CHAPTER NINE
Jenna stepped inside Dénouement Café, with Jake close behind her.
The comforting scent of old books and fresh coffee contrasted sharply with the grim task at hand.
She scanned the room, taking in the various chairs and tables scattered like afterthoughts among towering bookshelves.
Many of those spaces were occupied by customers, each lost in their own private world of paper and ink.
At the counter, a small woman moved with the erratic energy of a hummingbird.
Leith Walsh wore her silver-streaked hair piled atop her head in a precarious knot that seemed to be secured by a pencil.
She wore a flowing scarf over a long purple dress and had an apron tied haphazardly around her waist.
“She looks busy,” Jake muttered, his voice low.
“When isn't she?” Jenna replied, moving toward the counter.
Leith glanced up from the espresso machine she was wrestling with, her face brightening when she spotted Jenna. “Sheriff Graves! What a delightful surprise. Are you here for a recommendation? I just finished the most fascinating biography of Eleanor Roosevelt—”
“Actually, Leith,” Jenna cut in gently, “we need to talk to you. Privately, please.”
Leith's smile dimmed a fraction. She wiped her hands on the apron before pulling it off and leaving it on the countertop.
“Of course. Let me just—” She turned to a young woman shelving books nearby. “Melissa, can you man the counter for a bit? The sheriff needs a word.”
The employee set down her stack of paperbacks. Leith reached for the pencil in her hair, taking it as if to make a note. Then she paused mid-motion as an elderly man approached the counter with an empty mug.
“Leith, dear, this Ethiopian blend is divine,” he said, setting the cup down with reverent care. “Reminds me of that little café in Addis Ababa I told you about.”
“Oh, Mr. Pearson! I'm so glad you enjoyed it.” Leith beamed, completely forgetting the waiting officers. “Did I ever tell you about my cousin who worked for the diplomatic corps? She brought back the most extraordinary coffee beans from her posting in—”
“Leith,” Jenna interrupted, not bothering to mask her impatience. “We really need to speak with you.” Every minute mattered in a murder investigation.
“Right! Yes, of course.” Leith said emphatically, but immediately turned back to Mr. Pearson. “Would you like another cup? On the house. I'd love to hear more about your travels. Did you ever make it to that monastery you mentioned?”
Mr. Pearson brightened. “As a matter of fact—”
“Mr. Pearson,” Jake cut in with a smile, “I'm afraid we need to borrow Leith for official business. Perhaps you could continue this fascinating conversation later?”
The old man peered at Jake's badge and nodded solemnly. “Duty calls, then. I'll be at my usual table with my Faulkner when you're done, Leith.”
“Bring him a refill, Melissa,” Leith called to her employee, then finally turned her attention back to Jenna and Jake.
“Follow me to the stockroom. It's the only private space we have, unless you count the bathroom, which I absolutely do not recommend for conversations. The echo in there is positively Victorian. Makes me think of—”
“The stockroom is fine,” Jenna said firmly, guiding Leith toward the back of the café with a light touch to her elbow.
As they passed through the café, Leith spoke to nearly every customer, offering personalized comments that threatened to derail their progress.
“Martha, that book on beekeeping came in! Evan, your special order from Prague is delayed again—can you believe the postal service? Oh, Danielle, tell your mother her sourdough starter saved my focaccia last week!”
By the time they reached the stockroom door, Jenna's patience had worn thin. Jake caught her eye and mouthed, “Breathe,” earning him a sharp glance that he met with a knowing half-smile.
The stockroom was a cluttered testament to Leith's organizational chaos.
Books were stacked in precarious towers, some categorized with handwritten labels that made sense only to their creator: “Moon-adjacent,” “Reminds me of cinnamon,” and “Books that made me cry on page 37.” The small space was illuminated by a single window and a desk lamp whose bulb flickered periodically.
Leith closed the door behind them and perched on top of a wooden desk, sending a stack of paperbacks sliding dangerously close to the edge.
“Now, what can I do for Genesius County's finest?
Tax issue? Noise complaint from Mrs. Devereux next door?
I've told her a thousand times that energetic book discussions are not noise pollution—”
“Claudia Kingsley is dead,” Jenna said, opting for directness.
Leith blinked once, twice, her hands stilling on the pencil she'd been twirling.
“Oh,” she said finally, her voice smaller than Jenna had ever heard it. “How terrible.”
“She was murdered,” Jake added.
Leith's eyes widened, but not with the shock or horror Jenna might have expected. Instead, she looked...confused?… disappointed?
“This is dreadful timing,” Leith sighed, shaking her head. “We have book club tonight, and Claudia was supposed to lead the discussion on the ending of Blackbriar Hollow. She had such insightful commentary on the red herrings in chapter fifteen.”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake. This reaction was unusual, even for Leith, who operated on a wavelength entirely her own.
“Leith,” Jenna said carefully, “I need you to focus. Claudia was murdered. Do you understand what that means?”
“Of course I do,” Leith replied, suddenly sharp.
“I'm eccentric, Sheriff, not oblivious. It means someone killed her, which is horrible and tragic and...” She trailed off, blinking rapidly.
“And now I'm going to have to find someone else to bring the lemon squares. Claudia always brought the most wonderful lemon squares.”
Jenna pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell me about Blackbriar Hollow. Was Claudia particularly invested in this book?”
At this, Leith brightened visibly. “Oh, it's a marvelous thriller! Set in a small town much like Trentville, actually, though with even more murders, if you can believe it! The protagonist is this delightfully flawed detective with a gambling problem and a pet iguana named Ferdinand—”
“The plot, Leith,” Jake prompted gently.
“Right, right. It's about a series of murders in a small town, but the killer uses clever tricks to make them look like accidents. A drowning in a bathtub, a fall down the stairs, a hunting mishap.” Leith leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I won’t tell you the ending, because you should read it yourself.”
“We don't have time to—” Jenna began.
“No, you're right,” Leith interrupted. “You're both far too busy solving real murders to read about fictional ones. So yes, the editor of the local newspaper did it. She had this whole complex about knowledge being dangerous in the wrong hands, and she targeted people she felt were abusing information or spreading falsehoods. Quite the commentary on our post-truth society, if you ask me.”
Jenna sighed. So far, Leith wasn’t revealing anything helpful.
“Leith,” she said, finding her way back to the purpose of their visit, “I need to know about Claudia's behavior at your last book club meeting. Did she seem worried about anything? Did she mention any conflicts in her life?”
Leith tilted her head, the pencil she had been twirling, once again finding its way into her hair. “Claudia was Claudia—cheerful, engaged, asked good questions. She had lovely conversations with everyone.”
“And who is 'everyone'? Who else is in this book club?”
For a moment, Leith looked reluctant, as if the names of her book club members were state secrets.
Then she shrugged. “Well, there's Diana Moore—she's a nurse at the hospital, divorced three times, makes excellent tiramisu but can never remember to bring napkins.
She's reading everything by Tana French in chronological order.”
“Go on.”
“Then there's Paul Whitaker, retired high school chemistry teacher who's writing his own mystery novel about a poisoning at a boarding school.
He's stuck on chapter seven and has been for about eight months. Makes atrocious coffee, but we let him because he brings these chocolate-covered espresso beans from his sister in Seattle.”
“And the others?” Jake prompted when Leith paused to adjust a stack of books that was listing dangerously to one side.
“Meredith Chen. Accountant by day, amateur astronomer by night. Brilliant woman, terrible taste in wine, always wears the most fascinating socks. Last week they had quantum equations all over them. She's the one who suggested Blackbriar Hollow, actually.”
“What about Bridget Henderson?”
“Oh, yes. She reads at lightning speed. I swear she finishes the book twice before the rest of us are halfway in. And she brings the best homemade cookies you’ve ever tasted. Hardly ever stops talking about her children, though. I believe they both had Claudia as a teacher.”
Leith stopped, thought for a moment, then said sadly, “That’s all, just those four plus myself now that poor Claudia won’t be with us.”
Jenna considered those descriptions, searching for anything that might signal danger or connection to Claudia's murder. Nothing stood out immediately. “Has Gregory Ashton ever been part of your book club?”
Leith snorted, a surprisingly inelegant sound from the usually whimsical bookstore owner.
“Gregory? Heavens, no. That man has never even set foot in my store. Too busy shouting at amateur actors to bother with literature, I suspect. It would probably do him good, though—might learn something about character development.”
“Did Claudia ever speak with you privately, especially during the last meeting?”
Leith's gaze drifted to the window, where dust motes danced in a shaft of afternoon sunlight. “She did, actually, but just to ask some questions about literature.”
“About anything specific?”
“Wanted to talk about fairy tales, of all things. I assumed it was related to her teaching.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Fairy tales?”
“Yes.” Leith said emphatically. “She asked whether I thought violent and scary fairy tales ought to be toned down for children. We had quite the discussion about it.”
“And what did you tell her?” Jenna asked, feeling a prickle of interest, the kind of sensation she often experience when her intuition—her gift—was trying to tell her something.
“I told her that children should probably get their fairy tales from Disney or other adapted versions,” Leith said, absently rearranging a stack of bookmarks. “I mean the originals … are you familiar with them?”
“No, I can’t say that I am.”
“Well, they’re quite… different,” Leith said with a faraway look.
Then she returned her gaze to Jenna and added, “But I’ve always said that adults could benefit from reading the original stories.
They teach us about the brutality of the real world, wrapped in the guise of fantasy.
The original tales are warnings, you know. Not bedtime stories.”
Jenna felt that prickle intensify. “Leith, do you know any fairy tales that involve cutting open a wolf's belly?”
The question seemed to please Leith rather than surprise her. Her eyes lit up with the particular joy of someone asked about their expertise.
“Oh yes! Come with me,” she said, moving toward the stockroom door with unexpected purpose. “I'll show you exactly what you need to see.”