The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.
—Augustine of Hippo (attributed)
THE REST OF the afternoon was mercifully uneventful. Customers came and went. I restocked the endcaps with new releases and reviewed our upcoming orders. By six p.m. I was ready to take over the register so Sadie could go upstairs and start supper for the three of us.
Those plans were suddenly scuttled when a call came from Bud Napp, my aunt’s beau and owner of Napp Hardware. Bud was calling in his capacity as president of the Quindicott Business Owners Association, a group of local merchants involved in community affairs, local governance, and “watching one another’s backs,” as my aunt succinctly put it.
Our members were all fairly headstrong and included such a diversity of shops, interests, and opinions that the debates and disagreements among us were practically legendary—hence our nickname, the Quibblers. In times of crisis, however, we somehow managed to form a unified front.
“Fiona has called an emergency meeting,” Bud informed us on speakerphone. “We’ll need your event space tonight.”
“What’s this all about, Bud?” Sadie asked.
“Norma.”
“It’s pretty short notice,” I warned.
“I don’t expect a huge attendance, Pen, but I sent out a text message to all our members anyway. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”
A leisurely meal was out of the question now, so I ordered Spencer’s favorite meatball and mozzarella sandwich from Franzetti’s Pizza, and calzones for Sadie and me. While we waited to take delivery, we arranged folding chairs in a half-circle around the event space and set up a table and a single chair in the middle for Bud to hold court.
When I took Spencer’s sandwich upstairs, I found my son in the dining room with no thoughts of dinner. Instead, he was working on some concoction for his science project that involved repeated trips to the kitchen and lots of running water. His focused activity reminded me how he’d single-handedly fingerprinted the entire teaching staff of his elementary school.
With a deep breath, I sighed over my son. Spencer was a good kid. And he had good intentions. Sometimes he just needed a little extra guidance to keep him on the right track.
“Enjoy your supper, then do your homework,” I told him. “I still want to have that talk with you later.”
THE BALL PEEN hammer banged promptly at seven thirty, as Bud called a surprisingly crowded meeting to order. Formalities like reading the minutes and taking attendance were dispensed with. Instead, Fiona kicked things off by informing everyone that a popular internet star was staying at her inn. Then she shocked the crowd with news of the jewel theft and Norma the Nomad’s supposed involvement in the crime.
I took the stage next to give my account of trying to track her down in Millstone, only to be shot at by an unknown figure (in large boots) before discovering the dead body of the person Norma claimed to be her next of kin. Finally, I mentioned the insurance investigator Max Braydon, who was sure Norma was the culprit.
“That’s bull,” cried a gruff voice from the third row.
Leo Rollins stood, his bearlike form blocking the view of those sitting behind him. The owner of Rollins Electronics was a combat veteran and part-time biker—though I had to take a second look to make sure it really was Leo. His formerly wild beard had been tamed, his long hair trimmed, his ratty denims replaced by neatly pressed pants.
All smiles, Colleen—proprietor of Quindicott’s House of Beauty salon—sat beside him. Leo had obviously accepted the beautician’s flirtatious offer of a trim at our last emergency meeting.
“Norma’s the sweetest lady I’ve ever met,” Leo declared. “I can’t believe she would steal anything.”
Rollins told us how Norma brought in a vintage CB radio to his shop for repair.
“It was a 1970s Midland 40 Channel, Model 77 just like the one I grew up with. She got me to reminisce about the hours my pop and I shared with that old radio.”
“Tell them what happened next,” Colleen coaxed.
“Well, I ordered the parts and Norma paid for the repairs—which weren’t cheap. Then Norma shocked me by handing the radio back. ‘I can see this brought you happy memories, so you should have it,’ she insisted.”
Milner Logan, head baker and co-owner of the Cooper Family Bakery, spoke up next.
“Remember the fry bread we sold at the July Fourth Festival? That was Norma’s recipe. The bread was such a success we still sell it at outdoor festivals year-round, but Norma wouldn’t accept a penny in compensation.”
Now Seymour stood and told them about the ice cream truck incident that brought Norma to Quindicott in the first place. Others shared similar tales. None of us believed big-hearted Norma was guilty of anything. But we also agreed that we knew next to nothing about the woman we were all praising.
Seymour faced Aunt Sadie. “You mentioned that your shop special ordered books for Norma. Do you have a list of those titles? We may find out something about Norma’s intentions from her reading habits.”
“Seymour may be onto something,” Brainert said, changing his tune from the other night. “I do believe it’s possible to learn the character of a person from the books they’ve read.”
“You mean the characters they read,” Seymour countered. “Jack Reacher fans have little in common with Potterheads—”
“Potterheads?” Linda Cooper-Logan cried. “I know what a pothead is, but what’s a—”
“It’s a Harry Potter fan,” Colleen explained. A moment later she realized Leo was staring at her. “I read the Harry Potter books when I was in high school,” she confessed. “So what?”
“I know Norma liked to quote authors when she worked at our shop on Sundays.” Sadie said.
“What quotes?” Brainert pressed. “What authors?”
My aunt tugged her glasses off and let them dangle on the beaded necklace. “Well, there was one quote about fame, money—”
“And truth!” Brainert cried, his index finger pointed at the sky. “That would be Henry David Thoreau. ‘Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.’ ”
“Not bad for the guy who wrote a whole book about a pond,” Seymour cracked. “At least that quote didn’t make me want to Thoreau-up.”
Leo Rollins cackled—even Milner Logan, part Native American and a lover of nature, chuckled. Brainert, however, was incensed.
“Thoreau’s work is contemplative, meditative even. He was a transcendentalist, you know . . .”
“Hey, what’s with the ‘dentalist’ part of that word?” Seymour asked. “Did old Thoreau meditate through his teeth?”
“Your humor is less mature than the kiddies you ply with ice cream,” Brainert sniffed. “And Walden is a masterpiece.”
Seymour groaned. “Then answer me this: Why do writers who romanticize the forest always write about flowers and trees, flitting butterflies, and picturesque little ponds, but never about mosquitoes, gnats, snakes, or poisonous spiders?”
“I’ve heard enough!” Aunt Sadie covered her ears and bolted for the front of the store. “I’ll print out Norma’s booklist and be right back.”
While she was gone, the group got into a lively discussion about the American transcendentalists that split the room’s opinion between contemplative and crazy. That’s when Jack decided to make himself known.
These cracker-barrel philosophers are giving me fits, doll, and they’re wasting your time.
Sadly, you’re correct, Jack.
Happily, my aunt’s return ended the discussion. Most of the attendees rose and clustered around Sadie as she scanned the printout.
“Any travel books on that list perchance?” Seymour asked, folding his arms. “You know, Venezuela, Cuba, Bolivia, countries that grant no extradition.”
“Nothing like that,” Sadie said. “The first book Norma ordered was A Guide to the Maintenance and Repair of Manual Typewriters.”
“Which means she probably owns one,” I concluded. “What else?”
Sadie rattled off a dozen works of novel-length fiction, as well as collections of poetry and short stories. Some were new releases, others literary classics.
“Hmm,” Brainert said, looking over Sadie’s shoulder. “That’s interesting.”
“What?” I asked.
“The Troll Garden by Willa Cather,” Brainert pointed to the title on the paper.
“What about it?” Seymour pressed.
Brainert’s mind was clearly working, but he didn’t share his thoughts.
“Norma also ordered a number of non-fiction titles,” Sadie continued, mentioning a regional bird-watching manual and other books about the flora and fauna of Rhode Island. When she got to Forest Bathing by Hinata Morita, Colleen spoke up.
“What’s that one about?” she asked with interest. “Getting naked in the woods?”
She threw a flirty glance at Leo Rollins who scratched his beard. “Maybe it’s about that Japanese suicide forest.”
“You’re thinking of Aokigahara, the Sea of Trees,” Seymour supplied.
Linda Cooper-Logan’s eyes went wide under her blond pixie cut. “You mean people actually go to the woods to kill themselves?”
“In Japan they do,” Rollins said.
Brainert turned to his mailman friend. “How do you know about Aokigahara?”
Seymour shrugged. “How do you think I won Jeopardy!?”
Sadie set her glasses on her nose. “It says in the book description that forest bathing is a form of immersive meditation called shinrin-yoku in Japan. To do it you smell the air, touch the soil, feel the breeze on your skin . . .”
Seymour shuddered. “Sounds like more Thoreau, but made in Japan.”
Sadie tapped the paper. “It says here the practice boosts your immune system.”
“By fighting off infections from poison ivy and bug bites, no doubt,” Seymour declared.
The outside door buzzed.
“It must be a latecomer. I’ll let them in.” Sadie left and quickly returned with Deputy Chief Eddie Franzetti by her side. He asked everyone to take a seat.
Good, Jack said in my head. Now maybe we can abandon the book club and get back to business.
I only hope it’s good news, Jack. If good news is even possible.
“I heard about the meeting and I can guess the subject,” Eddie began. “Many of you know Norma, so I think it’s right I bring you all up to speed.”
“Fine,” Bud Napp said. “You got the floor.”
Eddie nodded. “The state police examined the earring Pen and I found at the scene.”
“For fingerprints?” Bud asked.
Fiona moaned. “Please don’t tell me they were Norma’s.”
“No prints. In fact, it’s almost like the teardrop diamond and its setting were wiped clean. The lab guys think Norma used a cloth to grab the stuff—”
“But that only explains why Norma’s prints weren’t found,” I pointed out. “Why were there no Peyton Pemberton fingerprints?”
Eddie ignored the question. “All I can tell you is without fingerprints there is no definitive proof of Norma’s guilt. But even without prints, the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming, and the outlook for Norma isn’t great.”
“What else did they find out?” Sadie asked.
“The insurance company has determined to their satisfaction that the teardrop diamond and the gold setting are real.”
“That’s no surprise,” Fiona said.
“I call it a disappointment,” Eddie replied. “I felt there was something hinky about Miss Pemberton. I was hoping the diamond was a fake and she was trying to pull some publicity stunt to raise her Internet profile.”
“I guess that’s out the window,” I said with a frown.
“Insurance investigator Max Braydon is convinced he’s on the trail of a jewel thief. He’s pushing for a grand jury and larceny charges for everyone involved. Grand larceny.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Are you telling me he plans to take my life apart the way he’s dismantled my car?”
“Your life and maybe Fiona’s,” Eddie said. The innkeeper gasped. “The man’s a bulldog, Pen, he found you at Dottie Willard’s crime scene the morning after Peyton Pemberton accused you of being in cahoots with Fiona. Now Braydon’s got it in his head that your both guilty of something. He just needs to find the proof.”
“What should we do?” Fiona cried.
“Lie low, and don’t step out of line. I mean don’t even jaywalk. Remember, I’m officially off the case. The state police are in charge, and they may be watching.”
“Beware of Big Brother!” Seymour proclaimed.
“Meanwhile, if anyone here gets a lead on where Norma might be, call me. Just watch what you say over the phone. We can meet in person anytime, day or night.”
A FEW HOURS later I was in my bed, my eyes heavy with sleep, when Jack paid me another visit.
So, kiddo, looks like you fit the frame nice enough. Max Braydon is painting a pretty picture for a grand jury.
“You and I both know it’s all a lie, Jack.”
Sure, doll. But you can’t teach an old dog new tricks—
“Huh?”
That rent-a-cop Braydon. He’s an old dog, get it?
“So?”
Old Maxie got this far by strong-arming people. He pushes around local authorities, using his insurance company like a crime boss uses hired muscle. He’s done that for so long, that’s all he can do.
“So how do I fight him, Jack?”
The fastest way out of this rat trap is simple. Find Norma before the other guy does.
“The other guy? You mean Braydon?”
Mother Machree! How short is your memory?!
“What do you mean?”
I mean the guy who killed Dottie Willard. Five will get you ten that guy wasn’t looking for Dottie. He was looking for Norma.
“You think so?”
What I think is your Book Whisperer has a target on her back. You were too late to save Dottie. You don’t want to be too late to save Norma, do you?
I put the pillow over my eyes, hoping to shut the world out. That I could do, but there was no shutting out Jack Shepard.
I see you’ve got to learn a thing or two, baby. So close your eyes, and I’ll teach you. I know exactly what it means to be late out of the gate, and what it costs . . .