A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) (5 page)

What was on Cal's jacket wasn't getting me anywhere closer to figuring out where the author had been prior to the book signing. But maybe what was in his jacket would help. Since I didn't see the police making any progress on that front, I figured I could help out. And that might take the attention off of me also.

I had emailed Detective Marshall, but the police hadn't rushed over to grab the jacket while Alicia and I were at Dr. Whitaker's, so while I had a little downtime the next day, I rummaged through the pockets again while in the break room. There was little to look at. The pocket watch looked old and couldn't tell me where its owner had been. I carefully put the item back in Cal's jacket, then washed my hands again. I put the bag with the cat fur under the sink. My mother sometimes dropped in, and she'd have a clean-freak meltdown if she saw it.

Alicia walked in and hung her coat in the closet, lingering as I washed a couple of dirty coffee cups in the sink.

"Why are you so set on getting involved in this investigation?" Alicia asked, picking up a dish towel to dry the dishes.

I still wasn't entirely sure myself, but I just knew that doing nothing wasn't an option. My grandmother's beloved bookstore was being featured in all the news stories about Cal's death, and I didn't want her memory to be associated with that. I knew, rationally, that it would blow over eventually, but it still rankled. And it would just blow up into a bigger scandal if people thought I was a suspect. Which was exactly what was going to happen if Detective Marshall kept asking questions about me and my temper and my access to firearms.

"The faster the police find Cal's murderer, the faster Dangerous Reads can get back to normal," I said, rinsing off the mugs and setting them in the drying rack.

I didn't want to mention my other concern. Despite how busy we'd been Tuesday with plenty of people milling around the store, sales were flat. We'd sold a lot of Cal's autobiographies, but at the end of the day, my deposit was just average. All those extra people were browsing but not buying. And the store was busy again today, enough that I'd asked Katya and Burt to both work a few extra hours in the afternoon. That meant my payroll expenses were higher, but the sales weren't. I couldn't sustain that sort of trend. Dangerous Reads already ran on a pretty thin margin.

"Well, I'm happy to help out. But really, shouldn't we recruit Burt? He reads a lot of mysteries," Alicia suggested.

"You don't?" I was pretty sure I'd seen Alicia with her arms full of Agatha Christie, Laura Lippman, and Janet Evanovich.

"I do a little, but mostly I stick to romance," she said. "Speaking of which, what did you think of our vet? Pretty handsome, right?"

I glanced at her with a stern look. "I suppose so."

"He's single."

"That's nice."

"You're single."

"For a reason," I reminded her.

Sure, Adam Whitaker was attractive. Compelling, even. But I had just ended a long-term relationship and was in no mood to dive into the dating pool again. Alicia didn't seem to share my doubts. She was on a mission to remedy my single status. I needed a distraction, and quick.

"Did you finish reading Cal's book yet?"

Alicia put the mugs in the upper cabinet, ensuring I'd have to drag a chair over to get them out. When she turned back toward me, she looked a little guilty.

"I started the book," she said.

"Me too. How far did you get?"

She sighed. "End of chapter two. The stories…"

I nodded. "I know. I'm at chapter three. 'The Swinging Seventies.'"

We both shuddered.

"We should read it through," I said. "There's probably information in there about people who would want to kill him."

Alicia nodded. "I'll keep trying."

The bookstore had quieted down as people went to dinner, and it was nothing that Alicia and I couldn't handle. I took the register as she reshelved the true-crime and biography sections—the two hardest hit sections that day. By seven o'clock, the bookstore was quiet enough for me to tidy up the counter, and I straightened up the stack of newspapers on the rack by the cash register, my gaze falling on the two front-page stories from the Seattle daily paper—Cal's death and a new development with HunTech's main competitor.

Two months ago, that second story would have consumed my life—I'd be calling the tech reporters to offer our executives for exclusive interviews that would counter the other company's supposed breakthrough, casting doubt on its feasibility and promoting the projects that Hunter and his software engineers were working on.

Instead, I was now worried more about the fact that Dangerous Reads was named in the third paragraph of the long take on the life and death of B-list actor Cal Montague—murdered in his hometown, at a bookstore with a name that now looked like an omen.

The bell over the door chimed and yanked my attention away from the news, and I greeted a man in his early 30s who was wearing a Seattle Mariners cap pulled low. Despite that, he looked familiar to me, and I tried to place him.

"Can I help you find something?"

"Just browsing, thanks," he said, moving away from me and toward the romance section.

I stepped back behind the counter and found the receipts from earlier in the day that Burt had handwritten, with a note to Katya on top. With a resentful sigh, I entered them into the tablet so the inventory and the till would be up to date. It had only been a few weeks on the new system, and I was hopeful that Burt would come around to the new technology.

I glanced up and saw the man had moved from romance into nonfiction, picking up books at random. He seemed more interested in the store than in the reading material, especially in the back of the store, but the only thing back there was the break room and the exit to the alley. The man didn't look like a shoplifter, so I wasn't too concerned about him tucking that biography of Alexander Hamilton under his arm and running for the exit. But something about him drew my attention. He had a fidgety, nervous energy around him that was contagious, and I found myself growing more anxious the longer he was in the store.

The man drifted toward the pyramid display of Cal's books, and he picked one up, flipping through the pages while still keeping his eyes on the rear of the store. I slowly moved from behind the counter and toward the middle of the store until I was behind him. Then I sidled up next to him.

"Were you a fan of Cal Montague?" I asked, and the man jumped about a foot, nearly knocking over the display. I caught a book that tumbled off the top of the stack and steadied the rest.

"Uh, no. I mean, I'm not that familiar with him."

I wasn't sure what he was up to, but the Mariners fan didn't seem to be interested in books.

"This is our hottest seller right now," I said. "If you're interested, you might want to buy it now. They're going fast."

He shook his head. "No, thanks."

I shrugged as he put the book back on the stack and moved away, as if embarrassed to have been caught reading it. He picked up a book off the new-release table and made his way to the counter to pay for it.

"How well is that autobiography selling?" he asked.

"Really well. We've sold out of the signed copies, and we'll be placing another order soon," I said, making change for the purchase of a book on Northwest seafood restaurants. "Are you here on vacation? I can recommend the Lobster Pot if you're looking for a good seafood meal."

The man looked confused, then shook his head. "What?"

I held up the guidebook. "This book is about seafood restaurants."

"No. I'm fine, thanks," he said. "So were you here when that actor was killed?"

The hair on the back of my neck rose, and I saw Alicia's head turn back to keep an eye on the customer.

"Uh, yeah, I was," I said. "Why do you ask?"

He shifted, uncomfortable with my question. "I'm just curious."

He grabbed the book and opened a messenger bag, slipping it inside. When he did, I saw a laptop computer and a slim notebook, the kind I'd seen newspaper reporters using.

"Are you a reporter?" I gasped as my nightmare came to life.

The man's head jerked up, and his eyes widened before he composed himself. "Yes. I'm a reporter."

"Who do you work for?"

"Mostly freelance."

"Are you writing about Cal Montague?"

He nodded, appearing more confident in his answers now. "Yes, I am."

"What's your name?"

"I'm, uh, Seth Giles," he said.

My stomach dropped. I knew that name. Seth Giles was a business reporter in Seattle, and his byline meant the story would be read by everyone. I hadn't ever met him in person, but I'd left messages for him on his voice mail and answered questions by email when I worked for HunTech. My heart stopped at the thought that he'd recognize my name and make the connection between the two stories on the Seattle newspaper's front page.

"What publication are you writing this for?" I asked while my throat slowly tried to close off access to oxygen. The last thing I needed was for him to bring up my prior notoriety along with the murder. It was too interesting a coincidence for a reporter not to note, and that would just keep the bad news in the papers ever longer.

He shrugged. "The
Times
is interested in it."

Oh, damn it. Not good.

"So, is the owner around?" he asked.

I shook my head and caught Alicia's eye, nodding toward the register.

"Sorry, I'd love to talk to you, but it will have to wait. I'm really busy right now," I said.

Seth looked around the nearly empty store, then at Alicia, who joined me at the counter.

"Do you have a card? I'll call you tomorrow." Suddenly, I needed to get out of the store and away from the reporter, as if I'd absorbed all of his nervous energy.

He patted his pockets, then gave me a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I forgot to bring cards with me."

I grabbed my purse and moved toward the door. "Oh well. Try me here tomorrow, and we'll catch up. Nice meeting you. Gotta run. Bye!"

I bolted out the door and across the street to the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. I waved at the head baker Heather Pinta, who was behind the counter wrapping up the remaining pastries for tomorrow's day-olds. From the front of the store, I watched Seth Giles leave the bookstore and walk down the sidewalk. A truck rolled down the street and blocked my view of him for a few long seconds, and when it moved on, he was gone from my view.

"Hey, Meri. You want a cup of coffee?" Heather asked. "Large, extra cream, right?"

I turned and gave her a smile. I'd been back in Danger Cove for just two months, but I'd already become a regular at the bakery. "Love one. Thanks."

As soon as the coast was clear, I made my way back to the bookstore, coffee in hand. Alicia gave me a worried look as I walked in.

"Everything okay?" She eyed the coffee then gave me a suspicious look. "Hope that's decaf."

"No, everything is definitely not okay." I set the coffee down on the counter and let out a long exhale. "It's time to go into damage-control mode."

Alicia nodded, her face serious.

"You got it," she said. Then she tilted her head, and her brows knitted with confusion. "What does that mean?"

I spent the night tossing and turning and trying to figure out how to keep an intrepid veteran journalist from writing about Cal Montague's death. If I were still a public relations professional for a large tech firm, and the problem wasn't a dead body, it wouldn't be a problem—give the reporters what they want but also dangle something more interesting in front of them, like a juicy hunk of red meat in front of a dog. You wanted to write about mediocre stock performance? Sure. But did I mention that we had a new product about to launch that was going to revolutionize the industry?

I had no leverage now. I would just have to hope that I could minimize the bookstore's role in the unsolved crime.

I dragged myself to the bookstore, and a block from Dangerous Reads I remembered that it was Burt's day to work the early shift. That meant he'd be there already, making a pot of coffee from a can—the cheap stuff that he bought at the same store where he bought truck tires and laundry soap. I made a pit stop at the bakery on my way for the largest cup of coffee on the menu. I was a coffee snob and didn't care who knew it. A decade in Seattle will do that to you.

Burt was reading in the break room, sipping on a cup of weak brew that was barely colored with skim milk. I hung up my purse and jacket and then took a grateful sip of my dark roast with a generous serving of cream.

"Good morning, Burt," I said.

He put down the thick hardback edition of a new historical nonfiction book and looked at me over his reading glasses. "That coffee's nearly as big as you are," he said. "I didn't expect to see you until later. You know you're on the schedule to close, right?"

"Yes, I know. Not like I have anything else to do," I said. "And it's been so busy the last few days that I thought you might want some extra hands on deck."

He grunted what seemed like a positive reaction to my assistance, then went back to his book. I went back to the alley to pick up the day's newspapers, which the distributor always left bundled by the back door. The front page of the state's major newspaper did not feature any news remotely connected to me—except a warning that climate change could affect the worldwide coffee market. I carried the bundle to the front of the store to swap out the unsold papers from yesterday with today's news, and as I did, my eye fell on the banner across today's edition. The flashy graphic announced a special feature on tech companies in China, where journalist Seth Giles was reporting on a global technology conference. A conference that was taking place this week.

I flipped to the page, skimmed the story, and saw the dateline was in Beijing.

Seth Giles couldn't be in two places at once. If he was in Beijing, who had been in Dangerous Reads last night using his name? While the man had seemed agitated, he hadn't been threatening. And my only fear had been that he'd recognize my name from my time at HunTech.

Alicia knocked on the front door, and I opened it for her. She was dressed in casual clothes—including a heavy jacket in the high school's colors and a bright pin proclaiming her to be a Danger Cove Soccer Mom. She carried a huge tote bag on one arm.

"What are you doing here? You're not working today," I said, locking the door behind her.

"I left my copy of Cal's book in the break room, and I have to take Jared's class on a field trip, and then Maggie has soccer practice. I'm going to need a distraction," she said, then looked me over. "You look horrible."

"Thanks," I said, taking a larger sip of the coffee. I knew I wasn't as well rested as normal, but I had managed to put together a work outfit—a black skirt, black tights, and a dark red sweater. My mother would call it funeral wear, but I found a wardrobe of solid black and jewel tones let me mix and match without having to think about fashion. Was it a little boring? Perhaps, though I preferred classic.

"Sorry. I just meant you look tired," Alicia said.

"I am. I think that reporter isn't who he said he is," I said, keeping my voice low. I hadn't told Burt about the reporter yet. "Look at this."

I showed Alicia the newspaper article by Seth Giles.

"Do you know anyone who knows him?" she asked.

I nodded. "I have a college friend who went to work at this newspaper. She might be able to confirm that he's still in China."

I owed Natalie a call anyway, since she'd reached out several times since the breakup and I hadn't gotten back to her.

"Well, call me if you have any breaks in the case," Alicia said, heading toward the break room to retrieve her book.

I waited until Burt had finished his coffee and the store was open before I ducked into the closet-sized office and dialed Natalie's direct line at the newspaper.

"Natalie Brown."

"Hey, Nat. It's Meri."

"You! What happened? You disappeared! Are you okay?"

My stomach dropped at her words. I had been a terrible friend—I'd packed up and moved away without saying good-bye to anyone.

"I'm sorry. I know I should have called you," I said. "It was a bad time, but I'm doing better."

"Well, you'll be happy to hear that your ex is completely floundering without you—both professionally and personally," Natalie said.

That did make me feel a little better. Natalie always knew how to cheer me up.

"Thanks, Nat. How are you?"

Natalie jumped into a description of her incredibly crazy life—covering city government, engaged to a sports editor, redecorating their new loft apartment, and planning a wedding. In the midst of that, I heard the tinkle of a bell and poked my head out, but it wasn't the fake Seth Giles. It was an older couple looking for gardening books. Burt walked them over to a corner display, and I closed the office door to have a more private talk with my friend.

"Tell me everything you've been up to," Nat said. "Every detail."

I grimaced, glad we weren't video chatting. I didn't really want to share all the gritty details—like finding a dead body.

"It's been crazy, I mean, for Danger Cove. I'll come to Seattle in a few weeks, and we'll catch up," I promised.

"And you can tell me about the dead guy," Nat said with a laugh.

"You heard about that?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm a reporter. What's going on?"

I paused, unsure what to say. Nat was a good friend, but she was also a good reporter. "It's still under investigation."

"I get it," she said. "Hey, we're friends, so I couldn't cover it anyway. But if you do want to talk, you know who to call. I'll put you in touch with our crime reporter, Zachary. He's great. You'd like him. And his divorce is final…"

"Ugh, why is everyone trying to set me up?"

"Because you're a catch—smart, cute, great sense of humor."

"A tendency to end relationships in Hindenburg fashion," I reminded her, and Natalie laughed again.

"Reporters love the dramatic," she said. "So what's up?"

"I need a favor. Can you help me track down a tech reporter? He sometimes writes for your paper."

"Sure I can. Who are you looking for? Are you getting back into PR? What about the bookstore? I would love to live in a picturesque seaside town and own a bookstore. Please tell me you're not giving that up."

I rolled my eyes. It did sound so perfect. But that fantasy never included the downsides—the long hours, all the paperwork, and of course, the murder of a celebrity author.

"No, I'm not. Something just came up, and I need to talk with Seth Giles. Do you know how I could get in touch?"

"Seth? He's not local anymore. He took a job overseas, in Hong Kong. Travels all over Asia now for a wire service covering emerging technology."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah. Dan and I went to his going-away party about six weeks ago. My assistant editor sublet his apartment," she said.

It certainly sounded like he was in China covering a tech conference. Which just made me more nervous about the fidgety young man who had been in the bookshop using Seth Giles' name.

I thanked Natalie and hung up after she made me promise to keep in touch better and come visit her soon. Before I could formulate a plan to deal with the imposter journalist, I heard a knock at the office door. I opened it to find Burt.

"Got a call from the bakery. A busload of tourists are about to descend."

That was no false alarm. Dozens of Danger Cove visitors hit the door a few minutes later and fanned out, filling the store. Burt and I were kept running until lunchtime. I certainly wasn't going to complain about doing brisk business, but my mind kept wandering to the fake Seth Giles and who he really was and what he wanted in Dangerous Reads. It probably didn't help that Cal's face was front and center in the store. Thanks to a tower of his books, a couple dozen of his squash-shaped heads watched over me while I worked.

The tourists were visiting lighthouses on the West Coast. After they learned of Cal's demise, several of them bought books. It was starting to feel like blood money, but it would keep the lights on.

As the crowds thinned in the store, I tried to keep an eye on the people walking by on the sidewalk, but I didn't see the man in the Mariners cap. By midafternoon, I was starving, and when Burt returned from his lunch break, I bolted across the street to the bakery to get a snack. When I returned, Alicia and Katya were at the counter. Katya was scheduled to work with me in the evening, but Alicia should have been at soccer practice.

"I know. I know," Alicia said, holding up a hand to stop my protest. "I'm not supposed to be here today. But I ran into Katya on campus, and we got to talking about that reporter, and I kept thinking I'd seen him somewhere before, and she had a great idea."

"I had that same feeling," I said. "And it turns out he gave me a fake name. He's not Seth Giles."

Alicia frowned and then turned the tablet toward me so I could see what she and Katya were looking at.

"Katya pulled up all the pictures she could find online of the book signing, and look here. That reporter, or whoever he is, shows up in two photos."

Katya leaned in. "You can zoom in and see who he's talking to," she said.

The first photo she showed me was from the
Cove Chronicles
online, Danger Cove's newspaper's site. It was taken on the stairs that lead up to the bargain books, and showed a packed house. And there, by the front door, was the fake Seth Giles.

"Who is he talking with?" Alicia asked.

I recognized the bright-purple coat immediately. "That's Karen Dale, Cal's publicist."

"I saw her at the B and B this morning," Katya said.

Alicia and I looked at our teenage coworker. "Why were you at the B and B?" I asked.

"My sister works there as a housekeeper. I dropped her off for work before school," she said. "This lady was outside smoking a cigarette. I recognized the jacket."

"I need to talk to her," I said. If she knew the man, she might know why he was skulking around the bookstore.

Burt walked out of the break room wearing his khaki-colored windbreaker, his historical tome tucked under his arm.

"See you on Friday afternoon, ladies," he said.

"Bye, Burt," I said. I couldn't very well ask him to work late just so I could go be nosy.

Alicia tilted her head. "I have an hour until I need to pick up Maggie at the soccer field. I could just hang out here in case Katya needs help."

I hesitated only a moment. "I'll call the B and B first, to make sure she's there."

With a tap on the screen, Katya brought up the inn's website, and I called from the bookstore's phone. Karen Dale was still a guest, but she wasn't in, so I left a message and hoped that she'd call me back before she left town.

"Why do you suppose she's still here?" I asked out loud.

"Maybe she's waiting for the funeral," Katya said. "I heard at the school that he's going to be buried here."

"Really?" I asked, remembering Cal's words about visiting Danger Cove. I'd received the distinct impression that he hadn't planned on staying here long—and definitely not staying eternally. "When is the funeral?"

"In a couple of days, I think," Katya said.

Alicia gathered her things slowly, looking like she'd rather hang out with Katya and me and talk about Cal's murder than go back to the soccer field and watch her daughter's practice.

"I suppose we should go to the funeral," I said. "To pay our respects, I mean."

They both nodded. "Yes, of course," Alicia said. "And maybe send flowers."

I made a note in the planning app in my phone to call the funeral home to get the details and to order flowers.

"If anything exciting happens, you make sure to call me," Alicia said, finally dragging herself out of the bookstore. "I'll just be sitting on the sidelines, reading Cal's book."

Katya and I reorganized the magazines, and then I finished with the bookkeeping chores. There was far more to running a bookstore than I had known. I'd assumed that there would be a certain amount of paperwork, as there is with any business, but for some reason because it involved books, it seemed more relaxed and cozy. It was that, because I couldn't imagine a nicer place to spend my days than in a bookstore, and especially this one, which was practically my childhood home. But then I remembered the folder of things to sign, submit, and send off to get my name on all the official paperwork. And the bills that needed to be paid. And the new release orders.