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

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and pen from my hand and headed toward the cooking section.

I caught Rocky’s eye in the café, and she doubled over laughing. Guess Davies had a reputation.

Traffic into the shop kept the bell over the door dinging steadily, and I barely had time to help customers find books they might like – my favorite part of the job – before I had to ring up another sale. I knew it wouldn’t last forever this way, but I was pretty excited still. Last night’s quick tally showed we made a really good net profit for our first day, and today looked like it might be even better. At this rate, I might even be able to hire a clerk to help so that I didn’t have to be at the shop every minute it was open . . . although I kind of wanted to be, at least for now.

At one point in the afternoon, I came to the surprising discovery that many of the books in both of my window displays had been purchased, so I flagged down Mart as she hustled about straightening shelves and answering questions and asked her to cover the register for me so I could restock. One or two books missing from a window display made the shop look good; only one or two left made it look derelict.

I headed to the storeroom, bracing myself to enter. I’d been avoiding the space. But my extra copies of Catherine Clinton’s book were in there, and I thought I had a few more gardening titles that I’d been saving for later in the spring.

I stepped inside and let out the breath I’d been holding. The room looked normal, very normal in fact. No police tape. No chalk outline on the floor. Nothing at all to indicate that a person had died there. The business owner in me was glad of that, but the person who loved people, she was sad. I sat down gently on a box of cups for the café and took a moment. I knew Stevensmith wasn’t here – she didn’t seem the type to haunt a simple bookstore. If her spirit was lingering, it had grander aspirations – but I still felt like saying something was in order. “Ms. Stevensmith, I know you found my little shop lacking, but I still appreciate that you came and wrote about us. Thank you.”

I heard a rustle to my left and jumped up to see who was there. A tiny, white woman in a polka dot raincoat was in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was looking for the bathroom, but I see I’ve made a wrong turn.”

I hustled over to her. “Of course. Let me show you the way.” I gestured behind her, but she didn’t move.

“Lucia actually liked your shop, you know? I know she didn’t show that well, but she was thrilled that you were opening. ‘About time we had a bookstore in St. Marin’s,’ she said.”

I stepped back so I could look the woman in the face. “You knew Ms. Stevensmith?”

“Well, of course I did, dear. I was her mother.”

I took a step backward in surprise. “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.” Fatigue and embarrassment made me fumble my words. “I didn’t know – I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The woman put a tiny hand on my arm. “It’s fine, dear. You’re new. How would you know? I’m Divina Stevensmith. It’s nice to meet you.”

I laid my hand over hers and found her skin was ice cold. “You’re freezing. Can I get you a cup of something hot?”

She smiled. “Maybe after I go to the bathroom?”

“Oh yes, of course. Right this way.” I closed the storeroom door behind me and walked her to the other side of the shop and pointed at the door. “Right there. I’ll wait for you here, if that’s okay, and then maybe we can have coffee and you can tell me a bit more about Ms., I mean Lucia.”

She nodded and headed to the door in small, graceful steps. I turned back to the store to wait, but then got pulled away by a customer looking for a book that would encourage her fourteen-year-old son to read. By the time I got back, the bathroom door was ajar and Ms. Stevensmith was nowhere to be seen.

After a quick glance around the shop to see if I could spot her brightly colored rain coat, I headed back to the storeroom to grab the books for the window displays. The door wasn’t shut tight, and I was pretty sure I’d closed it all the way. That felt off, but then, maybe Rocky had come in for supplies for the café or something. I didn’t have time to worry over nothing, so I grabbed my books, and headed back out with a stack of titles up to my chin.

By close on Sunday, my whole body ached, and I was more tired than I thought I’d ever been, but I was giddy, too. The weekend’s sales had given my bank accounts a boost, but more importantly, I was feeling confident that I could do this thing, that I might not have to mooch off of Mart forever.

I stayed behind at the store after everyone left just to straighten up and to enjoy the quiet for a bit. I reshelved all the books that had been left around over the weekend. I checked the picture books in the kids’ section to be sure no dust jackets were torn. I gave Mayhem a good rub on her bed by the register. I fussed with the chairs in the perfectly tidy café just so I could put a hand to everything in the shop.

Then, I dropped into the wingback chair next to the poetry section and cried. Being super tired always made me a little weepy, but I was also immensely grateful for all the ways my friends and the people of St. Marin’s had rallied around my little store. Gratitude made me weepy, too.

I was finishing up my private crying jag when I heard a knock at the window and realized, with a shudder, that everyone on the street could see me since I had left all the lights on. Tomorrow would be fun. “Why were you crying, Harvey?” “Everything okay, Harvey?” Sigh.

Mayhem came to my side as I got up and went to the front of the shop. I shielded my eyes so I could see past the reflection of the Edison bulbs, and I felt my mortification grow. There stood Daniel and Taco. Mayhem must have smelled her friend because her tail started wagging a mile a minute. I, however, wanted to disappear into the bookshelves never to return.

Daniel gestured to the door and then to himself, and I nodded. Might as well let him know I’m okay. Maybe he could spread the word.

I unlocked the door, and Taco trotted on in and gave Mayhem a sniff before they headed to the café to be sure Rocky and I had tended to all the crumbs. Daniel locked the door behind him with my keys that were hanging there and then looked at me. “Big weekend. Just decompressing, I imagine.”

I smiled. That’s precisely what it had been – a release – and I was heartened that he knew that. “Exactly. Most of my strong emotions – good and hard – come out as tears. I’ve just always been that way.”

“I get it. I kind of think you might be healthier than a lot of us since you just let it all out.”

“Well, thanks for that.” I tried to suppress a ridiculous grin. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, just out walking the canine slug. He usually has a pass up and back on Main before he totally refuses to walk further and I carry him the rest of the way home.”

“Wow. He’s not a lightweight pup. Maybe you should trade him in for a Pomeranian if you’re going to have to carry him.”

Daniel laughed. “Nah, no trade-ins. He’s stuck with me. I have contemplated a wagon though.” He shifted the leash from one hand to the other. “When I saw the lights on here, I thought maybe you and Mayhem would like to walk with us.”

I glanced over at our dogs, who had now taken up resting positions back to back by the front window. “Looks like they’re game. Just let me get my coat. But I should be clear – I’m not carrying anyone. Everyone gets home on their own power.”

“Understood. You hear that, Taco? The lady is not hefting your big butt.” Taco wagged his tail.

Outside, the air was brisk, and I worried for the daffodils that had begun showing their sunny faces in the warm sun of the weekend. Mayhem’s leash rested lightly around my right wrist as I pulled on my mittens. “Ready to go when you are. Were you on your way up Main Street or back?”

“Back. I was hoping you and Mayhem would motivate Taco to go a bit further, but I didn’t want to take my chances that his enthusiasm would wear off too soon and you’d have to see me try to lift him.”

I laughed. “He doesn’t look light,” I said as I eyed the sizable belly on the low-slung pooch.

“He isn’t.”

We walked along in comfortable silence for a bit, and I enjoyed the chance to look into the shop windows and admire the window displays. Even Heron’s farm stand was decked out for spring with beautiful 3-D flowers made from folded paper taped to the windows and attached to wooden dowels in vases in the sills. “Ms. Heron seems nice,”