Publishable By Death - Andi Cumbo-Floyd (ebook reader wifi .txt) 📗

the street and passed by the commotion as far from it as possible. Maybe we knew that we’d just be in the way. Maybe we didn’t want to be voyeurs about someone else’s mishap. Or maybe we’d all just had enough adventure for the time being. But none of us tried to see what was going on.

Which was just as well because in a small town, nothing stays quiet for long. Within minutes, Woody had come in and found me. “You should know, Harvey. Deputy Williams was killed last night.” I took a step back and ran into the wall of bookshelves behind me. “What?! Murdered. There on the street?”

“Well, not exactly on the street. She was in back of the stores here, by your parking lot.”

I felt lightheaded. “Oh my word.” I couldn’t find anything else to say, so I just stood there and let the tears slide down my cheeks.

I hadn’t known her well, but I did know her. And this was the second murder nearby in the past week. All that combined with my scare the night before had me near losing it in my own shop.

Just then, Daniel came in. He took one look at my face and grabbed a chair from the café. “Sit down, Harvey.”

Walter stepped out from around the young adult bookshelf, studied my face, and headed to the back. Seconds later, he, Stephen, and Mart were there, all with looks of deep concern on their faces.

Woody told them what had happened, and Mart slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Walter and Stephen put their arms around one another. It was very quiet for a few moments.

Finally, I let out a shuddering breath and said, “Do they know what happened?”

“Apparently,” Woody said, “she was doing her patrol about seven-thirty when someone ambushed her. Killed her instantly, it looks like.”

“At least she didn’t suffer,” Stephen said as he glanced at me. I must have looked terrible because he said, “Harvey?!”

Mart looked up at Woody. “Did you say about seven-thirty?”

He nodded.

“It wasn’t my imagination.” I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling. Mayhem had heard Deputy Williams’ murder – that’s what got her so scared – and I hadn’t done a thing. “I could have helped her.”

“Harvey Beckett, you need to stop it right now.” Mart crawled over and put her face in mine. “You were almost a second victim.”

“Third,” I whispered.

“What?” Mart asked.

“I was almost the third victim.”

Mart sighed. “Right. The third victim. If you had tried to help, you definitely would have been.” She sank to the floor again and dropped her head into her hands. I thought she might be crying.

Daniel took my hand. “Mart’s right, Harvey. Mayhem saved you.”

Somewhere in the fog of shock, I could feel myself with two choices – give in and let myself fall apart or take a deep breath and move forward. I breathed in.

Then, I stood up. “I need to talk to the sheriff, tell him what happened to me last night. Maybe it will help.”

Woody headed toward the door, “I’ll get him.”

“Is he okay?” I asked the older man as he opened the front door. “Were he and Deputy Williams close?”

“Not per se, I don’t think. But then is anybody really okay when someone you know is killed?” He gave a sad smile and let the door close behind him.

Stephen looked me hard in the face and then asked, “What can I get you?”

I thought for a minute. “Chamomile tea with lots of honey and lemon.” I needed to steady myself, slow down my heart rate.

“You got it,” Stephen said and headed toward the café.

“You want to stay open?” Mart said.

“I do. Books help in a crisis. This is a way we can help. Let’s put up a sign that says, ‘Free coffee.’ And I’ll put together a display for the front table of books on grief and trauma.”

Daniel put his arm around my shoulders. “Lead the way.”

I steered us toward the psychology section to do what I could do – recommend books people needed.

Neighbors streamed into the store all day – some to have a cup of coffee, many to just see people from the community together. We didn’t make a lot of sales, but it still felt like the shop was serving its purpose.

At one point, I came upon Marcus reading in the fiction section. He had a copy of Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake in his hand, and he was apparently so engrossed in the story that he didn’t hear me walk up. “Oh, that book is amazing,” I said, and he almost jumped to the ceiling.

He put a hand on his heart. “Shi—take mushrooms, Ms. Beckett. You scared me.”

“I’m so sorry, Marcus.” I sat down on the arm of the chair next to him. “You must really be liking this book.”

“I am. You’ve read it?”

“Read the whole trilogy. Some of Atwood’s best.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I agree. I mean I loved The Handmaid’s Tale, but this one, the science . . . I’m dying to read the next two.”

This kid was a reader, an astute reader. I knew we’d been brought together for a reason. “Well, we have them when you’re ready. You can sit right here and read the whole trilogy.”

He looked down. “Really? I mean, I know these books are for sale.”

“Really.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Any fan of Atwood can read here anytime. But mind if I ask a rude question – how did you hear about her? I mean, these books aren’t—”

“Aren’t exactly standard reading for a black man in America?” He was smiling, but I could also hear an edge in his voice. “My mom was an English teacher. She introduced me to The Cat’s Eye back in eighth grade. Something about Atwood’s stories just intrigues me. They’re almost magical, but not quite . . . and there’s always this thread of hope.”

I patted his shoulder. “Exactly. I love her, too. When you’re done with these, check out A. S. Byatt. Do you know her?”

“Only Possession, but if you recommend her other stuff, I’ll totally read it.”

This kid was amazing. “I’ll put together a list.” I smiled and stood up. “I’ll let you get back to it.”