Elle had come out from the backroom just as her plant display toppled over. She’d followed my line of vision and let out a commendable squeak when she saw Harris on the floor.
As I took out my phone and called 911, she waved me behind the counter and away from the body. Unfortunately, we’d had a shared experience with crime scenes before, so we knew not to touch anything, even though everything in me wanted to drape a sheet or something over Huckabee Harris’s pale, white face.
Harris wasn’t my favorite person. I don’t think most people liked him, in fact. He was loud and crude, and he insisted on talking on his flip phone wherever he was, no matter what was going on around him. Two weeks ago, I’d had to ask him to step outside to discuss his bunions instead of carrying on the discussion about Epsom salts and foot massages in the café at the shop. He’d stood up, stepped right into my face, and begun detailing his foot-sanding regimen until I gave up and walked away.
Still, no one deserved to die the way he had. He looked terrified, like something had snuck up on him and scared him to death.
Sheriff Mason arrived at the store within minutes, took one look at the scene, and asked me to step outside. I knew he needed to separate Elle and me to take our statements, so I moved quickly and waited on the bench outside Elle’s shop.
A few minutes later, the sheriff sat down beside me, let me tell him what happened, and then closed his notebook. “Okay, well, that’s pretty straightforward. Any theories?”
I looked sharply at him. “You’re asking my opinion about a murder. Is this some sort of reverse psychology to keep me from butting in again?” The sheriff had been very patient with my sleuthing in the past, but I knew he wasn’t keen to have my input.
“Not exactly reverse psychology. Just hoping that asking directly might get any desire to investigate out of your system.”
I smiled. “Nope, no theories here. Most people didn’t like him, though.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Last week, he stormed into our office and demanded I arrest his neighbors because,” the sheriff rubbed his forehead so hard I thought he might bruise himself, “they were building a house in a place – on their property, mind you – that would limit the directions he could shoot deer from his own front porch come hunting season.”
I gave the sheriff a puzzled look. “Is that legal, I mean to hunt from your front porch?”
“It is, but I don’t love it. Too easy to shoot recklessly. Plus, the deer never have a chance. But technically, yes, it’s legal.” He sighed. “What is not legal is to shoot toward another person’s home. Harris knew that, so he thought that people shouldn’t be able to build in his ‘hunting zone,’ as he called it.”
I didn’t think I had an eye roll big enough for that idea, but I restrained myself out of respect for the dead.
The sheriff shook his head. “Anyway, there will be no shortage of people who didn’t like Harris, I’m afraid. Can’t figure any of them would want to kill the man, though.”
“Sigh. Do we know how he died?”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “We don’t know anything yet, Harvey.” Then, he sighed, “The cause of death will take some time.”
“DNA?”
Another sideways glance. “You watch too much police TV, Harvey. Maybe switch to reality shows. I hear Daniel really likes that gold mining one.” He turned to face me then. “But yes, we will check for DNA. You do know, though, that the TV shows get this one right. You have to have DNA to match it against. How many of St. Marin’s residents do you think are in CODIS, Harvey?”
I felt my heartrate kick up with excitement. “How many?”
It was the sheriff’s turn to roll his eyes. “It was a rhetorical question, Harvey. I have no idea, but I can tell you, not many.”
Sheriff Tucker Mason was a St. Marin’s native. He’d grown up here, gone away to college at University of Maryland, and then come back to the Eastern Shore to go to the police academy before serving as a deputy for fifteen years and then successfully running for election to the position as sheriff, the first African American sheriff in the county’s history. He had a reputation as quite the prankster, and I’d felt like I’d been completely accepted in town when he asked the cross-country team from the high school to stop by on their afternoon training run on Tuesday because they thought Mayhem might need a little more exercise. At first I’d been puzzled, but then I saw that they had a huge flag that said, “Support Harvey Beckett’s bookshop so she can walk her own dog.” I knew their route wound all through St. Marin’s and then out the major routes into town before heading into the small farm roads, which meant everyone was going to see the sign. I wanted to be miffed, but I couldn’t help but laugh.
The sheriff had stopped by just about the time the team had brought back an exhausted Mayhem, and he’d almost doubled over in laughter when he saw my face.
“I should have known I had you to thank for this bit of publicity,” I said with mock anger.
He dropped an arm around my shoulder. “Glad you’ve joined us, Harvey.” He gave me a little squeeze and then climbed back into his patrol car, still laughing.
The next day, business did tick up a bit, and I only had to fend off two over-the-top animal lovers who were worried about Mayhem’s welfare. When they saw her sound asleep on a dog bed that looked like a leather sofa, complete with tufting and a chenille throw (a gift from a customer who LOVED bringing in her miniature pinscher and wanted her to have a comfy bed), they quickly retreated to the animal section and invested in copies of Marley and Me and The Art of Racing in the Rain.
Needless to say, our sheriff wasn’t the stuff of stereotypes. I really liked him because he didn’t take himself too seriously even as he was very good at his job.
He wasn’t joking today, though. Today, he had a murderer to find. After he got our statements, he asked us to leave the shop to him for a bit while his tech team and the coroner finished up, so Elle walked back to my store with me.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” she said as we reached the first cross street and waited for the car at the corner to turn. “Not a thing. I didn’t even know he was in the store. I was so focused on finishing up the arrangements for tonight’s reading that I wasn’t paying that much attention. I assume people will ring the bell when they’re ready to check out.” She looked a little peaked, so I slipped my arm through hers.
“I totally understand.” I gave her arm a squeeze. “I’m glad you didn’t hear anything. If someone wants to do something like that,” I suppressed a shudder, “I don’t know that you could have stopped them. And if you’d tried . . .”
Even more color drained from her face. “I know CPR. Maybe I could have saved him.”
I stopped walking and held her beside me before turning her to face me. “This isn’t your fault, okay? It’s really unfortunate that Harris died, and particularly unfortunate for you that he died in your shop. But you did nothing wrong, and I don’t think you could have done anything to save him, okay?”
She let out a hard breath. “Okay.” I saw her set her shoulders as she turned back up the sidewalk toward my store. “Still, I wish I could have done something.”
I nodded. I felt the same way. Three times now I’d found people’s bodies, and three times I felt helpless, but guilty, too, like I should have been able to help. Even though in every case the person had been very dead. Maybe feeling guilty was better than feeling helpless? I didn’t know.
When we reached the bookstore, I sent Elle right over to Rocky for a cup of chamomile tea and a piece of shortbread and told Mart the whole story.
“Huckabee Harris. The farmer? That guy who complained that we had too many books by women in the window? Is it unkind to say good riddance?”
“Martha Weston!” I whispered.
“Okay, sorry. I don’t mean that, of course, but gracious, that dude was a pain in the rear.” One of the things I loved most about Mart was that she always said what she thought. Okay, I almost always loved that trait. Now, I was just glad that the sheriff wasn’t here to overhear her musings. He would know that Mart had not done this, of course, but no need to cloud the water of suspects.
“Yeah, the sheriff is down there now. Fortunately, he’s keeping things discrete so that it doesn’t disrupt the activities today. Well, except for at Elle’s shop. Poor thing. She feels horrible because she didn’t know he was even in there.” I looked over at our friend and was glad to see Rocky tending to her so well.
“Well, that’s a first. Huckabee Harris seemed to make his presence known wherever he went. Wonder why he was so quiet in Elle’s shop.”
“Good question.” I could feel the cogs starting to turn in my brain, but I didn’t have enough to go on . . . yet. “I expect we’ll know more soon.” I glanced down at the clock on the register screen. “Oh my word. Is it already four? Crap. I’ve got to get the store set up.”
“Right. I’ll start organizing the chairs for the reading.” Mart was already headed toward the storeroom to pull out the brand-new folding chairs I’d picked up from the warehouse store last week. “You were thinking we’d set up in the fiction section, right?” she called over her shoulder.
“Yep. Maybe fifteen chairs to start?” I’d thought about having the reading in the café but had decided being surrounded by books was more fitting. We could always spread out into the aisle by history if we needed to. But if the crowd was small, planning for an intimate event seemed smarter. No need to embarrass David Healey or make people uncomfortable if only a few folks showed.
Man, I hoped more than a few folks showed up.
At five thirty, David came back to the shop, and he and I walked over to Chez Cuisine to meet Daniel, Cate, Lucas, and Elle. Her store had been cleared about an hour before, so she’d rushed back and forth between her shop and mine to get the flowers and place them all. I figured she needed a good meal, so I invited her along, hoping against hope that Max Davies wouldn’t throw a conniption about the need for one extra chair.
I was thrilled to see his restaurant was quite full because I liked when my fellow business owners thrived and because I was hoping a lot of these folks were coming over to the store for the reading. I was even happier when his hostess easily pulled one extra chair up for Elle at our reserved round table in the back corner of the restaurant. Our meal was delicious, even for me, the woman who lived in a waterside town but hated seafood. Appetizers were oysters on the half-shell and these stuffed mushrooms that I wanted to shove in all my pockets. Then, we had Max’s signature coq au vin and risotto, followed by the best crème brulee I’d ever eaten. I felt just like Amelie in the movie when I smacked my spoon against the top and heard the crack. Oddly, Max came out and asked me – and only me – how I had liked the meal. When I told him it was delicious and everyone echoed my words, he bowed, took my hand, and kissed it. I shot Cate a puzzled look that she gave right back to me, and I felt Daniel’s gaze but didn’t know what to say, so just avoided looking at him until Max left and we resumed our conversation.
By the time we got up to leave, we were all roly-poly with good food and very relaxed from three great bottles of wine. Even if the reading only brought a small crowd, I already considered the night a success, and I thought David felt the same way from the small smile on his face.
But things only got better. When we arrived back at the shop, I saw that Mart and Rocky had pulled out every chair we had, including all the café seats and every moveable arm chair, because the store was packed. A quick headcount brought me to sixty people, and a few guests were still coming in for the seven p.m. reading.
David gave me a big grin as I handed him two bottles of water and he propped himself on the stool at the front of the crowd and let me give my welcome and introduction. The reading went fabulously, and we sold all the copies of his books that we had on hand and even placed a few special orders for more.
By the time the last customer left, it was after nine, and I was worn out, but thrilled. I couldn’t believe our first author event had gone so well, and David thanked me profusely as he left to make the drive north to go home.
My friends stayed to help us put the store back in order, and then we all dropped into chairs in the café for a few minutes to debrief and enjoy some hot tea. “Well, that certainly brought the day to an end on a better note,” Elle said as she sipped her peppermint brew.
“I’ll say.” I was so glad the event had gone well, but I was also happy to see that Elle seemed to be feeling better. But then, I noticed the confused glance that passed between Cate and Lucas. “Oh gracious. You hadn’t heard? I found Huckabee Harris dead in Elle’s shop early this afternoon.”
I watched Cate’s face go from surprise to what looked like delight to a carefully composed serious glower. “Wow. Yeah, we hadn’t heard.” Her voice was a few notes lower than usual as she attempted to sound sorrowful. It didn’t work.
Lucas shook his head next to her. “I’m sorry to hear that. Really. But I can’t say that I’ll miss him much.”
“That seems to be the consensus,” Mart said.
“I couldn’t stand that man, but still, no one deserves to die.” Cate’s voice was back to its normal pitch, and she hugged her shoulders. A gentle quiet settled over the room, fatigue and the sadness of death catching up to us.
I was just about to stand and begin the exodus for the evening when a loud banging on the glass above my head startled me. It was Marcus, and he looked terrified.
I rushed over, unlocked the door, and barely got it open before Marcus barreled in. “Harvey, I need your help. The sheriff just called me. He’s on his way to my apartment.” His voice was squeaky, and he was breathless.
I put my hand on his arm. “Okay, Marcus. Why is the sheriff coming to your apartment?” I figured there must be something the sheriff needed, maybe some help with the 5K that was going on in town tomorrow or something.
“He’s coming to arrest me. He says that an eyewitness saw me kill Huckabee Harris.” His eyes were wide, and I thought he might cry. “Harvey, I don’t even know who Huckabee Harris is.”
Rocky put on a fresh pot of decaf. I had called the sheriff and let him know that Marcus was at the shop with us and that he could meet him there. I figured as long as Marcus wasn’t hiding it didn’t matter where the sheriff came to get him. Plus, I had a small hope that we might be able to avoid an arrest altogether if we could work through some things.
As we waited for the sheriff and Rocky set an emergency supply of shortbread on the table by Marcus, I asked him to explain what the sheriff had said. He took a deep breath and said, “He said that someone had reported seeing me at your shop,” he looked at Elle, “early this afternoon, about the time this man Huckabee Harris was killed. But I wasn’t there. I was here all afternoon.”
“I’ll tell the sheriff I saw you here, Marcus, reading.”
“And I’ll let him know that you were working,” Mart said with a quick glance at me. “I tried to stop him, Harvey, but the man can’t help himself. He kept recommending books left and right. He only left the shop a few minutes before you came back in.”
“See, I couldn’t have killed that man.” Marcus’s voice was still quite shaky.
Cate leaned over and put her hand over Marcus’s. “Marcus, I assure you that no one here thinks you killed anyone.” We all nodded, and the tension in Marcus’s face eased a little.
Just then, there was a knock on the front door, and I walked over to let the sheriff in. “Sheriff, thanks for coming here. He was so scared.”
“I know. I hated to call him like that, but I thought it might be better for me to just come by his apartment casually rather than make a public arrest.” He gestured out the window with his chin. “Even drove my personal car to keep things quiet.”
I smiled at my friend. “That was kind of you. But between you and me, you don’t think Marcus actually did this do you?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t. But this witness is adamant. Insists she saw him there at the time of the murder.”
I sighed. “Well, we have witnesses here, a lot of them, including me and Mart, who know he was here all afternoon. That he didn’t leave until around four p.m.”
“Alright then.” A smile lit up the sheriff’s face. “Then all I’ll need are your statements, and we can keep from making any arrests tonight.”
As we walked over toward the café, he said, “Is that coffee?”
“You tell Marcus the good news, and I’ll pour you a cup myself.”
The next morning, when I arrived at the shop about nine thirty, Marcus was waiting. He looked better than he had the night before, but I could tell something was still bothering him. He was pacing back and forth in front of the store with his head down and his hands deep in his pockets.
“Marcus? You okay?”
He jolted a bit when I spoke. “What? Oh yeah, I’m okay. Just wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay. Let’s go.” We opened up the shop, and I gave Marcus his own set of keys so he wouldn’t have to wait outside for me anymore. Then, he fell right into the routine of turning on lights, checking on the dog water bowls, and starting the coffeepots that Rocky had set up the night before. I let him work, even though it was his day off, because it seemed like it was helpful for him to move in his routine.
When the store was all set for opening, we still had fifteen minutes before I unlocked the door, so we tucked ourselves into the two wingchairs by the psychology section. “Okay, what’s up?”
He looked up at the ceiling and said, “Harvey, why would someone accuse me of murder?”
I had wondered the same thing when I woke up about two a.m. I had always been one of those people who could drop off to sleep with no trouble, but if something woke me for long enough in the middle of the night, I could worry myself into a near panic attack before getting back to sleep. My cat Aslan both loved and loathed – when I petted her a minute too long – this trait. Last night, my concerns about Marcus led me to over-petting and four pinpricks of warning in the back of my hand.
“I don’t know, Marcus. I kind of thought about that, too.” I was understating the two hours I’d spent obsessing, but the man was already concerned enough. No need to heap my worries onto his. “I can’t imagine you’d have any enemies, anyone who wanted to get you in trouble.”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m not really a ‘making enemies’ kind of guy.”
I knew what he meant. From what I could see, Marcus was liked by everyone, even if at first some folks, including Lucas, had thought he was kind of angry at the world. He’d had reason to be angry, but I’d never thought he was. Just thought he was a kid who’d been dealt a kind of rough hand.
I folded my left leg under my right and put my hands behind my head to ponder how it would be that someone would identify Marcus as a killer. I had asked the sheriff the night before if this was a “meets the description” situation.
The sheriff had looked me dead in the eye and said, “Harvey Beckett, do you really think I would act on one of those reports about black people being ‘out of place?’”
I hadn’t, of course, but given how many people seem to report black men doing things they didn’t do simply because they were, well, black, I felt like I had to ask.
“No, Harvey. The witness named Marcus specifically. Said they recognized his shoes.”
“His Jordans?”
“Yes.” It took a kind of special eye to know tennis shoes, and I didn’t have that eye. I only knew they were Jordans because Mart told me. She had an eye for shoes, especially sneakers. They were her one luxury purchase – a new pair every month. Her closet was lined with neat shelves displaying all her pairs, grouped by brand and then color. It was a rainbow of Asics, New Balance, Converse, and Jordans. When someone made a joke about women and their shoes, Mart pulled out her camera, loaded a photo, and asked, “Like this?” Since it wasn’t the stereotypical collection of heels and boots, the person almost always bit their tongue.
“It’s not unusual to wear Jordans, is it?”
The sheriff had rolled his eyes. “No, Harvey. But I know you know those aren’t your run-of-the-mill Jordans. The witness knew they were Air Jordan 1s, the originals.”
I blew out a whistle. “So they were naming Marcus specifically, then? Not just saying they saw someone who looked like him.”
“Exactly.” He put on his hat. “Thanks for taking care of him, Harvey.”
I smiled. “No problem. Oh, and I’ve already forgotten. Who did you say the witness was?”
“Goodnight, Harvey.” The sheriff walked out the front door.
Now, with Marcus so bothered by this accusation, I didn’t know whether to tell him that someone had specifically fingered him or try to just play it off that it might have been a case of mistaken identity. I started to say, “You know, they might have just seen a black man . . .” but even saying that in my mind told me that was a mistake. Racism was alive and well, but it didn’t help end it to fabricate a profiling situation when there wasn’t one. We had enough real profiling to deal with.
I sat forward and put my elbows on my knees before looking at Marcus. “The sheriff said they ID’ed your shoes, Marcus. Someone definitely wanted to point the finger at you.”
He dropped his head back against the seat. “I was hoping I was overreacting.”
“Yeah. But look at it this way, this is our first clue in figuring out who the actual murderer is.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Harvey, there are about three hundred things wrong with that sentence, starting with the fact that we aren’t the ones trying to solve this murder.” He raised his eyebrows. “Additionally, just because someone tried to set me up doesn’t mean they were actually the murderer.”
“You’re right. . . about both things. But first of all, you know me.” I gave him my own significant look. “Second, it doesn’t mean they committed the murder, but it does seem to indicate they were trying to misdirect the sheriff’s attention away from whoever did, don’t you think?”
He shook his head. “Maybe. But—“
Just then, a knock at the front door drew my attention, and I saw Galen Gilbert outside with Mack, his English Bulldog. I glanced down at my watch. Ten a.m. on the dot. Time to open. “Don’t worry, Marcus. We’ll get this all sorted.”
“Thanks, Harvey,” he said as he stood up. “I decided to go over to Annapolis today, see Mom.” He walked me to the door. “Unless you need me.”
“I love that idea. Get out of here.” I opened the front door, let Galen in, and gave Marcus a solid push out. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Assistant Manager.”
That brought a smile to his face. “See you tomorrow.”
Galen let Mack off her leash and wandered toward the register with me. “So Marcus is your new assistant? I love that idea. That young man knows his books. Did you know he has read everything Agatha Raisin mystery? He told me he really likes how loveable she is, but that he’s not sure why James puts up with her. I concurred completely.” He looked over toward the mystery section. “Anyway, great choice in assistants, Harvey. I’m off to shop.”
Galen had started coming into the shop shortly after we opened, picking up his weekly selection of mystery novels to read and review on his very, very popular Instagram feed. Not many men read mysteries, and even fewer admitted it when they did. But Galen had firmly embraced his love affair with the genre, and boldly shared his recommendations with tens of thousands of followers every week. He had promised to give me bookstagramming lessons soon, and I couldn’t wait. I had a lot to learn about my grid and my color palette and all the things Insta that Galen said would soon become second nature.
I stifled a giggle at the absurdity of a sixty-something-year-old white guy being an Instagram influencer. Sometimes, life is better than fiction.
I glanced over to see Mayhem and Mack sniffing around the front of Rocky’s bakery cabinet, and only then realized she hadn’t come in yet. That wasn’t like her at all, but when I pulled out my phone, I saw a text.
Car broke down. Daniel on his way. Be in as soon as possible. Can you start coffee?
I dashed off a quick reply to let her know it was all under control and then went to turn on the two coffeepots and shoo away the sniffy dogs. While I waited for the brew to finish and kept an eye on the register, I pondered why someone would kill Harris. Was there something to be gained, or was it revenge? A love triangle? I clearly had been reading too many YA novels. There was always a love triangle in those.
When the alarms on the pots sounded, I was no closer to having an answer, but I figured a good dose of caffeine might help. I filled the carafes and put out the half and half and skim, checked to be sure the sugar options were supplied, and then headed back to the shop.
Within minutes, Rocky came blustering in, an apology on her lips. “Your car broke down, Rocky. No need to apologize.” I looked around at the few customers in the shop. “It’s been a slow start. You’re fine. Take your time settling in.”
She gave me a grateful look and headed to the café, just as Daniel came in the front door. He made his way over to where I was standing near the poetry books and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Glad you could help Rocky out. It won’t be an expensive repair, right? I know she can’t afford anything big.”
“Not expensive at all.” He glanced at the café and then lowered his voice. “She just ran out of gas.”
I looked over at Rocky, who seemed overly focused on her work. “Oh poor thing. It’s never happened to me, but I’m always afraid it will.”
“I believe that. I’ve seen how close to empty you run. Maybe take Rocky’s experience as a cautionary tale.”
I knew he was right, but sometimes it just wasn’t convenient to stop for gas. I had podcasts to listen to, after all. Since moving to St. Marin’s, my risky gas fill-up ways put me in less and less danger since I almost never drove. I lived within walking distance of the shop, and since I worked every day, I didn’t even get in my old Subaru wagon very often.
Daniel started the old girl up and ran it around town for me every couple of weeks. “Cars don’t do well when they just sit,” he said again and again. I was happy to have him take care of something I didn’t care enough about to tend. I figured I returned the favor by making sure he had more than enough cheap beer and cheese dip in his fridge.
Still, I felt terrible for Rocky. She was precise about being on time, and I knew she was mortified at her oversight. I glanced over again and saw she was filling the pastry case like normal and decided to just leave it be. Even trying to be kind would probably be humiliating at this point.
“Anyway, thanks for helping her. You’re our knight in—“ I never finished my sentence because just then, my parents walked in. Burt and Sharon Beckett were sticklers about manners but never had been big on courtesy. They lived less than an hour away and had only been to visit once. I’d invited them for David’s reading the night before, but they’d had plans to play Settlers of Catan – “It’s all the rage,” my mom had said when she’d told me – and didn’t want to change it for something as pesky as their daughter’s first author event in her new store. They hadn’t made the grand opening of the shop or the big street fair I’d organized a few weeks back either.
But here they were today without notice. I let out a long sigh. I’d long ago learned that changing them was not possible and confronting them only made me suffer, so I smiled and waved as I said, “My parents are here,” to Daniel through clenched teeth. “I’ve told them about you,” I said as I pretended to straighten the shelf behind the register, “but they will act like I have not. It’s their MO. So sorry.” But that was all I had time to stay before they reached us.
Dad gave me a good solid hug, but I could feel him looking around the shop over my head. And Mom only hugs with her forearms. Body contact makes her uncomfortable. She, however, was far less interested in the shop than in the man who was standing behind the register next to me.
“I’m Sharon, Harvey’s mother, and you are?”
“I’m Daniel Galena, Mrs. Beckett. Harvey has told me all about you.”
He was completely lying. I mean I’d told him that my parents and I weren’t close, but I appreciated that he set the playing field clearly. He knew who she was, so she’d look foolish or just plain cruel if she didn’t say the same.
I saw Mom wince slightly, but then, she regained her prim composure and said, “Ah yes, Daniel. Harvey has mentioned you.” She glanced down at his hands. “You’re a plumber or something, aren’t you?”
“A mechanic, ma’am, but I’m fine with a pipe snake, too.” Daniel was a pretty shy fellow, but I was thrilled to see him refusing to play my mother’s game of coy derision. He shot me a quick wink. “Mr. Beckett, nice to finally meet you, sir.”
Gracious, that man was amazing. I loved that subtle weight on finally. He was due a full back massage later as gratitude.
My dad turned from his scrutiny of the business section just past the register and said, “Daniel, nice to meet you. Tell me – worked on any notable vehicles lately?”
They headed off toward the café, and Daniel gave me a quick smile as if to say, “I’m fine, and I’m here.” I felt myself relax just a little. But then, my mother said, “So I see business isn’t as good as you’d hoped.”
I glanced around. We weren’t packed, but six or seven people were browsing – that was pretty good for a Sunday morning in a town where most people went to church every Sunday. “Actually, this isn’t bad. We’ll pick up the after-church crowd come one o’clock or so.”
“I see,” she said and then ran a hand over – but never through – the dark brown coif that was, miraculously, the exact same shade of brunette it had been when I was five. Her weekly hair appointment was on Thursdays at four thirty, and, growing up, we’d always had fish sticks and apple sauce on those nights. Now, it’s salmon and Pinot Grigio for her and steak and an IPA for my dad. But only after her hair appointment.
She turned a full 360 degrees to look at the store and then said, “So you still haven’t been able to hire any help, I see?” She tried to make her voice sound concerned, but really, condescension was all I could hear.
“Actually, my assistant manager starts full-time tomorrow. I gave him the weekend off before he begins that position.” I tried not to look smug, but I think my face gave me away.
“Well, then . . .” She gave another survey around the shop. “Is it wise to bring on someone full-time? I mean.”
I laughed, and my mother finally met my gaze. “What’s so funny?”
“Mom, you just criticized me for not being able to hire help, and when I tell you I did, you criticize me for spending money on employees. What would you have me do differently?” I should have known better than to ask.
“Perhaps you could have started with some hourly help, asked your friends to pitch in a little, save some money.”
I sighed. Only a tiny part of me wanted to tell her that’s exactly what I had done, but I knew that would only lead to another, “Maybe you could have . . .” so I nodded. “You may be right, Mom.”
I took a long swig of my latte and said, “Would you like a tour?”
For a moment, she smiled with her whole face, and I took a long, slow breath. My mother’s critiques stemmed from her own perfectionism, not from her displeasure in me as her daughter. I didn’t always remember that, but when I could, I was able to have a bit more compassion for her and a bit more patience, too. “I’d love that, Harvey.”
For many years, my mom had tried to shake the nickname Dad had given me when I was about two. My given name was Anastasia Lovejoy Beckett, but somehow, Dad knew that I wasn’t an Anastasia, not a Stacy either, even though that’s what my friend Woody, the woodsmith, had taken to calling me as a joke. Mom hadn’t liked it. Apparently, she’d suffered hard to find my given name and resented that my father stole it from me so quickly.
But finally, when I was in college, I’d told her that when she used my given name, she seemed like one of those persnickety people on TV shows who insisted on some fancy name and looked ridiculous, and she’d finally caved and started calling me Harvey. It felt like a major breakthrough in our relationship then, and it still does now, every time she says it.
I took her by the arm and walked her through each section of the store, pointed out the storeroom in the back and saw her take careful note of the security system with a nod, and then wove her back over to the café, where Dad and Daniel were in an intense conversation about Dodge Chargers.
A more polite person might have waited for a natural lull in the conversation, but I wasn’t that person and simply waited until my dad took a breath to ask, “So how long are you guys staying? Headed back tonight?” Wishful thinking on my part.
“Oh, we’re going to be in town for a couple of days at least. We saw all the wonderful things you advertised to do here and thought we’d take a few days of vacation here. One of the perks of retirement.” Mom’s voice was so casual that I braced myself. “Since your new assistant manager is starting tomorrow, maybe you can take the day off and show us around?”
The last thing I wanted to do – behind chewing on gravel, reading James Joyce’s Ulysses (I hated that book), and eating raw oysters– was to give my parents a tour.
I must have looked panicked because Daniel quickly said, “Oh, man. I know you’d love to do that. But you have that whole training schedule for Marcus, don’t you? I mean, maybe Mart could—“
“Dang. That’s right. And Mart is away in Virginia consulting with that new winery outside Norfolk, so she can’t take over.” I had never been so glad Mart had a business trip as I was right now. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a tour. But maybe we could all have dinner tonight, and we could make a plan for you all to be your own guides?”
My mother looked a bit crestfallen, and I almost felt guilty. I had no plan to train Marcus. He already knew everything, and while I had intended to be at the shop tomorrow just in case, I knew he’d have everything well in hand without me. But I wasn’t about to let my mother know that.
I looked over my parents’ heads to avoid making eye contact with them and saw Marcus and his mother, Josie, come into the shop. I waved, and they made their way over. I stood up and gave Josie a hug. She’d been writing a great review column for our newsletter, and like her son, she was part of what was growing our business. Plus, she was such a charming person.
“Marcus, Josie, please meet my parents, Sharon and Burt. Mom and Dad, Marcus is my new assistant manager, and this is his mother, Josie.”
I saw it happening. The notching up of the charm as my dad shook first Marcus’s hand and then Josie’s. “It’s a true pleasure to meet you both. Marcus, Harvey tells us that your first day is tomorrow.”
When Marcus glanced over at me, I gave him a hard stare and hoped he knew that meant, “Just go with it.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said, turning back to my father. “I’m very honored to be working with your daughter. She’s a great boss, and I love this shop.”
Dad gave him a clap on the shoulder hard enough to rattle Marcus’s thin frame. “Well, I’m glad you’re giving her a hand. I’m sure after training you’ll be fit as a fiddle.”
Marcus flicked his eyes to me, and I could feel his mom looking at me, too, but they didn’t betray a thing. “Yes, sir. I’m sure that’s the case.”
“Are you in town long?” Josie asked.
My mom put on her biggest smile. “Just a couple of days. We wanted to see what Harvey was up to here.”
Daniel came over and took my hand. My mother wasn’t lying – she really believed that’s why they were here – but it still stung when clearly this was, yet again, about making her feel good, not about what would actually matter to me, even though she was saying it was entirely for me.
Josie looked at me, nodded, and turned back to my mother. “I know that Harvey and Marcus have a busy day here tomorrow, but I’m free. Would you like me to give you a tour of the area?”
I’m pretty sure my mouth actually fell open.
“That would be lovely, Josie. Thank you so much.” My mom was practically melting. “I love this coat of yours,” Mom said, taking the edge of Josie’s emerald-green, wool coat between her fingers. Fashion was my mother’s love language.
Dad stepped forward. “That’s a very kind offer. Thank you. Should we meet you here? What time works for you?”
Josie turned to me and winked with the eye my parents couldn’t see. “I think we should start with the most important place in St. Marin’s, the bookstore. So let’s meet here at ten for coffee, and then we’ll begin the tour from here.” She fluffed the back of her short stacked hair and smiled at me, her brown skin rosy around her cheeks.
I stood dumbfounded for a few seconds before I realized my parents were looking at me. “Oh, yes, that sounds great. Thank you, Ms. Dawson.” I winked back at her and then said to my parents, “You’ll have a lovely time, and we can meet for dinner.”
“That’ll be lovely dear,” Mom said as she patted my arm and began to move toward the door. “I think we’ll go to that charming little art place down the road. That is, if they’re open.”
“They’re open.” I could hear the edge in my voice. My mother had a way of making even the most serious work seem small if it wasn’t done to her scale. “Cate, the director, is probably there herself. Should I call to ask if she can give you a behind-the-scenes tour?”
My dad stood up a bit taller. He was just as bad as my mom. Special treatment always felt like just what they deserved. “That would be wonderful. Thank you. Tell her we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll ask if she’s available.” I tried to not jab the phone out of my hands as I entered my passcode and opened the messaging app. Cate’s reply was immediate. “I’d be thrilled to meet your parents.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” I mumbled, and Daniel gave my shoulders a quick squeeze.
“I’m headed that way. Why don’t I walk you down?” Daniel said with a cheery lilt to his voice. Then, more quietly he whispered, “This way, I’ll have a chance to warn Cate.”
“Good thinking,” I said as I hugged him quickly.
“See you for dinner at our place, Mom and Dad. Seven p.m. I’ll cook.”
My mom looked a little stricken, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the idea of eating at my house or eating my cooking. Either way, she couldn’t do much about it now. If she refused, she’d look rude, and it was absolutely unthinkable for my mother to look rude.
She gave me another one of her stiff hugs, and they headed off with Daniel.
As soon as they were out the door, I turned to Josie. “Oh my word. How did you know?”
“Oh, woman, I know the look of parent fatigue and frustration when I see it. They seem like lovely people, but I expect they’ve failed you in some major way, given the number of times you sighed while they were here. They won’t bother me nearly as much as they bother you, and we’ll have a good time.” She stepped forward and pulled me into a hug.
I felt tears pooling in my eyes. “Thank you.”
“Marcus, that girl in the café looks like she needs a little loving, too, and I need a big ole cup of coffee. Besides, I think you and Harvey need to chat, right?”
I saw a flash of color run up Marcus’s neck, but he nodded slightly. “I’ll be over in a minute,” he said.
I stepped in front of the register and leaned back against the counter. “What’s up?”
“I really didn’t want to bother you with this. I thought maybe I should just tell Sheriff Mason, but Mama thought I should run the information by you first.”
“Alright.” I stood upright, spread my legs apart, and put my hands on my hips. “I’m ready.”
Marcus gave me a half-smile. “I know who the witness who identified me is.”
I really stood up straight then. “You do? Who is it?”
He took a quick look around the shop. “Huckabee Harris’s daughter, Miranda.”
“Miranda Harris-Lewis put forth a false statement about her own father’s death.” I didn’t know Miranda well. She and her twin daughters, Maisy and Daisy – their given names were worse than mine – had been in the shop a few times. She wasn’t my favorite person – a little too prim and too demanding for my taste. She’d asked me to vacuum the floor around the small table and chairs we had in the children’s section because there were crumbs. “I’m modeling good hygiene for my daughters, and I don’t want them to think that it’s acceptable for places of business to be filthy,” she’d said. I had told her I’d get right on that, and then I’d purposefully forgotten for the rest of their visit.
On their second visit, she’d asked which of the books had just arrived. “I don’t want the girls touching things that might be,” she shivered, “covered in germs.” I had assured her that I had personally sterilized every book in the store that morning, trying to make a joke out of a weird moment, and she’d thanked me profusely, not a hint of irony in her gratitude.
For their part, the girls were actually wonderful. They picked up after themselves and asked me great questions about the next books in their favorite series, The Magic Treehouse. I didn’t think they loved the entirely pink, matching outfits their mother put them in – I had watched them slip a pair of glittery hairbows behind the picture books one day – but I can’t say as I blame them for that.
Marcus nodded. “She did. Harriet, the office manager at the sheriff’s office, and Mom are good friends. She let it slip.”
I snickered. “And I bet Ms. Dawson had nothing to do with bringing about that little slip of the tongue.”
“Nothing at all. Nope. No way.” Marcus laughed. “I was as surprised as you. I don’t even know that woman, I mean besides from the couple of times she was in here. Why would she try to implicate me in her father’s murder? I mean doesn’t she, maybe more than anybody, want the right person found?” His voice got a little high at the end.
“I suspect you were, sadly, the first person she thought of when she wanted to point the finger away from what really happened.”
“Because I’m a black man.”
I blew a puff of air out of my lips. “Yeah, probably so.”
Marcus’s muscles worked under his jaw, and I could tell he was angry, as he had every right to be. But he kept his cool. “So what do I do, Harvey? I don’t think it will help to confront her. It would probably make things worse.” He looked down at his shoes and then scuffed them against the carpet. “Do you think you could talk to her?”
I had been thinking that very thing. “Yep. I can totally do that. Let me think about how though, okay? Now, you need to go take that amazing mother of yours out for lunch, don’t you think?”
I looked over at the café, and Rocky was laughing at something Josie was saying. It looked like Mama Dawson had struck again with just the right intervention.