Wait a second.
I pulled up an image of Danny on the stand at a trial of his partner-in-crime – Jim Mathis, the one Danny ratted out. Young Danny looked smart in his three-piece suit, his hair slicked back, his face as handsome and affable as I remembered from the other night. Behind him, I could make out the face of the accused, glaring at his former partner with dead, soulless eyes.
I’d seen those eyes before.
Jim Mathis was the purple-haired erotica writer. Danny’s ex-partner was out of jail and primed for revenge.
Chapter Thirteen
I emailed the article and image over to Jo, and explained that I’d seen Jim at both the reading and the writers’ workshop. It was one thing to stumble upon the answer to a murder, but it was quite another to be involved with mean-looking criminal thugs. If Jim Mathis was responsible for Danny’s murder, I wanted the police to be the ones going after him.
Unfortunately, that left me without anything to do. I’d packaged up all the online orders, stacked some new books on the shelves, made three pots of tea, and turned the paperclips in Heathcliff’s desk drawer into a funky necklace. Even Quoth grew bored with the silent shop and went upstairs to paint. Heathcliff didn’t move from his spot under the window, but he did finish his book and start another. Not a single customer entered the shop.
Nerves raced along my spine. Another day without a single sale. If this went on for much longer, we wouldn't have any way of paying the mortgage. My fingers drummed against the desk. I couldn’t face the silence of the front room any longer. I shoved back my chair. “I’m going upstairs.”
“To do what?” Heathcliff asked without looking up.
“To inventory dust mites!” I shot back as I took the stairs two at a time. On the first floor, I paced the length of the Sociology shelves, but that made me think about Ashley’s murder.
Murder follows me everywhere.
I solve more crimes than the police, and yet I can’t even keep Nevermore Bookshop in the black, or figure out the mystery of my own father.
Wait… when was the last time I’d actually tried to find more clues about my father? Now that I knew he was Herman and Mr. Simson, I should take another look at the books they both spent so much energy collecting.
When I first started working for Heathcliff, I’d stumbled upon the shop’s hidden Occult collection. Stored in a pentagonal room on this floor, it housed books Mr. Simson had acquired while trying to figure out the mysteries of the bookshop. At least one of them was written by Herman Strepel. Heathcliff always kept the room locked for the safety of everyone in the shop, but now I had his ring of keys in my pocket. I thrust my hand inside, feeling for the small key that would fit perfectly into the lock of the storage room. The metal seemed to hum between my fingers.
Yes, something to take my mind off Danny’s murder and all our money woes.
Now that we’d figured out Mr. Simson was my father, certain items in the occult books might make more sense. It was definitely worth a shot.
Before I could change my mind, I inserted the key into the door to the storage room and shoved it open. Grimalkin darted out from beneath a shelf and streaked inside. A cat couldn’t stay away from an unlocked door. It was a law of nature.
I followed Grimalkin into the dusty storage room and flicked on the light switch. Heathcliff had stacked several boxes of books in front of the Occult room door. I shoved them aside. As I fumbled through my keyring, looking for the correct key to fit the lock, the door creaked open.
My heart thudded in my chest. That’s right. It did that before, too. I hovered in the threshold, unsure if I should proceed.
Grimalkin made the decision for me. With a squeak of delight, she trotted into the room and jumped up on the pedestal in the center. I fumbled along the wall for a light switch and flicked it on. The windowless room looked exactly as I remembered it – every wall lined with bookshelves crammed with old leather-bound volumes. Grimalkin purred as she rolled around on top of the open book on the pedestal – the one where every page was mysteriously blank.
I pushed her gently aside and closed the book. My fingers traced the symbol on the cover of the volume – the same symbol I’d seen in other books from Herman Strepel. Now I knew it to be a symbol for my father.
But if this blank book belongs to my father, why did he leave it here?
I flicked absent-mindedly through the pages. Beside me, Grimalkin purred. I cried out in surprise as I glimpsed some words scribbled on a page.
Did I imagine it?
I must have imagined it.
Mustn’t I?
This book had been completely empty last time I’d looked at it, of that I was certain. I flipped back several pages, and there it was – the ink on the page faded and smudged in places, as if it had always been there. The writing was made of symbols – Cyrillic, maybe. Or Greek?
Grimalkin wound her way around my arm, purring like a buzz saw. I patted her on the head as I stared at the page. What does this mean? Why are these words here?
Morrie will be able to translate this when he gets home. I dug my phone from my pocket and snapped a couple of pictures, texting them to him. I waited a few moments, but he didn’t reply. He must really have been busy in a business meeting.
“Mina!” Heathcliff bellowed from downstairs.
I perked up. There could be only one reason Heathcliff was yelling for me. Customers. Finally, we could make a sale, provided Heathcliff hadn’t already scared them off.
I slammed the book shut and carried Grimalkin out into the Occult room, locking the door behind me. I took the stairs two at a time and practically vaulted over the balustrade in my eagerness to reach the main room. When I stepped inside, panting to catch my breath, I found the place empty, save Heathcliff and a stuffed armadillo and a thick layer of dust.
“Where are the customers?” I glanced around.
“There are no customers.” Heathcliff swung his coat off the back of the chair. “I thought I might take you to lunch.”
“You did?” Heathcliff hated going outside, and we’d already been outside once this week.
“It might do you good to get out of the shop.” Heathcliff held out his arm. “But don’t be getting any fancy ideas. I’m not Morrie. We’re going to the pub. There’s a two-for-one roast beef special.”
“Sounds perfect.” I accepted his arm like he was a grand gentleman. Heathcliff called up the stairs for Quoth to mind the shop, not even waiting for an answer. We hiked across the green toward the pub. To my delight, Mrs. Ellis was at the bar when we walked in, dressed in a ridiculous sundress and trying to convince Richard the landlord to make her some exotic cocktail.
"I thought you were leaving on your trip today?" I asked her.
"I've got an hour before the taxi picks me up to take me to the airport." Mrs. Ellis patted the enormous suitcase beside her. "I thought I'd get myself in the holiday mood. Strawberry mojito?"
"Please." Richard shot me a pained expression as he blew the dust off a laminated poster that displayed various cocktail recipes. The Rose & Wimple was definitely not a cocktail bar.
Heathcliff looked at the pink drink like the little decorative umbrella was a weapon of mass destruction. “Scotch for me,” he growled.
Once we all had something alcoholic in our hands, Mrs. Ellis bustled us to a table in the corner. So much for a quiet lunch with Heathcliff. Several members of her knitting group were crowded around, all enjoying mojitos. At the table next to them, Cynthia and Grey Lachlan tucked into a ploughman’s lunch. I stiffened at their presence, hoping they wouldn’t notice me or Heathcliff.
As soon as Mrs. Ellis’ friends recognized us, Ethel leaned forward, desperate for more gossip. "Mina, Heathcliff, how are you holding up? You poor dears. Have the police got any suspects for Danny’s murder yet?"
"I don't know," I said. "They haven't been keeping me in the loop."
"Why ever not? You solved dear Mrs. Scarlett's murder! And that poor Greer girl.”
"And she figured out who stabbed Professor Hathaway at my Jane Austen event," Cynthia piped up, gesticulating with such fervor that she sloshed wine over the table. “If anything, they should be coming to you for advice!”
“Careful, dear.” Grey set her wine glass back down on the table. “Yes, Mina, we’ve all heard about your sleuthing powers. It’s unfortunate that you seem cursed to stumble over murders at every turn. Your shop seems empty today. Is the murder of a famous local writer bad for business?”
“Things are quiet, but we’re not worried.” I glared at Grey. He didn’t get to make comments like that, not after he’d wheedled and threatened Heathcliff to try and buy the store from us. “I’m sure the police will solve the crime soon, and we’ll be back on our feet.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Mrs. Ellis tittered. “If only you’d said something sooner, you could have closed for a couple of weeks and come on holiday with me!”
“I don’t think I could keep up with you, Mrs. Ellis.” I smiled, noting the long line of empty mojito glasses on the table in front of her. Over Heathcliff's shoulder, I noticed Beverly Ingram walk in and slouch into the bar, her head down, hands in her pockets. Today she wore a ghastly mustard-orange jacket over florescent green trousers and a brown paisley scarf. Does she dress blindfolded or something?
Mrs. Ellis followed my gaze. Her face softened when she saw Beverly. “Poor thing. She’s not coping well. It was the anniversary of her daughter’s death last week, which explains why Dotty saw her break down in the supermarket. What unfortunate timing for your event with Danny! And now he’s been murdered in the same gruesome way. If anyone could do with cheering up, it’s her. Beverly, over here!”
Before I or anyone else could protest, Mrs. Ellis was on her feet, waving at Beverly to join us. The woman scowled, pulling her coat tighter around her face. But Mrs. Ellis was a force to be reckoned with. She grabbed the woman and practically threw her into the chair opposite me. “Richard, another round of strawberry mojitos for us all!”
“Hi, Beverly,” I smiled at her. “We didn’t get to meet the other night. I’m Mina. I work at the bookshop. I’m so sorry to hear about your daughter. If I’d known it was the anniversary of her death, I would’ve postponed the event—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Beverly’s cheeks reddened. "I made an awful fuss and embarrassed myself. It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to ruin your event. I just…”
“I understand. You don’t have to apologize—”
"I'm not sorry he's dead," she growled, her soft voice suddenly replaced with fierce venom. “The way he wrote that book, it was exactly the details of Abigail’s murder. Who does that? It’s disgusting. And it makes me wonder. The police said Danny couldn’t possibly have been there that night, but maybe he had them all fooled.”
Mrs. Ellis leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. “You know, Mina here has solved all kinds of murders. She’s much cleverer than the police. I bet she could figure out who killed poor Abigail.”
Beverly’s cheeks reddened. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary—”
But Mrs. Ellis wasn’t listening. She’d launched into a long story about how I’d solved the mysterious death of her friend Gladys Scarlett. Cynthia interrupted to gush about how I’d caught Christina Hathaway at her Jane Austen weekend, and soon everyone at the table was telling stories about the recent murders in Argleton. Heathcliff chuckled into his beer as I slunk further into my seat. How can I get them to stop? What I need is a distraction—
THUD.
That’ll do it.
The pub door swung open, slamming into the wall behind and blowing in a gust of wind and a whiff of impatience as Inspector Hayes and DS Wilson stalked across the room. They marched straight up to my table and flanked Beverly.
“Beverly Ingram, if you could step outside, please.”
“Why?” Beverly demanded in that haughty tone of hers.
“We need to speak with you.”
“Whatever you have to say, you can say right here.” Beverly sipped her strawberry mojito and stared defiantly at Hayes. “I’ve got no secrets.”
“Please step outside.” Hayes’ face looked pained. “I don’t want to have to do this in front of everyone.”
Beverly folded her arms across her chest. “I ain’t going anywhere.”
Hayes sighed, then nodded to Wilson. She held up a pair of handcuffs. “Have it your way. Beverly Ingram, you’re under arrest for the murder of Danny Sledge.”
Chapter Fourteen
"I just want to see how she's doing," I insisted. "She doesn't have any other family."
The police officer didn't look convinced. I could tell from the way his eyes narrowed that he remembered me from the time I escaped from the cells. Hayes hadn't got me in further trouble because I solved Ashley's murder, but I did totally break out of jail on this guy’s shift and that was probably the kind of thing an officer of the law held against you.
"Hey, mate," Heathcliff pointed to the calendar on the wall behind him. "Is that the latest Bentley Mulsanne?”
“It is!” The officer’s face lit up. He waved me through, suddenly engrossed in a gearhead conversation with Heathcliff. I fled down the stairs to the cells before he could change his mind.
Past a cell holding a snoring drunk, I found Beverly. She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, her eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling. I cleared my throat. She didn't turn around.
"What do you want?" she demanded, still focused on the ceiling.
"My name is Mina. We met at the pub the other day.”
“I remember. I’m not stupid. What do you want?”
“I don't believe you killed Danny Sledge," I said.
"Why not? Everyone else does."
"Because it doesn't make sense to me. You were angry at him, so you came to his reading and yelled. Why do that if you were going to kill him? And why do it with your own scarf? It would only throw suspicion on you, and I don’t think you’re that stupid.”
“So what?” Beverly snapped.
“I think someone is trying to divert attention to you. Which means that the real killer is still out there. I want to stop him before he kills anyone else. And I want you to help me."
“Even if I believed Mabel and the other ladies that you have some talent for solving murders, I can’t bloody do anything from in here.”
“No, but you can tell me about your movements after the event and on the morning Danny was killed, and about your daughter’s death, and I’ll try and piece together what happened.” The woman’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m sorry. I know it must be painful to think about Abigail, but… I think maybe your daughter’s murderer is the same person who killed Danny. If we could stop another innocent person getting killed—”
“Danny wasn’t innocent.” Beverley turned toward me. In the dark, I couldn’t make out her face, but there was a strength in her voice that hadn’t been there before. "I know I didn’t kill him, though. Fat chance of trying to explain it to them coppers. Why do you care? Why are you trying to help me?”
"Because I don't like seeing people go to jail for something they didn't do." I sucked in a breath. Beverly struck me as the kind of woman who needed the whole truth. I bet she’d sense insincerity a mile off. "And… because I've worked really hard to improve things at the bookshop. After this murder, no one will set foot inside. We’re going bankrupt. If I can figure out who really did it, then customers will start coming back."
“So your interest in me is purely mercantile?” she scowled.
“No, not purely. I really do care about getting justice for Abigail. But I’m not going to lie to you. If we’re going to work together, we’ve got to have complete honesty.”
“And what sort of fee do you charge for your services?”
“No fee. Maybe if I prove to the police you didn’t murder Danny, you could come into the shop and buy a book?”
Beverly sighed. “Fine. What do I do?”
I pulled over a metal chair and sat down facing her cell. "First things first, tell me everything you know about your daughter’s murder."
Chapter Fifteen
Beverly took a shaking breath. “Abigail and I had a fight that afternoon. I was on night shift all week so I was sleeping during the day. I heard the front door open about one p.m. I went up to see who it was, because of course Abigail was supposed to be at school, wasn’t she? Only she was in her room, skipping school, pulling on a slutty outfit and tucking a pack of my ciggies into her bra. I had it out with her, told her she needed to stay in school, that she shouldn’t be hanging around with those boys all the time, that they were bad news. She told me I couldn’t do nothing about it. I threatened to kick her out of the house. She stormed out, slammed the door. Typical teenage behavior, but I did worry about her. I knew she was out there getting drunk, getting high, letting those boys touch her…”
After another ragged breath, Beverly continued. “I went to work, arrived home around two a.m. The light in her bedroom was on. I went in, thought I could apologize for yelling, maybe see if she wanted some ice cream. Instead, I found her…” Beverly’s jaw clenched. “She was on the bed, half naked, shirt open across her chest. She had this pretty silk scarf I got her for her sixteenth birthday wrapped around her throat.”
My heart went out to her. Even after fifteen years, I could hear the pain in her voice. “What did you do after you saw her?”
“I called the police. I thought they took ages to get to the house, but that might’ve been because I was holding my daughter’s dead body in my arms. They said she hadn’t been sexually assaulted, but that she had had sex recently, within an hour of her death. That’s what made them think it was a boyfriend, and the fact that there was no break-in, so it must’ve been someone she trusted. They got DNA from the semen, but it was corrupted in the lab and so they couldn’t use it.
Memoirs of a Garroter (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries Book 4) Page 9