Publishable by Death Read online

  “Aren’t they, though? They sell them over there at the art co-op,” she said as she came and stood next to me. “I bought these years ago and just keep them in a tote for the first hint of spring. But I saw they had some there again this year when I stopped by the other day . . . you know, if you want some for your shop.”

  I gave her a big grin. “I might just do that for when I put up my spring picture book display.” I took a step toward the door. “I know you’re not technically open yet, but would you mind if I took a closer look, see what I might be getting for my money.”

  “Sure thing.” Eleanor held the door open for me. “I’ll just be in the back. Have a few cases of honey and locally made mustard to put out. Those folks here for the festival cleaned me out.”

  I tried to recall the exact color of orange that had been in that corner of paper the sheriff had showed me as I gazed at the intricately-folded blooms. Each one was a little different, and they were exquisite. I could see why the art co-op sold them – each was a little masterpiece in and of itself.

  I couldn’t tell, though, if the oranges in some of the paper were the same as the one the sheriff had, though. Hmph. I had hoped this would be a good solid lead. Still, it was something.

  “Thanks so much, Eleanor,” I shouted as Mayhem and I headed for the door. “They really are beautiful.”

  “Call me, Elle,” she said from the back. “All my friends do. I’ll be up to your shop later. I have a couple books I’d like to order.”

  “See you soon then.”

  We scooted over Main Street toward the art co-op, but a sign on the door said they didn’t open until noon, and I needed to get my shop open anyway; it was almost ten. I made a mental note to check back later.

  The day in the shop went by lickety-split between customers and the usual book deliveries for Tuesday. Tuesday is the day most of the new books come out, so I made a lot of displays of titles that I’d convinced publishers would sell here, even in a new store, including a new mystery novel from Baltimore’s Laura Lippman, who was adored by most Marylanders.

  When I finally took a break about mid-afternoon to check my email, I was delighted to see a note from my friends Stephen and Walter back in San Francisco. They were wondering if they could come out that weekend for a visit. It didn’t even take me a second to send back a yes with approximately thirty exclamation points and the address. Oh, it would be so good to have them here. They’d wanted to come for the grand opening, but Stephen had a big fundraising event with our old organization the same day and couldn’t miss it. Anyway, it was kind of nice to have them come when there was a little less excitement. I could enjoy my time with them more this way.

  I also had a note from my parents. They, too, had missed the grand opening, but unlike my friends, they hadn’t offered to come visit. They’d been down from Chesapeake City once, not long after Mart and I had moved in. They’d rented a room at the fancy B&B in town, even though we’d offered to let them stay in our guest room, and when they’d seen the shop location – which did still look remarkably like a gas station at that point – they’d said, “Oh, I hope you didn’t pay too much.”

  This note was typical Burt and Sharon Beckett. I knew they wrote to feel like they were being good parents, checking in on their daughter who now lived less than an hour away. But they didn’t really open up any space for me to tell them how I actually was. It was more a “thinking of you” because we know we’re supposed to than a “How are you really?” kind of a note. I wrote back the required and equally distant response to thank them, tell them I was fine, and note that I’d met Catherine Clinton. A little dig at my history-buff father and a note about my own success, too. I hit send with a little zing down my arm.

  It would have been easy to get bitter about my parents – justified, too – but I had decided a long time ago that they were who they were, and that meant they just weren’t going to “get” me. Somehow, they had raised a daughter who didn’t value the things they did – notoriety and financial stability – and that disappointed them. But I liked who I was, and now that I was on my own again after a marriage that was stable but broken in a really fundamental way, I finally was able to live the life I wanted to live. In fact, I’d signed my divorce papers just last week, so even the pesky legal part was over. My life was my own, and, even if it disappointed my parents, I was going to live it my way.

  The last email in my inbox was from Max Davies. I’d sent him a note the day before asking if he’d think about creating a special dinner for my Welcome to Spring dinner, and to my surprise and pleasure, he thought the idea was wonderful. “I’ll come up with a Prix Fixe menu and keep the price reasonable by asking my vendors to consider a break for the cause. I love, especially, that you want to donate to the humane society. I’d be honored to be a part, and so would Gertrude. Thank you for inviting us.” He signed off with a picture of a very fluffy, very confident cat, who I could only presume was Gertrude.

  I couldn’t help by smile. Maybe Max wasn’t so prickly after all.

  At the end of the day, Rocky and I closed up shop, and as we walked out, Rocky jerked me out of the way as a blur whizzed by. “Watch where you’re going,” she shouted, the blur stopped and turned back. It was Marcus Dawson.

  “Sorry. Didn’t see you,” he said with a quick wave before dropping his board to the ground again.

  Something about what Lucas had told me about him made me want to reach out to the kid, so before he could skate off, I said, “Hey Marcus. I could use some help around the shop this week. Come by if you’d like the work.”

  He paused then and turned to face me.

  “No pressure. Just if you want it.” I was suddenly nervous that I’d overstepped, offended him in some way.

  He studied me a second more and then said, “See you tomorrow.” Then, he was off.

  Rocky gave me a small smile. “Your heart is so big, Harvey. Just be wise.”

  I hugged her and started walking toward home. I kept looking around, hopeful. Maybe Daniel was going to come by to walk me home again. But as I walked, I felt my disappointment growing. Then I chided myself for being foolish – both for expecting him to show and for being so hopeful he would. He just said he might come by, Harvey. No promises.

  By the time I got home, I felt a bit better. The walk through a brisk evening had helped, as did the beauty of the town with its quaint gardens and houses with golden light coming through their front windows. Sometimes, I felt like I’d moved to the set for a 1950s sitcom . . . or maybe a Perry Mason episode, given the murder that had me preoccupied. I kept thinking about the shape of the blow to Stevensmith’s head and trying to figure out what someone could wield with enough force to leave a mark. I felt like it would have been suspicious if the murderer had been carrying a pipe around town, and it was just too much like a game of Clue to imagine a candlestick. What would leave that mark? And what about that piece of orange paper? I needed more information.

  The next morning, Mart came with me to the shop to help open. Rocky had classes on Wednesday mornings, so Mart had arranged her work schedule so that she could cover the café until Rocky got back around one. Talk about a good friend.

  Marcus showed up just after we opened for the day, and I was impressed. I’d randomly shouted an offer for work at him on the street, and he’d still followed through. I liked a person of their word. I set him to work cleaning up the weeds behind the shop. I felt bad because I didn’t have a weed eater or anything, but when I mentioned that I could try to borrow one, he’d said, “Nah. Sometimes, it’s better to work with my hands anyway.”

  I liked this kid . . . but I kept thinking about how Lucas had said he was kind of angry. I hadn’t seen any signs of that, but I was keeping my eye out.

  Given the sparse number of shoppers first thing in the day, I took the opportunity to slip over to the art co-op while Mart staffed the book register and café. I promised I wouldn’t be gone longer than a half-hour. Mayhem and I buzzed up the street
, giving polite nods instead of the usual stops to chat, and when we turned into the co-op, we were greeted by a cheerful yip from Sasquatch. I looked up to see Cate behind the desk, a phone to her ear. She smiled and held up one finger. I nodded and tied Mayhem up beside Sasquatch near the front door.

  While Cate finished her call, I browsed the art in the various studio windows inside. It wasn’t a big building – a former warehouse of some sort, I thought – but I counted at least ten studios. One older, white gentleman was throwing something that looked to be a very thin, very beautiful vase on a potter’s wheel, and a young Latinx person stood at a giant canvas adding bright dashes of blue and turquoise. A tiny white woman bent over a table covered in black velvet, a jeweler’s loupe to her eye, and a tall, lean black woman was weaving at the biggest loom I’d ever seen. She saw me watching and waved me over. I smiled and headed her way just as Cate caught up to me.

  “Henrietta Johnson is one of the finest weavers on the East Coast.”

  “You flatter, Cate, you flatter. Keep it up.” She put down the slim piece of wood she’d been holding and reached over to shake my hand. “I am Henrietta, but everyone calls me Henri.”

  “Henri, I’m Harvey.” I put out my hand with a grin.

  “Another woman with a man’s name. Your given one?”

  “Nope. Anastasia Lovejoy.”

  “My word. Now that’s a name. I’d go with Harvey, too.” I liked Henri already.

  I leaned a bit closer to Henri’s weaving. “May I?” I asked as I put my hand over the cloth.

  “Please do. And thanks for asking. So many people just assume they can touch things. It’s cashmere from goats just up the street. The farmer cleans it for me, and then she spins it up so I can dye it and then weave it.”

  “It’s so soft. I want to put my face on it.”

  Henri laughed. “Me, too. That’s why I make a lot of pillows. But trust me, you don’t want to sleep on this stuff. It’ll clog up your sinuses like nobody’s business.”

  “Got it.” I gave the weaving one last caress and then smiled. “ Nice to meet you, Henri.”

  “You, too. I’ll be down by your shop later. Been meaning to stop in. Now I’ve got a reason. It’s my turn to lay hands on your work.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  Cate tucked her arm in mine as we headed back to the front desk. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “Well, I was hoping you might have some of those paper flowers that Eleanor has up in her shop.”

  “Oh yeah, this way. You want some for your shop?”

  “Well, um, no.” I told her about Sheriff Mason and the slip of paper.

  She stopped in the hallway outside of a small studio tucked at the back of the co-op building. “So you think the person who made the flowers murdered Stevensmith? Wow, that would be something considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering that Divina Stevensmith is the one who makes them.” She pointed to the name tag on the door of the studio. “D. Stevensmith.”

  “No way. That’s too easy, isn’t it? I mean, really.”

  Cate shrugged. “How should I know? I’ve never tried to solve a murder before.” I let out a long sigh.

  “I don’t know anything. Don’t even know that the paper is from her flowers. It just struck me as a possibility.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can find out, shall we?” She knocked once and then opened the door of Divina Stevensmith’s studio.

  I gasped as we walked in. The room was a bright burst of color, like confetti was suspended in time and space around us. It was beautiful.

  “Divina, I think you met Harvey, the owner of our very own bookstore. She came to ask about your flowers.”

  Mrs. Stevensmith dropped off a high stool behind the high table where she’d been working and came across the floor to meet me. She grinned and grabbed my left hand, squeezing it firmly. “It’s good to see you again, dear.”

  “This,” I spun around slowly, “this is amazing. You did this?” I kept staring at the mobiles of paper that hung from every level of the ceiling and made a forest of color around me.

  “I did. This is my mind writ large. All color moving freely in space. I call it my Miasma of Beauty.”

  “Oh, I like that,” I said and meant it.

  I studied a few more of the flowers hanging in the air around us and then moved past them to pick up some of the folded blooms attached to green paper stems like the ones I’d seen at Eleanor’s farm stand. “I love these, Mrs. Stevensmith. Do you ever do them in orange?”

  “Orange. No, never. I hate that color. Vulgar.” The tiny woman’s voice rang off the walls.

  The ferocious shift in the woman’s tone caught me off-guard, and I shot Cate a quick glance. She gave her shoulders a little shrug.

  “Oh, okay. I was going to ask for a few of them . . . and also see if you might have a source for orange paper for something I’m planning at the shop this summer.”

  The thin woman turned her back to me. “I do not. I hate that color and would never have a thing to do with it. Never.” The venom in her words made them sharp, and I kept hoping she’d turn around so I could see if she was joking. But she didn’t. Instead, she began massacring pieces of thick paper with shiny, silver scissors. She really hated the color orange.

  Then, her furious paper-cutting stopped, and she turned halfway back towards us. “But you know, Max Davies might have an idea. He used to have those horrendous orange menus. You remember them, don’t you dear?” She turned to face Cate then, and I caught what I thought was a glimmer of a smile. “They were the color and texture of orange peel. Disgusting.”

  I turned to Cate. “Oh yeah, he did have orange menus, I guess, a while back.” She gave me another shrug.

  “Alright. Well, I’ll ask him then. Thanks.”

  Mrs. Stevensmith turned back to the rear of her studio silently, and we took that as our not-so-subtle cue to step out.

  As we headed back to the desk, Cate gave me a wink and said, “Divina, always a character.”

  I laughed . . . but I wasn’t sure I found it charming.

  I untied Mayhem as I left the co-op and was just heading back toward the shop when a sound like a foghorn caught in a tunnel lit up the street and I turned to see Taco baying for all his worth across the street. Daniel was hurrying out of the hardware store with a small, white bag in hand, and I could hear him saying, “Taco, stop that. Taco. Taco!”

  As Taco saw his person, the energy from his mouth traveled right down to his tail, and I saw two passersby wince when it smacked them in the legs. I couldn’t help but smile . . . until Mayhem started barking at her friend and Taco got going again. Suddenly, it was a two-dog cacophony on the street, and everyone looked back and forth from one dog to the other.

  I started walking Mayhem down the street, but she locked her legs straight and dug in. It was like trying to walk a stool, so I stopped and looked back at Taco. Daniel was staring back at us, and I felt the color rush to my face. Then, a smile broke across his lips, and I smiled back, and soon we were both doubled over laughing while our dogs continued to bray. Eventually, he got enough control to hold up one finger to signal me and then get Taco to the crosswalk at the corner.

  By the time the pair reached me, I had almost regained my composure, well, at least about the spectacle. I could feel my heart racing, but hopefully, Daniel couldn’t tell. “Where you headed?” he asked as Mayhem and Taco did the usual meet-and-greet.

  “Back to the shop. Treat you to a cup of coffee.” I grinned and hoped my invitation sounded casual.

  “Sounds good. We have a few minutes before Mrs. Fenster brings in her ancient Mercedes to see if I can keep it going another 100,000 miles.”

  “Do cars even run that long?” I had to admit I didn’t even know the mileage on my car right now.

  “They do if they’re good cars and cared for well. Mrs. Fenster is at 300,000 miles and counting.” He gave me a wry smile. “And
that’s nearly a miracle since she only drives from her house about two miles outside town to the grocery store and hair salon here,” he pointed up the street a bit, “once a week.”

  “What? Has she owned the car for ninety years?” I laughed.

  “Almost. I’m pretty sure she’s a vampire.”

  We were both still laughing when we opened the door to the bookstore and walked straight into Walter and Stephen, my two friends from San Francisco. “Surprise,” Stephen said as he hugged me and whispered, “I see you’ve made a friend.”

  I pulled back and gave Stephen a look that I hoped said, “I’m glad you’re here, but don’t embarrass me.” Then, I hugged Walter and said, “What are you two doing here? I thought you weren’t coming until the weekend.”

  “We couldn’t wait,” Stephen said as he gestured around the store. “We had to see this place. Plus, I missed you. You look good. Really good.”

  I grinned. Stephen had been my closest friend at work back on the West Coast, and his husband, Walter, had become a friend, too. I was giddy that they were here. “Stephen, Walter, this is Daniel. He’s the town’s wizard of a mechanic. We were just going to grab some coffee. Join us?”

  I both desperately wanted to sit down with my friends and catch up and to sit alone with Daniel and enjoy that cup of coffee. Behind Walter’s head, I could see Rocky grinning and realized that Daniel and I weren’t going to have a quiet moment no matter what. I threw him a glance, “You okay if they join us?”

  “Of course,” he said as he bent down to let Mayhem and Taco off their leashes so that they could rush into the waiting arms of the two men who were far too excited to see them. Stephen and Walter were dog people, and these hounds knew it. The amount of squealing and wagging was extremely mutual.

  Eventually, the pups took off to sniff and nap, and we headed into the café where Rocky had already prepared a large French press of coffee and put it with what had to be a secret stash of her mom’s cinnamon rolls – they had certainly been secret from me – on the larger table near the front window. She gave me a wink as she headed back to the counter.