“Listen for the sound of my voice.” Mom winks before traipsing up the stairs, and I stave off the urge to vomit. Watching my mother work it on a Friday night isn’t what I call an excellent start to the weekend.
Wyatt gives a wistful shake of the head. Now that’s one lady with a nice rack of—
“Books!” The word jolts out of me. I can’t demonize the man for having thoughts, but I can sure do my best to intercept them, especially when my mother’s books are in the bounds.
His brows pinch as he looks back my way. “Yes, books.”
“Do you really have a first print run of an Agatha Christie novel? That must be worth a ton of money.”
“Maybe not a ton of money but a significant amount. My grandfather left it to me in his will. We shared a love of great mysteries. And I just don’t have it in my heart to sell it. I’m hoping to pass it down to my own grandchildren one day as well.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I say, taking a quick glance at the place. Killer Books is a shop that specializes in mysteries, and I’m sure all of them are great.
The walls and ceiling are painted a flat black with tiny sparkles adhered to the ceiling that make you feel as if you’ve just stepped into a portal that leads to a strange, perhaps alternate, universe. There is a myriad of tables set around the periphery of the room, and each of them has a neat display of the latest mystery offerings as well as a handful of classics. There’s a refreshment table to the right where a couple of coffee urns expel their luscious aromas and, of course, the sweet treats provided by the Country Cottage Café.
Tonight, we’re here to shine the spotlight on Killer Books’ one-year anniversary in Cider Cove. And to celebrate the fact, they’ve called in the entire town and are hosting a murder mystery party right here in the bookshop.
I turn back to Wyatt. “So are you ready for this evening?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be.” He chuckles. “I see you inspecting the ceiling. Those are rhinestones. My girlfriend and I spent hours adhering them to the walls and ceiling ourselves. I was hoping to mentally transport readers to another galaxy—a better one. This is a rough world, and it’s only getting rougher out there. Books have always been my go-to escape, and I’m sure for many people they are as well.”
My sister, Macy, pops up and rests her chin on my shoulder a moment as she looks to Wyatt with a notable sigh. Macy is older than me by a year and we share the same icy blue eyes and dark hair, but I wear mine long and wavy and she’s opted to wear hers in a shoulder-length bob and has dyed it a creamy shade of blonde.
“I see you’ve met my sister.” She gives a lock of my hair a quick tug. “She’s the one that brought the dessert.”
Macy owns the candle and soap shop next door, Lather and Light, and she’s become friends with Wyatt over the last year. She’s also the one who volunteered the Country Cottage Café to provide the sweet treats for the evening. Not that I mind. It’s something we do often for local events.
His eyes widen as he examines me in a whole new light. “You brought the bite-size lemon tarts? I’ve already had three. They’re amazing. How much do I owe you for them?”
“No, it’s fine,” I’m quick to tell him. “It’s on me. It’s your one-year anniversary in Cider Cove. I’d love to gift them to you.”
Macy gives my shoulder a squeeze. “That’s my sister. They don’t call her Benevolent Bizzy for nothing.”
I’m about to tell him that nobody calls me Benevolent Bizzy just as a gorgeous golden retriever strides over, and I’m the first to offer him a quick scratch behind the ears.
“Meet Gatsby.” Wyatt gives the glorious beast a pat to his side. “He’s the store’s number one employee.”
The sweet brown-eyed angel gives a slight vocalizing bark. That I am. And I sell the most books, too.
A laugh strums through me. I can hear the animal mind as well, and I know for a fact they have just as interesting, if not better, thoughts than humans.
Macy purrs like a kitten. “Hey there, you sexy beast.” She gives his back a quick scratch. “I know he’s a chick magnet. You leave him out front and the women just flock to him. I’ve seen it play out almost every day.”
Wyatt laughs. “And then they flock right into my store. You’re onto me, Macy.”
A thick crowd strides in and Wyatt cranes his neck that way. “I should go. I’ve got a few local authors finishing up a book signing in the back and I’d better herd their fans in that direction. In about a half an hour we’ll start the party. You ladies ready to do a little murderous acting?”
Macy balks, “Are you kidding? Bizzy here is a regular serial killer. There won’t be any acting involved on her part.”
“Funny,” I say as Wyatt takes off to direct his customers to the back. “And would you keep it down? The last thing I want is my name attached to the words serial killer.”
The door to the shop opens up and a heated breeze filters in. It’s the beginning of a searing hot June and our part of coastal Maine is really feeling the heat.
I glance that way just as two older women in hot pink kaftans bound over.
“Did we miss it?” Georgie Conner is a woman in her eighties who lives in one of the many cottages at the inn. She has a gray wild mane of hair that shags out past her shoulders,
