Murder of a Bookstore Babe

Better she find out right now why they were there, and be prepared, than wait for something to happen. Where Dooziers went, trouble usually followed.

“Hi.” Skye popped up in front of the family, halting their march to the front counter. “Everyone recovered from the big wedding?” She had attended Earl’s younger brother’s nuptials last June. It had been quite a sight. A couple dozen beer cans, a wire-hanger arch, and a cement-filled kiddie pool had transformed their backyard into a chapel. The reception had been held next to a rusted-out pickup decorated with plastic flowers and NASCAR flags.

“Miz Skye. It was the bestest ever.” Earl smiled broadly, revealing several missing teeth.

“How are Elvis and his new bride doing?”

“Those two are as happy as two flies in a spit cup. Mavis’s gonna pop out the kid any second now.”

“Great.” Skye slid a glance at Earl’s wife. They hadn’t been on the best of terms since their first meeting, when Skye had tried to offer some parenting tips to the bleached blonde. “Hello, Glenda.”

Glenda had been giving her version of the Doozier Death Stare to a trio of women whose heads were bent close together as they gossiped in low voices, occasionally sneaking quick peeks at Earl and his family. But she focused her attention back on Skye and said, “Hey.” Her voice was like a squeaky hinge. “How’d your kinfolk’s hitchin’ go?”

“Pretty well.” Skye wasn’t about to go into what had happened at her cousin’s platinum affair. “I’m sure it wasn’t half as fun as Elvis’s.”

“I heard it was a hot mess.” Earl snickered.

Skye opened her mouth to protest, but Glenda stepped between them.

Standing chest to nose with her husband—Earl being barely five feet and Glenda a good ten inches taller— she said over her shoulder to Skye, “Don’t pay him no attention. He likes to speak his mind, which makes the conversation pretty damn short.”

“Hey!” Earl wrinkled his brow, apparently trying to figure out exactly how he’d been insulted. “It ain’t right sayin’ stuff like that about your man.”

“You can dress a pig up,” Glenda said with a shrug, “but that don’t make him king of the prom.”

Earl snorted, chewing tobacco shooting from his mouth and spraying the front of his wife’s shirt. As he continued to snigger, Glenda’s face turned red.

She grabbed him by the lapels and warned, “You better pray that comes out.”

Skye raised a brow. She had no idea the Dooziers were so religious.

“Don’t be a dumb-ass,” Earl sputtered. “You got no call to be getting so huffy. I should—”

Glenda interrupted him. “I’m goin’ home now, and after I wash my shirt, I’m gonna take a nap, so you better be mighty quiet when you get back.”

“You know, Glenda,” Skye called after her, “it’s not a good idea to go to sleep mad.”

Glenda ignored Skye and kept walking, but Earl said, “You is right, Miz Skye. I always stays awake to plots my revenge.” Skye had no idea how to respond to that statement, so she didn’t, and Earl continued. “I ain’t got time for all this social chitchat. I needs ta talk ta that lady about my book.” He pointed to Rise, who was bagging a sale for a young woman with a baby strapped to her back.

“Your book?” Skye was surprised that Earl wanted to buy a book. “Which one do you want? Is it a hardcover or a paperback? Maybe I can find it for you.”

“Not one that’s already wrote.” Earl puffed out his chest. “The one I’m gonna write. Junior looked on the Internet and it says how anyone can write a book and publish it theyself, and make lots of money sellin’ it.” He elbowed the redheaded teenage boy behind him. “Right, Junior?”

“Yeah, Pa.” The boy rubbed his ribs. “It said all the bookstores would be glad ta sell it for you and give you the money.”

“You’re planning to write a book, publish it, and have Tales and Treats sell it for you?” Skye felt a tic start underneath her left eye as she tried to find a diplomatic way to say, Are you freaking kidding me? She knew Earl was all foam, no beer, but this was bad even for him. “Um, what is your book going to be about?”

“Me and my kinfolk.” Earl shifted around Skye and swaggered up to the counter, now devoid of customers. “All the Dooziers done did real interestin’ stuff. We been around these parts since afore the Civil War.”

Rise had stepped over to help Xenia with a transaction, so no one was behind the register, and Skye took the opportunity to ask Earl, “What made you decide to write a book?”

“The little girl that used ta work here afore she got herself kilt.” He paused until Skye nodded. “She made a movie based on me and my kin. Only, you know, she sorta added and changed stuff ta make it more interestin’ and not so apt ta git me arrested.”

“Oh.” Skye wasn’t sure how that connected, but she waited for Earl to go on.

“ ’Bouts a year ago, she came ta the house, and I telled her all my family yarns and she used them ta make her picture show.” He poked himself in the chest with his thumb. “We even got to be in it.” He grinned. “She was real excited that it won some kinda award or somethin’ that gave her a free trip ta Hollywood and a chance ta show some real important folks my story.”

“She won this award recently?” Skye was distracted, still trying to figure out how Kayla’s Dooziers Through History movie added up to Earl writing a book.

“Yep.” Earl nodded, his straggly ponytail whipping around his shoulders. “She came out ta tell us about it a month or so ago.” He dug in his ear with his pinkie and frowned at the substance he exhumed. “But then I seed her a coupla weeks back, and something had sure put a hitch in her getalong. She twern’t happy no more, and she said ain’t nobody would see our movie after all.”

“So you decided to fix that.” Skye finally thought she saw the light in Earl’s tunnel of confusion.

“Yep.” His head bobbed up and down like a balloon caught in the breeze. “At first I was gonna make a movie, too, except that turned out ta take too much fancy equipment. But you don’t need nothin’ ta write a book.”

Skye’s mouth opened and closed, but before she could think of a reply, a male voice boomed, “My reading will begin in one minute. Please take your seats.”

Rise swept everyone into the literature alcove, introduced the author, and then stepped away, allowing the man to take her place behind the podium, aka the desk. Folding chairs had been arranged in rows facing him. He wore jeans, a tweed jacket, and a hat rather like the one on Earl’s head, although without the bite taken out of the brim.

As Skye sat down, Earl announced, “I’m gonna go talk ta the book lady. She won’t have nothin’ ta do what with you all sittin’ in here.”

Skye opened her mouth to point out that he’d miss the talk, then thought better of it. Maybe that was for the best. With Earl, the lights were flashing, the gates were down, but there was no train coming.

“Me and the other kids’ll be waiting in the cafe,” Junior told his dad.

Earl nodded and went in search of fame and fortune.

Skye glanced at her watch. It was one o’clock. Trixie had said she’d try to meet her here, but Owen had wanted her help in buying some new clothes at Farm and Fleet in Kankakee, and she might not make it back in time. Just in case, Skye put her tote bag on the seat next to her to save it, although people weren’t exactly pouring into the room. Besides herself, there were the three ladies that had provoked Glenda’s ire, four or five teenagers, a strange guy dressed in a long overcoat, and Orlando.

The author, Walker Josephson, picked up a hardback with a cover featuring a tough-looking man holding a big gun in his hand, his arm around a seminaked girl. Twenty minutes later, Skye was fighting to keep her eyes open. Josephson had a monotone voice, and she would have much preferred that he talk about the story rather than read it to them.

When the writer finally closed the book, took a sip of water, and asked for questions, Skye looked around. Who would be brave enough to go first?

Orlando stood and said, “Walker, thank you for coming to our bookstore.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Josephson nodded his head regally.

Next, a brunette from the trio of women raised her hand and said, “It’s such an honor to have you here in Scumble River.”

Thank you, little lady.” The author sucked in the small potbelly that hung over his waistband. “Which of my books was your favorite?”

“Oh.” The brunette tittered. “I haven’t actually read any. I don’t have time to read. Are they available on