Chapter 1
When your best friend is murdered, it can be kind of hard to get over.
At what point does the search for justice, the need to right a wrong, turn into an obsession?
I had no idea, but it was a question I had pondered for years, ever since that fateful June afternoon when campus was awash in blooming dogwoods, sherbet-colored roses, and the promise of everything to come.
A day that repeated again and again, like the lyrics to an annoying song stuck in your head. The day that Scarlet died.
“Annie, Annie, did you hear me?”
I was staring intently at my laptop screen when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and my heart leaped into my throat. I let out a small gasp and turned to see Fletcher standing in the doorway to the office.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Fletcher stepped closer to the desk, hovering with an apologetic smile, his eyes glancing toward the computer screen.
“It’s okay.” I shut my laptop, and Scarlet’s smiling face vanished from view, just like it had in real life.
I wasn’t sure what had prompted me to open her file this time, but it was probably a good thing that Fletcher had interrupted my reverie.
Reviewing the extensive spreadsheets I used to track every detail and lead I’d ever found on Scarlet’s murder wasn’t exactly a healthy obsession.
I’d spent the better part of a decade squinting at tiny Excel columns, still no closer to the truth.
The worst thing was that every time I opened my laptop, it was as if I expected this would be the day when something in one of the columns would jump out and the truth would reveal itself.
Of course, today wasn’t that day.
“What’s up?” I asked, turning toward Fletcher and stuffing the laptop in my bag. Hopefully, he hadn’t seen the screen. I didn’t want to talk about Scarlet, and Fletcher was just the kind of nice guy who would ask.
My workmate was a few years older than me with a tall, wiry body and a tendency to wear tweed despite our balmy and mild Northern Californian climate.
He would have blended in beautifully in Edwardian England.
He belonged in a different time, but at least he’d found his calling at the Secret Bookcase.
Whenever a customer purchased The Hound of the Baskervilles or A Study in Scarlet, Fletcher would give them a dissertation on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s background as a physician, explaining how he’d originally studied medicine and how this expertise worked its way into his novels in the form of Sherlock’s sidekick, Dr. Watson.
Or he’d detail enthusiastically Conan Doyle’s interest in spiritualism and the paranormal, and how his fascination with mediums and seances spilled into his writing.
So enthusiastically that I’d have to cheerily intervene to allow the customer to leave the store and get on with the rest of their day.
Most of the time, though, Fletcher’s extensive knowledge and adoration of Sherlock led customers to return days later for more recommendations.
He had an uncanny knack for pairing every novel in the canon with the right reader, an unparalleled skill that I admired hugely.
“Hal’s looking for you.” Fletcher adjusted his houndstooth bow tie and pointed to the stairwell. “That author is here for her signing.”
“Already?” I glanced at the clock on the wall above a sagging bookshelf crammed with hundreds of dusty advance reader copies, before mentally kicking myself for the millionth time.
The battery was as old as the Secret Bookcase and the clock’s hands were permanently fixed at nine a.m. “She’s not supposed to be here until five. ”
“It’s five fifteen.” Fletcher tapped his wrist. “You’ve been up here for over three hours.”
Really? “Shoot.” Whenever I revisited Scarlet’s murder, hours evaporated like raindrops on a hot July afternoon.
How was it already time for the author event?
I jumped to my feet. “Sorry, I guess I lost track of time.” I smoothed my wrinkled skirt and slid on my clogs, then turned to face the gold-framed mirror hanging above the desk.
Strands of my hair frizzed out from my ponytail, the result of a habit of nervous twirling that I’d been trying unsuccessfully to break.
I smoothed them down and fixed my short ponytail.
My hair is a reddish brown with natural auburn highlights, which usually complements my skin tone, but after hours of staring at a blue screen, my face looked sallow and pale.
I pinched my cheeks, hoping to bring back some life beneath my freckles.
“I’ve got bad news, Annie. There’s not a single person down there,” Fletcher said, grimacing and propping the door open with his foot. “It’s bleak.”
I sighed. “What else is new?” When Hal Christie offered me the job of bookseller and event coordinator at the Secret Bookcase eight years ago, I jumped at it.
I planned to tuck in with hundreds of detective novels, hide inside their musty, yellowing pages, and try to put the tragedy of my past behind me, which is basically what I’d done.
I just never imagined that I’d still be here nearly a decade later.
Not that I regretted a minute of my time in the sweet, small town I had come to love so dearly.
Redwood Grove had become my home, with its sun-drenched California summers, towering eucalyptus and bay leaf trees, and curiously kind community of friends and neighbors who’d welcomed me with open arms.
Lately, though, I’d wondered what I had to show for these years.
And the answer I kept coming back to was not much.
I was enthusiastic about author events, but even I had to admit they were dying a slow, painful death, bleeding out by a thousand tiny paper cuts.
I’d tried offering snacks and wine, special discounts, and bringing in as many big-name authors as possible, but had to face reality: a boutique Agatha Christie-inspired mystery bookshop in a small town way off the beaten path in Redwood Grove, California, wasn’t exactly a draw.
Readers had too many other distractions these days, and the days of big-budget book tours were over.
And if Fletcher and I couldn’t come up with fresh ideas to breathe some new life into the niche bookstore we both loved so dearly, our days were numbered.
The thought made me ill. I felt a duty to Hal, too, who was more than a boss to his staff, and who had created this unique and lovely place. There had to be something—anything—we could do to drum up more business.
“Well, wish me luck,” I said to Fletcher, dragging my teeth over my bottom lip and crossing my fingers. “Someone will certainly show up, right?”
Fletcher rocked on his heels and pretended to study me with newfound interest before cracking a smile. “As Sherlock might say, regrettably, my dear Annie, I’m afraid that conclusion is most erroneous.”
“I know, I know, don’t remind me.” I curled my bottom lip and brushed a smudge from my glasses. “I’ll think of something. I’ll pull people in from the street if I have to.”
I took the stairs two at a time. The floorboards creaked as I breezed past the gallery of framed vintage Christie book covers lining the wood-paneled walls. The Secret Bookcase needed an influx of customers. It was a shame that so few book lovers got to experience the bookstore’s quirky charm.
Hal had spent decades converting this old manor house into a mystery lovers’ paradise.
The Study was a quiet, isolated space with a fireplace and antique writing desk typically commandeered by aspiring writers and college students who hung out for hours sipping copious amounts of coffee and pounding away on their keyboards.
Cozy books, assorted teas, and candles could be found in the Sitting Room, along with comfortable armchairs and floral wallpaper resembling Miss Marple’s home in St. Mary Mead.
Poirot fans were known to linger in the Parlor, which captured the Art Deco atmosphere and the famed detective’s meticulous eye for detail.
There was the Mary Westmacott Nook for romance readers, the Dig Corner with a tent for children’s books, and the Library styled after a classic English library.
My favorite spot was the Terrace, an outdoor patio with lush potted flowers, sunny benches, and fresh air.
You could spend hours meandering from room to room, getting lost amongst the stacks, discovering rare copies of books long out of print, barely scratching the surface of Hal’s extensive collection of mysteries.
I took the stairwell that would have originally been used by servants a century ago and burst out into the foyer.
I sprinted past the cash register and raced to meet my author, who was waiting behind the podium in the Conservatory, the space we reserved for events and signings, which had originally been a ballroom.
Hal had preserved the parquet floors and mint-green walls with gilded gold-leaf trim and hand-painted murals.
Massive arched windows with intricate stained-glass patterns and tiered crystal chandeliers flooded the room with light.
Usually, I loved the elegant room, but all I could focus on was the fifty empty chairs sitting in neat rows, waiting expectantly to be filled. I glanced around, hoping there might be a handful of browsing customers I could encourage to fill seats, but the shop was ghostly quiet.