“Whose shorthand?”
“Uh . . . sorry . . .” I replied.
I turned to Seymour. “I guess everything is under control here—”
I ignored Jack. “Seymour, have you ever heard of Walter Winchell?”
“The newspaperman from the twenties and thirties? Sure, Pen, who hasn’t?”
I blushed and changed the subject. “So I’m going to make sure we’re ready for the author signing.” Then I raced to the front counter on the selling floor where Aunt Sadie was assisting a few locals now staring with open curiosity at the laughing, youthful crowd overflowing from the events room. Mina Griffith, our part-time clerk, worked the cash register.
“Angel Stark is still answering questions, but she’ll be done soon. Are we ready for her?” I asked, still giving Lady Macbeth a run for her money with my hand wringing.
Sadie reached out and gently pushed my arms to my sides. “Nerves of steel,” she reminded me, finger raised.
“Is the table—”
“All set up and ready,” Aunt Sadie declared. Like me, she’d dressed for tonight’s event, abandoning her usual casual slacks, loose T-shirt, and open denim shirt for a new, powder-blue dress. She’d even stopped by Colleen’s Beauty Shop to get the gray rinsed auburn and those “Shirley MacLaine” strawberry-blonde highlights put in.
“And the books?” I asked.
“Stacked and ready to go, Mrs. McClure,” Mina said with confidence.
I smiled at the girl. A tall, slender St. Francis College student with flyaway light brown hair and freckles, Mina was a sweet, quiet kid who devoured books and hoped to one day become a librarian.
I exhaled with relief. “Looks like you two have got it covered. So, I’ll just—”
“Go back inside and relax,” Aunt Sadie insisted. “You’ve earned it, dear, setting up this whole shindig in the first place. Believe me, everything’s under control.”
Before going into partnership with me a year ago, my aunt had never attempted author appearances like this one. I was the one who’d urged her to agree to the store’s complete remodeling, an inventory overhaul, and the addition of the new Community Events space. But whether it was Sadie’s years in the book trade or just her seventy-three years on earth, the lady’s nerves were clearly tempered into firmer stuff than mine.
Just then I heard a woman’s hysterical shouts echo out of the events room. I froze, trying and failing to make out what she was saying.
A second later, Seymour Tarnish, ashen-faced, burst out of the room and ran toward me. “Better call the cops!” he called. “You’ve got a riot on your hands!”
CHAPTER 3
Not only could she spit a curve in your eye, but she could cuss for minutes at a time without repeating.
SEYMOUR’S FRANTIC PLEA was followed by a loud cry, then the clatter of a metal folding chair as it struck the hardwood floor. Before I realized I was moving, I raced across the length of the store and into the packed events room.
Most of the audience members were still seated. But many were on their feet, especially those seated in the first few rows where, apparently, the trouble had started. Near the center of the third row, I spied the overturned chair. Standing next to it was a petite young woman, her straw-blonde hair tied into a tight ponytail. Her eyes were bright as she shouted and shook her fist at Angel Stark—or rather, at Angel’s publicist Dana Wu, who had thrown herself between the ranting young woman and her client.
“Lies! Lies! I hope someone makes you pay for your lies,” the woman cried, her voice strident and full of rage, yet trembling as if she were fighting back tears. “You’re smearing Bethany’s name. You and your stupid books and your filthy lies. Why did you come here? No one wants you . . . No one wants you anywhere near us, you bitch! Why don’t you just die and leave us all in peace!”
Despite the harsh emotion that twisted the young woman’s face, she possessed a gangly, adolescent beauty. She wore no makeup and her casual clothes were typical of a college freshman—a Brown University T-shirt and cargo shorts.
I tried to approach the woman, intending to calm her even as I escorted her out. But so many people were on their feet and filing out of the row of chairs that I found myself swimming against a human tide. I saw Brainert, watching the whole scene with a bemused expression.
Meanwhile, hands tugged at the woman, trying to pull her back, away from the podium. Two women, roughly the same age as the heckler, were attempting—so far unsuccessfully—to mollify the distraught woman.
One of the two was at least a head taller than the heckler. Dressed in a black tank top and lowrider jeans, her shoulder-length raven hair contrasted starkly with her pale skin, and her pierced lower lip was curled into a frown. She had grabbed the ranting woman by the shoulders and was attempting to speak to her.
The other woman was dressed in a pink sundress and sandals and was compelled to push back long, red curls that danced around her flushed face as she gamely tried to drag her friend away from the confrontation.
I was hoping Brainert would do something, but he seemed stunned by the action. Then Seymour appeared at my shoulder. Arms raised, he made a valiant effort at taking control of the audience. “Everyone! Calm down!”
With chaos whirling around me, and visions of lawsuits dancing in my head, it was definitely not the time for the ghost of Jack Shepard to speak up.
So of course he did.
“Not now, Jack.”
“Butt out,” I told Jack as I pushed past Seymour.
It occurred to me that I’d spoken out loud when Seymour faced me. He had the hurt expression of an abused puppy.
“Hey, Pen . . . I was just trying to help . . .”
“I wasn’t referring to you, Seymour. I . . . I mean the troublemaker,” I lied.
As it turned out, no more help was needed. The girl’s companions had calmed her. Clinging to her girlfriends, the young woman allowed herself to be led away. The crowd parted as the trio moved to the door. The young woman, tears streaming down her face, muttered apologies to her companions as they moved up the aisle.
Like the others, Seymour stood aside to let them pass, even as I exchanged looks with the woman’s two companions.
“Can I help?” I asked. The tall girl with the short black hair and the pierced lip shoved me aside with a strength that surprised me.
“Get out of the way, bitch,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder at the podium. Her words evoked gasps from those within earshot.
I threw up my hands in surrender and backed away. As the trio made their exit, all eyes watched them
