Tome to Tomb Read online

  As we got home, Mart, my roommate and best friend, slammed on her brakes after squealing into the driveway. “Again, Harvey?” she said.

  Not her most compassionate greeting, but I couldn’t help but echo her question. “Yes, again. This time, though, it wasn’t murder.” At least I hoped it wasn’t.

  “That’s good then,” she said as she unlocked the door and held it open for Daniel and the dogs, who had been in the homemade crates Daniel had crafted for them. “What happened?”

  I recounted the scene – the drunk man, the collapse, Marcus doing CPR – as I collapsed onto the couch and gratefully took the glass of wine she handed me. Daniel poured the dogs some food and refreshed their water before sitting down next to me. I leaned my head on his shoulder and wished I could just go to sleep and wake up to find this was all the plot of some book I was reading.

  Mart put on the kettle behind us and said, “Wine to calm you. Tea to help you sleep.”

  I smiled. My friends were good people, which is why I wasn’t surprised when the door opened a few minutes later to a steady stream of people I loved, including my friends from San Francisco, Stephen and Walter; Cate and Lucas, Bear and Henri, friends from here; and even my parents. My parents were learning, finally, to take things a little easier here in our sleepy, quiet town. But tonight, they were not exactly exhibiting the calm, relaxed attitudes they’d been cultivating.

  “Harvey, what happened?” Mom’s voice was just this side of a shriek, and I winced.

  This time, Daniel did the honors of telling the story, looking at me carefully to be sure he was getting it right. He told an excellent, brief version of events, and I tried to look like I was sipping, not gulping my wine.

  “Sounds like an aneurism,” our friend Henri said as she moved her dreadlocks over her shoulder. Henri was a weaver who made these beautiful wall hangings, like the one over our fireplace, and her ever-present artistic look – draping sweaters, wide-legged pants, and adorable tennis shoes – was effortless. Even her dark-brown skin practically glowed, even though I knew – because I’d asked – that her skin-care regimen consisted of Ivory soap morning and night.

  Mart nodded. “That’s what I was thinking too, or a stroke.”

  Bear, Henri’s husband, rolled his eyes. “The two of you get your medical degrees since I last heard?” Bear was an emergency room doctor, so I was eager to hear what he’d have to say. “I can’t even begin to speculate,” he said as I gave him my most pointed look.

  I sighed.

  Cate slid onto the couch next to me and pulled my feet onto her lap and began to massage them. I don’t know where she’d picked up this skill or the knowledge that this was the best way in the entire world to relax me, but tonight, I didn’t care. I needed a foot massage almost as badly as I needed sleep.

  Then, as if by some signal, everyone stopped talking about the man’s death and started discussing their holiday plans. I was grateful. We weren’t going to bring the man back or erase the fact that he’d died in my store during Christmas by talking about it, and I really wanted to just wind down. I didn’t even really listen to what anyone said. I just let the voices of people I loved and who loved me fill the room as I tried not to groan audibly when Cate rubbed the pain out of my arches.

  The next thing I knew, I was in bed in my pajamas with a black and white cat on the pillow next to me, and it was morning. I reached over and gave Aslan a scratch. She returned the kindness by deigning to open one eye a sliver and letting out a short purr before settling deeper into her queenly cushion. I looked at the clock: eight-thirty a.m. I stretched and then climbed out of bed with the intention of heading right to the shower and then sprinting to the store to open for our special early hours this holiday weekend. But when I got to the bathroom door, a note read, “I’m opening. Take your time. – Mart.”

  I smiled and felt my shoulders drop. “Aslan, how does a cup of coffee sound?”

  The cat didn’t even bother to open an eye this time.

  I didn’t dawdle long at home, but I did let the hot water run a little longer than I might have just to sooth my aching body. I had slept so hard that I woke up with one of those stiff necks that come from lying in one position too long. The shower helped, but I still popped two ibuprofen and a Tylenol – the pain-med combo that my dentist had prescribed for toothache but had become my standard wonder cure for all pain – while I sipped my coffee and caught up on Galen’s Instagram feed.

  I took one more minute to scroll the news and social media feeds, but somehow, maybe because of the late hour, the news of the man’s death hadn’t made it online yet. But I knew, given that this was St. Marin’s, it was only a matter of time.

  I donned my navy-blue pea coat, wrapped a cashmere scarf that Mart had made around my neck, and leashed up Mayhem for the walk. She had gobbled down her food while I’d swallowed a cinnamon raisin English muffin with honey, and she was ready to go. That dog loved her walks almost as much as she loved her adoring fans at the store.

  The walk was perfect and did wonders to limber me up and clear the cobwebs from my mind. The air was crisp and the sky the perfect blue of late autumn. By the time I neared the store, the only question I had was about who had gotten me into bed last night. I prayed it was Mart. Daniel and I were not moving fast physically, although we had gotten engaged a few weeks ago, and I hated the thought that the first glimpse he’d have of his fiancé in her underwear would include my Loony Toons granny panties.

  I didn’t have long to wait to find out the great mystery because Mart texted and said, “All set at the store. Marcus and Rocky are on it. BTW, Tweety always was my favorite.”

  I guffawed and startled a tiny woman just entering the store. Then, I let out a long sigh of relief. “Mine, too,” I texted back. “Obviously.”

  I was glad Mart had clarified for me because when Daniel came in a few minutes later, I was glad to be able to look him in the face without blushing. Well, without blushing too much. He still made me a little weak in the knees.

  “Saw Tuck on my way in this morning. He asked me to meet him here at ten. I think he wants to talk to all of you.” He looked from me to Marcus at the register and over to Rocky in the café. “I have a suspicion that I’m about to finally learn how to run your cash register.”

  As if on cue, Tuck walked in the front door and, with a nod, signaled to Rocky, Marcus, and me that our presence was requested in the back room. Yet again, I was grateful for the table and the chairs I’d added to our make-shift break room, but my sincere appreciation of those items dulled to the enthusiasm that sparked in me when I saw that Rocky was bringing a full carafe of coffee and a plate of cinnamon scones.

  I took the stack of recyclable cups from under her arm and took the opportunity to give her a quick squeeze of thanks before we pushed open the stockroom door and saw the dark circles under Tuck’s eyes. “Did you get any sleep?” I asked as I sat down.

  He shook his head. “No, and Lu had me up at three yesterday morning to get to the big sales in Baltimore. After this, I am going home and not waking up until Monday.”

  I poured him a huge cup of coffee and saw that Rocky had wisely brought the dark roast. I hesitated in my temptation to add a big dose from the sugar bottle on the table, but I knew Tuck preferred his coffee black. Even the thought made my lips pucker.

  Everyone got their coffee prepped and a scone in hand, and then Tuck had us review the events of the night before – together – unlike last night when he’d interviewed each of us separately. We walked him through the evening, the dogs, the children we could remember, and then finally the last visitor for Santa. At this point, he slowed us down and asked us to describe the guy’s behavior very specifically.

  All of us had seen him come in. At first, he had seemed tipsy, and I definitely had smelled beer on his breath. I realized that’s why I thought he sat with Damien, that he was drunk.

  “He wasn’t drunk, was he?” I asked right in the middle of Rocky’s description o
f the man. “Oh, sorry, Rocky.” I shrugged and tried to look apologetic.

  “What?!” Marcus said and then looked at Tuck. “He wasn’t drunk?”

  “Actually, no. He had been drinking, but his blood alcohol level wasn’t high enough for him to show visible symptoms.” Tuck said before he took a long sip of his very hot coffee without even a wince. “We’re waiting for the autopsy, but it looks like he was drugged. The ME expects it was an insulin overdose.”

  My eyes went very wide. “Is that even a thing?”

  “Apparently, yes. And it mimics the symptoms of intoxication – stumbling, slurred speech, glassy eyes.” Tuck looked at Rocky. “Is that what you saw?”

  Rocky nodded. “Pretty much.” She turned to me. “How did you know?”

  “Just something about the way he talked when he got up from Damien’s lap. It was like his mouth wasn’t really working. I mean like really not working.” I shrugged. “I don’t really know how to describe it.”

  Marcus nodded. “I think I know what you mean. It was not quite right for a guy who’d had too much to drink.”

  “Exactly. He seemed too out of it and too coherent for him to be totally drunk.” I paused and thought about the few times I’d had too much to drink and the people I knew who really drank to excess. This guy hadn’t seemed like them somehow. “I guess it seems like if he had drunk enough to stumble like that and slur so badly, he wouldn’t have actually been able to walk to the store. Plus, his words were in the wrong order, I think.”

  “That’s right,” Rocky said as she sat forward in her chair. “Now that you mention it, I remember thinking he sounded like the toddlers at the daycare where my sister works. They know words, but not rules for using them. So the words are in the wrong order or not quite right.”

  “Yeah,” Marcus sighed. “He kept saying, ‘Best everyone help.’”

  Tuck was jotting down everything we were saying, and I was getting more and more anxious the more he wrote.

  “You don’t think this was an accident, do you, Tuck?” The knot in my throat made it hard for me to swallow.

  He sighed and put his pen down. “No. We think someone dosed him. On purpose.”

  I looked from Rocky to Marcus and back to Tuck. “He was murdered,” I whispered.

  “It appears that way, Harvey. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t the kick-off to your Christmas season that you wanted.” The sheriff stood and put his baseball cap back on his head. “I’ll let you know anything relevant, and of course, if any of you think of anything else . . .”

  Marcus stood and shook the sheriff’s hand. “We know where to find you.”

  Rocky slid her chair over next to me as Marcus and the sheriff walked out. “You okay?” she said.

  I put my cheek on the table and thought about how I’d loved those infrequent naps you got in elementary school, about how the cool desktop had felt so great for a few minutes. I wanted one of those naps now, and when I woke up, I was hoping it would be fifth grade again. Even the likes of my childhood nemesis David McEIroy on the kickball field wouldn’t be as daunting as a murder in my store at Christmas.

  3

  Eventually, Rocky lured me out of the back room with the promise of a double-shot latte and one of her mom’s cinnamon rolls, and I peeled myself off the table and made it to the register just in time to see Daniel hand-sell a beautiful copy of The Quilts of Gee’s Bend that Cate had talked me into adding to my art book collection, despite the high cover price. The man buying it did not look like a quilter, but he did look like an art collector, which made sense since those gorgeous quilts were works of historical art. Henri admired the quilters of Gee’s Bend and had even spent some time with them to see what she might incorporate in her weavings from their patterns. I was glad the book had found a new home with someone who would appreciate it. I was also glad for the nice mark-up. It might make up for some of the inevitable lost sales that would come once word got out that a murder victim had succumbed while telling Santa all he wanted for Christmas.

  Even the thought of murder made me groan, but I tried to simply put my head down and get to work. Saturday was usually our busiest day of the week, and with the holidays coming, I was hoping to see our revenues climb back up to the range they’d been in the high tourist season of summer. I just couldn’t see that happening what with the death in Santa’s lap and all . . .

  But of course, I underestimated the human fascination with all things macabre, and by noon, the shop was full, Rocky had pulled out the extra coffee carafes, and I had fielded about a million questions about when The Slaying Santa would be in again. I had a deep fondness for word play, but this nickname was not my favorite.

  Damien, however, the Santa in question, loved it, and even signed a few autographs when he came in for his afternoon session. “Harvey, thank you. I’ve already gotten two other Santa gigs because of the press around this one.”

  I stared at him for a very long moment before I actually managed to say, “People want to hire you because someone died on you.”

  He blushed a little. “Well, they are Christmas haunted houses so . . .”

  “Wait, what?! There’s such a thing as a Christmas haunted house?” I stared again. The wonders never cease. I tried to put a smile on my face and said, “Seriously, though, are you okay, Damien? I mean that was a big deal.”

  His face grew serious. “Yeah, I am. I talked to my counselor this morning, made sure I had some things in place in case I started to feel weirded out. Sad about the guy, though. Know anything about him?”

  “Not much.” I told him the little bit the sheriff had told us, and the color faded from Damien’s face.

  “Oh man, I definitely need to take a minute and visualize my safe place. I’m glad I talked to my therapist.” He headed toward the back room, white beard in tow, and I hoped he’d find his meditation helpful.

  When I got stressed, I thought about this bench that overlooked the Golden Gate – the water, not the bridge – in San Francisco. I’d picture the place, try to smell the eucalyptus, watch the pelicans soar by. I always felt better, more grounded when I did, so I was glad that Damien had something like that to use, too. Death was always hard, but violent death . . . let’s just say I had gone to my safe space a lot in my head this morning while the sheriff asked us questions.

  While Damien prepared himself for the literal throngs of people waiting to see him, I decided to up the cheer in the store a notch and popped in the Trolls Holiday album. The kids loved it, and I had yet to meet an adult who could withstand the pep of Justin Timberlake singing “Love Train.”

  Within seconds, heads were bobbing, and I could just feel the Christmas spirit starting to loosen itself from the dark corners of the store. We’d have enough to contend with in the coming days. Right now, I just wanted to enjoy my peppermint latte and dance a little among the books. From what I could see, I wasn’t alone. People were shimmying all over the store, and it was wonderful.

  I spent the next few hours making small displays of holiday books all around the store. My favorite was a table full of picture books that my mother had in her picture book collection including The Littlest Angel by Charles Tazewell. I loved that story of a tiny angel who didn’t think he had much to offer but learns, as we all do, that who is he is enough of a gift. I had to resist reading it as soon as I put it out.

  Business was swift, and Damien had a long line again. I tried to not let it bother me too much that a fair number of his “guests” were adults clearly seeking a little macabre thrill. Damien handled them deftly by pulling up a chair next to him, listening to whatever they said. As I passed by once, I heard a woman ask for a new husband for Christmas and a later young man say that he felt weird but really just wanted to see the guy who had held a dead body. Damien escorted that young man to the door himself and then took a break. On his way to the back room, he asked me to give Tuck a ring and give him that guy’s description. I had already picked up my phone to do the same. That dude gave me t
he willies.

  Typically, I’d head home in the later afternoon and let Marcus take over closing duties, but given the season and the events of yesterday, I decided to stay on and just order in for dinner. When I called Tuck about the creepster with Santa, he mentioned that his wife Lu’s food truck was just up the street, and I took a quick break to slip up there and get a couple of her amazing carnitas tacos. She made the best food in town, hands down, and I think she knew that. But she never said anything because she was humble and also because she was wise. No reason to stoke the ire of local restaurant owner, Max Davies. That man was enough of a pain as it was. The guy had a crush on me, and I really, really didn’t want to see him tonight. So I went so far as to bend low at the waist when I passed his restaurant’s windows. Hopefully, I looked like a small, navy-blue bear hunching by on the sidewalk.

  But not even having to hide from Max was going to deter me from enjoying dinner. It had taken a lot of willpower not to start chowing down before I got to the store. I resisted, and Lu’s tacos in hand, I slipped into a corner of the café to eat and sip my decaf peppermint latte – no caffeine after three if I wanted to sleep that night. Near me, three women in hospital scrubs were enjoying some of Rocky’s lattes themselves. I could hear them admiring her steamed milk Christmas trees and ornaments. Apparently, she’d also branched into the other holidays, which I loved, because one woman was marveling at her menorah.

  I scarfed down my dinner and was just washing up in the small sink behind Rocky’s counter when Sheriff Tucker came in and gave me the old “into the back” nod. I sighed but then decided I still wanted to keep the holiday spirit and decided to skip into the back room. A middle-aged woman skipping is a sight that brings one of two reactions: joyous giggles or intense eye rolls. I got a fair share of both, but I think the giggles took it . . . and so a little embarrassment on my part was worth it.