Entitled to Kill Read online

  I had just put the final book – Eat This Poem by Nicole Gulotta – into the display when David pulled up. Mart and I helped him unload his car, and then he and I headed out for lunch at the new BBQ place that had just opened up at the end of Main Street. I was a sucker for a place with a cute name, so Piggle and Shake had won me over as soon as the sign went up.

  The author and I had a lovely lunch, and I was thrilled to hear that he had more books coming in his renovation series. I knew his military thrillers were good, too, but I was much more a mystery girl myself.

  After our meal, I pointed him in the direction of the co-op and gave him the address for the maritime museum before heading back to the shop for the afternoon. St. Marin’s wasn’t San Francisco in terms of entertainment, but in some ways, it was even better. At least here, everything was within easy walking distance of everything else. Plus, since I knew Cate would take good care of David at the co-op and then Lucas would do the same at the museum, I didn’t worry that he might get bored or frustrated. They’d agreed to give him the behind-the-scenes tour and have him back to the shop by five so we could all get dinner before the reading.

  On my way back, I needed to stop by Elle Heron’s farm stand to pick up some fresh flowers for the café tables and a bouquet for the signing table, too. Elle, a white woman in her sixties with light-brown hair cut into a bob, had been supplying fresh flowers – all grown at her small farm outside of town – since we opened, and this time, she was giving us some of the most amazing tulips I’d ever seen. The bright reds and yellows and purples would add just the right color to the store, and I couldn’t wait to see what she’d put together for the main arrangement.

  I shed my sweater as I walked the two blocks up to her shop – No Label; Just Farm to Table – and took a swig from my water bottle before I walked in. The day had grown quite warm, and I had broken my first sweat of the year, which was cause for a small celebration that I’d begun a decade ago in my first “summer” on the west side of San Francisco. There, the warm days come in mid-fall, when the fog burns off completely and the temperature climbs into the high seventies, maybe even low eighties. On each of those days, I walked to the corner market and got an ice cream from the chest freezer by the front door. Always the same thing every day until the fog returned. Sadly, “summer” in San Francisco rarely lasted more than two weeks.

  Now, I was going to keep up that tradition with a slight modification. After all, I couldn’t each ice cream every day it got to eighty here. I wouldn’t have minded eating ice cream every day from April to September, but I figured my cholesterol might mind. So just the first day, I decided. A celebration of the warmth returning.

  “Hey Elle.” I shouted as I walked toward the cooler, hopeful that she was as down-to-earth in her ice cream selection as she was about everything else. I wanted my plain, classic ice cream sandwich something fierce, and I was not disappointed.

  I slid open the top of the freezer, and as I leaned down and grabbed my sandwich, something caught my eye. I stood up and took a step back.

  Then, I dropped my ice cream on the floor as I backed into a shelf of broccoli and cabbage seedlings and sent potting soil and tiny plants flying.

  Beside the cooler lay the body of Huckabee Harris, his muck boots covered in mud and his face as white as the vanilla ice cream now leaking out of the wrapper at my feet.

  2

  Elle had come out from the backroom just as her plant display toppled over. She’d followed my line of vision and let out a commendable squeak when she saw Harris on the floor.

  As I took out my phone and called 911, she waved me behind the counter and away from the body. Unfortunately, we’d had a shared experience with crime scenes before, so we knew not to touch anything, even though everything in me wanted to drape a sheet or something over Huckabee Harris’s pale, white face.

  Harris wasn’t my favorite person. I don’t think most people liked him, in fact. He was loud and crude, and he insisted on talking on his flip phone wherever he was, no matter what was going on around him. Two weeks ago, I’d had to ask him to step outside to discuss his bunions instead of carrying on the discussion about Epsom salts and foot massages in the café at the shop. He’d stood up, stepped right into my face, and begun detailing his foot-sanding regimen until I gave up and walked away.

  Still, no one deserved to die the way he had. He looked terrified, like something had snuck up on him and scared him to death.

  Sheriff Mason arrived at the store within minutes, took one look at the scene, and asked me to step outside. I knew he needed to separate Elle and me to take our statements, so I moved quickly and waited on the bench outside Elle’s shop.

  A few minutes later, the sheriff sat down beside me, let me tell him what happened, and then closed his notebook. “Okay, well, that’s pretty straightforward. Any theories?”

  I looked sharply at him. “You’re asking my opinion about a murder. Is this some sort of reverse psychology to keep me from butting in again?” The sheriff had been very patient with my sleuthing in the past, but I knew he wasn’t keen to have my input.

  “Not exactly reverse psychology. Just hoping that asking directly might get any desire to investigate out of your system.”

  I smiled. “Nope, no theories here. Most people didn’t like him, though.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. Last week, he stormed into our office and demanded I arrest his neighbors because,” the sheriff rubbed his forehead so hard I thought he might bruise himself, “they were building a house in a place – on their property, mind you – that would limit the directions he could shoot deer from his own front porch come hunting season.”

  I gave the sheriff a puzzled look. “Is that legal, I mean to hunt from your front porch?”

  “It is, but I don’t love it. Too easy to shoot recklessly. Plus, the deer never have a chance. But technically, yes, it’s legal.” He sighed. “What is not legal is to shoot toward another person’s home. Harris knew that, so he thought that people shouldn’t be able to build in his ‘hunting zone,’ as he called it.”

  I didn’t think I had an eye roll big enough for that idea, but I restrained myself out of respect for the dead.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Anyway, there will be no shortage of people who didn’t like Harris, I’m afraid. Can’t figure any of them would want to kill the man, though.”

  “Sigh. Do we know how he died?”

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “We don’t know anything yet, Harvey.” Then, he sighed, “The cause of death will take some time.”

  “DNA?”

  Another sideways glance. “You watch too much police TV, Harvey. Maybe switch to reality shows. I hear Daniel really likes that gold mining one.” He turned to face me then. “But yes, we will check for DNA. You do know, though, that the TV shows get this one right. You have to have DNA to match it against. How many of St. Marin’s residents do you think are in CODIS, Harvey?”

  I felt my heartrate kick up with excitement. “How many?”

  It was the sheriff’s turn to roll his eyes. “It was a rhetorical question, Harvey. I have no idea, but I can tell you, not many.”

  Sheriff Tucker Mason was a St. Marin’s native. He’d grown up here, gone away to college at University of Maryland, and then come back to the Eastern Shore to go to the police academy before serving as a deputy for fifteen years and then successfully running for election to the position as sheriff, the first African American sheriff in the county’s history. He had a reputation as quite the prankster, and I’d felt like I’d been completely accepted in town when he asked the cross-country team from the high school to stop by on their afternoon training run on Tuesday because they thought Mayhem might need a little more exercise. At first I’d been puzzled, but then I saw that they had a huge flag that said, “Support Harvey Beckett’s bookshop so she can walk her own dog.” I knew their route wound all through St. Marin’s and then out the major routes into town before heading into t
he small farm roads, which meant everyone was going to see the sign. I wanted to be miffed, but I couldn’t help but laugh.

  The sheriff had stopped by just about the time the team had brought back an exhausted Mayhem, and he’d almost doubled over in laughter when he saw my face.

  “I should have known I had you to thank for this bit of publicity,” I said with mock anger.

  He dropped an arm around my shoulder. “Glad you’ve joined us, Harvey.” He gave me a little squeeze and then climbed back into his patrol car, still laughing.

  The next day, business did tick up a bit, and I only had to fend off two over-the-top animal lovers who were worried about Mayhem’s welfare. When they saw her sound asleep on a dog bed that looked like a leather sofa, complete with tufting and a chenille throw (a gift from a customer who LOVED bringing in her miniature pinscher and wanted her to have a comfy bed), they quickly retreated to the animal section and invested in copies of Marley and Me and The Art of Racing in the Rain.

  Needless to say, our sheriff wasn’t the stuff of stereotypes. I really liked him because he didn’t take himself too seriously even as he was very good at his job.

  He wasn’t joking today, though. Today, he had a murderer to find. After he got our statements, he asked us to leave the shop to him for a bit while his tech team and the coroner finished up, so Elle walked back to my store with me.

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” she said as we reached the first cross street and waited for the car at the corner to turn. “Not a thing. I didn’t even know he was in the store. I was so focused on finishing up the arrangements for tonight’s reading that I wasn’t paying that much attention. I assume people will ring the bell when they’re ready to check out.” She looked a little peaked, so I slipped my arm through hers.

  “I totally understand.” I gave her arm a squeeze. “I’m glad you didn’t hear anything. If someone wants to do something like that,” I suppressed a shudder, “I don’t know that you could have stopped them. And if you’d tried . . .”

  Even more color drained from her face. “I know CPR. Maybe I could have saved him.”

  I stopped walking and held her beside me before turning her to face me. “This isn’t your fault, okay? It’s really unfortunate that Harris died, and particularly unfortunate for you that he died in your shop. But you did nothing wrong, and I don’t think you could have done anything to save him, okay?”

  She let out a hard breath. “Okay.” I saw her set her shoulders as she turned back up the sidewalk toward my store. “Still, I wish I could have done something.”

  I nodded. I felt the same way. Three times now I’d found people’s bodies, and three times I felt helpless, but guilty, too, like I should have been able to help. Even though in every case the person had been very dead. Maybe feeling guilty was better than feeling helpless? I didn’t know.

  When we reached the bookstore, I sent Elle right over to Rocky for a cup of chamomile tea and a piece of shortbread and told Mart the whole story.

  “Huckabee Harris. The farmer? That guy who complained that we had too many books by women in the window? Is it unkind to say good riddance?”

  “Martha Weston!” I whispered.

  “Okay, sorry. I don’t mean that, of course, but gracious, that dude was a pain in the rear.” One of the things I loved most about Mart was that she always said what she thought. Okay, I almost always loved that trait. Now, I was just glad that the sheriff wasn’t here to overhear her musings. He would know that Mart had not done this, of course, but no need to cloud the water of suspects.

  “Yeah, the sheriff is down there now. Fortunately, he’s keeping things discrete so that it doesn’t disrupt the activities today. Well, except for at Elle’s shop. Poor thing. She feels horrible because she didn’t know he was even in there.” I looked over at our friend and was glad to see Rocky tending to her so well.

  “Well, that’s a first. Huckabee Harris seemed to make his presence known wherever he went. Wonder why he was so quiet in Elle’s shop.”

  “Good question.” I could feel the cogs starting to turn in my brain, but I didn’t have enough to go on . . . yet. “I expect we’ll know more soon.” I glanced down at the clock on the register screen. “Oh my word. Is it already four? Crap. I’ve got to get the store set up.”

  “Right. I’ll start organizing the chairs for the reading.” Mart was already headed toward the storeroom to pull out the brand-new folding chairs I’d picked up from the warehouse store last week. “You were thinking we’d set up in the fiction section, right?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Yep. Maybe fifteen chairs to start?” I’d thought about having the reading in the café but had decided being surrounded by books was more fitting. We could always spread out into the aisle by history if we needed to. But if the crowd was small, planning for an intimate event seemed smarter. No need to embarrass David Healey or make people uncomfortable if only a few folks showed.

  Man, I hoped more than a few folks showed up.

  At five thirty, David came back to the shop, and he and I walked over to Chez Cuisine to meet Daniel, Cate, Lucas, and Elle. Her store had been cleared about an hour before, so she’d rushed back and forth between her shop and mine to get the flowers and place them all. I figured she needed a good meal, so I invited her along, hoping against hope that Max Davies wouldn’t throw a conniption about the need for one extra chair.

  I was thrilled to see his restaurant was quite full because I liked when my fellow business owners thrived and because I was hoping a lot of these folks were coming over to the store for the reading. I was even happier when his hostess easily pulled one extra chair up for Elle at our reserved round table in the back corner of the restaurant. Our meal was delicious, even for me, the woman who lived in a waterside town but hated seafood. Appetizers were oysters on the half-shell and these stuffed mushrooms that I wanted to shove in all my pockets. Then, we had Max’s signature coq au vin and risotto, followed by the best crème brulee I’d ever eaten. I felt just like Amelie in the movie when I smacked my spoon against the top and heard the crack. Oddly, Max came out and asked me – and only me – how I had liked the meal. When I told him it was delicious and everyone echoed my words, he bowed, took my hand, and kissed it. I shot Cate a puzzled look that she gave right back to me, and I felt Daniel’s gaze but didn’t know what to say, so just avoided looking at him until Max left and we resumed our conversation.

  By the time we got up to leave, we were all roly-poly with good food and very relaxed from three great bottles of wine. Even if the reading only brought a small crowd, I already considered the night a success, and I thought David felt the same way from the small smile on his face.

  But things only got better. When we arrived back at the shop, I saw that Mart and Rocky had pulled out every chair we had, including all the café seats and every moveable arm chair, because the store was packed. A quick headcount brought me to sixty people, and a few guests were still coming in for the seven p.m. reading.

  David gave me a big grin as I handed him two bottles of water and he propped himself on the stool at the front of the crowd and let me give my welcome and introduction. The reading went fabulously, and we sold all the copies of his books that we had on hand and even placed a few special orders for more.

  By the time the last customer left, it was after nine, and I was worn out, but thrilled. I couldn’t believe our first author event had gone so well, and David thanked me profusely as he left to make the drive north to go home.

  My friends stayed to help us put the store back in order, and then we all dropped into chairs in the café for a few minutes to debrief and enjoy some hot tea. “Well, that certainly brought the day to an end on a better note,” Elle said as she sipped her peppermint brew.

  “I’ll say.” I was so glad the event had gone well, but I was also happy to see that Elle seemed to be feeling better. But then, I noticed the confused glance that passed between Cate and Lucas. “Oh gracious. You hadn’t heard? I fou
nd Huckabee Harris dead in Elle’s shop early this afternoon.”

  I watched Cate’s face go from surprise to what looked like delight to a carefully composed serious glower. “Wow. Yeah, we hadn’t heard.” Her voice was a few notes lower than usual as she attempted to sound sorrowful. It didn’t work.

  Lucas shook his head next to her. “I’m sorry to hear that. Really. But I can’t say that I’ll miss him much.”

  “That seems to be the consensus,” Mart said.

  “I couldn’t stand that man, but still, no one deserves to die.” Cate’s voice was back to its normal pitch, and she hugged her shoulders. A gentle quiet settled over the room, fatigue and the sadness of death catching up to us.

  I was just about to stand and begin the exodus for the evening when a loud banging on the glass above my head startled me. It was Marcus, and he looked terrified.

  I rushed over, unlocked the door, and barely got it open before Marcus barreled in. “Harvey, I need your help. The sheriff just called me. He’s on his way to my apartment.” His voice was squeaky, and he was breathless.

  I put my hand on his arm. “Okay, Marcus. Why is the sheriff coming to your apartment?” I figured there must be something the sheriff needed, maybe some help with the 5K that was going on in town tomorrow or something.

  “He’s coming to arrest me. He says that an eyewitness saw me kill Huckabee Harris.” His eyes were wide, and I thought he might cry. “Harvey, I don’t even know who Huckabee Harris is.”

  Rocky put on a fresh pot of decaf. I had called the sheriff and let him know that Marcus was at the shop with us and that he could meet him there. I figured as long as Marcus wasn’t hiding it didn’t matter where the sheriff came to get him. Plus, I had a small hope that we might be able to avoid an arrest altogether if we could work through some things.

  As we waited for the sheriff and Rocky set an emergency supply of shortbread on the table by Marcus, I asked him to explain what the sheriff had said. He took a deep breath and said, “He said that someone had reported seeing me at your shop,” he looked at Elle, “early this afternoon, about the time this man Huckabee Harris was killed. But I wasn’t there. I was here all afternoon.”