A home without books is like a body without a soul.
—Marcus Tullius Cicero (attributed)
THE SUN HAD set by now and the temperature was dropping. As I walked along Cranberry Street, the evening shadows deepened. The thick storm clouds made the twilight sky darken faster than usual. But amid the gathering gloom, the faux-Victorian gas lamps sprang to gleaming life, turning the concrete sidewalks into molten gold. As I approached our shop, bright light poured through our big display window, and the sight of it warmed my heart.
“Home at last,” I whispered with a sigh. “No more drama.”
I welcomed the calming routine of getting back to my book business—a warm cup of freshly brewed tea, talking with customers, and time with my aunt Sadie.
Everything seemed deceptively calm as I strolled through the doorway. The restored plank floor glistened and the polished wooden shelves were well stocked with titles new and old. The standing lamps and mismatched but oh-so-cozy chairs made the shop a homey haven for booklovers, and the quiet murmurs of my part-time help, Bonnie Franzetti (Eddie’s younger sister), in conversation with a few customers in the aisles completed the peaceful picture.
Our bookstore was a gleaming gem of the community and a far cry from the rundown, bankrupt state I’d found it when I turned up on Sadie’s doorstep just a few years ago. I was a shattered and confused widow with an equally baffled young son, a fugitive from the New York City publishing scene and my wealthy, contentious in-laws, who never approved of me—an opinion that only grew stronger after my young husband’s death.
My aunt became an unwavering source of strength and a fount of wisdom. She never judged. She only loved and accepted.
I was more than happy to partner with her, invest in remodeling the shop, and rebuild the business. My years in publishing had paid off with connections in the trade. Our little independent bookstore was now a popular regional stop for author tours, and we took great pride in our new, improved, and profitable store.
Even more miraculous, our turnaround inspired shopkeepers around us to invest in their own businesses, which led to the complete revitalization of Cranberry—the main street (and heartbeat) of Quindicott. Working together, our commercial district finally arrested the town’s economic decline and raised the dying spirit of our little hamlet. We were a prosperous place once more.
Reminding myself of that happy bit of personal history always encouraged me when I was feeling defeated. I had produced something good in life (other than my son, Spencer), even though I felt powerless to help Fiona and Norma now.
As I tucked my handbag away and hung my jacket behind the register, Aunt Sadie emerged from our storeroom. Her gray-streaked auburn hair was in disarray and her glasses dangled from a beaded chain around her neck.
In one arm she cradled a stack of slim paperbacks with bright, glossy covers. In her other hand, our marmalade cat, Bookmark, hung like a rag doll, purring loud enough to be heard under Sadie’s greeting.
“Oh, Pen, I heard the door and I thought you were Seymour.”
“Isn’t it a little late for a delivery?”
It was a logical question since Seymour Tarnish was both our local mailman and a childhood friend. A big, somewhat ungainly guy with a mind like a sponge and tremendous enthusiasm about nearly everything (especially vintage pop culture), Seymour was also the owner of the sole ice cream truck in Quindicott, a vehicle he’d purchased with his winnings as a Jeopardy! champion—and that was the thing about Seymour. He was a unique personality. Despite his lack of formal degrees, he was one of the smartest men I’d ever known. Sure, his unvarnished opinions led others to see him as somewhat overbearing (okay, rude), but I knew he had a good heart.
“Seymour came by after work to pick up these G-8 and His Battle Aces reprints I special ordered for him,” Sadie explained. “But as soon as he arrived he turned around and left.”
“Without his precious reprints? Why?”
Sadie shrugged and set the cat on the floor. Still purring loudly, Bookmark immediately curled her furry, orange-striped form around my legs.
“Seymour got an urgent call from Professor Parker. That’s all I know . . .”
J. Brainert Parker, professor of American literature at St. Francis University, was another childhood friend. Thin and somewhat frail but with a high-strung sort of manic energy, he claimed Rhode Island’s great horror writer, H.P. Lovecraft, as a distant relative, and there was indeed a family resemblance. But the similarities were more than superficial. Like that renowned writer, Brainert lived his life through books.
My old friend had become an erudite scholar, esteemed in his field and celebrated among the nation’s top ivory tower academics—a fact that sometimes made it difficult for me to believe that years ago, Seymour, Brainert, and I were joined together like the Three Musketeers—a trio of curious, inseparable misfits who would much rather tell ghost stories around a campfire than attend the Friday night football games.
“An urgent call from Brainert?” I pressed.
Sadie nodded. “Yes, the young man was in trouble.”
I frowned with curiosity, though not alarm; Brainert’s relationship with Seymour was occasionally antagonistic, and he wasn’t above pulling Seymour’s chain.
“What kind of trouble is Brainert in, do you know?”
“I believe the young professor crashed his car in Prescott Woods.”
Okay, now I was alarmed! “Back up, please, Aunt Sadie, and tell me everything you know.”
“Like I said, Brainert called Seymour while he was in our shop. Seymour put him on speakerphone. Seymour and I both thought Professor Parker sounded dazed, so Seymour advised him to call an ambulance. Then he raced out of here to find him.”
Now I was really alarmed. “When did this happen?”
“Seymour left over an hour ago. He said he’d come back to pick up his books as soon as he helped Brainert, but he hasn’t turned up or phoned.”
“Then I’m going to call Brainert and find out if he’s okay.”
But just as I reached for my mobile, our shop’s front door flew open and two bickering men strode in. Their booming voices startled Bookmark, who immediately detached herself from my (now orange-fur-covered) pant legs and scurried to the back of the store.
Sadie and I were startled, too, but in a good way. Before we even saw Brainert and Seymour, the familiar sound of the pair arguing was calming music to our worried minds.
At least this music I was glad to face!