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

The next morning, almost as soon as I got the shop open, the phone started ringing. I cringed every time, thinking it was going to be some reporter who wanted to write a story on “murder central.” But each time, it was someone inquiring about the street fair and often asking if there was a fund set up for Deputy Williams’ family.

I was glad that the sheriff’s office had established a scholarship fund in her honor. She wasn’t married and didn’t have children, and the town was covering her funeral expenses, so this was a great way to honor her memory and give her a new legacy in the community. One local high schooler who wanted to go into law enforcement would receive a scholarship for training each year. By the sound of the callers, that fund was going to be set for a long time to come.

Walter and Stephen came by on their way to BWI for their flight just before noon, and I gave them both huge hugs. “Thank you so much for coming. I wish you could stay longer, see how the street fair goes.”

“Us, too, but work calls,” Stephen said with a frown. “I’m so glad we got to see you in your shop, my friend. Now, be safe, okay?”

Walter put an arm around my shoulders. “No sleuthing without help.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist and squeezed. “Agreed.”

As I walked them to the door, I said, “Text me when you land, okay?”

“You sure about that?” Stephen asked. “It’ll be late.”

“I’m sure.” I’d always wanted my parents to ask that of me, so I tried to ask it of friends when they travelled.

I watched them load their bags into the waiting Uber and brushed away a tear. Rocky sidled up to me and slid a hot cup of Earl Grey into my hands. The warm smell of bergamot soothed me, and when I took a sip, it was hot – but not scalding – with lots of milk and sugar, just as I liked it. “Thank you,” I whispered as I leaned my head on her shoulder.

We stood quietly like that, looking out at the overcast day. It was a perfect reading day, and I hoped that would mean we’d have some customers. But in the meantime, I had work to do. I gave Rocky a kiss on the cheek and said thank you before heading to the counter to figure out what exactly I could have on hand for the weekend’s activities.

Throughout the afternoon, the flow of customers was quiet but steady, with lots of folks picking up stacks of books and magazines and enjoying the café tables. Some booksellers hated that practice because it meant books got stained and grungy and that there’d be a lot of clean-up. But personally, I loved it. While I needed to make money, for sure, I also just loved when people read, and if that meant they camped out at a table for two hours with Garden and Gun and a copy of Into Great Silence, I was fine with that. Plus, they almost always bought something, and the most conscientious folks purchased anything they got a crumb on. I appreciated the courtesy even if I didn’t require it.

While they read, I decided to order a bunch of children’s books – some picture books, some board books, some easy readers, some chapter books – and then do a “mystery book buy” for the street festival. I’d wrap the books in brown paper and let the kids pick any book they wanted from a bin for their age group. All books would be two dollars, but you had to keep what you got or find another kid to swap with. I figured this would cover my costs but give some families who might not be able to get books a chance to pick some up . . . and maybe it’d even be a social thing for the kids, too, like a less heartless version of that holiday gift exchange where you get to steal the gift you want most.

Mart checked in about a billion times throughout the day, and even Stephen dropped a text from the airport to remind me to “use the buddy system when sleuthing.” My friends cared . . . and they were annoying.

I knew Daniel was planning on meeting me at the shop at closing, so when the bell chimed as I was counting out the register, I expected to look up and see him. Instead, Max Davies was there. He had the studied stance of someone trying to look casual, one foot out to the side, a book in his hands. But he kept cutting his eyes over to me, and as soon as I got to a stopping place, I closed the register drawer and said, “Well, hello, Max. Nice to see you.”

“Oh, hi, Harvey,” he said, “I didn’t see you there.”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I restrained myself. “Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”

He put down the book – a copy of Michelle Obama’s Becoming – and walked over. “Since you asked . . . I was wondering if you could help me with something for the street festival.”

I was surprised. Max hadn’t replied to my query of merchants on Main Street, so I figured he had chosen not to participate. This visit had just gotten much more positive than his last one. “Sure, what can I do?”

“You can call it off.”

I stepped back a bit. “What?! Why?” My hopes for a good conversation were dashed. I was back to finding the man annoying.

“Because there’s a murderer on the loose, and you’re asking everyone to stand around out in the middle of all those people. We’ll be sitting ducks.”

I didn’t take the opportunity to note that he had just walked into my store on a quiet Monday night when almost no one was around and that if the killer wanted to get him, they’d probably do so as he left. It didn’t feel kind to point out the obvious.

I pointed toward the café and trailed behind Max just slowly enough to text Daniel, tell him to come on in but be discreet. “Max is here to talk me out of the fair.”

Daniel’s response was perfect. “Oh glory!”

Max took a seat by the window – another perfect opportunity for the murderer to take him out, I thought – and proceeded to tell me how it just wasn’t prudent to draw us all out in the open like that. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity.”

I had to stifle a giggle when I remembered how a group of my college friends had come home to Chesapeake City with me and been terrified that an ax murderer would find us out on the secluded road to my family home. “There are no street lights,” my friend from Long Island had said. I had tried to point out that the chances of a murderer being around were far greater in a crowd, but their fear – like all fear – wasn’t based in logic. So they spent the weekend with every light in the house on so they’d see the ax murderer when he came for them.

Now Max had the opposite fear – that the murderer would find it easier to kill someone in a crowd. I let out a long slow breath to steady my thoughts. “I see your point. But what makes you think the murderer will strike again?”

“These things always happen in threes,” he said without any sense of irony or shame. “We’ve had two murders. We’re just waiting for the third.”

I heard the bell tinkle and saw Daniel and Taco come in quietly and take a seat in the chair-and-a-half by the fiction section, close enough to hear but not close enough to intrude.

“Ah, I have heard that theory about tragedy,” I said, drawing my attention back to Max. “But if that’s the case, wouldn’t the murderer want to act more quickly, get it over with rather than waiting another week?”

He did not show me the courtesy of trying to restrain his eye roll. “Serial killers work on a schedule, Harvey.” He gave an exaggerated glance around the shop. “For someone who runs a bookshop, you aren’t very well informed.”

I swallowed hard, gave Daniel a discreet raised eyebrow over Max’s shoulder, and said, “I hadn’t realized the person who killed Ms. Stevensmith and Ms. Williams was a serial killer.”

He let out a long sigh. “Clearly, the killer has a type. Two women. Both in their forties. Both in public roles.” He paused and looked at the wall above and behind my head. “But now that I say that, I realize I need not worry. I’m not the killer’s type.” He stood up. “I’m sorry to have taken your