Chapter 9
For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality,
a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy’s wing.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
After making the remainder of my deliveries, I swung by the house, switched into leggings and a billowy-sleeved blouse, and headed to Feast for the Eyes.
I’d promised to help rearrange bookshelves.
Tegan liked to tackle the task once a month.
She said readers spent more time scanning the aisles and often, upon finding themselves in a new realm, were willing to try the genre or a new-to-them author.
In the office Darcy was as pleased as punch to get out of his carrier. He immediately launched himself to the top of the rare books bookshelf.
“Careful,” I reminded him. “Your toenail isn’t healed.”
He flicked his tail as if to chide me for worrying. After all, he was Super Cat. He settled on his haunches and peered through the office window, which provided a view of the bookshop’s main room. From his perch, he could keep track of all the activity until he tuckered out and snoozed.
I returned to the sales counter while dusting my hands on my thighs and thinking about Patrick and the condition of his work boots.
Had he lied about going caving? His set-to with Jason had been quite contentious.
Had he gone to Jason’s place, seen him outside, chased him through the wet soil, and tracked mud inside before stabbing him?
Would anybody at town hall be able to confirm that he and Jason had reconciled?
“Morning,” Tegan crooned as she entered the shop from the stockroom, her arms laden with additional copies of The Great Gatsby. “The next shipment came in. I’ll text everyone who preordered. The list is over there if you’ll tag them.” She motioned with her chin.
I took the books from her, stacked them on the counter and, referring to the list, began affixing Post-it notes with customers’ names to them.
“Allie!” Chloe emerged from the stockroom, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She tossed it into the trash beneath the desk, then bear-hugged me and released me. “I heard about the murder. I can’t believe it. How are you?”
“Hanging tough.”
“Was it gruesome?”
“Yes.”
“Who would want to kill him?”
One person came to mind—Patrick—but I said, “Let’s talk about brighter subjects. How was your audition?”
Chloe blew a raspberry. “Not important.”
“She did a good job.” Tegan silently applauded. “She won’t hear about callbacks until tomorrow.”
“Callbacks. Not a chance. I stank up the room.” Chloe made a face. “Anyway, we’re not talking about me right now. I mean, c’mon. Jason Gardner is dead, and the police suspect you? Why—”
“Because he was stabbed with a spearpoint,” Tegan cut in.
“What’s that?” Chloe asked.
“An artifact,” Tegan replied.
Quickly, I enlightened Chloe about the Clovis culture and their hunting methods.
Tegan regarded me. “You know, Reika Moore is savvy about artifacts. You’ve seen the ones she has hanging in her home, including spears, axes, knives, grinding tools, and bowls.”
Tegan and I’d been to Reika’s home on two occasions to attend events in support of the history museum.
“Her ancestors unearthed most of them with their own hands,” Tegan went on. “She might have a clue about who else in town owned or collected them.”
Besides Detective Bates, I mused.
“But the murder weapon was mine.” I affixed the final Post-it note.
“You aren’t certain,” Tegan countered.
“Yours? No!” Chloe looked astonished. “Why do you have spearpoints?”
I explained how the previous owners had left everything in the house to my parents.
She shook her head. “The whole affair is awful. Murder. It’s senseless. Jason was so vibrant. I think the mall he planned to build might have been good for Bramblewood. I know you didn’t want him to build it, Allie—”
“Don’t say that.”
“But you didn’t. You were against it.”
“I got over myself,” I assured her. After all, we couldn’t stop progress. “And you’re right. He was vibrant and smart, and he didn’t deserve to die.”
Tears welled in Chloe’s eyes, and she fled to the stockroom. Like Vanna, she’d clearly had a crush on Jason.
“Tegan”—I clapped my hands together, eager to put the whole thing out of my mind—“where do you want me to start with our shelf swap?”
“Let’s move the romance section to the nonfiction section, and vice versa.”
“Do you think it’s wise?” I asked. “I mean, we’re talking completely different kinds of readers. How about romance and fantasy instead?”
“Good idea.”
Together, with me on the rolling ladder and Tegan manning the book trolley—I was dressed more casually, and she’d worn a summery blue dress and wedge sandals she’d bought on sale Saturday—we took the fantasy titles off the top shelf.
They weren’t in alphabetical order. By design, they were the most requested titles.
The Bookseller of Inverness, The Dragon Queen, Chain of Thorns.Tegan had read all of them and had gushed over The Keeper Chronicles trilogy.
If I’d let her, she would have told me the entire tale of how the storytellers, historians, and magic-wielders—aka the Keepers—fought Mallon the Undying.
When I’d said, “Too much information,” she’d countered, “The blurb will have to suffice.”
After we removed the entire row of books, we carted them to the romance section and repeated the action, removing the top row of romance titles, which included the Bridgerton series, Ransom by Julie Garwood, and Love at First Book by Jenn McKinlay.
I’d read and enjoyed the latter, because I’d devoured many of McKinlay’s mysteries.
Love at First Book was about a librarian who traveled to the quaint Irish village where her favorite novelist lived, and lo and behold, she fell for the guy’s son. Talk about a fantasy! But it was fun.
Tegan said, “Back to Jason …”
I groaned.
“Hear me out. I’ve been thinking about who would’ve wanted to frame you for the murder.” She led the way to the fantasy section, where I situated the romance novels on the top shelf and tackled the removal of the second row of titles. “All kidding aside, who hates you so much?”
Patrick didn’t, as far as I knew. Did that rule him out?
“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Chloe rounded the corner with two bottles of water. Her makeup was streaked, and her eyes were puffy. She must have cried hard. “Thirsty?” she asked.
I thanked her for the water and immediately downed mine. I handed the empty bottle back to her.
Tegan noticed Chloe’s tear-stained face. “Kiddo, take a break. Walk around the block or something.”
“And miss the two of you theorizing? Not a chance.”
I flashed on Tegan dubbing anyone who helped me solve Jason’s murder a member of hashtag AlliesClueCrew and tamped down a smile. My friends were stalwart, if nothing else.
“So, who hates you?” Chloe asked.
“I can’t think of anyone other than Sissy Martin from high school.”
“Ha!” Tegan snorted. “Yep. Pip-squeak Sissy wanted to play point guard on the basketball team, but you earned the position.”
“She wasn’t a pip-squeak.”
“She was four feet ten and as vicious as a hurricane.”
“Remember how she pulled my hair and elbowed me in the stomach?” I flinched at the memory of how brutal her attacks were.
“And did she ever have a mouth on her.”
“No kidding.” The vile words she’d hurled at me? Ouch!
“Where is she these days?” Tegan asked.
“She’s saving elephants in Africa.” In her senior year Sissy started seeing a psychologist, who prescribed some medication. Anger issues resolved, it turned out she had a benevolent nature. “There’s one other person who might hate me. Your ex, for being your moral support.”
Winston Potts had not been pleased when Tegan mustered the courage to start divorce proceedings.
He had threatened to do so but had never pulled the trigger.
It had taken Tegan’s aunt’s death and the subsequent inheritance, plus a kick in the rear end by me, to make her realize she could be independent.
“Yeah, he does, but no.” Tegan wagged her head. “He’s not living here any longer. He relocated to Ohio to head up some big tech project.”
“Good riddance,” Chloe said.
“How’s the divorce going?” I asked. “Everything moving along with the attorney?”
“The wheels of justice turn slowly, and serving papers is tricky.” She sighed. “Hey, I’ve got an idea about the murder. What if a woman with a thing for Jason saw you two together at the Brewery last night? Women were crazy for him. Chloe and my sister both pined for him.”
“I didn’t pine,” Chloe argued.
“You both had your claws out,” Tegan joked. “Jealousy is a powerful motivator.”
I frowned. “Why not kill me instead?”
“Good point.”
“Hold on.” I swung around so abruptly I nearly toppled off the rolling ladder. I clutched a shelf to anchor myself. “I remember seeing Reika at the Brewery last night. She was already seated when I arrived. But she didn’t have a crush on Jason.”
“I’d hope not. He was twenty years her junior,” Tegan stated.
“No, I mean she wasn’t happy he was negotiating to purchase the historical houses.”
“Which gives her motive, I suppose.”
“Jason’s neighbors told Zach they heard a woman scream and a dog bark around the time of the murder. Granted, the sounds were distant and, therefore, muted, but the concurrence of events seems relevant, and Reika has a dog.” I offered Tegan a stack of books.
“But Reika likes you.” She accepted the books and positioned them on the trolley. “No, I can’t see her as a killer. She’s too … cultivated.”
Cultivated individuals had murdered—a number of serial killers, including Hannibal Lecter came to mind—but I pushed the notion aside. “I also saw Ignatius Luckenbill.”
“Who’s he?” Chloe asked.
“A developer who, like Reika, was not pleased Jason was going to take ownership of the historic properties, but for a completely different reason.” I explained.