I grabbed the note and held it close to my face to read her scraggly words.
Mina. You weren’t awake and I needed to get to the office. I’m sorry to leave the kitchen a mess and the coffee machine out of order. I’m conducting an experiment for one of my other cases about how you might dispose of body parts in the grinder. Don’t worry – it’s not human blood. It’s a pig leg. I won’t bore you with the details, but I promise I’ll clean everything up and get the machine fixed asap! There’s a fiver on the fridge door to cover your morning coffee. XX. Jo.
I lifted another skull magnet on the fridge door and grabbed the money.Bloody hell, Jo. For the heart attack you just gave me, you should at least leave enough that I can afford a croissant. And about ten years of therapy sessions to get the image of violent death by coffee grinder out of my head.
* * *
My day didn’t improve. Not a single soul passed through the doors of Nevermore Bookshop, and another author – the fantastic Marie Robinson – called to cancel her appearance. “I just don’t think I’ll feel safe at your shop,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry, my arse.Not even the guys could take the edge off that sting. Although they tried. Quoth brought me a berry cake from the bakery next door that would have been delicious if food had any taste to me right now. Heathcliff added ‘Don’t murder the authors’ to his growing list of shop rules. Before he left for London, Morrie found a company online that printed photographs onto household objects. He ordered me a lamp emblazoned with Heathcliff’s scowling face. “You can put it on his desk,” he grinned.
No matter how hard they tried to cheer me up, my mind kept returning to those adorable puppies, and to the electronic book tagging system I desperately needed. Every time I had to hold a book up to the light in order to squint at the title or ask for Morrie’s help because I couldn’t see into a dark corner, my stomach tightened.
“I bet you’re loving this,” I glowered at Heathcliff, who sat in the window, the picture of gentility with a book open in his lap and a cup of tea on the table beside him. His usual stormy expression had been replaced by something that almost resembled calm and tranquility.
Heathcliff turned the page in his book. Without looking up, he said. “You’ve got to admit, it’s peaceful.”
“It’s not peaceful, it’sboring. Not to mention it’s not helping us pay the mortgage.” I tapped the ledger I’d been poring over for the last hour. “The accounts are in worse shape than I thought. We’re behind on all the bills and barely breaking even as it is. If we don’t make some sales soon, things are going to be desperate. Forget about ordering that electronic tagging system, we might have to call Grey Lachlan about his offer—”
“Never,” Heathcliff growled, throwing his book down. His dark eyes bore into mine with that intensity that made my spine tingle. “Lachlan’s not getting his hands on this shop, and you’re getting that tagging wossit.”
“How? You got some grand plan to instantly make the village not terrified of this bookshop?”
“I do. We’re going to solve this murder.”
“Wait a second. What happened to Mr. Let-The-Police-Do-Their-Jobs-Heathcliff who was dead against Morrie and I meddling in Professor Hathaway’s death?”
“What happened is that his girl’s upset, and he wants to make it better.” Heathcliff stood up and stalked across the room. He leaned over my chair, a taut, muscled arm on either side of me. Danger flashed in his eyes. “Admit it, you get a kick out of figuring out a murder. You and Morrie are exactly alike, god help us all. And I have no faith in our local constabulary to get this one solved before the bank forecloses. Besides, last time we had a murder in here, this place was gossip central and we had our best month ever. A little bit of murder is good for business, as long as people don’t feel as though they’re personally in danger. If you solve this murder, you’ll be in good with the village again.”
“I guess…” I threw up my hands. “But Morrie left for London. He’s not back until tomorrow.”
“I can help. I know stuff,” Heathcliff growled. “What do we do first?”
“Meeorw.” Grimalkin leapt onto the desk and tapped my arm with her paw.
“Not now, kitty.” I grabbed her around the waist and dropped her on the floor. Heathcliff handed me one of the blank floral notebooks we had on display on the counter. I cracked the spine and wrote ‘Danny Sledge Murder’ at the top of the page.
“Um… well, usually Morrie and I start by going over everything we know about the crime and the victim. We know Danny was garroted, which is a pretty brutal way to kill someone. It’s also the main mode of death for the serial killer in his latest book, and the way an ex-girlfriend of his was killed fifteen years ago. So we can assume the murderer chose garroting to make a point. The first thing we need to do is make a list of his enemies and what we know about them, whether they had motive, opportunity, alibis, that kind of thing.”
“Start with that old bint, Beverly,” Heathcliff said.
I added her name. “She’s the most obvious suspect, which is why I don’t think she did it. Danny was a young, fit bloke. I can’t see how she’d have had the strength to garrote him, even if she was fueled by adrenaline.”
“She’s still worth considering.” Heathcliff jabbed me. “Who else?”
“His wife, Penny. From what she said to me at the reading, she knew Danny was fooling around on her. Plus, she was obsessed with money and status. Maybe she decided Danny would be worth more to her dead than alive. I’m guessing she is the main beneficiary of his will. But again, did she have the strength or viciousness to garrote him?”
“Add the mistress, too,” Heathcliff said. “Maybe she begged Danny to leave his wife for her. He refused. She killed him out of spite.”
“Ooh, now you’re talking.” I jotted down Amanda’s name. “And her husband, Brian Letterman. He can’t have been happy if he found out his wife was in bed with his top author, especially not when Danny’s self-publishing his memoir. And Brian has some decent upper-body strength. So would Angus, the ex-cop. And he’s connected to Danny’s past. Maybe he found out Danny really did kill Abigail—”
“Meorrw!” Grimalkin leapt up on the desk again, plonking her arse down on the notebook and curling her tail across my suspect list. Heathcliff grumbled and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his shoulder. Usually, she nestled into his hair and perched there happily for hours. But today she jumped down immediately to stalk across the desk, howling at the top of her lungs.
Heathcliff plonked her on the floor again. “Anyone else?”
“Those are the ones we know about. I guess we need to figure out if he has any grudges with other authors, or if he’s pissed off any stalker fans lately.” I eyed Heathcliff’s desk warily. “But for that, I’m going to need to use the computer—”
“Forget it.” Heathcliff threw up his hands. “I’m not spending a moment of free time on that blasted device—”
