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THE RIDE TO DOWNTOWN Escanaba is just under thirty minutes, which means I can listen to about 75% of my favorite true crime podcast in the car, and just when it starts to get good, I have to park and get out. Although it annoys me every time, it also gives me something to look forward to; the drive home, where I find out who the killer is and how they caught him. I’ve slowly eliminated dozens of podcasts from my digital library when the attempts at humor and witty banter become too much – just give me the facts, please.
I’m happy to see Heather’s car parked behind the bookstore as I slowly pull into the alley. She’s been working here part-time, stocking, pricing, and entering books into inventory. It’s the perfect job for her; she can get out of the house, make some extra money, and not have to deal with the public.
I park my car next to hers and enter the shop through the aging gray wooden door at the rear of the store. I prefer this entrance because it’s discreet and doesn’t have a tiny gold bell hanging from the top that announces my arrival.
“Well, if it isn’t my golden goose!” shouts Dottie, the elderly owner of Storytime Books. She and her husband opened the place decades ago. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of children’s story hour, where I’d sit cross-legged on the floor with the other kids and hang on every word out of Miss Dottie’s mouth. My mom would scan the romance section while we learned exactly what happens when you give a mouse a cookie. Dottie’s husband, Dan, would give us all Blow-Pops on our way out and shout “Until next time, munchkins!” down the sidewalk as we all got in our parent’s cars to leave. Dan passed from a stroke back in 2009, but Dottie doesn’t have any plans to close up shop. Each January, she presents me with a plaque, made at the local sports trophy shop, that totals the number of my books sold at her store the previous year. I think it gives her just as much joy to give it to me as it does for me to receive it.
“Well, your golden goose is very excited to see two of her favorite ladies!” I exclaim, holding my hands out in the direction of Dottie and Heather, who is sitting on an oversized cardboard box, fiddling with a pricing gun that appears to be jammed.
“Quinn!” Heather shouts, setting down the gun and walking over to embrace me.
“What’s the latest with Susan?” I ask as I slowly pull out of the hug but hold both of her elbows to keep her near. “I’ve been thinking about you all week.”
“That’s exactly what we were talking about before you walked in. We never have customers this early, let’s go up front and have some coffee so we can properly gossip,” says Dottie. If you want to know anything in this town, she’s the one to ask. She somehow manages to hear everything, despite never leaving the shop.
For the next hour, we sit in miniature chairs at the children’s table up front, drinking our coffee and talking about the rumors surrounding Susan’s death while I sign one-hundred copies of my newest book to satisfy the preorders for Dottie’s shop.
Although the news of Heather finding Susan’s body was the trending topic for days, it appears this town has gained some common sense and very few people seem to think she actually had anything to do with the murder. I don’t believe Jess will have to make that call to Heather’s lawyer, as the accounts of Susan harassing the members of the city council are already wide enough to cast suspicion on half of them. Much to Heather’s delight, Susan also had a falling out with her snooty little bridge club the week before the murder. The suspect list is endless. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t writing the opening to a book in my head while Heather and Dottie tell me about Susan’s enemies and frenemies. I still cannot believe we are discussing a murder that happened in Escanaba. The misadventures of Mitzi Matthews were a once-in-a-lifetime chain of events; I never dreamed there would be another homicide while I was still alive to hear about it.
I wind things up with the ladies shortly before 1 pm, as I’m due at the radio station across the street to record some promos. I promise Dottie I’ll schedule a signing soon and assure Heather I’ll call her to set up a dinner the following week. As I’m walking out the door, Dottie grabs my hand.
“Quinn, I just have to tell you again how proud I am of your success. Even when you were a little girl, I knew there was something special about you. Your mother would be so proud.”
I smile and thank her. This is one of those compliments that I’ll think about for days and regret not sufficiently communicating how much it meant for me to hear.
The radio promos are awkward, as expected.
This is Quinn Harstead, reminding you to read a book this month, blah, blah, cringe. I cannot stand the sound of my voice, which is why I don’t narrate my audiobooks. It’s a fee I’m happy to pay to a trained professional.
I shake it off and take advantage of the overcast day and lack of traffic on Ludington Street by popping in a few shops. Nobody recognizes me, or if they do, they don’t say anything. For an entire hour, I go about my business like a normal person, and it feels blissful. By the time I’m done, both hands are filled with shopping bags from locally owned businesses, which makes me feel even better.
I load up my car and drive a few blocks down to D&M Subs to pick up dinner. The two girls working behind the counter squeal when I walk in and gush about my latest novel, which they just finished reading. I answer their questions while they make my order and stay a few extra minutes to take selfies with them and autograph a few napkins, which they assure me they are going to frame when they get home. I’ll never get used to this. I throw a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar on my way out and give them a wink before putting on my oversized sunglasses. Their gasps make me laugh out loud as the door shuts behind me. I miss being that young and excited about everything.
I finish my podcast on the way home (the husband, it’s always the husband) and smile when I see four cars lined up in my driveway: Aiden, Matt, Dad, and Jessie. I spent a lot of lonely years out here when I wasn’t in a good mental space and having a full table at dinner makes me feel like I can exhale again. It took a long time, but things are finally working out as they should.
The five of us have several different conversations going on simultaneously as we devour our sandwiches. Dad has brought his yellow lab, Bubba, over with him and I’m pretty sure each of us has snuck meat from our sandwiches under the table to him so it’s going to be a long night for dad if Bubba’s stomach doesn’t handle the table scraps. It’s a rarity that we are all in jovial moods at the same time, and nobody seems to have anything on their minds other than eating and mindless small talk. Dad even has an extra pep in his step because he finally got a date with Barbara, the owner of a small bakery in town that he’s been pursuing all year. Jessie and I have spent the last ten minutes lecturing him on what to wear and begging him to update his cologne from the Calvin Klein Obsession he’s been dousing himself with since the early ‘90s.
Jessie asks if we mind that she leaves her car here so she can ride home with Matt for the night. Despite my best attempt at nonchalance, I flinch slightly when she asks. I swear I’m doing my best to accept this as the new normal, but it’s just so strange.
Aiden rubs my back as we stand in the foyer and say goodbye to everyone. Once the door closes behind them, Aiden turns to me and takes my face in both of his hands.
“Quinn, I know. It’s weird. But they are in love, and we need to be happy for them. So, do your best, okay?”
I roll my eyes, which makes him cock his head to the right and give me an annoyed schoolteacher tsk, but he smiles once I give in and nod my head.
“I’ll do my best,” I promise.
I’m mildly annoyed when he gently shakes me awake the next morning as the sun is coming up. Today is my day to sleep in and do my writing in the afternoon.
“Babe, wake up,” he whispers.
I groan and pull the sheets up over my head. He pulls them back down.
“Quinn, you need to get up.”
Panic sets in. Is it Dad? Did something happen?
Aiden brushes a few curls out of my face and tilts my chin up.
“The police are here, and they want to talk to you.”