Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) 📖

After a completely delightful meal of some of the best tacos I’ve ever eaten – I was pretty sure they’d inspired Daniel’s dog’s name – and a lovely chat on a park bench while we ate our food truck meal, I coaxed Daniel over to the beautiful brick library a block off Main Street. “I guess the library is pretty new, huh?”

“Yeah, the old one had been in a storefront on Main Street, but the town decided to move it and give that space to more tourist-friendly businesses. Not many out-of-towners use the local library.”

“That makes sense. And this is gorgeous,” I said as we walked into a beautiful, light-filled atrium where the circulation desk sat surrounded by potted plants. “I could work here.”

“What?! Work for the competition? Never?!” Daniel said with mock awe.

I laughed. “Actually, I don’t think of the library as competition, more as camaraderie on the quest to help people find books they love.”

Daniel leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I like that,” he said. “Now, what are we here for?”

It took me a while to get my words back after that show of affection, but I eventually stammered that I wanted to look at the old newspapers. Then I said I first needed to use the restroom and rushed off to splash my face with cold water.

When I came back, Daniel did a wide sweep with his arm and pointed toward the back of the building. “To the microfilm, my lady.”

I giggled. “Thank goodness they’re on microfilm. I love print as much as anybody, but I’m glad we don’t have to sort through years of paper.”

The microfilm machines were as new as the building, and with a little guidance from the librarian, we found the older issues of the St. Marin’s Courier and got the first reel loaded to the machine. As I started to scroll, Daniel asked, “So what are we looking for?”

“Well, I was wondering if what got Stevensmith killed was something in one of her articles.”

“Ah, I see. So we’re looking for motive then?”

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and could see his exaggerated expression of serious interest. “Yes, we’re looking for motive.”

“So we’re just ignoring Sheriff Mason’s caution?”

“What caution?” I tried to act blissfully ignorant.

“The one he shared with me after he came to see you at the store this morning.”

I harrumphed. “Does no one think I can manage my own life? First Mart, and now the sheriff?”

Daniel bumped my shoulder. “He’s just concerned and knew I would be, too. I told him I’d keep you close, but that I didn’t think I could stop a force of your nature.”

I wanted to be annoyed, to be frustrated that everyone was speaking to people about me, but I couldn’t be. It just felt so nice to have people care . . . to have Daniel care.

“Alright,” I let out a long sigh. “I’ll be careful. Not tell anyone what I’m doing.” I looked around the library to see no one was in this section. “Fair enough?”

“Fair enough if you let me help.”

“You’ll need your own machine.”

“Oh, no I won’t. I’m staying right here. The sheriff said to keep you close.”

I was going to have to go splash my face again if this kept up. “I can live with that. Let’s get going.”

The Courier was a tiny paper, but Stevensmith had been there a long time – twelve or thirteen years – and in a small paper, most of the articles had her byline. The majority were run-of-the-mill stuff – coverage of car accidents or local events. But the reporter also had a habit of making statements – like the ones she said to me – that came off as just plain mean-spirited. If I had wagered a guess, I’d say Stevensmith was a woman who had been hurt and was taking out her pain on everyone else.

Eventually, we caught up to where the microfilm ended, having compiled a stack of fifteen to twenty pages worth of articles where Stevensmith was criticizing someone or something. But we still had the last four years of newspapers to cover online. We headed to a bank of computers, and I secretly hoped that Daniel would want to work on the same screen with me again. When he pulled another chair into the cubicle I chose, I smiled.

We scanned quickly through the last three and a half years – it was so much easier to read newspaper on a computer screen than on microfilm – and eventually came into this year. I was almost out of weekly issues when I came upon a long article about the Harriet Tubman Festival from the weekend before. Most of the article was just normal stuff – an interview with the founder, a brief biography on Tubman, some highlights of the events around town – but at the bottom of the front page, where the article was featured, Stevensmith had written:

While this festival is a good tourist event for St. Marin’s, it’s a shame it’s for such an over-lauded person. Sure, Tubman survived slavery, but she was not the only one. Plus, wise students of history will take note that Tubman’s escapades on the Underground Railroad were actually illegal, acts of theft of property. Perhaps we should be revising our history to remember her as the criminal she was rather than as a hero.

As I read those words, I gasped. Stevensmith had gone after a long-dead woman who had saved countless people from the horrors of slavery. “I can’t even believe someone would say that . . . about Harriet Tubman.”

“Too bad Harriet Tubman’s ghost doesn’t carry that gun she owned,” Daniel said quietly.

“I hear that. Why would someone say such awful things?”

Daniel just shook his head while I pressed print.