder. Four of the newcomers made a beeline for Jo, who identified them as the local authors who were signing today. I concentrated on the introductions, but keeping names and connections straight strained my brain. Of course, Spence knew all of them. I resolved to stick to him like gum on his shoe.
The authors dressed up their displays with promotional postcards and trinkets. Jo’s employees put the finishing touches on the arrangements, which included the bowls of the long-promised-but-seemingly-forgotten chocolate-covered pecan clusters. Jo and I had only been friends for four months, but I’d known she wouldn’t let me down. I began drifting toward the signing area—and the chocolates—when Jo’s voice stopped me.
“I wonder what’s taking Fiona so long?” Jo checked her silver-and-orange wristwatch. A frown cast a shadow over her round face. “The signing starts in ten minutes. I thought she’d have her books out long before now.”
Zelda scanned the store. “Fiona left our writers’ meeting early, saying she needed to get ready. Where is she?”
Jo jerked her head toward the back of the store, sending her ponytail swinging. “She’s been in the storage room. She wanted to examine her books and bring them out herself.”
Weird. “Why?”
Jo shrugged nonchalantly, but I saw the aggravation in her eyes. “She didn’t say, but I suspect it’s because she thought my staff and I would damage her books.”
Zelda’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Fiona can be a pain in the tush. Bless her heart.”
Bless her heart. That was a Southern phrase I’d heard before. It didn’t mean anything good.
Chapter 2
While I hung out with Spence and Zelda, Jo checked on the authors who’d taken their seats on time.
Murder by Page One Page 1