Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (free books to read txt) 📕

The day in the shop went by lickety-split between customers and the usual book deliveries for Tuesday. Tuesday is the day most of the new books come out, so I made a lot of displays of titles that I’d convinced publishers would sell here, even in a new store, including a new mystery novel from Baltimore’s Laura Lippman, who was adored by most Marylanders.

When I finally took a break about mid-afternoon to check my email, I was delighted to see a note from my friends Stephen and Walter back in San Francisco. They were wondering if they could come out that weekend for a visit. It didn’t even take me a second to send back a yes with approximately thirty exclamation points and the address. Oh, it would be so good to have them here. They’d wanted to come for the grand opening, but Stephen had a big fundraising event with our old organization the same day and couldn’t miss it. Anyway, it was kind of nice to have them come when there was a little less excitement. I could enjoy my time with them more this way.

I also had a note from my parents. They, too, had missed the grand opening, but unlike my friends, they hadn’t offered to come visit. They’d been down from Chesapeake City once, not long after Mart and I had moved in. They’d rented a room at the fancy B&B in town, even though we’d offered to let them stay in our guest room, and when they’d seen the shop location – which did still look remarkably like a gas station at that point – they’d said, “Oh, I hope you didn’t pay too much.”

This note was typical Burt and Sharon Beckett. I knew they wrote to feel like they were being good parents, checking in on their daughter who now lived less than an hour away. But they didn’t really open up any space for me to tell them how I actually was. It was more a “thinking of you” because we know we’re supposed to than a “How are you really?” kind of a note. I wrote back the required and equally distant response to thank them, tell them I was fine, and note that I’d met Catherine Clinton. A little dig at my history-buff father and a note about my own success, too. I hit send with a little zing down my arm.

It would have been easy to get bitter about my parents – justified, too – but I had decided a long time ago that they were who they were, and that meant they just weren’t going to “get” me. Somehow, they had raised a daughter who didn’t value the things they did – notoriety and financial stability – and that disappointed them. But I liked who I was, and now that I was on my own again after a marriage that was stable but broken in a really fundamental way, I finally was able to live the life I wanted to live. In fact, I’d signed my divorce papers just last week, so even the pesky legal part was over. My life was my own, and, even if it disappointed my parents, I was going to live it my way.

The last email in my inbox was from Max Davies. I’d sent him a note the day before asking if he’d think about creating a special dinner for my Welcome to Spring dinner, and to my surprise and pleasure, he thought the idea was wonderful. “I’ll come up with a Prix Fixe menu and keep the price reasonable by asking my vendors to consider a break for the cause. I love, especially, that you want to donate to the humane society. I’d be honored to be a part, and so would Gertrude. Thank you for inviting us.” He signed off with a picture of a very fluffy, very confident cat, who I could only presume was Gertrude.

I couldn’t help by smile. Maybe Max wasn’t so prickly after all.

At the end of the day, Rocky and I closed up shop, and as we walked out, Rocky jerked me out of the way as a blur whizzed by. “Watch where you’re going,” she shouted, the blur stopped and turned back. It was Marcus Dawson.

“Sorry. Didn’t see you,” he said with a quick wave before dropping his board to the ground again.

Something about what Lucas had told me about him made me want to reach out to the kid, so before he could skate off, I said, “Hey Marcus. I could use some help around the shop this week. Come by if you’d like the work.”

He paused then and turned to face me.

“No pressure. Just if you want it.” I was suddenly nervous that I’d overstepped, offended him in some way.

He studied me a second more and then said, “See you tomorrow.” Then, he was off.

Rocky gave me a small smile. “Your heart is so big, Harvey. Just be wise.”

I hugged her and started walking toward home. I kept looking around, hopeful. Maybe Daniel was going to come by to walk me home again. But as I walked, I felt my disappointment growing. Then I chided myself for being foolish – both for expecting him to show and for being so hopeful he would. He just said he might come by, Harvey. No promises.

By the time I got home, I felt a bit better. The walk through a brisk evening had helped, as did the beauty of the town with its quaint gardens and houses with golden light coming through their front windows. Sometimes, I felt like I’d moved to the set for a 1950s sitcom . . . or maybe a Perry Mason episode, given the murder that had me preoccupied. I kept thinking about the shape of the blow to Stevensmith’s head and trying to figure out what someone could wield with enough force to leave a mark. I felt like it would have been suspicious if the murderer had been carrying a pipe around town, and it was just too much like a game of Clue to imagine a candlestick. What would leave that mark? And what about that piece of orange paper? I needed more information.