Penny was right about one thing – the turnout was better than I’d dared to hope. More and more people trickled in, spilling out of the Events space into the shop, and every one of them seemed to have a book or two in their hands. Mrs. Ellis came over with her knitting circle friends, who crowded around me, pushing Penny off to the side (such a shame) as they gushed about the transformation of the shop.
“You’re a breath of fresh air to this place, Mina!” said Hazel Barrowly. “I can see Nevermore Bookshop becoming a real asset to the village.”
“I’d love to talk to you about running a joint event,” Sylvia Blume added. Sylvia ran the local crystal and healing shop where my mum worked sometimes as a tarot reader. “I see you have quite a decent occult section. We could bring in a famous metaphysical thinker for a lecture and then set up a stall in the corner. You mother could even do her readings. It would be transformative.”
“That sounds like fun.” I forced a smile, panic thumping in my chest. I wanted to keep my mother as far away from the financial side of the shop as possible, especially if she kept trying to push a weight-loss patch on my customers. A change of subject is in order. “Mrs. Ellis, did you book your holiday?”
“I did!” She swiped a second glass of cider from the bar and brought it to her lips. “I’m leaving in just two more days. It’s all very exciting. I was just telling the girls here that—”
“Oh, I love your dress,” a woman cooed, stepping into the middle of our circle, grabbing at my skirt, and fanning it out.
“Thanks. I made it.” I beamed. Since I hadn’t wanted to brave our flat for a change of clothes, I’d brushed off my ex-fashion-designer chops and whipped up the dress this afternoon by shredding an old purple prom dress I found at the village junk shop. I’d slashed up the skirt, added black lace panels, and edged the bodice in black ribbon. Worn with my trusty Doc Martens and some gold jewelry, it looked like a stage outfit for the singer of a punk band, which was, of course, why I loved it.
“You’re talented. Do you take commissions?” The woman stuck out her lower lip as she jutted out her hip and gestured to her expensive black velvet cocktail dress, shot with threads of silver that caught the light and accentuated her enviable curves. She touched a hand to her ash-blonde hair, perfectly set into a Marilyn Monroe style, and pouted a pair of cherry-red bow-shaped lips. “My husband is always dragging me to these boring book events. Yours is a cut above the rest, because at least you have free booze.”
“Who’s your husband?”
“Brian, the publisher.” She pointed across the room, where Brian stood deep in conversation with Morrie. Looking at his rumpled suit and middle-aged spread, I couldn’t imagine him with this vixen, but I guess there was no accounting for love. I wasn’t exactly one to make judgments, what with my three boyfriends. “I’m Amanda Letterman. You might have seen me on Youtube. I have my own makeup channel with a hundred thousand subscribers. I wouldn’t normally stoop to attending an event in the provinces, but Brian says we need to put on a good public face for the business. Of course, I just come along for the talent.” She wet her lower lip as her eyes trailed after Danny. Her gaze didn’t linger long, as it swept over to devour Angus, and then lingered on Heathcliff. “Mmmm, and what a lot of talent, too. Who is that rugged fox in the doorway? I want to sit on his face and—”
“I’ve never thought about making clothes for other people,” I said, partly to shut her up and partly because the wheels were already turning in my head. If an influencer like Amanda who attended all sorts of industry parties and maybe had an influencer channel online wore one of my designs, I might be able to get some work. It wouldn’t be the same as working New York Fashion Week, but at least I’d be able to use my design skills before they became useless…
No. I’m not going to dwell on it. And just like that, I shoved down the fear that threatened to well up inside me whenever I thought of losing my sight. My doctor believed it would happen within the next eighteen months. Last year, thinking about what I wouldn’t be able to do made me angry and upset, but ever since the guys had come into my life I found myself feeling more positive about the future. And finding out that with the right technology I could still do most of the things I enjoyed was helping me see that my life wasn’t over. In fact, sometimes my life was too interesting.
Even though I was feeling better about my eyes, I still occasionally had a moment where the uncertainty and unfairness of it got to me. But I certainly wasn’t going to ruin this weekend by dwelling on it, not when Danny’s event might help pay for the technology we need to enable me to keep working in the shop.
“Well, I will definitely hire you.” Amanda fingered the fabric of the dress. “I must warn you, though, I’m difficult to work with. My husband calls me a right cow. But what would he know, right? He just sells dusty old books.”
That’s… why did I need to know that? I kept the smile plastered on my face. “I don’t have a card or anything. But if you have something I can write on, I’ll give you my number.”
Amanda grabbed one of Danny’s books off the table and indicated that I should scribble my details inside. Danny passed by, raising his eyebrows at us. “Isn’t the author supposed to be signing his own books?” he said with a laugh, patting Amanda’s hip in what seemed to be an overly familiar way for the wife of his business colleague.
“Oh, Danny!” she giggled, raking her nails over his shoulder. “I’m just getting some details off this sweet girl. She’s going to make me a new dress. I’ll come for you later. I want a personalized signature.”
“I look forward to it,” he grinned, giving her a look like he might gobble her up. Amanda batted her eyelashes at him, her fingers sliding down his arm. I stepped away, my skin crawling. Am I imagining it, or is Danny awfully cozy with his publisher’s wife? Or is that just how writers are?
You’re not imagining it, a familiar voice said inside my head.
I cast my eyes up to the rafters, where Quoth perched, watching the party from above. I gave him a little wave, which he returned with a nod of his head.
It’s obvious to me, and to most of the people here, and especially to Penny Sledge, who is staring daggers at her husband from across the room. Oh, and your mother is sticking Flourish patches on Mrs. Ellis and her friends. She pulled a sign-up sheet from out of her bra.
I rolled my eyes at Quoth. Of course she has. Can you get over there and maybe try to stop her? Crap on her if you have to.
Mina, I love you, and I’d do anything for you, but I’m not defecating on your mother.
Please. I’d be eternally grateful—
“I’m surprised a bird like that could be domesticated,” a voice said beside me. “I expected he’d be crapping everywhere.”
Startled, I turned to face Danny’s friend Angus. He held a glass of cider in one hand and a plate of food in the other. He held the plate out to me and I accepted a sausage roll.
“Ravens are actually incredibly smart,” I said, watching Quoth fly off to rescue the knitting club. “Researchers have had them solve complex puzzles and can even teach them simple vocabulary. Quoth is the smartest raven of them all – he never defecates on anyone unless they deserve it.”
Angus laughed. “I love it. He gives this place a bit of personality. Not that it didn’t already have buckets of that. But now that the grumpy wanker isn’t in charge anymore, I might pop in for my reading material. I only live a few streets away, and read a lot since I retired, especially in hardcopy. No ereader for me. You’ve got a great selection of crime novels.”
“Thank you. Do you come to all of Danny’s events?” I asked.
“Not all of them, just when I can. It’s exciting to see how well he’s doing and how much people love his work. I have a lot of fun working with him, being able to relive some of the highlights of my career. In the case of the new novel, I even got to solve a crime between the pages that I never got to solve in real life.”
“That must be a real change from
what you used to do. Danny said that he used to be on the wrong side of the law?”
“Oh yes, he was a right ratbag back in his youth. Shoplifting, stealing cars, drugs, getting involved in gangs. I threw him in the clink more times than I can count. Like all young offenders, I hoped he’d straighten out, but it was just the opposite. Danny looked to be heading toward a life of hard crime before he woke up to his talent. It was actually the garroting case that turned him around. He was sweet on the victim, and he might’ve been stitched up for the crime if he hadn’t already had an alibi.”
“Wow. And he went straight after that?”
Angus nodded. “He wrote a story about a couple of geezers he met in the clink. Entered it into a national competition and won first prize. Two thousand quid, just like that. Danny said it was the easiest two gs he ever made, much easier than selling drugs or fleecing stolen TVs. He stuck to the writing after that. I followed his career closely – you got to realize, miss, it’s rare I got to see a young guy like Danny go straight and stay straight. It warmed my cockles. One day after I retired, I contacted Danny and said I was the copper from back in the day, and how impressed with him I was. He remembered me, an’ offered me a decent wage if I came to work as his advisor. Really, I’m just here for him to bounce ideas off, come up with motives and red herrings, fill him in on police procedures and such. Danny’s the real genius – he gives me more credit than I’m due since he’s such a good bloke.”
“He said you read his drafts. I wondered, are you the only person who does? What about his wife?”
Angus laughed. “Oh, no, Penny can’t stand Danny’s books. She thinks them trashy, not real literature. She’s happy enough to take his money, though, and his fame. She loves the literary scene – the parties, the festivals, the expensive cocktails, the pseudo-intellectual twaddle. Danny doesn’t want a bit of that wank, but Penny makes him do the festival circuit. He’d much rather do smaller events like this, have a bit of fun. No, no, the only people who read his work before the public are me and Brian. Even then, we’ll only get to read something if Danny thinks it’s close to perfect. He kept his work under lock and key until the last possible minute.”
“I’m so fascinated by his creative process. I’m going to be sitting in on his workshop tomorrow,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Oh, are you a writer, too?”
“No.” I waved my hand, gesturing to the piles of books. “I could never do anything like this. I just… I’ve witnessed some strange things recently. The kind of things that you’d think were too outlandish even for a novel. I was thinking it might be fun to try writing them down or something…”
Morrie tapped me on the shoulder. “We should get started. Someone just asked Heathcliff if they could have an 1837 edition of The Pickwick Papers in mint condition for ten quid, and I think his head’s going to explode.”
I nodded. Morrie went off to speak to Danny and Brian. A few moments later, Danny made his way to the stage. Brian tapped the microphone to get everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d like to take your seats. We’re blessed tonight to have a true literary genius in our midst. Through his dark and gritty stories, Danny Sledge has allowed us to enter the criminal underbelly without leaving our comfy recliners. I’d like everyone to join me in welcoming Danny to the stage to tell us about his latest book, The Somerset Strangler!”
I took a seat in the back row beside Quoth, who must have quickly gone upstairs to change, because he was human and gorgeous in a black silk shirt shot with silver and dark jeans. He looked nervous being in the room with so many people, but he’d chosen a chair near the door so he could run if he felt a shift coming on. I squeezed his hand and he smiled that beautiful sad smile and my heart flip-flopped in my chest.
Even though I could barely see in the dim light, I recognized my mum in the front row by the three silver patches she wore proudly down her arm. Please don’t let her say anything during Danny’s talk.
The whole room burst into applause as Danny leaned against the podium and beamed at the audience. To my surprise, Heathcliff’s hulking figure stood in the doorway, even more imposing clad all in black, his dark skin standing out against the mostly white room. He tugged on the collar of his shirt and flashed me an intense stare.
Behind us, Morrie fiddled with knobs on his soundboard. “We should have installed strobe lights,” he muttered. “This guy thinks he’s a rockstar.”
I snorted. It was true that Danny basked in the glow of his audience’s love. He held his hands out while the applause rolled over him, blatant in his revelry of their adulation. When the applause died down, he grabbed the mic and launched into a gory reading from his book, followed by a hilarious tale from his days as a petty crook, and then the story of how he got his publishing deal (by getting Brian drunk at the pub and then refusing to pay the tab unless he agreed to read his manuscript). The audience roared with laughter. Even Heathcliff – who leaned in the doorway, his bulk blocking out almost all the light from the bookshop – let out a low chuckle.
Quoth leaned over and squeezed my hand. “Tonight’s a real hit.”
“I know. And if the guy can write the way he captivates an audience, I think tomorrow will be a hit as well.”
Danny finished a short reading of a gruesome garroting scene from his latest book. Brian took the mic and asked if anyone had questions for the author. Fifty hands shot up. Behind me, Morrie waved his arm in the air, a wicked grin on his face.
“Hand down,” I warned. “I don’t think anyone in this room wants to hear the answer to whatever question you’re trying to ask.”
Morrie stuck his lower lip out at me, but he lowered his hand. Across the room, I met Heathcliff’s steady gaze, remembering what he’d said earlier about all audience questions being terrible. We’ll see, I thought smugly.
I was proven wrong in the first six minutes, as Danny smiled his way through one gushing fanboy who talked about his own failed crime manuscript and a woman with a fur stole who wanted to know ‘where he got his ideas.’
“I get them from the same place I bury the bodies,” he told her in his charming way. “But if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
A woman in the front row raised her hand. “Hi, Danny. I’m an author, too, and one thing I really struggle with is removing myself from the narrative. I’m just too connected to the characters, too invested in my role as the auteur. I’m wondering how you make your characters so real, so visceral, while also maintaining narrative distance?”
“Oh yes, well, the skill of a writer is to make you believe all sorts of wild things.” Danny grinned. “In my case, I’ve always been fascinated with the criminal mind – what makes the bad guys do what they do. I like to burrow in like a tick and suck out all the delicious character juices. Also, I have a first reader with real police experience who answers my questions any time, day or night. That true, aye, Angus?”
From his chair in the front row, Angus smiled.
“That there’s Angus Donahue, he’s a fine fellow. And ladies, he’s single.” Danny pointed to a hand waving at the side. “Yes?”
“Danny, I wondered if you’d be interested in a remarkable business opportunity to transform the lives of your readers through a revolutionary wellness product—”
“Mother,” I yelled. “Sit down!”
Mum harrumphed, but she did take a seat. Danny pointed to another woman.
“Danny, I was wondering if you and perhaps your publisher could comment on the current state of the publishing industry. What do you think about self-publishing?”
I leaned forward. Actually, that was an interesting question. We often had self-published authors come into the shop begging us to stock their books. As a rule, their books were about weird subjects like past-life regression and memoirs of dead relatives who never did anything exciting, and they were only marginally more intelligible than a mossy rock. Heathcliff usually told them to move on. I’d read that self-publishers c
ould do quite well in ebooks, but that was all I knew because Heathcliff wouldn’t tolerate any discussion about electronic devices in the shop. Although, I was secretly hoping to change that with a few of the upcoming authors I’d chosen for events.
Brian’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Self-publishing is pure vanity. It’s the realm of hacks and bludgers – people who want to be authors but don’t want to put the real work in. Even writers with a decent amount of talent like Danny here have to go through the process if they want to be discovered. You can’t skip the queue.”
A skinny bloke with dyed purple hair who I was almost ninety-nine percent positive had been in the shop before trying to get us to stock his terrible erotica novel called out, “But what about all the authors who are doing well on A—”
“Don’t use that word in this shop!” Heathcliff bellowed from the door.
The man cowered. “I mean, selling ebooks… I heard about this one author named Steffanie something writing in a genre called reverse harem—”
“The media have made a big deal about a couple of writers who hit it big,” Brian scoffed. “But most self-published authors write glorified fanfiction that shouldn’t even be called literature. It’s an insult to real artists like Danny—”
Quoth leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Can you see Danny’s face from here?”
I shook my head.
“He looks super smug, and he’s just made a rude gesture behind Brian’s back. Brian’s wife is tittering. It seems like something’s going on.”
I stared at Quoth in surprise. “It’s not like you to go looking for a mystery to solve.”
He flashed me his heart-melting smile. “You’re a bad influence on me.”
At the front of the room, Danny wrestled the mic back from Brian. “I just have a few things to add. Unlike my dear out-of-date publisher, I’m not one of those snobby writers who think self-publishing is for hacks and wannabes.” Danny flashed another of his brilliant smiles. “Here’s a little life advice from me to you – don’t trust the word of someone who’s got skin in this game. Brian here wants to keep the industry the way it is. I believe that self-publishing is just another tool to help authors reach readers, and you should treat it as such. It won’t be long now until even big names like me are using it. Next question.”
Memoirs of a Garroter (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries Book 4) Page 4