When I walked in, I was surprised to see my mom and Lu at one of the café tables. They had tiny pieces of paper spread in front of them and were deep in conversation. As curious as I was about what they were doing, I decided to leave them be and spend a little time decompressing from the events at the police station by straightening some shelves.
We didn’t have a large poetry selection, but I always made sure we carried a few titles from both popular poets, the current poet laureate, and local writers. When I needed a quiet few minutes, this was a quick and easy section to put to rights, and the satisfaction of seeing orderly books always eased something in me. Fortunately, the shelves were a bit of a mess today, which meant someone had been browsing heavily, and I could see that several spaces on the shelf were empty.
With the shelves tidied, I scanned our inventory and saw that, indeed, we were due to order a few poetry titles back in, including the beautiful collection, African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle and Song. I’d added the book to our collection as soon as it came out because I loved the poetry of Kevin Young, the editor, and from time to time, I’d dipped into the pages, letting the rhythm of words fill me. I hadn’t read the whole book, but I did savor the poems I spent time with. Since my shop was in a former gas station that had at one time been listed in The Negro Motorist Green Book, it felt right and important to honor black people in every way I could, even if I only had a few minutes to do so.
I placed the order for the titles we needed and then noticed Marcus talking to a little boy in the children’s section. The boy’s clothes were a little ragged, and I saw that he had just a few crumpled dollar bills in his hand. I scanned the store for his parent, hoping that this wasn’t another time when someone thought the bookstore was a good place to leave an unattended child, and was pleased to see a smiling woman nearby. She too looked a little worn, but she seemed happy, joyful even, as her son talked books with Marcus.
While I pretended to straighten the counter so that I could watch Marcus and his new friend, I saw them go to the picture book shelves and study a few titles. Eventually, the boy seemed to settle on one, and they brought it to the counter. The book was a delightful story called Slow Samson about a sloth who is always late to his friends’ parties.
As the boy approached, Marcus met my gaze and held it, and a kind of silent communication that we had developed in our months of working together passed between us. The boy slipped the book onto the counter, and then he laid his three dollars and eighteen cents up there, too. The book cost well over fifteen dollars even with Marcus’s employee discount. But Marcus knew that I, almost as much as he did, wanted to foster a love of books in the young.
“It’s your lucky day. There’s a sale on this book, and the cost is exactly $2.18. So you still have a dollar.” The boy beamed and looked back at his mother who mouthed a quiet thank you to me when he turned back to gather his change.
“You two have a nice day, and enjoy Samson’s story. It’s one of my favorites,” I said.
Marcus walked mother and son to the front door, and when he returned, he tried to hand me the balance for the book from his wallet.
“No sir,” I said as I put up my hand to stop him. “As of this minute, we now have a children’s book fund for just such situations. If either you or I see a child who wants a book but can’t afford it, we take what they can give and credit the rest quietly to them. I’ll set aside a couple hundred dollars a month for just that purpose.”
Marcus smiled. “I like that idea, Harvey. Thanks. I hope you don’t mind . . .”
“I loved what you just did, Marcus. Thank you.” I thought for a minute. “And if we don’t use all the funds in any given month, will you coordinate a book giveaway by buying books to give away with the remaining dollars?”
My kind-hearted assistant manager swallowed hard. “I would be honored. Maybe Mom could note it in the newsletter?”
“Definitely. You take care of the logistics, and we’ll plan on the first day of each month to do a small book giveaway for children who come in.” I didn’t know exactly how we’d manage the influx of kids and the limited number of titles we’d have, but I trusted Marcus to sort that out.
With the store fairly quiet and Marcus riding his kindness high, I took a minute to step over and check in with Mom and Lu. When I approached, they each looked up and smiled. Then, Mom said, “How does this look to you, Harvey?”
I stared at the slips of paper on the table and said, “Are you planning a flotilla?”
Mom scowled at me. “We’re trying to organize the food trucks so everyone can get in and out easily.”
I smiled. “I figured, Mom. But this is good practice if you ever do a benefit involving boats.” I studied the arrangement. “It looks good to me, but you know that spatial reasoning is not my forte.”
Lu laughed. “Mine either, but I do know how to drive a food truck. I think this layout gives us the space we’ll all need to maneuver and give customers room to queue up for food.”
“Looks like it to me,” I said as I studied the design again. “Is there room for me to have a table to sell Lippman’s books? I figured that might be a nice gesture since she is donating her time.”
“Agreed. We’ve set up a space for you right here,” Mom said as she pointed at a small square right near the entrance to the library.
“Cool,” I said, “but I guess the really important question is how close am I to Luke’s cupcake table?”
Mom grinned. “He’s right here.” She indicated the table next to mine, and I laughed. “Perfect. The sugar high will keep me going all night.”
For the next few minutes, the two women walked me through the plan for Friday, and it sounded amazing. Laura Lippman would speak or read, her choice, for just a few minutes, and then, the next morning, if she agreed, she’d sign those books here at the store. Food would be served before, during, and after her talk, and Mindy had agreed to open the library so that the book sale could happen at the same time.
Quietly, Lu also told me that Henri and Bear were creating a memorial piece of art to unveil that night. Henri was a talented weaver, and I knew that whatever she created would honor Sidney well and be a lovely addition to the library.
Everything sounded perfect, and my only job was to ask Laura if she was willing to sign books at my store the next morning. I texted her to ask, and she agreed readily. “You need to benefit from this, too,” she wrote.
I smiled. “Thanks,” I replied and then did a panicked call to my distributor to see how many copies of her books he could get me by Friday. Fortunately, he was happy to oblige and dropship an additional hundred books to arrive on Friday morning. I placed the large order with his assurance that, as always, I could return any copies I didn’t sell or want to stock, a great boon for a small indie bookstore like me. I then collapsed back onto the stool in relief.
For the next couple of hours, Marcus and I did our thing, selling books, suggesting books, and straightening shelves. We were just busy enough that I had to focus entirely on the store, which felt amazing given how scattered my thoughts had been with the fundraiser and the murder investigation.
Still, when it came time to close up shop, I did so gladly and looked forward to a few hours at home to simply relax with Mart and eat a good meal. Fortunately, Taco and Mayhem seemed just as eager as I was to get home, and we took a casual but direct walk home, where they then played in the yard like puppies before passing out on the patio.
It was a lovely night, so I poured a glass of wine and sat down in the evening light to wait for Mart, who was bringing home Thai food from our favorite place in Annapolis.
The song birds were just beginning to dance around our feeders, and I could see the first leaves coming out on the trees. Someday Mart and I wanted to landscape back here, make it a real garden oasis, but for now, it was just a nice lawn with a couple good shade trees. It was enough, tonight, to help soothe my frayed nerves.
I almost ignored my phone when it rang, but given all that was going on, I didn’t think it responsible to skip even one call. It was Pickle with an update to let me know that Stephen and Walter had gladly agreed to shelter Cagle with regular police patrols checking in. “It’s a good thing, and Joe seems more at ease now that he’s not in the center of town.”
“That’s good,” I said and braced myself for what I knew was coming.
“Do you think you could come tomorrow and talk with him, Harvey? I thought maybe Walter and Stephen could get him to open up, but he hasn’t.”
I sighed. “Okay. But if he’s not willing to talk to the two kind men who took him in, I’m not sure he’s going to be forthcoming with a woman he’s never met.”
To say I slept fitfully that night would be a massive understatement, but when I woke, I decided I was going to do my best to help Cagle trust me, mostly so that I could help Tuck. Although, I knew Tuck would not be thrilled I was doing this, both because it might put me in danger but also because it was really his job, not mine.
Still, it didn’t look like Cagle was going to talk to the actual police, so maybe I could do something, get some information for Tuck that he couldn’t get for himself. That’s at least what I told myself when I loaded Mayhem and Taco in the car and gave Aslan a can of tuna and the house to herself. She looked almost ecstatic.
The drive out to Walter and Stephen’s place was always beautiful, but with the fresh spring green on the grasses and trees, it was particularly lovely. I found myself relaxing and enjoying the rare few minutes of time I had to listen to my current audio book, Little Bookshop of Murder. It was a great read because it was, of course, about a bookstore and, of course, a mystery. But I could only read it in short bursts because it felt a little too close to home sometimes. Thus, it was the perfect audio book for me, who only got in her car once or twice a week.
When I pulled into my friends’ driveway, I was tempted to keep listening to my book for a while, but I knew they’d already seen me and I didn’t want to look like I was avoiding my obligation, although now I really wanted to do that. Suddenly, this seemed like a very bad idea.
Still, I had made a commitment, and whenever I could, I did what I’d said I’d do, another reason I was getting more and more careful about saying yes.
Stephen opened the door and immediately pulled me into a hug as he whispered, “You can still change your mind, Harvey.” He pushed me back and looked in my face. “You look tired.”
Only a friend as dear as Stephen could say something like that to me without it being an insult, but he cared. And I knew he was telling the truth. “I am tired, but I’m here. So let’s do this.” I looked around and smiled at Walter, who was cooking up a feast in the kitchen if the smells were to be believed. “Tell me you have coffee.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Of course. I have your vanilla latte all ready to froth.” He headed for their cappuccino machine and got steaming.
Cagle and Pickle were sitting at the island across from Walter, and they both looked relaxed, much more refreshed than when I’d seen them yesterday at the sheriff’s station. I tried to muster some enthusiasm as I said, “Good Morning, Gentlemen. I see you’re strategically positioned to get the bacon just the way you like it.”
Joe actually smiled and said, “I’m not a demanding person except when it comes to breakfast food. I like my bacon crisp and my eggs runny.”
I grimaced. “And I’m the opposite. Pull my bacon off soon, but let those eggs get good and dry for me, okay Walter?”
Walter saluted and tightened his apron around his belt. “If I ever need a job, this is good practice for being a line cook.” He smiled and flipped the bacon over before removing three pieces to a paper towel.
I slid into the remaining bar stool and grasped the pottery mug that Stephen handed me with both hands. Patience was not one of my strong suits, so I just decided to delve in. “Mr. Cagle, I know you don’t know me, but I’m hoping you might tell me what you know about how Sidney died.”
Cagle turned toward me and said, “You don’t think I know you, Ms. Beckett, but I know everyone here in St. Marin’s a little. Nature of my job and my life, I guess. You’ve done a good thing with that bookstore, and the events you’ve held have helped a lot of people.”
As I sipped the latte that was almost as good as the ones Rocky made, I took a deep breath and continued. “Well, thank you. I try to do what I think is right whenever I can, which is why I’m here. I’m wondering if you can help find who killed the librarian. Our friend Sheriff Mason isn’t one to admit he needs help, but for this, he kind of does.”
“He’s up for re-election, isn’t he?” Cagle said.
I sighed. “Yes, but—”
“And they’re giving him hell because he’s black.” Cagle said it as a statement not a question.
“Yes,” I said with relief that my presence here wasn’t going to be read as political. “They are.”
Cagle reached over and snagged a piece of bacon right off the griddle and chewed on the crispiest end. “You asked her to come,” he said to Pickle.
I looked at his attorney and my friend beyond him at the counter, and Pickle nodded. “I did. Harvey is a good listener, and she’s the one who found Sidney. Plus, anything you tell her she can tell the sheriff without compromising your case.”
When I glanced over at Walter and Stephen, they were laying the food out on plates on the counter. Neither of them looked the least bit bothered that this man who was staying in their home wasn’t willing to confide in them. I admired their generosity and open-spirits so much.
As we all made plates and gathered around the farm table with the view of the water, Cagle told us what he’d seen. “I was coming into the library, and I saw Reeves in his huge, blue pickup leaving the library. I came in my usual way, through the trees at the back, so I wasn’t sure he saw me.” I must have looked puzzled because he said, “I prefer walking the trails rather than the sidewalks.”
“But yesterday, you came to think he did?” I asked between bites of delicious scrambled eggs.
He nodded. “I didn’t really think much of it at the time, but then, when I came in the library, I saw that young woman with blonde hair take something off the table in the back. She was acting all secretive. Looking around and sliding whatever she’d picked up into her pocket. Then, she went the long away around to get to the counter at the front, and I couldn’t help thinking she didn’t want anyone to see her coming from that direction of that table.”
Stephen asked, “Did she see you?”
Cagle shook his head. “No. Most people don’t notice me, and I was between the tall shelves looking for a book on gardening without tilling the soil. Trying to preserve the life under the ground, you know.”
Joe Cagle was, as far as I knew, American born and bred, but in his phrasing, I picked up just a hint of Ireland or rural England, maybe. It gave him a quaint air that took some of the edge of his brusque appearance.
I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “Mr. Cagle, what do you think about what you saw on Saturday? Why did you hide and then run?”
Cagle looked down at his plate and sighed. “When you live like I do, reliant on other people’s trust and thoughtfulness to survive, it’s important to not draw negative attention to yourself, especially when you think you saw something nefarious, you know?”
I thought that over for a minute. He had a regular job, but clearly the gas station attendant gig wasn’t enough if he had to depend on odd jobs to make ends meet. I didn’t know that experience because I’d always had steady work to keep up my way of life, but I could see what he meant. “You figured you’d seen something people didn’t want you to see, so you pretended to not see it.”
He nodded. “Aye. I’m not proud of it, and if I had known Sidney was dead, I would have come forward right away. I just figured I was witnessing some kind of illicit liaison or something.”
Walter leaned forward, “Between Lucy and Reeves?”
Cagle shrugged. “Maybe. Seems like that’s possible now, but at the time, I didn’t think anything of Reeves much, just that young woman being so cagey and all.” He sighed. “When you found Sidney’s body, I just didn’t want to be involved.” He looked at each of us in turn, and I felt the effort required to hold our eyes for even a few seconds each. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I reached over and took his hand. “We know.” I didn’t understand his instinct to hide. I seemed to have the opposite one and was always getting myself involved in things I probably shouldn’t. I did understand the guilt of having done something you now regret. “I don’t think it made any difference that you didn’t come forward right then. Sidney was already dead.”
“Yeah,” Cagle sighed. “But it might have meant we caught whoever did this sooner.”
Pickle patted his client on the back. “Maybe. But we have the information now, and you have a safe, warm place to be until the sheriff catches the killer.”
I looked at Pickle and then Cagle and said, “If it’s alright with you, I will go tell the sheriff what you told me. He’ll want to talk to you himself, but I expect that can wait if you need to regroup a little, Mr. Cagle.”
Cagle shook his head. “I’ll be ready whenever he is. Now that I’ve shared it once, it doesn’t seem so scary. It feels safe here, too.” He smiled at Stephen and Walter, who beamed.
“Not only safe, but fun. We have a Lord of the Rings marathon to get to, my friend,” Walter said.
“I’ve never seen those movies,” Cagle said to me, “and since I can’t really work, garden, or beach comb, seems like as good a time as any.”
I stood up. “Mr. Cagle, that sounds like a perfect day to me. Thank you.”
Pickle walked me to the door and gave me a quick hug. “Thank you, Harvey. If you would, please ask Tuck to come out soon. He’ll know to be discreet, but I think the sooner we can get Joe’s statement on the books, the better.”
I nodded. “I’m on my way there now.” I waved to everyone and walked down the steps to my car.
As I climbed into the driver’s seat, I felt a little scurry up my neck, like someone was watching, but I didn’t want to look nervous if that was actually the case. I pulled out without swiveling my head and just tried to keep my eyes straight ahead as I pulled away. I didn’t see anyone, but the sensation didn’t fade until I was down the road a bit.
With about a half-hour until the shop opened, I texted Tuck and asked if he could meet me at my store. “But come in the back,” I said.
“Be there in two.” When he arrived, I let Tuck in through the back door of the store, and while I did my usual opening chores, he walked with me. “You didn’t want me to be seen coming in?” he guessed as he helped me restock the front tables with the most popular titles of the week.
“Not after I just came from Walter and Stephen’s,” I said, impressed by his intuitiveness. “Cagle told me what happened.”
Tuck sighed and nodded. “Okay. We’ll talk about your decision to visit him later, but for now, what did he say?
I relayed what Cagle had told me about what he saw at the library and then I told Tuck about Walter’s theory that maybe Reeves and Lucy were in a relationship.
“You mean she’s “Sweet Sugar?”” he asked.
I shrugged. “I have no idea, but it’s a possibility I guess.” I handed Tuck a dust rag, and he graciously dusted shelves alongside me. “I don’t even know if Reeves being there and Lucy taking the note are related. It’s just a guess.”
Tuck carefully ran his rag along the front of the fiction shelves as he said, “Looks like I need to talk to both Reeves and Lucy. He should be easy to bring in without tying anything directly to what Cagle told you, given his outburst at the station yesterday.”
I nodded. “Right. Good.” I folded my own rag – one of Mart’s old running socks – and said, “Have you located Lucy yet?”
“No, not yet.” He shook his head. “She’s local. Even went to Salisbury for college, but I haven’t gotten any leads on where she is hiding away. Her mom seems to be as clueless about her whereabouts as we are.”
“Maybe she’s really scared like Cagle?” I suggested, not wanting to think ill of the lovely young woman who did such great work in the children’s section of the library.
“Or maybe she’s a murderer,” Tuck said grimly as he stood on a stepstool and wiped the top of the bookshelf in front of him.