On Sunday, I woke up exhausted, feeling like sleep was a missed opportunity. Yesterday had been a draining day and my mind just didn’t shut off last night. I looked over at the beautiful view from my bedroom window and my eyes went to the empty dog bed, which jolted me awake.
“Buddy?” I called and I felt the soft thump of his tail. The small black donut was on the end of my bed. “What are you doing, mister?” There is nothing better for soothing your mood than the steadiness of a dog.
Before long, we were on our way to Books & Brew. The crowd, if we were lucky enough to have one, would arrive later in the day, after church, after checkouts and check-ins and after the ferries started arriving. So, I intended to enjoy the quiet time, tackling the work from yesterday. There was some inventory to put out and I wanted to give the store a good cleaning while no one was there. Buddy was happy to settle into one of the comfy club chairs and supervise my work.
I was carrying the events from yesterday with me as I worked. My arms felt heavy and my back was tight. After three or four things were crossed off my list, I knew the only way I could start processing what happened was to put my pen to paper and map out all I had learned. So, Buddy and I sat together, each lost in our own thoughts. It was very likely both of us had Carl on our minds.
“Carr? Are you in here, hello?” I heard Barb calling from the porch and we went to greet her.
“Hey, Barb! Come in.” I smiled, already feeling better now that I put my eyes on her. She looked unrested, too, but overall, she seemed to mentally be in a better place than yesterday. “I purposely did not call you today, I was hoping you could sleep in a little.”
“Not much sleep for me, I’m afraid,” she said, “But I ate well last night and sat on my porch. I think maybe some part of the shock has worn off, a little at least.”
I told her what I had been up to before she arrived and handed her my notebook with all of yesterday’s events recorded in it. She read all of it quickly and said, “I really had no idea Missy and Carl were a thing. Never saw them together once!”
I went to make us some tea and listened to Barb’s suggestion of how we should handle the situation in which we now found ourselves. “We both know this is a small community,” she said. “People will find out we were the ones who discovered Carl and there will be lots of questions, lots of theories, and lots of rumors. We needed to decide what we are willing to say—which at this point is pretty easy because we don’t really know much.”
Deputy Julie’s promise of touching base soon was hanging over us. The more we knew, the harder it was going to be to keep our neighbors and friends at arm’s length.
Barb finally said what we both were thinking: “If there is a murderer here, we need to protect ourselves and each other.”
“I’m so impulsive, I wish I never said anything about getting those pictures. I wish I never brought this to our door. I'm sorry Barb, I am sorry for making you a part of this. You know, when Rob and I would argue, sometimes it bothered him that I jumped in or said something without thinking it through. Now, instead of Rob, it’s you who has to deal with my mess. I hate that I did this to you.”
After several moments of searching the depth of her teacup, Barb looked up. “You don’t honestly believe all that nonsense, do you? I mean, come on, you didn’t make me go to Governor’s Point, I wanted to! I love it there but I’m always distracted and running around, who knows if I would have even noticed the gate? And it’s just not true that you dumped a ‘mess’ on me. My life is always chaos, hurrying here, hurrying there. When you live alone, you don’t have anyone point out your quirks and I guess mine are getting worse with age. I’ve lived alone a long time since Danny left. I don’t think you’re as impulsive as you think you are, I think you put other people first—but you know what you want. When you finally see a chance to do it, you go for it. I don’t accept your apology, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She smiled so kindly, I felt the sting of tears.
It was this and all the other interactions like this that smoothed out the sharp edges of my heart that had emerged since Rob’s death. I know I was more aware of it because the anniversary of his death was here.
Barb somehow sensed what I was thinking. She continued, “And I bet if Rob was sitting in that chair right there, he would say that he did his own fair share of knucklehead things. Carr, you have to be careful not to make him into some kind of a saint. He was a wonderful man and a great father, but he wasn’t perfect either, like the rest of us.” She shifted in her seat, brushed invisible crumbs from her legs, and said “You keep doing you! You’re good for us here on our quirky island. We will figure all this out—together.”
I wasn’t sure how she did it but I felt one hundred pounds lighter when she was done talking. “Even when you’re calling me out, you still make me feel like a champ,” I laughed, and she laughed with me.
“That’s just my special gift,” she said.
The parade of golf carts riding by told me church services were over and Tripp soon arrived. He reported there were quite a few neighbors who had questions for him about what he knew from our experience yesterday. Barb and I looked knowingly at each other. We definitely were going to have to really figure out how we would handle this.
“By the way, Helen said the book club was going to have their meeting here tomorrow, sometime early afternoon. Sound good?” Tripp said.
It didn’t, but I was not interested in explaining why I was trying to have a low-key day tomorrow.
“Hmm, how about moving her group to Tuesday, Tripp? I can get them one of Miss Lucy’s pies and set them up right. I expect a big delivery of books tomorrow and I would rather not be unpacking, sorting, pricing, you know, doing all that stuff, with the ladies here. Can you call Helen and see if Tuesday works for her group?”
He agreed and hopefully so would Helen.
As promised, Deputy Julie paid us a visit. She clearly had not been affected by the sleep issues Barb and I shared. Julie began the conversation with confirmation from the morgue that the victim was Coastal Carl. It wasn’t any easier to hear the news for the second time. As she spoke, I took notes and, when she paused, I told her about Missy’s memory that Carl may have left the lighthouse on Thursday for his final time.
“That fits the timeline. The coroner will have the blood and all the other lab reports tomorrow afternoon, but from the physical analysis, I can tell you now that Carl did not drown. His lungs had no water in them. Unfortunately, he had pretty substantial intracranial hemorrhaging, which seems to have been caused by impact from a flat surfaced object.” She flipped her curls over one shoulder and watched for my reaction.
“So, he was hit on the head and then somehow fell into the pool?” I responded, probably louder than I should have, as it suddenly was noticeably quieter in the room. Julie said nothing. I moved to the porch and felt everyone’s eyes on me as Julie followed.
“Julie, look, I came here to Mongin Island to escape the feeling like impending doom was hanging over my head. I want to help you. I want to do something for Carl, he deserved better than this. It has only been a day, but I swear it feels like it has already been a month of this, of not knowing what happened or who did it, you know?”
“A hundred percent, I get it. There is something in your world now that never was before and look, if you want to help, I am not going to refuse it. Not being right there in the community is definitely going to slow the pieces coming together. The biggest help will be talking to people who may know something. They trust you, and you may have access I don’t. Will you do that? The notes you took with Missy, the things you noticed all were helpful—really helpful.”
With that, we made a plan that I would gather my information and email her my notes daily. We scheduled a brief call twice a day and I got to work. The structure of a project and the idea of working toward a goal were the guardrails I needed to feel the chaos could be contained. I felt a little lighter, in a small way.
When I walked back into the shop, I felt like all eyes were still on me, but I got busy with my to-do list, which so far had not received all that much attention. Tripp had the shelves polished and the glass doors and windows cleaned. I really appreciated him doing that heavy, physical work. The salt in the air coated the windows and doors. Sand found its way in the door even at this distance from the beach. Everything seemed brighter already, but island living did require never-ending maintenance.
While I looked around for my next task, I noticed a familiar tall presence in the non-fiction section. Paul Easton was back, as he had promised. Immediately, my impulse was to pretend I hadn’t seen him. What was it about this man that was so draining? Best to just get it over with, I thought, moving to his side.
“Good morning, Paul. How’s your Sunday going?”
“My Sunday is likely off to a better start than yours, I would surmise. Good morning to you, Carr. Awful circumstances you found yourself in yesterday, as the story presumably goes,” he said as he turned toward me. He was perfectly dressed in light wool gabardine pants, cuffed with polished leather loafers. His golf polo was tucked in at the waist and his brown leather concho belt caught my eye. Again, his formality was not in step with the usual visitors’ wardrobe. How did he manage to keep his clothing, right down to his shoes, so immaculately spotless and wrinkle free on an island where sand and salt are drawn like metal to magnets and everyone sweats?
“Yesterday certainly wasn’t the day we intended, that’s for sure,” I said. “Terrible thing for Carl and for all of us. I’m sorry I wasn’t more available to you yesterday. How can I help you?”
He was a mystery to me, he had only been cordial and yet, there was something so off-putting about him, something that made me immediately defensive and guarded.
“Well, looking at your stock, I may be somewhat premature. But I was wondering—since you are now the sole bookseller on our island—whether you plan to deal in rare books.”
“Rare books? I’m just getting my connections with wholesalers organized to carry current titles—and in the back room, we’re dealing in used books. But rare books are a part of the business I had not necessarily decided to pursue.” Then, I realized that I could at least consider expanding the business. So, I began with another: “But—we are a historic island and perhaps there’s a market here.”
“Perhaps,” he said, pulling a small leather-covered notebook from his pocket. “I actually have a few titles I would be interested in purchasing if you could help me track them down.”
“You couldn’t find them online? That’s usually everyone’s first stop these days.”
“No, I have tried. I was thinking you might—through your distributors perhaps—have access to some networks of dealers as a bookseller yourself, you know. You might make inquiries? Find a range of prices?”
“I’m just thinking other stores, or other people with more established networks may be more helpful to you. I don’t want to waste your time.”
“While other shops have certainly verbalized interest in finding these books, none have been successful. My research awaits and in fact, I was thrilled to learn your establishment opened and coincided with my annual visit.”
“I could try,” I said, taking a slip of paper he offered from his notebook with several titles he had neatly listed in black pen.
As I was studying his list, he said, “Mongin Island has a very rich history, as I am sure you, a woman of great intellect, already know, correct? Yet it is hard to separate fact from lore, isn’t that so?”
I nodded, but he apparently did not expect an answer, because he went on: “I have spent many years studying this region and the role this island played in the founding of your country. Although some may call me an expert, and I do so appreciate their confidence, clearly, I do still have a few unanswered questions. This brings me to you.” He smiled, briefly, which was not at all comforting. His smile seemed forced, and these comments felt rehearsed. Nothing about him seemed authentic, unplanned, or spontaneous.
I found myself trying to figure out what he wasn’t saying versus what he actually did say. I said, “Of course, we all know of the island’s role in both the Revolutionary War and the Civil War. But tell me a little more about these books you want. One of these titles seems to be about the coast before the Revolutionary War. What’s your project?”
“A valid question indeed. It is the Revolutionary War that is of particular interest to me. Certainly, we are on opposite sides of that one, but we can still be friends.” He laughed slightly. I was convinced now that he had rehearsed this whole presentation. “That era and the colonial era before that are my current field of study.”
“And you really couldn’t find these books yourself? With all your research and your own contacts? To be honest, I would have to start from scratch myself,” I said. Clearly, I knew little about this side of the business. I was beginning to think there were catches in this offer that I could not foresee. “This isn’t an expertise I had planned to develop for the store.”
“Well, please consider it, because this is potentially lucrative for you and well, in this case, for me. To locate these particular books, you are probably going to have to reach out to rare book collectors who—I must confess—I’ve found to be impossible fortune hunters! I’ve made my own inquiries but was thinking that a third party—a new bookseller like yourself—might want to help a potential loyal customer. I would imagine that dealers would love to make the acquaintance of someone with a serious inquiry with some potentially big payoffs for them. This is a good way to help me and of course, help yourself. May I implore you to help me? I would be forever in your debt.”
“Okay, let’s sit down and make a few notes,” I said and ushered Paul to the big table on our Trading Floor. We sat down once more to go over his list. It turned out Paul had done extensive research on the wars fought in and around our island and he was happy to share many of the highlights. He had facts and figures on the societal, economic, and policy effects of many battles, including the three pre-Revolutionary War conflicts fought on Mongin Island.
“You are aware that the Spanish, who were part of the European colonization of this island, did not want us, the English, so close to all their settlements in Florida? You know this, I assume. They encouraged Native American tribes to attack our colonists. Sadly for those Native Americans, they lost all three battles, and unfortunately for you, they helped to foster a British stronghold here, ready to fight the American colonists just a few years later. This is likely not part of your educational narrative, I presume. The English who settled here in that era were a force, I say!” Paul exclaimed, his voice growing stronger with pride as he got to the end of this history lesson. His eyes were wide, his face was red, and stared at me with an intensity that caused me to back up a little.
I was both impressed and leery of his request. “That is a part of our island’s history many people may not fully appreciate or understand,” I said. “I think most people are aware that Mongin was part of both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, but I don’t think people know these details. Would you be interested in doing a presentation on this topic, here at the store? I think people would like to learn more and we could schedule a casual get-together one evening. I know for many of us, we didn’t cover these smaller battles in school and think about the Revolutionary War as more of a northern battle, you know: Boston Tea Party and all.” I thought Paul would love the opportunity to be the subject matter expert with a captive audience.
The spell was broken and Paul was back to some kind of a character in community theater. “How very kind of you to humor me,” he said as he smoothed his hair and straightened his shoulders into his rod-straight posture. “I am unfortunately otherwise engaged and cannot offer my services in this capacity.”
I seemed to have failed some kind of test I didn’t realize I was taking.
“No, honestly, I think—” I started.
He cut me off. “It is just that I only have a matter of weeks on the island this time and I am determined to complete this phase of my research as soon as possible. I have been stalled at this impasse for far too long. I came in today hoping to establish a good working relationship with you. I truly am pleased you’ve opened this establishment and I wish you well. I thought my request might be as favorable to you as it will be to me.”
“Certainly, and this idea is—definitely intriguing. I have a lot on my plate right now, but I will do my best.”
“Well, if you can perhaps find the time to pursue this sleuthing for me, in the very near future, I do want to emphasize that there should be a financially beneficial gem or two on this list—from your perspective, I mean, in terms of your own fees.”
“I would be happy to try.”
“Thank you,” he said, rising. “And I do not want to impose on your kindness much longer. You certainly have been most attentive to me. As I have explained, I realize that these books are not easily available. Some were published as small print runs by regional printer-binders that are long gone. They never made it into library collections. I’m laying out a real challenge here for you.”
“As I said, my relationships with my distributors are all new. I can certainly ask them, on your behalf, about these books. Of course, I will do that for you, Paul, but I can’t promise great results. I just don’t have a lot of well-established professional connections yet and I have been purchasing mostly commercial runs. I’m fully admitting that rare books would be a brand-new venture for me.” Suddenly, I was more nervous than I had been in weeks, rattling on about our agreement, repeating myself, hoping to make this clear to him.
“I do understand,” he said, rather coldly. “There are several critically important concerns I have. I cannot emphasize enough the magnitude of the decisions I am making where information from these volumes will contribute to this analysis. I need these books. Do your best, please, and I will reward you for your efforts. I can assure you of that. You have my word.”
I promised I would start the search later that day. With a slight bow and a smile, he said, “I bid you a pleasant day.”
Once he was gone, I returned to stocking with Tripp and wondered exactly what Paul Easton was working on that was so mission-critical in relation to these obscure historical texts.
What I discovered that day Paul visited Books & Brew is that my customers were quickly proving to be as fascinating as the volumes on my shelves.