Can't Judge a Book by Its Murder Read online

  “Not since I volunteered you to bring the appetizers.” She smiled at him sweetly. But once again he was even closer to her.

  “I don’t want Chloe to overhear,” Mads said. He was close enough now that he could walk the ball to her. Instead, he tossed it to Chloe.

  “Overhear what?”

  “I think Wally might have been pushed.”

  Chloe had been saying that all along.

  Arlo opened her mouth to tell him that but closed it instead.

  “What?” Mads asked.

  Realizing that he had lost two playmates, Jayden started giving his mother a one-on-one lesson in throwing the ball, which left Mads plenty of time to question Arlo. Or stare at her with those incredible eyes that seemed to see more than what was on the surface.

  “Nothing.”

  Mads shook his head. “I know ‘nothing,’ and that wasn’t it.”

  “Wrong again, Sheriff.”

  He ignored the gibe. “If you hear of anything, you’ll let me know immediately, right?”

  It was as if he knew she was protecting Chloe.

  Arlo smiled, even as her mouth went dry. “Of course.”

  * * *

  The rest of the weekend went by without a hitch, unless you counted Cindy Jo backing her car into the garage door while it was still closed. The good news was Cindy Jo wasn’t hurt, but the injuries to the door were fatal.

  Arlo’s phone dinged, and she pulled it from her back pocket. A text from Helen.

  Making this for tonight’s meeting! Yum!

  The picture attached was of some sort of baked Mexican dip with olives, cheese, and a whole lot of refried beans.

  Arlo had to admit that it looked good, but she got hung up on the fact the book club was meeting tonight. She had forgotten all about it. In fact, she hadn’t thought about the meeting again since Saturday night when she invited Sam.

  “Ugh,” she groaned, and typed an appropriate response.

  Double yum. Can’t wait.

  “What’s wrong?” Chloe asked. As usual, she was wiping everything down between customers, though Arlo felt she was more thorough today than usual. She was a little on edge waiting to get the coroner to confirm Wally’s death was a suicide.

  Mads said it would probably be Tuesday or Wednesday, but Arlo knew Chloe was hoping for something quicker. It was obvious to Arlo that Chloe believed if anything was off about the report, she would be the one blamed. Her DNA and fingerprints were all over the cup Wally had been drinking from. The whole thing was making her nervous.

  “I told the book club they could have a meeting tonight.”

  “On a Monday?”

  “They want to read Wally’s book and couldn’t wait to get started.”

  Chloe nodded sagely. “I guess there’s not many other places for them to meet.”

  “I suppose not.” There was The Diner, the drugstore that still sported an old-fashioned soda fountain, and Mac’s, the unpolished little honky-tonk that sat on the edge of town. But Arlo couldn’t see the three ladies there. “Maybe the library.” But even as she said the words, she knew Miss Goldie, the librarian, wouldn’t abide the noise the ladies would bring with them.

  “Uh, yeah.” Chloe switched her attention from the espresso machine to the sink. “That wouldn’t go over well.”

  “You’re going to rub a hole straight through the stainless steel if you don’t ease up.”

  Chloe stopped scrubbing but didn’t answer as the bell over the door chimed.

  Arlo turned to find Sam standing just inside the store. He looked as handsome as ever in jeans perfectly molded to his body, denim shirt, and ostrich cowboy boots. But he also looked a little unsure of himself. Not like Sam at all.

  “Come in! Come in!” Faulkner squawked.

  “Oh my,” Chloe breathed under her breath.

  Arlo spun around to shush her, then turned back to Sam. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

  “You invited me to the book club thing tonight.”

  “Of course.” She tried to smile. She hadn’t expected him to show up at all, much less be the first one there. “You’re a little early.”

  “I thought I might look around. You know, at Wally’s books.”

  “Sure.” She indicated the table on the other side of the floating staircase. “He only has one. Published, I mean. Getting a book ready for publication takes a while. His publisher might have another in the works. Though I haven’t heard one way or another.”

  Sam made his way to the display table and picked up a copy of Missing Girl. He lifted it as if weighing the sheer volume of the book, then flipped it over to look at the back of the jacket cover. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  He put that book down, then picked up another.

  “What is it?” Arlo asked.

  Even Chloe had stopped scrubbing to watch.

  “The back.” He turned the book around so she could see it. A big red X had been drawn through Wally’s author photo.

  “I don’t understand.” Arlo frowned and coolly made her way over to the table. She had done that very thing a few days before—picked up the book, checked the back. None of them had had big red Xs on them then. At least not the one she had looked it.

  She went to the other side of the table opposite Sam and snatched up a copy from the top. No X. But the one on the stack next to it had one. But any more than two down and they were untouched.

  “Should we call Mads?” Sam asked.

  “And what? Have him dust the books for prints to find out that half the people in Sugar Springs have touched them at one time or another?”

  “Who would do this?” Sam mused.

  “Someone who has read the book,” Chloe joked.

  “Is it that bad?” Sam thumbed through the pages as if that would tell him.

  “It spent weeks at the top of the bestseller list,” Arlo replied.

  “So it’s a good book.”

  “It’s clever, but the writing…” Arlo trailed off.

  Chloe rolled her eyes. She had dropped her polishing rag and joined them at the display. “Pay no attention to the bookseller. They can be a little biased when it comes to modern fiction.”

  “I resent that,” Arlo shot back.

  Sam chuckled. He sat the book down but continued to finger the dust jacket as if he were reluctant to walk away and leave it behind. “So it’s a clever book, and it’s sold well, but the writing leaves something to be desired.”

  She lifted one shoulder. Maybe she was a little tough on books. One day she might just write one herself, but until then, she read everything she could get her hands on, Wally’s book included. “He has a very different voice.”

  “Voice?”

  “Way of telling the story. Words that he uses, phrases. Have you ever read any Faulkner?”

  “William Faulkner, Aisle 2B. Or not to be,” Faulkner chanted from his cage.

  “Don’t mind him,” Arlo said. “He does that anytime someone says his name but isn’t talking to him.” And what else was a bookstore bird to do but quote Shakespeare?

  “Got it. And no. Not since tenth grade.”

  Arlo gave him a pained smile. “We had American Lit in the eleventh grade.”

  “Right.” Sam’s grin was sheepish but showed his dimples to their maximum charm level.

  “Anyway, Missing Girl is written in stream of consciousness much like William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. It can be hard to read at times. But the critics claim that Wally’s—”

  “‘Overall style trumps the written word, leaving the reader gasping for breath with each passage reread, each word redefined.’” Sam tapped the back cover of one of the books. One without the added adornment.

  “Something like that,” Arlo agreed.

  “It’s a train wreck,” Chloe int
erjected.

  “Come on, Chloe, don’t hold back. Tell us what you really think.”

  “Just saying.” She tossed the bar rag over one shoulder and made the trip back to her coffee nook without a backward glance.

  “Did the two of them ever…?” Sam asked.

  Arlo shook her head.

  “Wait…wasn’t she—”

  “Yep.”

  “And the baby?”

  “He’s nine now.” Arlo lowered her voice so Chloe couldn’t hear. “He lives with Chloe’s parents. Long story.”

  “I know you’re talking about me. Whispering doesn’t make it any better.”

  Arlo didn’t answer as the door to the bookstore swung open and Helen made her way inside carrying her large Crock-Pot.

  “Mexican casserole,” she said in a singsong voice. “Plenty for everyone.” She set the pot down on the side table, then looked to where Arlo was standing. “What?” Then her eyes lit up like a child’s at Christmas. “Sam Tucker. Look at you!” She opened her arms and descended upon him, wrapping him in a hug ten years in the making. “My goodness, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Hi, Helen. It’s good to see you too.”

  “I was just telling Arlo last week that she should have never let you go. And here you stand, proof positive of that fact.”

  Wait…what? There had been no such conversation, at least not in the last five years. At the very least not one that Arlo had been a part of. But she would never call Helen out on it. And Helen knew it.

  “What are you doing here this afternoon?” Helen rubbed his arm as she spoke. She was like that, touchy-feely. It had taken Arlo a while to get used to having someone show their love by little touches. A tuck of hair behind the ear. Back of the fingers down the side of her face. Even a kiss on the top of her head for no reason at all. But that was her Elly.

  “I’ve been trying to convince Arlo to lease me the top floor for my business.”

  “You’re moving back to Sugar Springs?” Helen asked. “I heard about our mama. Sad state.”

  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I want to stay and help her.”

  Helen effectively turned him around and headed for the sitting area, one arm looped through his as she dragged him along. “What business are you in these days?” Helen asked. “When I knew you, your primary business was girls.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Well, kiss a pig. The wonders of this world will never cease.”

  Sam chuckled, but Arlo was too busy putting one and one together to join in.

  “Sam,” she said. “Can I talk to you a second?”

  “Sure.” He left Helen by her beloved Crock-Pot and made his way back over to Arlo.

  Just then Camille knocked on the door. She carried a covered tray almost as big as she was.

  “I’ll get it.” Chloe moved from behind the coffee bar to open the door.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “Are you here to lease the third floor or investigate Wally’s death?”

  8

  “Why would I want to investigate Wally’s death?”

  “You tell me.”

  Sam shook his head. “There’s nothing to tell. I’m interested because the whole thing is interesting.” He gave a negligent shrug. “Job hazard. What can I say? I’m nosy. Though I have to admit it’s an interesting tale.”

  “How so?” Arlo asked.

  “So many problems with the crime scene.”

  “How would you know?” Arlo’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, love, and speak up. We’re having trouble hearing you from way over there.”

  Sam flashed Camille a smile, then moved toward the sitting area. Charming rat.

  “Hold on a minute though,” Camille instructed. “Fern was right behind me, and I’m sure she’ll want to hear this.”

  It took another ten minutes to get Fern in the door, food down, and sitting in the armchair so Sam could tell what he knew.

  “What’s wrong with the crime scene?” Helen asked.

  “I haven’t actually examined it,” Sam started.

  Arlo cleared her throat.

  Sam ignored her. “But there seem to be several inconsistencies with the evidence.”

  “Bad evidence,” Faulkner squawked. “Bad evidence.”

  “Like?” Camille prompted, ignoring the bird. It was usually the best plan of action. Once he realized he wasn’t garnering all the attention in the room, he’d settle down and leave the conversation to the humans.

  “Why would Wally hastily write a suicide note if he was going to jump out of a building?”

  All five of them looked at Sam as if trying to decipher what he was saying.

  “Oh, I get it,” Fern said. “He wouldn’t hastily write a note if he climbed three flights of stairs in order to kill himself. That’s planned. Not spur of the moment.”

  “Suicide note, suicide note, suicide note,” Faulkner chanted. “I love you. I always have.”

  “Ignore him,” Arlo told Sam once again.

  “Yes, Fern. I think so too,” Sam agreed. “Wally would have most likely written his note before climbing up to the third floor. And what was he doing up there anyway?”

  Chloe chose that moment to return to her spot behind the coffee bar and resume her cleaning.

  “Maybe he was looking to rent that space. You know, for an office or something.” This from Fern.

  “Good point.” Sam swung back to Arlo. “Has anyone contacted you about renting that space?”

  She shook her head. “People don’t call me. They call the Realtor.”

  Sam squinted toward the window where the Space for Rent sign was propped up next to the one that declared, Come on in! We’re Open. “Who has your listing?”

  “Sandy Green.”

  “She didn’t graduate with us, did she?”

  Arlo shook her head. “She was a few of years ahead. Five, I think.”

  “But she could have had a problem with Wally.” Sam thoughtfully tugged on one ear.

  “Sam, there are less than a thousand people in our town. Most everyone has had a problem with everyone else at one time or another. That doesn’t mean you go around murdering people.”

  “So true,” Camille said. “Why just the other day, Dan at the Piggly Wiggly was arguing with Stan from the Sac and Save about milk prices. I guess Dan had enough and punched Stan right in the face. Who would have thought the price of milk would be worth fighting over?”

  Secretly Arlo had a feeling that Stan and Dan were fighting over the fact that Dan’s wife had been seen sneaking around with Stan. But who was she to say?

  “So you don’t know if Wally was here to meet Sandy or someone else.”

  They whirled around as the sound of breaking crockery filled the air.

  “Sorry,” Chloe mumbled, then headed for the stock room to retrieve her broom.

  “I have no idea why Wally was on the third floor.” And that statement was completely and one hundred percent true. She knew why he had been in her building. But that was another question, wasn’t it?

  Silence filled the space around them. Even Faulkner had ceased his constant chatter for once. Chloe came out of the stockroom and stopped, the quiet that greeted her like a barrier. She visibly shook it off and continued on her way to behind the coffee bar to sweep up whatever she had dropped.

  “I guess we’ll know more when the coroner’s report is released,” Helen finally said.

  “I thought you guys were meeting to talk about his book.” Chloe blew a strand of her curly blond hair out of her face and eyed the book club members. Book club plus one, anyhow.

  “Yes. Of course you’re right, dear.” Camille looked at the others. “Missing Girl, right?”

  Mumbles that sounded a lot like agree
ment went up all around as the ladies pulled their copies of Missing Girl from their respective bags. Each one had place markers of some sort sticking out here and there to remind them of something interesting they found in the book.

  “So what did you think?” Arlo asked, looking at the three wrinkled faces.

  “I’m more interested in what Sam thinks.” Camille swung her attention to the only man in the room.

  “Yes. Yes,” Fern and Helen agreed. First time for everything.

  Sam looked at the book in his hands as if he had no idea how it had gotten there. The brief glance had Arlo once again wondering what Sam’s fascination with Wally might be.

  “You ladies have an advantage over me. I haven’t read it yet.” Classic Sam.

  “It’s hard to read.” Helen said what everyone else was thinking.

  “And I thought you said there was a lot of sex in it. I read three chapters and didn’t find one paragraph of sex.” Fern looked from Helen to Camille for backup.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Arlo could see Sam’s lips twitching as he fought back a smile. “That doesn’t come in until later.”

  Fern’s frown deepened. “I knew we should have read Fifty Shades.”

  Sam dropped his head and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He was fighting back laughter and Arlo knew one look from him would take her back ten years. But there was no profit in strolling down memory lane. She and Mads managed to avoid doing it on a daily basis. So why was she having trouble keeping her feet out of the past when Sam was around?

  “Be that as it may,” she started, “lack of sex aside, how was the book for you?”

  “Hard to read,” Fern admitted.

  All eyes turned to Camille. The tiny woman reminded Arlo of a small bird—delicate, light—her hands flitting about the snap of her large white purse. It would be nothing to simply snatch the purse from her and look inside. That was all Arlo wanted, just a look. But she managed to control herself as they waited for Miss Camille to add her opinion to the conversation. “You know I’ve read Mr. Faulkner’s work.”

  “William Faulkner,” the bird chimed in. “Aisle 2B. Or not to be. Wrong William. Give me some Shakespeare, honey.”