Bound to Execute Page 7

  “Anytime. And do be sure you let me know about the services. I’d like to be there, and I expect a lot of the folks in town would. To pay our respects.”

  “Absolutely. Everyone is welcome, well, everyone except the killer, that is.” She looked at me intently. “I hear they’ve got a suspect in mind.”

  Again, I was stupefied at how quickly word traveled here, even to visitors. “That’s what I hear too.”

  “Well, if she did this, this Henrietta Johnson woman, she’ll get what she deserves.” Renee’s voice wasn’t just edged with ice now. It was a full-on freeze-over, and I shuddered.

  Renee adjusted her shoulders and let out a long sigh. “Thank you again, Harvey.”

  I waved as she went out the door, and then I picked up my phone and called Deputy Dillard. He needed to know that Wilma’s sister was in town and that she was not trifling about what should happen to the murderer.

  For once, I was glad I wasn’t sleuthing.

  5

  When I was younger, Thursdays had always been my favorite days. I’ve always been the kind of person for whom the anticipation of the thing almost always matters more than the thing itself, so looking forward to the weekend, especially for me as a bookish, nerdy teenager, was always way better than the weekend.

  Now, though, Thursdays didn’t stand out as much. I loved how I spent my days, and that was a gift because I’d been dreaming of a bookstore for as long as I could remember. And when you want something this badly for this long, it can really disappoint you. All Booked Up didn’t disappoint, though. Not at all.

  This Thursday, however, I dreaded, despite the fact that we were having a barbecue at Stephen and Walter’s house that night. First, Deputy Dillard was coming into the shop even before we opened to talk about what Renee said. Then, I knew I’d probably have to lie to people, including my parents, and I felt especially guilty about that because we had just started really connecting after several years of pretty intense hostility.

  * * *

  Third, Galen Gilbert was coming in – I wasn’t dreading that at all – but he was bringing a photographer to do a shoot of him and some of our books and décor for various publicity purposes. I was super happy Galen had asked if they could use the store, and I really was glad we could do it. But I felt frazzled and tired already, and just the idea of having a photographer moving things around and needing me to get things had me feeling overwhelmed by the time I got my coffee poured.

  Still, I was a grown-up, a fact I reminded myself of on the days when I felt like calling in sick and watching The Good Place all day, and I could handle it. I ate my two pieces of cheese toast as a treat to myself, gave Aslan a little tuna to treat her, and then leashed up Mayhem for her daily treat of a walk. That girl loved her walks. Sometimes, I wished I had a big old farm where she could run free as she wished, but then I saw her sleeping away the days between our strolls and felt like she might not take advantage of the roaming as much I imagined. She had a good life.

  When I reached the store, Rocky had already gotten to the café so she could work on our bi-weekly coffee order, and I was grateful to smell the aroma of fresh brew when I came in. The deputy wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes, and so I headed over to the café to get a cup of that goodness. The coffee at home simply was not going to be enough to get me through this day.

  Rocky smiled when she saw me, but there was something in her face, a hesitation, that made me think something was on her mind. “Things okay with Marcus?” I asked.

  Her smile got wider. “Yes, they’re really good actually. He’s such a really, truly good person, you know?”

  “Well, not like you know, but yes, he is.” I studied her face for a minute. “You okay?”

  “That obvious, huh? I never could lie.”

  I laughed a bit too hard. “Tell me about it.”

  Rocky twisted up her mouth and looked at me through squinted eyes. “I don’t know. I think you’ve been doing a pretty good job.”

  For a moment, I tried to look shocked, horrified, but I was no actress. I sighed and said, “So you know, too?”

  “Knew that first day the sheriff came in, and you started talking all loud about how Henri was guilty. You are anything but subtle, Harvey.” She tilted her head and smirked.

  I rolled my eyes. “The sheriff should have never trusted me with this. I’d be a terrible member of the 21 Jump Street team.”

  Rocky laughed. “You know that movie?”

  I had to think a minute until I remembered that Tatum Channing, or was it Channing Tatum? – I never could get his names in the right order – was in some remake. “Oh, I was talking about the TV show with Johnny Depp, Dustin Nguyen, and Holly Robinson.”

  “There was a TV Show? Johnny Depp – he didn’t play an undercover narc, did he? He’s so old.”

  “Hey now,” I said. “I’ve had a crush on him for, well, decades.”

  “You have? We’re talking about the same guy, right? Jack Sparrow with the eyes painted on his eyes.”

  “That’s the one. I used to even have a purse with his face on it.”

  Rocky whipped out her phone. “I have to see some photos of this guy when he was younger. He’s just so dad-like.”

  I groaned and walked back to the register in the bookstore with my coffee.

  I had just finished straightening all the money in the cash drawer – something I never did unless I was nervous – when Deputy Dillard came in. “Hi Officer.”

  “Hi Harvey. How you doing? Just thought I’d stop by,” he shot a glance over to Rocky in the café, “and do a neighborhood check.” He was almost as bad an actor as I am.

  “Don’t bother. She knows.”

  “Another person knows? Harvey, you are really bad at this.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. My friends just know me well.”

  “We sure do,” Rocky piped in from behind me.

  I turned and stuck my tongue out at her before turning back to Dillard. “They won’t tell, though. None of them will.”

  He nodded. “Well, tell me about this interaction with Renee Forsham. How did that all come about?”

  I recounted my conversation with Renee from the previous day and told him that she’d seemed very personable, much more in touch with people’s feeling than her sister but that her threat had put me off, made me a little nervous.

  “A little suspicious?” Dillard asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but she did seem sincerely grieving, too.”

  “I’ve seen murderers grieve. Just because they killed the person they love doesn’t mean they don’t also miss them.”

  I shook my head. “I guess. Seems like if you’d miss someone maybe you shouldn’t choke them to death, but maybe that’s just me.”

  Dillard smiled. “Well, thanks for this. I’ll look into it.” He closed his notebook and leaned closer. “Now, we have four suspects. We should be narrowing that pool down, not making it wider.”

  If I didn’t count Henri as the fake suspect, I figured they must be thinking Cynthia and Ariel from the bank, Renee, and Ollie. “Ollie’s still a suspect?”

  Dillard nodded. “Yep, we haven’t been able to place him on the morning of the murder.”

  “Well, where does he say he was?”

  The officer shook his head. “He says he was ‘creating art.’ Not much of an alibi.”

  “True, but he is an artist. A really good one.” I took out my phone and showed him the pictures I’d taken of the pieces Stephen and Walter had bought.

  “Those are good, at least I think so. They’re interesting. I don’t know much about art.” He sighed. “Still, his art can’t verify his whereabouts.”

  I popped my lips. “Right. Well, we’ll just have to find the real killer then.” I heard my slip as soon as I spoke. “I mean you will. Not me. I’m not sleuthing.”

  He laughed. “Good. Keep it that way.”

  * * *

  Galen and Mack, his English Bulldog, came in about eleven-thirty wi
th their photographer, a very tall woman with the most beautiful skin I’d ever seen. It was the color of mahogany and had this glow to it. I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t in front of the camera herself until Galen explained that she’d gotten her start in photography as a fashion model. Once again, my mild-mannered friend surprised me with who he knew.

  While she scouted out the prime shooting locations, Galen and I caught up. I told him I’d missed him for his usual Tuesday visit, and he explained that he just couldn’t make the trip twice. “Too many books to read.”

  “Ah, if ever there’s a reason for staying home that I understand, it’s reading. What’s your latest?”

  He grinned. “The latest Bruno book.”

  “Ooh, I love those stories. He makes me want to move to Italy but only if I can live in a guest house on his property and have him cook for me.”

  Galen snickered mischievously. “Are you saying you’d like to be one of Bruno’s wonderful lady friends?”

  “Well, I’m not saying I’d turn it down.” I grinned.

  The photographer waved to Galen, and he gave me a wide-eyed stare as he followed after her. “Wish me luck.”

  Galen was probably in his early sixties, so not exactly the demographic that has taken to social media with the most gusto. But he had over sixty thousand Instagram followers last time I’d checked, and he got thousands of likes, shares, and comments on his photos every day. Mack was a regular highlight of his posts, but it was his bookish sharing as a Bookstagrammer that had garnered him his fame. I had a suspicion that a large part of his following was mystery-loving women because Galen was an avid mystery reader, especially of cozy mysteries, which were typically the purview of older women. He devoured them, and his photos of the book covers were always beautifully done as were his captions. I would follow him, even if I wasn’t lucky enough to be his local bookseller.

  Plus, he’d been deeply committed to All Booked Up ever since we opened. I knew he wanted to help me out by having his photo shoot in the store. Every time he mentioned the shop, our customer traffic increased, as did our online orders. He was like our very own bookstore leprechaun with his Instagram gold.

  As Galen, the photographer, and a reluctant Mack moved through the store, I felt the stress I’d been carrying all day ease. The conversation with Dillard had been fine. I had to lie to one less person now, and the photoshoot was requiring literally nothing of me. I sat back on the stool behind the counter, took a deep breath, and smiled.

  Then, the bell over the door dinged, and my mother blew in. This time, my dad gave her a long lead and their dog Sidecar stayed close to him as they went right to the café while Mom headed straight for me. I had this impulse to throw my arms up in front of my face as she approached.

  “I wanted you to know that I commissioned a piece for your bedroom from Henri. It’s going to be designed to hang just at the end of your bed so you have to begin and end your day with her on your mind. I can’t believe you, Harvey.”

  I stared at her. If she didn’t look so hurt behind all that anger, I might have laughed it off, chalked it up to my mom’s dramatics. But she did really look hurt. It had been a big thing to move to this town, to give up life in Baltimore with her volunteering and Dad’s business. I wondered if she thought my suspicions of Henri were harming the town she’d just started calling her new home.

  Right then, I made a decision. I knew I was going against my word to Tuck, but I couldn’t take this anymore. “Mom,” I crooked a finger toward myself, asking her to lean in. “I need to tell you something.”

  She looked at me skeptically, then huffed and moved closer. “You cannot tell anyone this.” I glanced back at the café. “Okay, you can tell Dad, but no one else. Got it?”

  I could see the glee spreading up my mother’s face. She loved a good secret, almost as much as I hated one. “Got it.” She placed her hand over mine as if she hadn’t just come in here to lambast me and spend money to induce a deep and lingering guilt in my soul.

  I sighed. “I don’t really believe Henri killed Wilma.” I waited as understanding washed over Mom’s face.

  “You don’t?” She went from gleeful to puzzled.

  “No. It’s part of a ruse that the sheriff set up while he conducted the actual investigation.” We were whispering, but I still was concerned someone would over hear. “I’ll tell you more later at Stephen and Walter’s.” And with that statement, I realized I was going to tell all my friends. I just couldn’t keep this up.

  Mom stepped back and looked at me as if she was evaluating my personhood afresh. “You’re something, Harvey Beckett. You’re really something.”

  I was not sure whether “something” constituted a compliment, but since the wild wind of motherly manipulation seemed to have passed, I was content.

  “Who knows the truth?” Mom lowered her voice, but I appreciated that she kept her language opaque.

  “You, Mart, Daniel, Rocky, and the police. That’s all. I’ll tell Stephen and Walter tonight.”

  Mom’s hands flew to the top of her head. “Henri doesn’t know.” Her voice got a bit louder, and I put a finger to my lips.

  “Sorry. Yes, yes, Henri, Bear, and Pickle also know. They’ve been in on it from the beginning.”

  I just had time to notice the relief on my mom’s face when I saw a police car go by and noticed Henri in the backseat. She gave a small wave as she went by.

  “Guess the sheriff just upped the game,” I said as Mom and I watched the cruiser head up the street.

  “Well, you can’t very well go to the station to visit since you think she deserves to be there.” Mom’s voice was back to full volume now. “She doesn’t need that kind of bad energy, so I guess I’ll just have to go. That’s what people do, daughter, when they care about someone. They support them.” Then she gave me a very exaggerated wink and walked away.

  I was pretty sure that woman would never cease to surprise me, and I found myself very glad of that fact.

  * * *

  By the time the store closed that day, I was ready for a bonfire, some good food, friends, and a beer. I normally wasn’t a beer drinker, but tonight, a beer and the warm spring air seemed perfect. I texted Stephen to be sure they had some.

  “We do, but it’s hoppy. I’ll grab something you’ll like.”

  Man, my friends were good to me.

  “Thanks. See you soon,” I responded.

  Daniel was just walking up when I locked the front door, and he and I switched leashes. It just worked better if I handled the low, slow Basset, and he managed the tugging beast of a Cur. In moments, the synergy of our relationship almost stole my breath.

  It was a beautiful evening for a walk, and if Route 13 had been at all friendly to walkers at night, we probably would have gone that route. But instead, we swung by my house for the pick-up that Daniel had recently gifted me. I’d just gotten it back from the body shop where it been painted the bright aqua that I found so quintessentially vintage, and I thought driving it down the road on a spring night sounded just about perfect.

  Because Mayhem – and often Taco – went along on any road trip, Daniel had rigged sturdy safe kennels in the back for them. They were the kind hunters used for their beagles and hounds, but Daniel lined these with faux lambskin, something I did not think any hunter I knew would do.

  Mayhem always loved a car ride, but now, I had to practically restrain her when she saw the truck. She loved her kennel so much, and Taco, despite the fact that there was no way he could jump into the truck bed and, thus, had to be hefted in, felt about the same. Once, I had suggested we build Taco steps so he could walk in, and Daniel had needed to take a walk to calm his fit of hysterical laughter. Guess he’d rather lift his dog’s eighty pounds of dead weight.

  Tonight, the dogs were as eager as ever, and after Mayhem launched herself into the bed and went right into the kennel, Daniel lifted Taco and grunted.

  “See? Stairs,” I quipped.

  “I am not bu
ilding my dog stairs so he can take a ride in a vehicle. No way.” He was smiling when he spoke, but I also knew he was serious. Daniel loved his dogs, but he had his limits.

  I started up the engine, and she purred to life. I knew the truck was female, but I hadn’t yet thought of a name for her. Everyone else, however, had their own suggestions. Lucas wanted “Her-Story” out of some weird sense of feminism, dedication to history, and my life, but I felt like that wasn’t really a name. Walter had suggested Stella, as in Tennessee Williams, but I could only think of the French bulldog on Modern Family. Mom thought something straightforward would be best, so Aquamarine was her suggestion.

  Ironically, the one person whose idea I wanted to hear didn’t believe in naming cars, same as he didn’t believe in dog stairs, I guess. But tonight, I thought I’d try him out. “I’m thinking of naming the truck Susie Q.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. It fits. Right vintage.” His voice was neutral, attentive but not enthusiastic.

  “You don’t like it?” I was baiting him, and I knew it.

  “Harvey, you know that I don’t do car names. But if you want to, that’s totally fine. I think Susie Q is great.’

  I sighed. “I’ll run it by everyone tonight, right after I fess up to lying about thinking Henri was a murderer.”

  Daniel turned in his seat and looked at me. “You’re what?”

  “Well, you and Mart already know, and I told Mom today, so Dad knows by now. Rocky figured it out, too. So that just leaves Stephen and Walter to fill in.” I sighed. “I just can’t do it. I’m such a bad liar, and I hate lying to my friends.”

  “I hear you, and I get it. But you’re forgetting something.”

  “I am?” I thought he might say something about my promise to Tuck or risking the investigation. But no.

  “Cate and Lucas are coming tonight.”

  I felt a cold wave wash over me. I had totally forgotten about them, which was horrible since I considered Cate one of my closest friends. “Crap. Well, then, I can’t tell Stephen and Walter, at least not tonight. I don’t want to be whispering and then have to do that thing where we all stop talking if Cate or Lucas walks in.”