Publishable By Death, Andi Cumbo-Floyd [interesting books to read TXT] 📗

From her now-reclining position on the floor, Mart said, “Did the sheriff have any leads on the murder?”

“Not that he told me.” In fact, he’d as much as told me to stop asking questions when I’d asked. “He was pretty tight-lipped. But I have some theories.”

Mart sat up. “Ooh, I love a good theory. Tell me.”

“Well,” I said, resting my elbows on my knees, “It’s not like Stevensmith was everybody’s favorite person. Did you meet Ms. Heron when she came in today? White woman about my height. Blonde hair to her chin. Mud on her shirt.”

“Oh yes, I remember her. I wondered about the mud.”

“She grows her flowers and veggies and then sells them at that little farm stand at the end of the street. She’d been planting potatoes all day. Hence the dirt.”

Mart nodded. “Got it. What about her?”

“She stopped by earlier in the week to see if I wanted to buy any flowers for the café tables when they were ready. She’d seen Stevensmith’s article and wanted to show her support, one business woman to another. While she was here, she told me that Stevensmith had slammed her stand when it first opened.” I tried my best imitation of Heron’s thick, Eastern Maryland accent, “She said my carrots were dirty and my zinnias ‘limpid.’ I wanted to kill the woman.”

“Ooh, and then, there she is dead.” Mart’s eyes were wide, and I could see the wheels of suspicion turning.

“Exactly. I don’t think Eleanor would do that, but it was interesting. Sheriff said there wasn’t much love lost for the old reporter. Kind of makes me feel bad for the woman – I mean I feel bad she’s dead – but, well, she was a pretty serious pain in the tuckus.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Mart laid back down on the floor and stared at the ceiling. “But let’s talk about the important stuff. That mechanic and his pup were sure cute.”

Mayhem, who had been snoring away on her dog bed by the cash register, sat up at the mention of Taco. They’d taken an immediate liking to each other. Mart laughed, “Like owner like dog.

I tried to act cool by draping my legs over one end of the chair and lacing my fingers behind my head, but Mart was on to me. “Oh my gracious. You like him!” She sat up. “You like him a lot!”

I knew my face was as red as the spine on the Everyman’s Library edition of Love in the Time of Cholera. There was no hiding it. I had a crush.

Daniel had come in around lunch with Taco on a leash. The dog walked into the store like he’d been visiting bookshops all his life. Daniel unhooked him, and the Basset walked to the dog bed by the animal section and climbed in, stretching his full length so his head draped onto the floor. “He does know how to make himself comfortable,” I said.

“Yes, he does. He’s never met a bed he didn’t like.” Daniel was grinning with pride.

I smiled. “Glad you guys could come.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it.” He smiled back.

Just remembering his visit brought my grin right back. “And you know what, Mart?” I gave up all pretense of nonchalance. “He bought a copy of Possession because I recommended it.”

“You recommended that a mechanic who doesn’t really read buy a book about two English academics who fall in love?”

“I did.” I had felt kind of proud of myself for the brazenness, but was quickly deflated by Mart’s practicality.

“What if he hates it?”

I sighed. Oh no, what if he did?

Before my mind could slide off into worst-case scenarios, Mart reminded me another odd happening from the day. “Who was that young guy, the one with the skateboard and the hair a la Fresh Prince?”

I knew just who she was talking about. A young black man – maybe about twenty – had come in and asked if we had a restroom. I’d pointed him to the back of the store then didn’t think anything of it until a while later when he came by the counter again. “You’re out of paper towels,” he said.

“Oh no. I’ll take care of that right away,” I said as I turned to go to the cabinet where we kept supplies by the bathrooms “Thanks for telling me.”

“Least I could do since I used the last two rolls.”

I stopped my jog to the storeroom just as Mart came up to the counter. I turned back to the customer. “Are you okay? Were you sick or something? I can get you a ginger ale.”

He shrugged. “Oh no, I’m fine. Sorry for using all your paper towels.” He waved and then headed back out to the street with his skateboard.

Mart and I watched him cross the street and head off further into town. But then, a customer came up to ask about wine books, and Mart was off in her element. And I rushed to refill the paper towels in the men’s room.

Standing up from the chair and stretching, I said, “Yeah, that was odd. But the bathroom was immaculate after he was in there. I just hope he was okay.”

Mart pried herself off the floor. “Guess we can head home? Unless you just want to sleep here to save us the trouble.” I was tempted, but Aslan would have my hide if I didn’t come home to feed her and tend her, er, facilities. She was a very particular cat.

The next day, the shop was hopping again. News of Stevensmith’s murder was in the Sunday paper, and that, coupled with the great coverage that the Baltimore Sun had done about the shop meant we were even more crowded than we’d been the day before. A couple of visitors even asked if they could see “where it happened,” and I had to politely decline the prurient requests, including one from Max Davies, the owner of Chez Cuisine, the local pseudo-French restaurant.

“Too bad,” Davies said. “I kind of wanted to revel in the place of her death.”

I must not have been good at hiding my look of horror because he said, “Oh, come on. I know you met her. She wasn’t the most likeable person after all.”

“Well, no,” I had to admit, “but the woman was murdered. Maybe reveling isn’t the kindest reaction?”

“If she had tried to shut down your business, you might feel differently.”

“She tried to shut you down?”

“Hm-mm. Twice. Once when she wrote a scathing review of our escargot and called them, ‘Elasticine.’ My snails are fresh and succulent, I’ll have you know.”

I nodded vigorously because it seemed like it was in my best interest to stay on Davies’ good side.

“The second time, I know she was behind this trumped-up health department complaint. I’ve never had rats in my kitchen.” He sniffed as if the very idea was preposterous.

I made a mental note to steer clear of Chez Cuisine. Rats or not, I didn’t feel like I really needed to take in any atmosphere Davies created. Still, a good neighbor is often a quiet neighbor, so I listened attentively and then asked his suggestion for the cookbooks we should carry. “It’s about time someone asked my expertise on things around this town,” he said as he snatched the notebook