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

I felt myself leaning forward, aching to know everything, but this was the kind of curiosity the sheriff had warned me about.

His face softened. “Ah, Divina. What a lovely woman. She still around?”

“Oh yes. Still here in St. Marin’s for sure. I expect she’d love to hear from you if you felt like calling on her.”

His face grew sad then, so sad that I felt like crying. “I’m not so sure about that. I bring a whole lot of hard memories with me, things she’d probably like to forget.”

“Oh.” I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I just let the silence rest there a minute. Finally, I said, “Would you like to walk around? You’re welcome to go wherever you wish.”

He stood up and walked toward the back of the building, then turned and looked out the front window. “The oil cans were kept right there. And he had a display of Michelin tires in that corner. A Pepsi machine over there . . . and he always kept a bag of salted peanuts so we could all drop our peanuts in those Pepsi and have us a good ole snack.”

“Peanuts in Pepsi? Like in it?”

He chuckled. “Girl, you haven’t lived until you’ve had that goodness.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” I grinned.

He was smiling as he looked over the shop, but then that sadness crossed over his features again. “The bathrooms still here?”

“Yep. In the same place, but now they open from the inside of the store. You’re welcome to use—”

“No, ma’am. I don’t need to go in that room no way, no how. Thank you kindly, but no thank you.” He looked almost frightened.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’d like to know Berkeley Hudson’s whole story. I’d like to honor him well in this place. I’m Harvey Beckett. I own the shop here.”

When I shook his hand, I noticed how soft his palms were and how long his fingers. “Ralph Sylvester. I was the last man to see Berkeley Hudson alive.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat, and then we made our way back to the window display. “I’m sorry. Did you say you were the last person—”

“To see Berkeley Hudson alive. Yes, I did. I was there when they murdered him. Right back there, in the men’s bathroom.”

I felt faint. Another murder in my shop. “He was murdered here. Oh my goodness. When?”

“1958.” His voice was soft, but firm. “The Klan got him.”

I sucked in my breath. “The Ku Klux Klan? What?!”

The shrillness in my voice drew his eyes to mine. “Yep, they’re the ones. Hoods, burning crosses . . . same everywhere, I expect.”

I couldn’t even begin to fathom a Klan murder, much less a Klan murder in my shop. But now that I knew a bit, I needed to know it all. “Would you tell me the story?”

He put a hand over mine. “It’s a story that needs telling, though it’s hard.”

I nodded.

“It was April, a beautiful spring. Warm but not humid. Perfect weather for sitting out with a picnic. I remember it was a Saturday because Berkeley and Divina had been over at the town park doing just that while I minded the station.”

“About dusk, they were walking back to the station when a whole gang of Klansmen on horseback came into town. I saw them coming from the station window, but I couldn’t get to Berkeley in time. Normally, the Hudsons were very careful about being out in public, what with miscegenation laws and everything. But they couldn’t resist on this gorgeous day, and the wrong person had spotted them in the park, asked the Klan to send a message.”

I felt the tears pushing against the back of my eyes, but I willed them down. This story didn’t need my tears, only my ears.

“Berkeley pushed Divina into some bushes next to the garage there.” He pointed over to the alleyway between the shop and the hardware store next door. “Then, he ran as fast as he could for the front door. I was ready. Ready to lock the door behind him and head out the back door as fast as we could go. But they got him first . . .” he grew quiet.

“Oh my word.” My voice was shaking.

“They took him around back . . . and I found him after I heard them ride off. There was nothing I could do, so I just sat with him until he passed.”

I put my hand on Mr. Sylvester’s knee. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He placed his other hand over my own. “There are no words.” He took a long, slow breath, and then, his eyes met mine again. “But thank you for letting me share the story.”

“Of course. And any time you want to come and be in this space, you are welcome. Any time.”

He stood up, and I rose with him. “Thank you for telling me that story, Mr. Sylvester. I’m horrified, but also honored to carry it with me.” I looked up at him, and a soft smile crossed his lips.

“I think he’d like that a bookstore was here . . . and you even got the smell of gasoline and clove cigarettes out,” he said with a small chuckle.

“Lysol and candles make a great combination.”

He looked out over the store again and then turned toward the door. “Thank you, Ms. Beckett. I’ll be seeing you.”

I scanned the store quickly as he left, and seeing it was empty, locked the door behind him and slid to the floor against it, sobbing.

A few minutes later, someone knocked gently on the glass above my head, and I turned, expecting to see Daniel. Instead, Marcus’s concerned face looked back at me. “You okay?” he mouthed.

I nodded and unlocked the door.

“I saw you sitting there and thought you might be hurt.” Marcus’ jaw was tight with worry.

“Oh, thank you for checking on me, Marcus. I’m okay. Just a hard day. Lots of sad news.”

He looked down at his feet. “Yeah, lots of sad things these days.”

I didn’t know if I had the energy to have yet another intense conversation, but Marcus looked like he needed to talk. So I slid down to the floor again, and he sat down in front of me.

“Marcus, you can tell me to mind my own business, but I’m kind of worried about you.”

He looked up sharply. “You don’t need to worry about me, Ms. Beckett. I’m just fine. You got enough worries without adding me to the list.”

This kid. “Okay, so tell me about you. Where do you come from? What do you do with your time, besides read really great books, I mean?”

He smiled. “I’m from here in St. Marin’s actually, but my family hasn’t lived here in a while. Mom and I moved away a while back.”

“Oh, that’s right. You said your mom was an English teacher. Did she teach here?”

He nodded but wouldn’t meet my eyes. “For a while.”

I leaned forward and caught his gaze. “Marcus?” I didn’t want to push, but sometimes, a little nudge was all someone needed to feel heard.

“That reporter that got killed?” His voice was tight, and his jaw hard. Maybe this was the anger Lucas had noted.

Suddenly, I remembered the newspaper article about the teacher and the Little Free Library. “Oh, Marcus, Lucia Stevensmith wrote those horrible things about your mom. I’m so sorry.”

“You know about that?” He seemed wary, ready to bolt.

I sat back. “I do. I was doing some research into the murder, and I read the article. It was so unkind . . . your mom had done a wonderful thing, and that woman—“ I couldn’t finish the sentence because I was too angry.

“Yeah,” Marcus said. “She quit teaching after that. We moved over to Annapolis so she could start over as a librarian.”

I was grasping at hope anywhere I could get it. “Does she like being a librarian?”

“I think so.” There was some life in his voice again. “She loves helping people find books, and story time is her favorite. Plus, the library system is paying for her to get her Master’s. She loves that.”

“But I bet she misses teaching, too?” I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be chased away from a job you loved, and this woman had obviously loved her job. You didn’t build a Little Free Library for the kids you taught if you didn’t have passion for what you did.

“Yeah, she does. But she’s okay. Really.”

“And are you okay?” I thought for sure I saw tears well up in his eyes, but he straightened up and looked away quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Still trying to get my feet under me after moving back, you know, but I’m okay. I appreciate the work you’ve given me, Ms. Beckett. It helps.”

I smiled. “Well, I appreciate the work you’ve done here, Marcus. In fact, if you’d like to work here part-time, I could really use the help.” I hadn’t been planning on bringing on part-time help so soon, but I needed it . . . and it looked like Marcus needed it, too.

He looked at me warily. “I don’t want no pity job, Ms. Beckett.”

“It’s not pity, Marcus. Have you seen how busy we’ve been the past few days? Between those two online posts that bring in the book lovers and the two murders