A poisonous page, p.1
A Poisonous Page, page 1
A Poisonous Page
A SWEET FICTION BOOKSHOP MYSTERY
Kitt Crowe
To my family and friends, especially to Cat for keeping me motivated and teasing with baked goods she never mailed. To my boys who refuse to read, I hope when the zombie apocalypse hits, you’re stuck in a library. And of course, I dedicate this book to Cookie, without whom this story would not be possible.
Chapter One
Death is good for business.
Yes, I know. Just saying that makes me sound morbid. But ever since I helped solve a murder a little over two months ago, my bookshop has seen a steady uptick in sales. Apparently, Confection, Oregon—the best little tourist town in Oregon (just ask us)—was seeing an unprecedented increase in retail sales, tourism, and hotel stays, more than it had in the past two years combined. Our local news guy said so last night on TV, so it must be true.
I finished ringing up a customer who’d purchased a stack of thrillers on sale and turned to the next fellow in line with a smile. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
“Hello. Do you have anything on organic gardening? I checked the gardening section but didn’t see anything.”
“I have to order some more books then, because we had some just yesterday.” I nodded to one of my coworkers—the human one, not the lazy canine snoozing under the counter. “Hey, Cat, can you man the register while I look for a book?”
“Sure.” The six-foot-two Amazon I called my best friend smiled and took my place behind the register. She flipped her shoulder-length, wavy red hair over her shoulder—she’d been growing it out since her new boyfriend seemed to like it—and got down to business.
Meanwhile, I did nothing with my blond hair, which was artfully pulled back in a ponytail. I had no boyfriend and kept my hair long because I liked it that way. Lately, I’d begun to wonder if dating was an idea I should revisit, what with all my friends getting coupled up. But between the bookshop, my dog, and finishing the book I’d been writing, I had little time for a social life.
Or so I kept telling myself.
I skirted the counter, sidestepped several book enthusiasts, and checked over the bookcase, finding a title that had been misplaced. I held it out to the customer. “This one looks like it might help.”
He nodded and perused the book. “Looks interesting.” Not a for-sure sale yet. I’d give him time to think it over.
“Let me know if I can help with anything else. And don’t hesitate to use our laptop over there if you need to.” I pointed to the store laptop secured to a tall table under the Information sign overhead.
“I will, thanks.”
I walked back to the register, watching my dog (an adorable border collie/pit mix) give a huge yawn before crawling out from under the main counter to sit and enjoy the attention of two cute kids while their mother chatted with a friend nearby. I recognized them as locals and smiled, feeling good today.
I glanced around, pleased to see so many customers on a late Thursday afternoon. We typically closed by five, but I’d been keeping the store open an hour later to truly appreciate the late summer as well as the final festival of the season, appropriately named the End of Summer Celebration.
Confection is a cute tourist town that believes in celebrating everything. We’re nestled between the eastern edge of the Cascade Mountains and the Deschutes River. Life in the high desert is always confusing. Hot during a summer day yet cold enough to freeze your tush off at night. So you can never pack away your jeans and jackets.
At close to seven thousand strong, our town’s main economy is tourism, especially during the summer and ski seasons. We’re as well known for our charming homes and incredible gardening community as we are for our cutesy businesses and street names. I live on Peppermint Way. We also have a Nutmeg Avenue. Sweet Fiction is our main bookshop. We have stores named Cookie Crumbles, Eats ’n’ Treats, and Taffy Toys. You get the picture.
And of course, our chamber of commerce is always hard at work with one festival or another to keep the cheerful feel of our town alive. Something all of us business owners—well, not me, but my parents, surely—appreciated.
The bell over the door jangled, and another local stepped inside. Although this one I could have done without. At times I disliked him, while at other times I found myself wondering about him during the day. What must it be like to work as a police detective? Did it feel good to be taller and stronger than most people? Did that contribute to his superiority complex? Or had his looks given him a leg up all his life and left him plain irritating?
I chalked up my fascination to a crime fixation and left it at that.
Irritation, thy name be Detective Chad Berg.
I swear, without fail, Berg liked to pop into my shop to give me “the eye” on a weekly basis. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
Cat gave a subtle nod his way, then winked at me before returning to business.
She liked to pretend he had a romantic interest in me, but Berg and I both knew he kept an eye on me and my dog, ready to throw us in the slammer for the smallest infraction.
Avoiding him would only work for so long, until it became obvious I was dodging the law in our small storefront. Instead, I put on a bright smile and clasped my hands in front of me … so I wouldn’t be tempted to strangle the man.
“Well, Detective Berg. What a pleasure. What can we do for you today?”
He grunted, which was his form of a greeting. As usual, he was dressed in his summer finest—khaki trousers, a dark-blue, short-sleeve polo with the word “POLICE” stretched across his broad chest and back, and a Confection PD ballcap he’d removed upon entering the store. Berg served as part of the foundation for my detective character in the suspense novel I was writing, though I’d given my lead a nicer disposition and kinder attitude toward my intrepid heroine.
He looked to the dog at my side and offered a rare smile.
Whoa boy, did that expression work in his favor. Normally, he looked like a stone-faced killer, with short, dark hair, a granite jaw, and light-gray eyes as cold as ice. Berg possessed the build of a linebacker, far bigger than me, and always seemed tense, as if poised to tackle someone for breaking the law.
He focused his gaze on my dog, Cookie. “Keeping out of trouble?”
Cookie took a delicate step forward to sniff his outstretched hand. She licked him once, then darted back to my side.
“I take it that’s a yes.” He nodded, then looked back at me. His smile faded. “And you …”
I swallowed a sigh. “And I … what?” My reply came out a little snappier than I’d intended. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be pleasant with the man for more than a few minutes at a time. I wasn’t sure why.
Then again, Berg did have a tendency to cite me for violations of town ordinances I’d never even heard of. Six months on the force and he seemed to be everywhere, watching me and my dog break the law, which we never did on purpose, but which he didn’t seem to believe.
“I was just going to say you look good without the cast.”
I glanced at my left arm, noting how much scrawnier my forearm looked compared to my right one. It felt weaker, too, but had healed well thanks to seven weeks spent in a cast. “Oh, thanks. I still feel funny since my other arm is tan and this one is nearly white. But it’s freeing to finally have the cast off.”
We both paused, remembering what caused my injury—a killer doing his utter best to make sure I never told any tales.
“Yeah.” Berg frowned. “You need some strength training to build back your endurance and strengthen the bone.”
“Thanks, Doctor.”
He ignored my sarcasm, as usual. “You’re most welcome.” He glanced at Cookie again.
I could almost see him itching to write us up for something and couldn’t believe it when he actually took that blasted notepad out of his back pocket.
“Ms. Jones, I need to ask—”
“Oh my gosh!” I lowered my voice when a few people looked over at me, but I couldn’t help my seething reaction. “First of all, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Lexi, not Ms. Jones? Second, Cookie doesn’t need to be on a leash in the store, Detective Berg. And we haven’t broken any laws since last Tuesday, when you cited us for jaywalking.” I sniffed. “Which was a totally trumped up charge, since we only raced across the street to avoid Tommy Showalter’s water gun.”
“And almost got hit by the mayor on Main Street. Not a good look for our town.”
“He was doing forty in a twenty-mile-per-hour zone,” I muttered.
“More like a few miles under the speed limit showing off his brand-new car.” He looked down at his notepad then back up at me. Was he trying to bite back a smile? The jerk. “I need to—”
I blurted, “You can’t possibly write me another ticket for something I didn’t do!” Geez. What was this guy’s problem with me anyway? I glanced at Cookie. Make that, problem with us. Cookie was adorable! And smart. And amazing. Why the heck couldn’t he see that by now?
“I was going to ask you about a book, actually.” He read from his notepad, “The Art of the Criminal Catch by A. Jonesboro.” He glanced back up and lifted a brow.
“I … oh.” I swallowed and prayed my face didn’t look as red as it felt. His smirk didn’t help any. I got the sense he enjoyed seeing me wound up. “We ordered two copies last week and sold one.” To one of his officers, if I wasn’t mistaken.
“I know. Roger told me I should grab a copy. Thought I’d like it.”
My cheeks fel
“Although if you really wanted me to write you up, I’m positive I could think of something.”
I grimaced. “I’m positive you could.”
I walked him over to the crime section and plucked the title from the shelf. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, Lexi.” He gave me a super-fake smile, beaming.
“You’re welcome, Chad.” I beamed right back.
Locked in a cheery, dazzling duel, we might have stayed that way forever if his radio hadn’t squawked. He turned down the volume as he answered, still staring at me. “Berg here.”
“We’ve got a 10-54.,” The caller then rattled off an address.
Berg’s eyes narrowed, his excitement diamond-bright. “Roger that.” Before I could say a word, he handed me the book. “Keep this for me, would you? And stay.”
Cookie sat and didn’t so much as twitch next to me. Berg didn’t bother to hide his smile.
I glared at his back as he hustled out the door and said, “I’m not a dog, you know.”
Then I realized what I’d heard.
I hurried over to Cat and whispered, “Berg left on a 10-54. Does that mean what I think it means?” I’d been doing a lot of research into murder for my suspense novel.
Cat was dating a police officer, and she’d been doing her own research into crime. And punishment, but that was another discussion I planned never to have with her.
Her eyes grew wide. “10-54?”
I nodded, and together we whispered, “Possible dead body?”
Oh boy. Not this again.
Chapter Two
I spent the rest of my time at the bookstore gossiping with Cat as we wondered who might have died. By six, we hadn’t heard anything from anyone about a dead body, and we wrapped up and headed out. Cat waved and left for the apartment she shared with Teri—my other best friend—and I walked with Cookie toward home.
I’d been back in Confection for close to two years now, and I couldn’t believe I’d ever been gone. Life in Seattle, editing for a big-name publishing house, had nothing on selling books in a small town in Central Oregon.
I no longer worked sixty hours a week, didn’t have a growing ulcer, and knew a lot of the people I passed on my walk home. The sun still shone brightly through meandering clouds overhead, and the cool breeze brought the rich smell of roses, lavender, and peonies.
With Cookie on her mandatory leash, I walked with her past the Confection Rose, our town’s most famous rosebush, located in Central Garden, and continued down Cinnamon Avenue to Court Street, taking the long way home.
Every house I passed had well-tended lawns and glorious displays of flowers. I enjoyed my walk with Cookie and, spotting no one nearby, took off her leash.
“There. All better.”
She grinned at me and kept by my side as we continued toward home. I waved to a few folks I recognized from the bookstore, stopped so a little boy could pet Cookie, then continued past Ed Mullins’s house.
I walked fast, and Cookie trotted to keep up. Ed, president of the Confection Garden Club, CGC for short, didn’t particularly like me. The feeling was mutual. He hated dogs and lived for his flowers. I hated his attitude and lived for my dog. We agreed to disagree, mostly, but I liked keeping off his radar.
An older man who had once worked—I only know because he tells everyone within five seconds of meeting them—at the International Rose Test Garden in Portland, Ed had opinions on how people should garden. He also involved himself in everything in town, from the CGC to the chamber of commerce to the Confection Historic Homes committee.
He’d been pretty congenial lately—meaning he ignored us—since we’d solved the murder of my neighbor. Cookie had been awarded a baked key to the city—peanut butter flavor—by our mayor. Even Detective Berg had given thanks, handing over the many citations I’d accrued since he’d moved to town. A few of those citations had been complaints on Ed’s behalf, accusations that Cookie defecated on his lawn at night, under the cover of dark.
Yeah, right. She preferred the park west of us for her deposits, but there was no telling Ed that. Still, I knew better than to keep Cookie’s doggie door unlocked at night, since she had been known to escape the backyard on occasion.
I eyed Ed’s yard as we passed, saw that Cookie did the same, and warned her to behave. I had no idea how long my detente with Ed would last.
Not chancing it, I hurried Cookie along and continued to the charming little Craftsman cottage I called home.
The three bedroom, two bath house was perfect for my needs. I had enough lawn to kill if I wasn’t careful, cheerful if sloppily planted flowers in the front and back, a nice front porch, and a back patio. And the most important part of the place—a backyard big enough for Cookie to run around, play, and fight with Mr. Peabody and his gang of cutthroat squirrels.
As we walked toward the front porch, my new neighbor greeted me. “Hey, Lexi. Hi, Cookie. You guys want to come over for some lemonade?”
A total one-eighty from my old neighbor, Abe Cloutier had moved in a month ago and had been doing a bang-up job clearing out the older home of all the junk his dad had collected. He’d also taken to upgrading the award-winning garden out back in addition to planting new flowers out front.
When Gil Cloutier had been alive, he’d yelled at me and Cookie for everything, including—and I’m not making this up—breathing too loud. The fence between our backyards kept us private, and since I’d never been invited over, I’d had no idea how amazing Gil’s backyard garden was. After Gil’s untimely death, Abe had inherited, and boy, what a difference a friendly neighbor could make. Cookie and I had been over a few times to share a drink, help with weeds, and enjoy a nice evening under the stars.
A few years older than me, Abe was a recovering alcoholic and the new manager of the smoothie shop in town. A pretty nice guy, actually, and his lemonade had the proper balance of tart to sweet, so I never said no to a glass.
“Sure, Abe. Thanks.” I crossed into his yard and walked with him and Cookie along the side into the back. I whistled. “Oh, wow. You’ve outdone yourself.”
He’d added a pergola over the back deck he’d re-stained, which provided a nice view of the garden. Prize-winning vegetables in raised beds took up prime sun space, and the many flowers he’d planted along the border of the fence in the back looked lovely. In a few new, large pots, clusters of red flowers crowded and trailed over the sides toward lush, green grass.
“Yeah, I’m feeling a blue, purple, yellow buzz lately.” Abe grinned. “So the phlox, lilies, and delphinium work. But I added some red petunias in pots to add a shock of warmth.”
Petunias. Right. I’d been thinking pansies. And now I had no idea what pansies looked like.
“You really do have your dad’s green thumb.”
He smiled, not looking so sad at mention of his dad anymore. “Thanks. Here’s that drink I promised.” He poured two glasses of pink lemonade, and I took one.
“That’s perfect.” Icy cold and clear. I took a sip and added magnificent to my description. It had a hint of something delicious I couldn’t put my finger on. Man, I had to learn his recipe.
Cookie wandered around, sniffing.
“Don’t even think about digging, missy,” I called.
She gave me a disdainful huff and continued looking around.
“Sometimes she seems almost human.” Abe watched her as he sipped. He sat at his patio table and nodded for me to join him. “It’s like she understands when I talk to her.”
“She probably does.” I sat next to him and sighed, pleased to be off my feet. “I found her wandering around a side road on my drive to Confection when I moved back from Seattle. She was such a cutie, and she’d look at me when I talked to her, as if she could actually understand me. She still does that. It’s weird, but that’s Cookie.” I paused. “I’m really glad you moved in. You’re a great neighbor, Abe.”
He flushed. “Thanks. You too. I can’t understand why my dad was always complaining about you. I never hear you guys unless Cookie’s barking at Mr. Peabody.”
The tree in the corner of my backyard hung over his yard as well. Mr. Peabody spared no one when on a squirrel rant.
“They have a hate-hate relationship going on,” I said to Abe.
