Chapter 1 #2
“Welcome, I’m Annie Murray,” I said, extending a sweaty hand in a greeting.
“Thank you so much for coming. We are absolutely delighted to have you, and I’m sure this room will be packed in no time.
” I couldn’t believe it wasn’t. I had advertised the event for weeks with promotions on social media, fliers posted around town, and articles in our local newspaper, the Redwood Grove Gazette.
Given the author’s extensive backlist, I’d been optimistic that we might have a packed house.
I knew it was a stretch, but I never would have anticipated that no one would show.
The author forced a smile.
“Let me run and make an announcement on our speaker system.” I could hear my words rushing together, a nervous habit.
I had to fix this. “Can I get you anything in the meantime? Water? Coffee? A glass of wine? I know where Hal keeps a bottle of expensive Scotch if you want something a bit stronger before you talk.”
She shook her head and swept her hand toward the empty room. “Talk? To whom?”
I gnawed the inside of my cheek, desperately trying to think of ways to salvage the situation and find an audience fast. I refused to accept that no one had come for her signing.
“I’m sure that readers will start to trickle in,” I said with a forced cheerfulness.
“It’s hard on weeknights with people getting off work.
I know your publicist mentioned you have a flight to catch later in San Francisco, and we really do appreciate you making a stop.
We’ve been promoting your talk on social, and I have a bunch of pre-orders for you to sign.
Plus, I’ll set out wine and cookies—that always draws shoppers in. ”
“No need to go to any extra effort. It’s not your fault,” she acquiesced, sitting in the front row. “It’s not just you. My in-store signings have been sparsely populated this entire tour. You’re one of the only mystery bookstores left and, from the looks of things, not long for this world.”
She wasn’t wrong. Liam Donovan, the owner of the Stag Head down the lane, had been badgering Hal to sell the store so he could relocate his pub and turn it into a full-scale restaurant with guest rooms upstairs.
Hal had resisted, but for how much longer could he hold out?
He would never admit that he was worried, but it didn’t take a seasoned detective to pick up on his long sighs when reviewing the end-of-day sales totals or how his shoulders would sag when the bookstore would be empty for hours on end.
I tried to squash the swirling feeling of nerves in my stomach. I just wished there was something I could do to turn things around.
“Everyone wants a hook these days,” the author continued, sounding understandably annoyed.
“An immersive experience. Wine pairings with a reading, giveaways, and podcasts. It’s endless.
Can you believe my publicist suggested trying to attract more readers by offering clues for them to solve?
She told me I should write a miniature mystery, print it on special paper, and invite readers to figure out whodunit.
Can you imagine? As if I’m supposed to know anything about marketing. I wrote the book. Isn’t that enough?”
I wasn’t sure it was a rhetorical question.
“It should be,” I agreed, trying to give her a sympathetic smile.
“There’s just so much noise these days; it’s hard to break through.
Although that is a clever idea.” A miniature mystery written by an author sounded like the stuff of my childhood dreams. The hint of an idea began to take hold.
What if there was something to that? Could we entice more readers into the store with an interactive mystery they had to solve?
Perhaps we could hide clues in different rooms or behind the secret bookcase in the Sitting Room.
A thrill went through me as my imagination sparked with possibilities.
“I write books. I don’t do gimmicks,” she scoffed, putting a decisive end to the conversation.
“Right.” I nodded. “Like I said, let me make an announcement and get some readers in the room.”
I managed to scrounge up three timid customers to fill seats with the promise of deep discounts on their purchases and complimentary cookies and wine.
The event was a bust, but for some reason the author’s comment wouldn’t leave my head as I listened to her read passages from her latest release and answer questions.
My foot tapped the floor as I imagined what might be possible. If I was going to save the Secret Bookcase, we needed something fresh. Something original.
Chardonnay and shortbread weren’t enough anymore.
Once my brain latched on to a puzzle, it had to solve it, for better or worse.
It was one of the many reasons I couldn’t let Scarlet’s murder go.
Now I had a new challenge and I was buzzing with ideas on how to unlock it—could I create an event of epic proportions to save the bookstore and celebrate everything I loved about Redwood Grove?