4
Martin wasn’t a swooning school girl with a crush, but realizing Seb livedupstairsset him on edge. The bookstore was big, but the knowledge that there was another person in the building made Martin feel exposed.
Now that Martin had all the information, the idea that Seb was some kind of ghost seemed silly. He’d figured out pretty quickly that the locked door in the back of the store led upstairs to Seb’s apartment and not to an off-limits storage closet. Over the course of the past week, he’d heard noises he couldn’t believe he’d missed. The steady pace of feet on the floorboards overhead. Sometimes the quiet thump of a musical bass line. Martin was not alone.
The shop’s front door squealed open, and he nearly dropped his book. He’d finishedHeart of Darknessover the weekend and moved on to a travelogue calledThe Road to Little Dribbling, found on a shelf labeled ‘It Sounds Dirty, but It’s Not.’
“Oh, sorry!” The woman who came through the door smiled at him broadly as he fumbled to catch his book. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Martin set the book down and rubbed his palms over his thighs. “Good morning. Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” The woman flashed a smile again. “We’re meeting Mrs. Green this morning to talk about the blues night.”
At the mention of “we,” Martin realized there was another woman standing behind her. He blinked, because for a second, it was like he was seeing double. The two women were nearly identical. Brown hair, blue eyes, same excited smile. One was a little shorter, the other one a little older, but they were definitely related, if not sisters.
“Mrs. Green isn’t in this morning,” Martin said.
“Really?” The first woman’s smile tightened. “But we had an appointment.”
“Mom,” the woman behind her said. “We can go to the florist’s next and ask about donations for the raffle. Then we can come back to see if she’s here.”
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
The woman’s question made Martin’s heart speed up. How small was this town that everyone knew a newcomer immediately? He didn’t want their attention. He wanted to sell a few books and go home to sleep on his brother’s lumpy couch.
“Yes.”
The older woman eyed him up like she might be fitting him for a new suit—or maybe trying to decide if he’d make enough of a meal to be satisfying.
“Okay!” The second woman was still grinning, but now she put a hand on the first woman’s shoulder and tugged her gently back. “Don’t mind her. She gets excited when her master plans start to fall into place. I’m Penny, and this is my mother, Carol Anne.” She stuck out her hand, and Martin shook it.
“Martin. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Penny looked around the shop. “Well, this place certainly has character.”
“I told you.” Carol Anne pointed to the two cracking leather couches by the window. “The ensemble will go over there, and our Master of Ceremonies will stand in front of them.” She winked at Martin, and his blood went cold.
“Did Bruce file the paperwork for liquor licenses?” Penny asked.
“Last week. This place is smaller than I thought though. How many tickets did we say we’d sell?”
Penny opened a blue folder and flipped through pages. “Seventy to seventy-five.”
Carol Anne surveyed the front of the bookstore. “Better take that down to sixty. The fire marshal won’t be happy if we overfill it.”
“Overfill it with what?” Martin struggled to keep up.
“Slow down, Mom. You’re scaring him.” Penny patted Carol Anne’s shoulder. “She’s excited. Let us know when we get to be too much.”
Carol Anne waved her off and continued to circle the room. “Penny and I are heading the committee for Seacroft’s annual blues festival.” She reached into a file folder and pulled out a sheet of brightly printed paper decorated with seashells and musical notes.
“Next month,” Penny pointed at the list on the poster, “we’re holding concerts sponsored and hosted by local businesses, all culminating in a charity dinner at the Big Smoke Diner next door. Dog Ears,” her fingers slid down the page until Martin saw the name of the bookshop, “is hosting a trio from Seacroft High’s senior jazz band.”
“How do you feel about public speaking?” Carol Anne tilted her head.
“Not great?” That was an understatement. Didn’t most people fear public speaking more than death? Even on his best days, Martin would have chosen a few hours in a closed casket over addressing a room of people.
Actually, a closed casket sounded peaceful.
