Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) đ
- Author: Andi Cumbo-Floyd
- Performer: -
Book online «Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) đ». Author Andi Cumbo-Floyd
âDoesnât look like she was hit here.â
âOh, thank God,â I said a little too loudly as several shoppers turned to look. âI mean, the woman is still dead, and thatâs still horrible. But I didnât like thinking sheâd died here.â
âWell, I didnât say that.â The sheriff looked a little sheepish as I gave him a squinty look. âI said she wasnât hit here. But it does look like she stumbled in here, maybe to hide.â
I puffed up my cheeks. âWould she have been able to credit card my door with a head injury like that?â
âHuman beings are capable of a great many things when driven by necessity. Iâm not sure thatâs what happened, but it seems likely. We found Stevensmithâs fingerprints on the outside of the door.â
I nodded and lowered my voice. âOkay, so she did die here. I suppose in a few years we might be able to trot out her ghost for a spooky book night.â I immediately winced as the words left my mouth. âToo soon?â
âNope. Youâre thinking like a business woman, and I like it. Plus, the ghost tours around here are pretty epic.â
I laughed. I loved when older people like me used slang, especially when it was a little behind the times. âIâll make a note.â
From her now-reclining position on the floor, Mart said, âDid the sheriff have any leads on the murder?â
âNot that he told me.â In fact, heâd as much as told me to stop asking questions when Iâd asked. âHe was pretty tight-lipped. But I have some theories.â
Mart sat up. âOoh, I love a good theory. Tell me.â
âWell,â I said, resting my elbows on my knees, âItâs not like Stevensmith was everybodyâs favorite person. Did you meet Ms. Heron when she came in today? White woman about my height. Blonde hair to her chin. Mud on her shirt.â
âOh yes, I remember her. I wondered about the mud.â
âShe grows her flowers and veggies and then sells them at that little farm stand at the end of the street. Sheâd been planting potatoes all day. Hence the dirt.â
Mart nodded. âGot it. What about her?â
âShe stopped by earlier in the week to see if I wanted to buy any flowers for the cafĂ© tables when they were ready. Sheâd seen Stevensmithâs article and wanted to show her support, one business woman to another. While she was here, she told me that Stevensmith had slammed her stand when it first opened.â I tried my best imitation of Heronâs thick, Eastern Maryland accent, âShe said my carrots were dirty and my zinnias âlimpid.â I wanted to kill the woman.â
âOoh, and then, there she is dead.â Martâs eyes were wide, and I could see the wheels of suspicion turning.
âExactly. I donât think Eleanor would do that, but it was interesting. Sheriff said there wasnât much love lost for the old reporter. Kind of makes me feel bad for the woman â I mean I feel bad sheâs dead â but, well, she was a pretty serious pain in the tuckus.â
âThatâs putting it mildly.â Mart laid back down on the floor and stared at the ceiling. âBut letâs talk about the important stuff. That mechanic and his pup were sure cute.â
Mayhem, who had been snoring away on her dog bed by the cash register, sat up at the mention of Taco. Theyâd taken an immediate liking to each other. Mart laughed, âLike owner like dog.
I tried to act cool by draping my legs over one end of the chair and lacing my fingers behind my head, but Mart was on to me. âOh my gracious. You like him!â She sat up. âYou like him a lot!â
I knew my face was as red as the spine on the Everymanâs Library edition of Love in the Time of Cholera. There was no hiding it. I had a crush.
Daniel had come in around lunch with Taco on a leash. The dog walked into the store like heâd been visiting bookshops all his life. Daniel unhooked him, and the Basset walked to the dog bed by the animal section and climbed in, stretching his full length so his head draped onto the floor. âHe does know how to make himself comfortable,â I said.
âYes, he does. Heâs never met a bed he didnât like.â Daniel was grinning with pride.
I smiled. âGlad you guys could come.â
âWouldnât have missed it.â He smiled back.
Just remembering his visit brought my grin right back. âAnd you know what, Mart?â I gave up all pretense of nonchalance. âHe bought a copy of Possession because I recommended it.â
âYou recommended that a mechanic who doesnât really read buy a book about two English academics who fall in love?â
âI did.â I had felt kind of proud of myself for the brazenness, but was quickly deflated by Martâs practicality.
âWhat if he hates it?â
I sighed. Oh no, what if he did?
Before my mind could slide off into worst-case scenarios, Mart reminded me another odd happening from the day. âWho was that young guy, the one with the skateboard and the hair a la Fresh Prince?â
I knew just who she was talking about. A young black man â maybe about twenty â had come in and asked if we had a restroom. Iâd pointed him to the back of the store then didnât think anything of it until a while later when he came by the counter again. âYouâre out of paper towels,â he said.
âOh no. Iâll take care of that right away,â I said as I turned to go to the cabinet where we kept supplies by the bathrooms âThanks for telling me.â
âLeast I could do since I used the last two rolls.â
I stopped my jog to the storeroom just as Mart came up to the counter. I turned back to the customer. âAre you okay? Were you sick or something? I can get you a ginger ale.â
He shrugged. âOh no, Iâm fine. Sorry for using all your paper towels.â He waved and then headed back out to the street with his skateboard.
Mart and I watched him cross the street and head off further into town. But then, a customer came up to ask about wine books, and Mart was off in her element. And I rushed to refill the paper towels in the menâs room.
Standing up from the chair and stretching, I said, âYeah, that was odd. But the bathroom was immaculate after he was in there. I just hope he was okay.â
Mart pried herself off the floor. âGuess we can head home? Unless you just want to sleep here to save us the trouble.â I was tempted, but Aslan would have my hide if I didnât come home to feed her and tend her, er, facilities. She was a very particular cat.
The next day, the shop was hopping again. News of Stevensmithâs murder was in the Sunday paper, and that, coupled with the great coverage that the Baltimore Sun had done about the shop meant we were even more crowded than weâd been the day before. A couple of visitors even asked if they could see âwhere it happened,â and I had to politely decline the prurient requests, including one from Max Davies, the owner of Chez Cuisine, the local pseudo-French restaurant.
âToo bad,â Davies said. âI kind of wanted to revel in the place of her death.â
I must not have been good at hiding my look of horror because he said, âOh, come on. I know you met her. She wasnât the most likeable person after all.â
âWell, no,â I had to admit, âbut the woman was murdered. Maybe reveling isnât the kindest reaction?â
âIf she had tried to shut down your business, you might feel differently.â
âShe tried to shut you down?â
âHm-mm. Twice. Once when she wrote a scathing review of our escargot and called them, âElasticine.â My snails are fresh and succulent, Iâll have you know.â
I nodded vigorously because it seemed like it was in my best interest to stay on Daviesâ good side.
âThe second time, I know she was behind this trumped-up health department complaint. Iâve never had rats in my kitchen.â He sniffed as if the very idea was preposterous.
I made a mental note to steer clear of Chez Cuisine. Rats or not, I didnât feel like I really needed to take in any atmosphere Davies created. Still, a good neighbor is often a quiet neighbor, so I listened attentively and then asked his suggestion for the cookbooks we should carry. âItâs about time someone asked my expertise on things around this town,â he said as he snatched the notebook
Comments (0)