Mrs. Ellis stood up. “Hello, you handsome man. I’d like to know what you’ll be writing next. Will it be a sequel to The Somerset Strangler? I can’t get enough of that buff crime boss.”
Danny leaned over the podium, his eyes glittering. “I’m not supposed to say anything. This is going to be a surprise to everyone, even my friend Angus. Only Brian has had a peek so far, but what the hell… you guys are going to be the first to know. I’m actually taking a break from fiction to work on a memoir right now. A completely true and accurate account of my rise to fame out of the criminal underground. There’s a lot of mischief and shenanigans and at least three whisky bottles broken over someone’s head. I promise you it’s wilder than anything Norman Mailer got into.”
Excited whispers circled the room as the crowd digested this bombshell, especially when Danny added, “And I’ll be self-publishing this memoir. Let’s see if I can compete with the hacks and bludgers, aye?”
The crowd broke into enthusiastic chatter. “Brian looks positively murderous,” Quoth whispered to me, squeezing my hand.
I bet he does.
After a couple more questions, Danny stepped back from the microphone and nodded to me. I stood up and addressed the room. “Thank you so much for coming to the first of many such events here at Nevermore Bookshop. Danny’s going to stick around for a bit to sign books. We’ve got a stack over by the wall you can purchase. All the artwork around the room and of course any other books in the shop are also for sale. Please talk to me or one of my helpers—” I gestured to Quoth and Morrie “—if you need assistance. We’ve got—”
“Aeeeeeeeee!”
I was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream.
Chapter Five
“What happened?” I whirled around, my heart in my throat. Not another dead body, please… not another victim.
An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a thick gingham coat and clashing red gloves and a leopard-print scarf, stood in front of one of Quoth’s paintings, her mouth open in a piercing shriek. Every head turned toward her as her scream carried through the room, bouncing off the high ceiling and ringing in my ears.
I scrambled over the back of my chair and rushed towards her. “Are you okay, ma’am? What happened?”
She cut off her scream abruptly, leaning back against the painting so her hair tangled around the corner of the frame, and glared at me with such blinding hatred that I staggered back in shock. “I’ll never be okay again, and it’s all his fault.”
Gasps filled the room as she lifted a finger and pointed it at Danny.
Heathcliff was at my side in a flash. “You can’t just start screaming in the middle of an event,” he snapped at the woman.
“Especially not this bookshop,” Mrs. Ellis piped up. “There’s already been one dead body—”
A growl from Heathcliff silenced her. But the woman, emboldened, shoved past me and stepped into the center of the room.
“I screamed because I still have the air to do it – I still have air in my lungs to scream for justice. My daughter Abigail wasn’t able to scream when her killer wrapped a scarf around her throat and pulled it tight.” The woman’s face twisted with hatred as she stared at Danny. “And that man right there may have had something to do with her murder. But he got away scot free and now he’s made himself rich off her death. All of you in here lapping up his bullshit – shame on you! Have you forgotten what happened in this very village fifteen years ago?”
Danny sighed. “Please, Beverly, this isn’t the time.”
“It’s never the time, is it, Danny?” Beverly shrieked. “It’s never time for justice when there’s money to be made off the lives of innocent—”
“All right, that’s enough!” Heathcliff bellowed.
The entire room fell silent. I moved to stand beside Heathcliff, letting his bulk and imposing presence strengthen me. What’s going on?
Heathcliff advanced on the woman. He pointed to the door. “Outside, now.”
“You can’t threaten me,” she glared right back.
“It’s not a threat. This is my property, and you’re disturbing a private event. Now, if you want to say your piece, I’ll listen, but you’ll be doing it outside.”
“I have a ticket. I’m allowed to be here.” She folded her arms. “What if I refuse to leave?”
Morrie stepped up beside Heathcliff, and the glint in his eyes was terrifying. “You won’t refuse.”
The woman glared at them both, but something in Morrie’s face must’ve disturbed her. Her body deflated, the air leaking out of her tirade like a balloon. Her shoulders sagged, and her face collapsed into a look of such utter despair that my heart broke for her.
“Fine,” she hissed, storming outside. The shop door slammed so hard it rattled the walls.
“What are we all standing around for?” Danny yelled. “The bar’s still open. Let’s party.”
The crowd shuffled toward the bar and the book table, where Danny shook hands and kissed cheeks and scribbled signatures. Everyone seemed to forget about the screaming woman, even me. I had my hands full trying to stop my mother giving her sales pitch to every person in the room.
Everyone had forgotten except for Brian Letterman. He drowned a glass of cider in one gulp and stormed out. Danny waved at him as he left and said something rude that made Brian’s shoulders tighten. The front door slammed again. I’m surprised the glass doesn’t fall out with all this drama.
I glanced out the window to see Brian and the woman screaming at each other on the sidewalk. The woman pulled her arm back and threw something at Brian, but I couldn’t see if it hit him or not. After a few moments, they stormed off in separate directions.
Brian hadn’t even waited for his wife. I guessed he was upset about Danny’s decision to self-publish his memoirs and he was taking it out on that Beverly woman, but his reaction seemed a little juvenile and dramatic. He had nothing on Beverly, though. Imagine screaming like that to get everyone’s attention. And what was she talking about?
“Do you know who that woman was?” I asked Angus, who stood in the large bay window, staring out into the night.
“I’ll never forget Beverly Ingram,” his voice sounded strange, far away. “I was telling you before about that garroting case that turned Danny straight? The victim was Beverly’s daughter, Abigail. We never caught the murderer. It’s haunted me these last fifteen years, and Danny, too. That’s why he wrote about it, to give the case a conclusion. I think Beverly believes Danny had something to do with her daughter’s death, and she doesn’t want him profiting off the story, which I can understand. She’s been writing letters to Brian for months, threatening legal action if he didn’t withdraw the book.” Angus laughed, but the sound was hollow. He drew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. “Publishers don’t just pull books because someone objects to it, especially not if it’s going to sell like hotcakes, like Danny’s books always do. If you’ll excuse me, I need a smoke. If Brian’s still moping outside, I might be able to talk some sense into him. Hell of a bombshell Danny just dropped tonight.”
“I’ll join you,” Heathcliff said, heading after Angus.
“But the counter?” I wailed.
“Morrie’s on it. Someone just asked me if we have a copy of that cookbook where the main ingredient is semen. I’m either having a smoke or sticking a customer through a window. Your choice.”
“Fine.” I waved him away, just as Mum came running over. She thrust a handful of silver patches into my face.
“Hi, honey, I’m putting these by the counter, so people can add one to their purchases.”
“No, you’re not.”
Mum pouted. “At least let me put one of my pamphlets into each shopping bag? Please, dear, I’m so close to earning my Mercedes…”
“No. And please don’t buy a Mercedes before we’ve had a chat about it. I’m sorry, Mum.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I really have to go talk to people. But I promise I’ll visit this week.”
For the rest of the night, I didn’t have a chance to give Beverly Ingram or my mother’s new scheme another thought. Morrie schmoozed the crowd while I got busy behind the counter, running up all the purchases through the till. Quoth hung out in the main room, locating books for customers and helping women into their coats. I watched him as he made easy conversation with the guests, even laughing at one of Mrs. Ellis’ filthy jokes. A laugh from Quoth was so rare and precious that my stomach tightened just watching it.
He’s really doing so well. He’s finding it so much easier to hold on to his human form. Maybe a normal life isn’t as out of reach as he thought.
As I rung up two copies of Danny’s book for that woman in the fur stole, I noticed Heathcliff slinking up the staircase. “You not sticking around?” I called out. “I’m sure there are at least five people who still want to ask you why we don’t have an in-store cafe.”
Heathcliff made a face and I laughed.
“What happened to your new mate, Angus?”
Heathcliff shrugged. “Dunno. We finished our smoke. He picked up some litter in the street. We went inside. He’s around here somewhere.”
“What did you talk about? Did he say anything more about that Beverly woman? Did you know Danny was her daughter’s boyfriend when she was killed—”
“We said not a word to each other,” Heathcliff called down from the top of the stairs. “It’s the perfect relationship. I wish more people would follow his excellent example.”
There was a hint of tease in his voice, and even though I couldn’t see his face from this distance, I knew he was kidding. I blew him a kiss and told him I’d be up to say goodnight after I’d seen Danny out and shut the shop.
Speaking of Danny… it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him in a while. I peeked into the Events room. Richard was packing up the bar, and Jo was deep in conversation with the purple-haired erotica writer about mortality rates among those who practice autoerotic asphyxiation. Where’s Danny?
A terrible thought occurred to me. If Danny had wandered upstairs and discovered the Occult room or the time-travel room, he could be in a world of trouble.
Please don’t let me lose the guest of honor during our first ever event…
I poked my head into the Children’s room and the General Fiction room across the hallway, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Panic rose in my chest as I took the stairs two at a time. As I turned toward the Sociology section, a figure barreled out of the darkness and slammed against me.
“Morrie!” I exclaimed. “You scared me.”
“Precisely my plan,” he murmured, pulling my body against his. “Are you trembling with fear? Because I can make you tremble from—”
“Not now.” I wriggled out of his grasp. “I’m looking for Danny. Have you seen him?”
“Actually, yes. Follow me.” Morrie led me past the Sociology shelves, and into a dark corner of the Railway History room. Even in the darkness, I could tell the room was completely empty.
I fumbled for the monkey lamp I’d placed on the bookshelf last week and flicked it on. “I’m serious, Morrie. I haven’t seen Danny for a while, and if he’s upstairs—”
“See that bookshelf – it’s actually a secret cupboard.” Morrie pointed to a corner next to the window. “Heathcliff uses it to store extra envelopes and the bodies of customers who tell him 50 Shades of Grey should have won the Man Booker Prize.”
I noticed the fan shape on the carpet where the shelf must swing out on its hinges. I jumped as a loud, rhythmic thumping noise came from behind the shelves. “Rats?” I whispered.
“Close,” Morrie reached between two books to flick a lever, and the door swung open.
I leaned forward and peered into the dark space. Morrie swung the lamp around, illuminating two bodies curled inside.
I gasped as my eyes resolved Danny and Amanda, locked in a passionate embrace. He’d pulled her velvet dress up around her waist and his pants and boxers were around his knees. She glared at us over his shoulder as he slammed her into the back wall of the storage cupboard. Without breaking their kiss, Danny reached out, grabbed the inner handle, and slammed the door shut again.
I leaned against the shelf, my chest heaving as I waited for my heart to returned to normal speed. “I guess we found Danny.”
Morrie grinned, holding up a copy of The Somerset Strangler. “We sure did. Hey, Danny, when you’re done in there, can you sign my book?”
Chapter Six
The last cavorting guest left at ten-past-midnight. Quoth and I picked up all the trash, stacked the cider bottles in the recycling, and swept up the Events room. Morrie, of course, refused to help but insisted on following us everywhere, reciting the most grisly passages from Danny’s book.
At last, we’d returned the shop to its normal state. I collapsed into Heathcliff’s chair, my legs aching and my head swimming from everything that had happened. Our first big event had gone out mostly without a hitch.
And let’s not forget the most important fact of all… no one was murdered. Maybe my luck is finally changing.
“Are you leaving now?” Quoth asked softly.
“I can’t go back to Jo’s place. I fully expect all the water in the taps to turn to blood and hail to pour from the radiators.” Quoth’s sensuous lips curled up at the corners when I explained about the locusts.
He raised an eyebrow. “So you’re kipping here, then? And are you so tired you plan to go straight to bed?”
A ring of orange fire blazed at the edges of his dark eyes. Instantly, my body responded, my sleepy limbs itching to hold him, my blood running hotter. I shook my head and was rewarded with one of Quoth’s dazzling smiles.
Quoth took my hand and led me upstairs, his raven hair streaming behind him. This was so unlike him, taking charge like this, asking for what he wanted. I think we’ve all been doing some healing over the last couple of months.
As we stepped into the flat, Heathcliff poked his head out of his room. “Where are the two of you going?”
“To my room,” Quoth said.
“My bed’s bigger,” Heathcliff suggested.
Quoth’s fingers closed around his hand. He’d never say anything, but I had a feeling he needed me to himself tonight. “Your bed is covered in the detritus of your life,” I told Heathcliff. “I don’t want to be shagging and end up with the corner of Sherman’s memoirs up my arse.”
“Don’t say that where Morrie can hear,” Heathcliff warned. “He’ll get excited.”
“Too late!” Morrie’s head poked out of the bathroom. “Where do you think you’re going, gorgeous?”
I leaned over and pecked Morrie on the cheek. “To Quoth’s room. And you’re not invited.”
Morrie poked his lip out in a mock pout, then he drew me in for a deep kiss that left my legs weak. “You sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
I gulped. “I’m sure, but maybe tomorrow…”
He wagged a finger at me. “I’ll hold you to that.” The bathroom door slammed shut.
I turned to Heathcliff, my hand cupping his cheek. His stubble scratched against my palm. A deep ache formed in my chest as his eyes bore into mine. I was so lucky to have these guys with me. I got to see inside Heathcliff’s dark soul, beyond the surly socially-inept arsehole. And what I saw in him was all the hidden parts of myself reflected back at me.
Heathcliff looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he retreated into his room and slammed the door shut. Great, so I’d have to deal with that later.
Right now, it was all about my raven boy, my tortured, quiet artist with the hair of spun silk. Quoth kept his hand in mine as we ascended the narrow staircase into the attic. I hadn’t been up here since last year. The place was exactly as I remembered it – low ceilings, narrow brass bed, easel set up in front of the tall dormer window looking out over Argleton, every spare corner stacked with paintings and sketches. I stumbled over a pile of art books. Quoth hurried to flick on the lights and lamps so
I could see.
I stopped short when a beam of light illuminated the painting on Quoth’s easel.
It was a picture of me. Well, I guessed it was meant to be me. The woman in the image had my features, but she looked less like a hot mess in her flatmate’s borrowed tartan trousers and more like the heroine from a gothic romance book, all sweeping hair and come-to-bed eyes. The soft colors around her face brought out her delicate features. On her shoulder sat a raven, its head turned toward her. In her hands, she held a stack of books. Quoth had started lettering the titles and authors in gold paint – Wuthering Heights, The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes, Poe – Selected Poems.
“Wow.” I touched the edge of the frame. The oil paints were still wet. “Quoth, it’s…”
“You don’t have to be nice. I know it’s not very good.”
A lump rose in my throat. “Don’t say that. It’s breathtaking.”
“Really?” His voice caught in his throat.
“I just… I can’t believe that’s me… it is me, isn’t it?”
Quoth laughed, the sound like trickling water. “Of course. Although I can’t seem to get you right. I’ve repainted it going on twenty times now. I was thinking of giving it to you for your birthday. But then I wondered that you might hate it, so I wanted you to see it first. You really like it?”
I flicked on the reading light and directed it at the painting so I could see it better. Light and shadow danced over the canvas. It wasn’t just a portrait – Quoth had captured something special, some indefinable element that made my eyes water. There was a strength in my painted face, in the piercing color of my eyes and set of my jaw, but a vulnerability too. It was exactly how I felt these days as I tried to accept what was happening to my vision. The way the raven bent its head toward me, and the landscape framed our faces… Quoth was pouring out his own feelings onto canvas, and the paint bled his hope and his pain and his own journey.
Memoirs of a Garroter (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries Book 4) Page 5