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

I was just about to head out to the taco truck and get Rocky and me some lunch when Divina Stevensmith came through the front door. After our last conversation and her odd reaction to the color orange, I felt the impulse to run around and tug all the books with orange covers off the shelves, but I resisted. After all, she just said she didn’t like the color; she didn’t say it made her homicidal or anything.

The tiny woman was wearing a polka dot jumpsuit that reminded me of the rain coat she’d been wearing that first time I saw her, and I wondered if she had a penchant for the whimsical print. I was on my way to ask her that very question as a casual conversation starter when she made an abrupt turn away from the self-help section that she’d been browsing and walked straight toward me.

I mentally braced myself for what looked like it might be a dressing down, given her forceful march in my direction, but when she reached me, she said, “Thank you for what you’re doing for Deputy Williams and the town.” Her voice was quiet and steady. “That poor woman. She didn’t deserve that.”

Ms. Stevensmith was twisting a bright blue scarf in her hands, and she looked on the verge of tears. I came around the counter and pointed to a pair of club chairs by the art books. “Want to sit?”

She gave a small nod and lowered herself smoothly into the nearest chair. Next to her, I looked a bit like a cow trying to use furniture, but I tried to focus on her nervousness.

“It was a sad thing, her death, especially for you.”

She nodded, scarf still twisting. “And I’m sorry you have been affected, and in your new shop and all. What terrible timing.”

I looked around the shop. “Well, if it hadn’t happened here, it probably would have happened somewhere.”

Her eyes darted to meet mine. “I don’t know about that. I mean, there’s something about this space, don’t you think?” She stood up and spun in a circle as if trying to see the whole shop. “There’s a lot of history here.”

I thought about what the sheriff had told me about The Green Book and this building when it was a gas station. Ms. Stevensmith was easily in her eighties, very much someone who had grown up in the Jim Crow South. “You knew this building when it was a gas station?”

“Knew it? Harvey, my husband owned it.”

I dropped my chin to look at her through the tops of my eyes. “I’m confused. I thought the man who owned the gas station was black.”

She grinned. “He was.” She took a deep breath and looked at me closely.

“Okay, but, forgive me for asking, but wasn’t Lucia white? Not biracial, I mean?” Conversations around race were always so hard.

“Yes, you’re right, not that everyone who has mixed-race ancestry shows it the way we think they would, of course.”

I nodded, although that was news to me.

“Lucia was my daughter from my second marriage. Her father was white. My first husband, Berkeley Hudson, owned the gas station.” She sat down and looked at me. “He was black.”

“I heard that the station was in The Green Book.”

“It was . . . although a few places in there were owned by white people, too. But most were black-owned. Berkeley’s was one of them.” She smiled and seemed to slide back into her memories. “Lots of people came through here when they were on their way from New York or Philly and headed to Norfolk or other places in the South. No I-95 then, you know?”

I hadn’t known, but I loved trivia like that. “Anyone famous?”

“Oh my, yes. John Lee Hooker stopped once, ended up having dinner with us because there wasn’t anywhere else to eat until you got to Norfolk. I couldn’t get him to play for us, but he was mighty nice.”

“You met John Lee Hooker?” I was tempted to get up and put his music over the speakers right now.

She gave me a soft grin. “I did. My favorite guest, though, Richard Wright—“

I couldn’t help myself and interrupted her. “Richard Wright stopped in St. Marin’s. What?!”

“A fan are you?”

“You could say that. I’ve read Native Son maybe twenty times. He’s one of the best American writers in history.”

“And a big fan of meatloaf,” she said with a smirk, “With extra ketchup.”

“No?! Really? I love that.”

She got quiet then and folded her hands around her scarf. “It was an important place, this gas station. A haven for a lot of folks who just needed somewhere to stop and rest before heading on.”

I put a hand on her knee. “It was kind of you to open your home.”

“Maybe too kind.” She stood up and looked toward the back of the store. “Anyway,” she said with a little shake of her head, “I’m glad you own this place, Ms. Beckett. It seems like you appreciate the stories – both the ones in the air and the ones on the page – that live in these walls.”

I felt like I was not getting the whole picture here, but she was clearly moving our conversation along, so I didn’t push. “Thank you, Ms. Stevensmith. I really appreciate that.” I took a few steps back toward the counter. “Was there something I could help you with? Something you needed.”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot. I’d like to donate a piece to auction off at the street fair with all proceeds going to the scholarship fund in honor of Deputy Williams, if that might be alright with you.”

“Alright with me? Of course. That’s lovely. Can you get me a bit of information about the piece, and I’ll get the word out to the press? I’m sure this will bring some folks out.”

She handed me a small sheet of paper covered in neat handwriting. “I took the liberty of anticipating that request and made some notes here. Just let me know if you need anything further.”

I glanced down at the paper and saw she’d written:

Divina Stevensmith – 1938-

Study of St. Marin’s at Nightfall

Paper Collage

8’ x 12.5’

Valued at $25,000