Memoirs of a Garroter (Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries Book 4)

by Steffanie Holmes

  “Actually, I’m just here to support Quoth— er, Allan,” I said. “I might consider returning to school, but it won’t be for fashion. I need a career change.”

  “Well, we have lots of great programs – especially in the arts – and we’re a lot closer than New York City. Come, I’ll show you the art department.” Mrs. Anders ushered us through to a bright, airy studio space. Students worked at individual stations on large canvases or tinkered with steel sculptures. In the far corner, a girl had dabbed her naked body with rainbow paints, then rolled around on a large canvas covering half the floor. Every inch of the walls was covered with paintings and prints and etchings and photographs, each more interesting than the last.

  Down another hall were smaller private studios, each one with enormous windows looking out into the park. Quoth’s eyes were as large as saucers as he surveyed the beautiful spaces and the storage cabinets filled with art supplies. We saw a wood- and metal-working studio, the pottery kilns, and the photography suite.

  “What do you think, Allan?” Mrs. Anders asked as we wandered through the faculty wing, where smaller tutorials were held and lecturers had their offices. “Will we be seeing you next semester?”

  Quoth’s fingers squeezed mine. “I think so.”

  “Excellent. I can give you our enrollment forms before you leave… Oh, I’d love for you to meet someone special,” Mrs. Anders knocked on a door at the end of the hall. “Marjorie? I’ve got two prospective students for you.”

  “New victims?” The woman behind the door cackled like a storybook witch. “Bring them in.”

  Mrs. Anders pushed the door open and ushered us inside. The first thing I noticed was the round woman with rosy cheeks and glassy eyes swiveling in her chair to greet us. A white walking stick rested against her desk and a black Labrador in a harness napped at her feet.

  The room was filled with the most remarkable artwork. Bold slashes of color seemed to leap from the walls. Sculptures sat on every surface – sinuous clay forms, polished driftwood carvings, and lots of beaten metal contraptions that looked like they moved. The window was crowded with chimes and hanging sculptures. Even her wrap dress was loud and vivacious – bright colored squares like a Mondrian painting. Lime green triangles dangled from her ears and a matching bracelet circled her wrist. My eyes reacted to the color and light, dancing their own patterns across my vision.

  The woman tapped a button on her keyboard to mute her computer, which was belting out a list of email addresses in a robotic voice. “Welcome, welcome,” she said, clasped her hands together and staring at a spot just to the left of Quoth.

  It was then that I realized this woman was blind.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I’m Marjorie Hansen, the course facilitator, and I’m so happy to have you here,” she said, gesturing to a couple of paint-splattered chairs opposite her desk. “Please, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

  I nodded, then realized that was stupid. “Yes, please.”

  I expected Mrs. Anders to leave the room in order to fetch tea, but she sat down beside us. Marjorie turned to a small tea tray beside her desk and flicked on a kettle. She gathered chipped cups in bright colors and arranged them on the tray, asking us each for our preference. I noticed braille labels on her tea tins and a small device next to the teaspoons.

  Beside her computer were a sloped drafting table and a flat surface stacked with blocks of clay and sculpting tools. Quoth looked over at me, his eyes wide with concern. He squeezed my fingers, checking I was all right. I squeezed back, more fascinated than triggered. Marjorie was the first blind person I’d met apart from Mr. Simson – my father. “Did you create the artwork on the walls, Marjorie?” I asked.

  “Most of it,” she replied. “My work is all about movement. I like art that is constantly changing, never static. That’s why I took this corner office – I can open the windows and let in the breeze. On a windy day, it sounds like a heavy metal band in here with all the clanging and clattering.”

  I laughed. “I believe it.”

  “Tell me, what are your names?”

  “I’m Mina.”

  “And I’m Allan,” Quoth said.

  “Are you both interested in enrolling in one of our art degrees?”

  “I am.” Quoth’s voice rang like music. He sounded so light and happy, it made my heart soar. “Mina’s come along to support me, although I’m hoping to convince her to join, as well. She’s incredibly creative.”

  The kettle boiled. Marjorie attached the small device to the top of a cup and poured the water. When the level reached just below the brim, the device emitted a loud beep, and she set it aside and handed the cup to me.

  “We’ll let Mina make up her own mind,” she said, sitting back and sipping her own cup. “Tell me about your work, Allan.”

  Quoth reached for his portfolio, but then must’ve remembered that was pointless. Instead, he described some of his recent pieces, the things he enjoyed to paint, what he felt like with a brush in his hands, and the artists whose work he admired. It was the most words I’d ever heard him speak to anyone who wasn’t me. Something about this woman put him at ease.

  She put me at ease, too. From the way she moved about her crowded office, picking up pieces of work to show him or finding books on her shelf for him to read, it was obvious she felt completely at home there. She knew where everything was kept in that organized chaos. I had so many questions I wanted to ask her – about the device attached to her computer that was reading the screen to her, about the little tool she used to measure the water level in the tea, about how she chose which colors to paint even when she couldn’t see them.

  Instead, I watched her. This was a successful, capable woman making a career for herself not only as an artist but as a course facilitator. And she was blind. Majorie was exactly the kind of person I wanted to be. I was desperate to know her story, how she’d found the peace she wore like a perfectly-fitted dress. But I couldn’t find the words. I sat, numb and in awe, as Quoth and Marjorie fell into an easy conversation about Mondrian’s use of form and geometry.

  “Even my guide dog is named after him.” Majorie nudged her dog, Mondrian, awake so we could pet him. “I didn’t get to name him. People who donate to the charity that trains the dogs give them their names. Each litter is assigned a letter of the alphabet and all the dogs in that litter must have names starting with that letter. Each dog lives with a volunteer for the first year of their life, then they have twenty-six weeks of specialist training before they’re paired with an owner. When I was paired with Mondrian I thought, ah, it’s fate.” Marjorie scratched behind his ears. “And here we are, five years later, and we’re each other’s family.”

  Mondrian rolled over so I could scratch his stomach, his tongue lolling out with bliss. I thought about how much fun it would be to have a puppy around the shop, especially if it was as gentle and helpful as Mondrian.

  When we left Marjorie’s office twenty minutes later, I felt like I was floating. Meeting her had given me a gift I never expected. My mind reeled with ideas, of new things I could do with the bookshop, of ways I could continue to be creative even when I couldn’t see.

  At the front desk, Mrs. Anders handed up both a thick envelope of enrollment material and a course prospectus. “I hope I’ll be seeing both of you back here soon,” she said, giving me a meaningful look.

  “You never know,” I replied.

  As soon as we were outside and walking toward the bus stop, I asked Quoth the question that had been nagging me ever since we entered her room. “Did you know about Marjorie when you asked me to come here?”

  “I swear I didn’t—” Quoth grabbed my arm. “Mina, it’s Brian Letterman.”

  I followed his gaze up ahead, where a man walked along the path in front of us, heading toward the administration building. His hand was to his ear, presumably holding a phone, because I could hear him muttering into it. From this distance, I couldn’t recognize him, but if Quoth
said it was the publisher, I believed him.

  “He said he taught a publishing course here,” I remembered. “I bet it’s on this same campus. Let’s follow him.”

  If I’d been with Morrie, he’d already have dived into the bushes, his phone ready to record what he heard. But I was with Quoth, who immediately averted his eyes. “It’s a private conversation. I don’t think we should—”

  “Nonsense,” I hissed, dragging Quoth into the bushes and digging out my phone to record what we heard. I had learned far too much from James Moriarty. “I’m not going to let this murder destroy the shop. Brian Letterman is one of our suspects, and we could learn some valuable information. Now shhhh.”

  I held my phone up near the top of the bush just as Brian walked past. “…I realize that, darling, but I can’t exactly do anything while the police are snooping around.” Brian’s voice was thick with disdain. He moved toward the bushes, right above our heads. Excellent, excellent. “As soon as things calm down, I’ll be able to move on Danny’s backlist.”

  He must be talking about Danny’s books.

  Brian continued. “Exactly, luv… according to the lawyer, he didn’t finish the paperwork. Penny would have to begin negotiations all over again, and in the meantime, I can release as many new editions as I like. Thanks to his untimely death, they’ll fly off the shelves. Even if we do eventually give the rights back to Penny, we’ll make a killing in the meantime. It serves that greedy bastard right for trying to self-publish and keep all the royalties for himself. I’m the reason his career is what it is, and he tried to cut me out? Look where that got him, aye?”

  Okay, so that’s chilling.

  “…our money troubles will be over, but only if we keep our heads screwed on. That means going to the funeral in a black dress that actually covers your tits and not sleeping with anyone for an hour or opening your mouth. Can you manage that, luv?”

  The voice on the other end started yelling. Brian cut off the call and shoved the phone into his pocket.

  “What does all that mean?” Quoth asked.

  “It sounds like Danny was going to revoke his rights to his backlist so he could self publish all his books himself,” I whispered. “That would cut Brian out from Danny’s royalties. Only, the paperwork wasn’t finished before Danny died, which means that Brian will continue to gain from Danny’s estate until Penny gets around to reverting them herself…”

  “But wouldn’t that mean—”

  “That Brian had a major financial incentive to kill Danny?” I watched the man walk out into the parking lot with a cold heart. “Yes, yes it does.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You’re right.” Morrie looked up from his computer. “Brian Letterman is in a world of financial trouble. He’s living off credit cards, his business is in the toilet, and his authors are being slammed in the reviews. Add to that, his wife has an addiction to designer handbags and expensive vacations. The only books Brian’s making any profit on are Danny’s. I bet he was counting on the royalties from Danny’s memoir to make things right again, but if Danny self-publishes, Brian gets nothing.”

  “We have to go to the police,” I said.

  “We could do that,” Morrie said. “It’s not enough evidence to convict Brian. Hayes and Wilson probably have this same information, and they’ve still got Beverly Ingram in custody. In the meantime, the shop will continue to be deserted, and you’ll continue to withhold your sexual favors until my entire body turns as blue as my balls—”

  “We didn’t have sex for one night because I had to go to bed early. You’ll live. I take it you have a better idea?”

  “Of course I do. Every idea I have is naturally superior. Brian’s wife is the only other person who knew about his business failing or this case between him and Danny. If anyone could dish the dirt on what might turn a mild-mannered publisher into a cold-hearted killer, it would be her. All we have to do is convince Amanda Letterman to give us information that we can use. I’m willing to bet my considerable fortune of ill-gotten gold bullion that she didn’t tell the police the whole truth.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?” My mind flashed back to Morrie’s flirtation with Miranda at Mum’s party.

  “I’m not going to do it.” Morrie grinned. “You saw for yourself at the party. Amanda’s taste tends more toward the rugged, unkempt man than a fine specimen like myself. Heathcliff the Desirable is going to do the convincing.”

  “You owe me,” Heathcliff muttered as I shoved him toward the hotel’s ornate double doors.

  “I’ve already agreed to man the shop for the next two weeks,” I said. “That’s two weeks where you get to lounge around in front of the fireplace upstairs, reading books and stroking my grandmother’s back without a single customer in sight. What more do you want from me?”

  “You know,” Heathcliff growled, his eyes darkening with lust. A deep purr rumbled in my belly.

  “Hey, you two, simmer down. Heathcliff needs to save that sexual appetite for our target. Get in there, tiger.” Morrie gave him a harder shove. Heathcliff grunted in protest, but he did push his way inside.

  “No closets!” I yelled after him, thinking about the last time I’d seen Amanda.

  Morrie had downloaded Amanda’s calendar from her cloud account and discovered she took tea at the Argleton Arms Hotel every second Tuesday. I booked a table for Heathcliff and then spent a couple of hours schooling him on the correct tea etiquette (apparently a thing Nelly Dean never thought to teach him). Morrie dressed him in what he declared to be a style of passable gentility. Then he ruined it all by trying to shave Heathcliff, and Quoth had to swoop in to break up the ensuing fistfight. It had all been worth it, for Heathcliff sauntered up to the door looking more the gentleman than I’d ever seen him before. In fact, he looked bloody gorgeous, with his hair combed and his clothing fresh and unrumpled—

  “Pick your jaw off the footpath, woman,” Morrie commanded me as Heathcliff disappeared into the restaurant. “He may look the part, but the poxy bastard refused to wear a wire, so we’re just going to have to sit here and wait for him to come back. Hopefully, he remembers everything she tells him because he doesn’t have a photographic memory like I do—”

  “He’ll be fine, and I don’t mind sitting here with you.” I took his hand. “It gives us a chance to talk.”

  “What do you want to talk about? I am an expert on several subjects, including bank safe construction, biological warfare, the best places in London to buy a cronut…”

  “Biological warfare…” Nope, I’m just not going to ask. “Morrie, something’s going on with you. Does it have to do with what we talked about that night at Baddesley Hall?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.” Morrie’s ice eyes darted toward the hotel doors.

  “It’s just that the way you looked at Heathcliff the other night…”

  “Oh, that.” Morrie turned his head away. “That’s been simmering for some time.”

  “It has?” I knew that Morrie was bi, but I’d never noticed any particular spark between him and Heathcliff. Although come to think of it, their constant bickering did have an air of sexual tension to it.

  “For me.” Morrie stared at a spot over my shoulder. “When I first ended up in this world, I was reeling from Holmes’ betrayal. And here was this guy who didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of him. He took me in, gave me a room in the shop, allowed me to drink myself into a stupor in front of the fireplace when I found out that I’d never see Holmes again. His nihilism was the perfect antidote to my own rage. I wanted to fall into that scraggly, filthy beard and drown myself. I read Wuthering Heights over and over and dreamed that he might one day turn that obsessive devotion to me.”

  “You didn’t,” I scoffed.

  “Possibly that’s a slight exaggeration, but I do fancy him. All that barely-concealed rage… it’s delicious. I made a move once, when we were both drunk. He nearly tossed me out the upstairs window.” Morrie smiled ruefully. “No
w that we’re naked together on a regular basis, with you, I’m feeling things, stirrings. There’s still something unspoken between us.”

  “So, just Heathcliff, then? Not Quoth?” I hated the idea of Quoth being left out, although that was partly for selfish reasons.

  “Quoth is a fucking beautiful specimen of humanity. Don’t tell him I said that. But he’s far too wholesome for me. Besides, his heart is spoken for. Quoth loves you with a love that is more than love, the kind of love the winged seraphs of heaven must covet. I can’t compete with that. But Heathcliff… there’s enough of that majestic creature to go around. So yes, I’m debating making a move next time we three are in flagrante delicto. Seizing the moment, carpe diem, that sort of thing. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Mind that you fancy Heathcliff?” I smiled. “Hell no. I think that’s hot as fuck.”

  Morrie’s grin could have melted the polar ice, it was that fucking beautiful.

  I held up a hand. “But… I do mind that you don’t tell me these things. You should have told me this before today. We can’t have a relationship if you don’t tell me things.”

  “I do tell you things. I tell you every brilliant thought that enters my head.”

  “That’s true. You talk a lot, but it’s mostly bullshit. I want to know about you, Morrie. Who you are underneath all the posturing and bravado. Do you understand?”

  Morrie nodded, his eyes fixed on the top of his shiny brogues.

  “So, with that in mind, is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all?”

  Morrie looked up at me. The wounded expression had gone from his face, replaced with his usual half-smirk. He studied me, his smirk turning up at the corners as a blush crept along my cheeks.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Suspicion isn’t a good color on you, gorgeous.”

  “Don’t act innocent. You’re up to something. What’ve you done?”