St. Marin's Cozy Mystery Series Box Set - Volume 1 : Books 1-3

Chapter 3-4

The next day, the shop was hopping again. News of Stevensmith’s murder was in the Sunday paper, and that, coupled with the great coverage that the Baltimore Sun had done about the shop meant we were even more crowded than we’d been the day before. A couple of visitors even asked if they could see “where it happened,” and I had to politely decline the prurient requests, including one from Max Davies, the owner of Chez Cuisine, the local pseudo-French restaurant.

“Too bad,” Davies said. “I kind of wanted to revel in the place of her death.”

I must not have been good at hiding my look of horror because he said, “Oh, come on. I know you met her. She wasn’t the most likeable person after all.”

“Well, no,” I had to admit, “but the woman was murdered. Maybe reveling isn’t the kindest reaction?”

“If she had tried to shut down your business, you might feel differently.”

“She tried to shut you down?”

“Hm-mm. Twice. Once when she wrote a scathing review of our escargot and called them, ‘Elasticine.’ My snails are fresh and succulent, I’ll have you know.”

I nodded vigorously because it seemed like it was in my best interest to stay on Davies’ good side.

“The second time, I know she was behind this trumped-up health department complaint. I’ve never had rats in my kitchen.” He sniffed as if the very idea was preposterous.

I made a mental note to steer clear of Chez Cuisine. Rats or not, I didn’t feel like I really needed to take in any atmosphere Davies created. Still, a good neighbor is often a quiet neighbor, so I listened attentively and then asked his suggestion for the cookbooks we should carry. “It’s about time someone asked my expertise on things around this town,” he said as he snatched the notebook and pen from my hand and headed toward the cooking section.

I caught Rocky’s eye in the café, and she doubled over laughing. Guess Davies had a reputation.

Traffic into the shop kept the bell over the door dinging steadily, and I barely had time to help customers find books they might like – my favorite part of the job – before I had to ring up another sale. I knew it wouldn’t last forever this way, but I was pretty excited still. Last night’s quick tally showed we made a really good net profit for our first day, and today looked like it might be even better. At this rate, I might even be able to hire a clerk to help so that I didn’t have to be at the shop every minute it was open . . . although I kind of wanted to be, at least for now.

At one point in the afternoon, I came to the surprising discovery that many of the books in both of my window displays had been purchased, so I flagged down Mart as she hustled about straightening shelves and answering questions and asked her to cover the register for me so I could restock. One or two books missing from a window display made the shop look good; only one or two left made it look derelict.

I headed to the storeroom, bracing myself to enter. I’d been avoiding the space. But my extra copies of Catherine Clinton’s book were in there, and I thought I had a few more gardening titles that I’d been saving for later in the spring.

I stepped inside and let out the breath I’d been holding. The room looked normal, very normal in fact. No police tape. No chalk outline on the floor. Nothing at all to indicate that a person had died there. The business owner in me was glad of that, but the person who loved people, she was sad. I sat down gently on a box of cups for the café and took a moment. I knew Stevensmith wasn’t here – she didn’t seem the type to haunt a simple bookstore. If her spirit was lingering, it had grander aspirations – but I still felt like saying something was in order. “Ms. Stevensmith, I know you found my little shop lacking, but I still appreciate that you came and wrote about us. Thank you.”

I heard a rustle to my left and jumped up to see who was there. A tiny, white woman in a polka dot raincoat was in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was looking for the bathroom, but I see I’ve made a wrong turn.”

I hustled over to her. “Of course. Let me show you the way.” I gestured behind her, but she didn’t move.

“Lucia actually liked your shop, you know? I know she didn’t show that well, but she was thrilled that you were opening. ‘About time we had a bookstore in St. Marin’s,’ she said.”

I stepped back so I could look the woman in the face. “You knew Ms. Stevensmith?”

“Well, of course I did, dear. I was her mother.”

I took a step backward in surprise. “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.” Fatigue and embarrassment made me fumble my words. “I didn’t know – I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The woman put a tiny hand on my arm. “It’s fine, dear. You’re new. How would you know? I’m Divina Stevensmith. It’s nice to meet you.”

I laid my hand over hers and found her skin was ice cold. “You’re freezing. Can I get you a cup of something hot?”

She smiled. “Maybe after I go to the bathroom?”

“Oh yes, of course. Right this way.” I closed the storeroom door behind me and walked her to the other side of the shop and pointed at the door. “Right there. I’ll wait for you here, if that’s okay, and then maybe we can have coffee and you can tell me a bit more about Ms., I mean Lucia.”

She nodded and headed to the door in small, graceful steps. I turned back to the store to wait, but then got pulled away by a customer looking for a book that would encourage her fourteen-year-old son to read. By the time I got back, the bathroom door was ajar and Ms. Stevensmith was nowhere to be seen.

After a quick glance around the shop to see if I could spot her brightly colored rain coat, I headed back to the storeroom to grab the books for the window displays. The door wasn’t shut tight, and I was pretty sure I’d closed it all the way. That felt off, but then, maybe Rocky had come in for supplies for the café or something. I didn’t have time to worry over nothing, so I grabbed my books, and headed back out with a stack of titles up to my chin.