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He walked to the rear entrance of the store and examined the alley that ran behind the building. Brody was checking on his truck, a 1985 Ford F-150, when the brass bell rang again. He sighed, understanding then that customers coming into the store might be a regular occurrence.
Before closing the door, he took another look at the alley. It was spotless. Strangely so. He glanced in both directions, familiarizing himself with its layout. If he ever needed to make a hasty exit from the store, it would be an accessible route. On the opposite side of the alley were a row of houses that he could not see due to the large hedges that most of them had. If he couldn’t see the neighbors, he thought, then they couldn’t see him.
It wasn’t a bad location, he considered, although he would soon need to walk around the block to determine who actually lived in those houses.
He pulled the door closed, locked it, and headed toward the front of the shop. He passed the entrance to the basement stairway. It was dark and empty down there—too damp to store any books—but perfect for a few old pieces of furniture.
A woman stood at the book spinner, turning it slowly as her eyes scanned each title. She wore a light-yellow summer dress that hung from petite shoulders. Her straight mousy brown hair fell into her face as she bent her head to read the lower book titles. When her large round glasses slid down her nose, she pushed them up into place with a single finger.
She slowly squatted so she could better see the books. She pulled a book from the spinner, turned it over, and read the back cover.
Not wanting to disturb her, Brody strolled behind the counter where he sat on the cushioned stool. He put an elbow on the worktop, rested his chin in his hand, and watched her.
As she returned the book to the spinner, the orange cat appeared. It rubbed itself against her leg, and when she bent over, it allowed her to pet it.
“Hello, Rhodenbarr,” the woman said, her voice light and airy.
“Rhodenbarr?” Brody asked.
The woman started at the sound of his voice. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”
“Is that the cat’s name? Rhodenbarr?”
“It is for me.”
Brody’s face contorted playfully in confusion. “What’s that mean?”
The woman lifted the tom, cradling it in her arms. “A cat’s personality reflects the human they are with at any particular moment. Therefore, that person should be able to name the cat.”
“And you picked Rhodenbarr?”
“Wouldn’t you? I mean, the only addendum to the rule is that since this is a mystery bookshop, the name has to be from a mystery protagonist. Rhodenbarr seemed a natural choice.”
“Naturally,” Brody said, agreeing with the oddly cute woman even though he had no idea what she just said. “Who created this naming rule?”
“Why Alice, of course. This is her cat.”
“And who is Alice?”
The woman eyed him suspiciously. “The owner of the bookstore. Your boss.”
He stared at her.
“Alice Walker?” the woman said.
Brody shook his head.
The woman glanced around the shop. “Where is Alice?
He shrugged. “I own the bookstore now.”
“Wait. What? Alice sold The Red Herring?” the woman said, confused. Her reaction caused the cat to jump from her arms and scamper into one of the aisles. She stepped to the counter. “How is that possible?”
“I bought it.”
“Bought it?”
“Are we an echo?”
“I don’t understand?” the woman said. “She never mentioned wanting to do such a thing. Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did she sell it to you?”
“A few days ago, I guess.”
The woman studied Brody for a moment then said, “I don’t know about this.”
“What don’t you know?” Brody asked with a smile. The woman was disarmingly sweet.
“You don’t look like the bookstore type.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning offense. “I like books.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brody said. “Agatha Christie is my favorite. I also like Sue Grafton and Janet Evanovich.”
The woman crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “Well... you might be all right. Maybe.”
“Thank you,” he confidently said.
Something fell in the back of the store, and Brody yelled, “Cat! Whatever you’re doing, knock it off.”
“Cat? That’s the best name you could come up with?”
“Cut me some slack,” Brody said with a slight grin. “I just learned about the naming rule. Until you showed up, I’ve had to survive by my own rules.”
“Alice didn’t tell you about the cat?”
Brody’s smile faded. “No.”
“That seems odd, doesn’t it? To leave the cat with the store and not tell you about the naming rule? I’m surprised she would include the little guy with the purchase.”
“I was surprised by it, too.”
“Well,” the woman said, glancing around the store as she thought, “give him a name. You can’t go around calling a perfectly good cat, Cat. Only Audrey Hepburn can get away with that.”
He stared at her.
“Holly Golightly? Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” she said as if that jumble of five words would clear up the confusion.
Brody added a shrug and a head tilt to go along with his stare.
The woman rolled her eyes. “You need to come up with a name for the cat. Tell me, who is your favorite detective?”
Brody’s gaze dropped to the counter where he saw MacDonald’s book and its tagline A Travis McGee novel. He lifted his eyes to the woman and slowly said, “How about Travis?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Travis? Really?”
He nodded.
“As in Travis McGee?”
A car honked outside and she turned to look.
With her attention diverted, Brody swiped The Deep Blue Good-by off the counter, catching it with his foot so it wouldn’t hit the floor and make a sound.
When the woman returned her focus to him, she leaned in and said, almost breathlessly, “Travis is a guilty pleasure of mine. He’s sort of a misogynist, but don’t you just love him?”
“I do,” Brody said, “I do.” At that moment, he really wished he knew who Travis McGee was.
She thrust out her hand and smiled. “I’m Daphne Winterbourne.”
He carefully held her hand and introduced himself. “Brody Steele.”
“Like Danielle?” she muttered as she focused on the tattoo covering the back of his hand. She examined the inky ball of fire. Her free hand hovered above it as if to feel some imaginary heat.
Brody didn’t know how to respond to her question, so he asked, “Where do you work, Daphne Winterbourne?”
She let go of his hand. “At the Pleasant Peasant, the grocery store up the street.”
“And what do you do there?”
“I’m the bookkeeper.”
“No kidding,” he said. “I used to be a bookkeeper.”
“Before owning a bookstore?”
“Right.”
“That’s funny.”
“I believe someone thought it was.”
“What?”
“What?” Brody repeated.
The woman leaned in. “Who is someone?”
“I’m working on that.”
Daphne eyed the man behind the counter. “I need to get back. I’m on my break and wanted to get away for a few moments and see if Alice had reopened the store. I guess she did, or well, you did.”
He nodded, trying not to smile like a goofy kid.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Steele.”
“You as well, Mrs. ...?”
“Ms.”
A sheepish grin appeared. “Ms. Winterbourne.”
She nodded once before leaving, the little bell announcing her departure from the store. She paused outside the window, looked back at him, and waved good-bye. He returned the gesture.
The ocean’s aroma and the humidity that snuck inside the bookstore no longer bothered him.
Maybe living in Pleasant Valley wouldn’t be so bad after all.