Page 57 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

“I gave them reason to. I kept circling around him. It was bound to raise suspicions.”

“Hmm. I think it’s a lot more complicated than that. And I don’t think they picked you at random to pin this on. Assuming you didn’t kill him, of course – though we agreed not to mention that anymore. Even if you did, it would be smart to look at other suspects.”

“Like the one who actually did it, for instance?”

“Exactly. That person – or anyone else – as long as it was actually a crime. What led to your arrest the first time?”

“I told you – I had books I wasn’t supposed to have in my shop.”

“No – I mean, how did the police find out you had those books?”

“An inspector had given me a verbal warning a few weeks earlier. I’d refused to take Anne Frank’s diary off my shelves, which would have been ridiculous and disgraceful. I’m sure his report gave the police enough cause for a raid.”

“How many cops showed up that day?”

“I don’t remember. Six, maybe eight.”

Anna propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, gazing at the ceiling.

“Eight police officers because of a simple inspection report. That doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen restaurants get warnings from health inspectors – worked in places that got fined. At worst, they got a second visit a couple of weeks later, but never a full-on armed police raid.”

“Tyrants are more afraid of books than spoiled food, I guess.”

Anna gave him a pointed look. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that someone might have tipped them off?”

“Yeah, it has – but why would anyone do that?”

“To get you locked up. Is there anyone around you who might have had something to gain from getting you out of the picture?”

“I really can’t think of anyone. Sorry.”

Mitch found that he’d lost his appetite. He put his croissant down, uneaten. Anna, on the other hand, had demolished hers in two bites.

“The sea air,” she said, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

“The antique dealer, maybe,” Mitch mused. “He sold me the shop. I remember he wanted to rent the cellar from me, but I said no.”

“What was he like?”

“Not a very nice guy.”

“Not a nice guy,” Anna repeated. “Well, that’s a start.” She licked her lips. “You want to share a brioche? No, never mind – they’re too small.”

She went up to the counter again and returned with the entire basket of pastries, pausing on the way to speak to the waitress, who’d been wiping the same glass for the last ten minutes, staring fixedly at them.

“If you’re that interested in our conversation, get yourself a coffee and pull up a chair. Maybe you’ll come up with a good idea.”

The waitress shrugged and went back to setting tables.

“Sorry,” Anna said, sitting back down. “I inherited the I hate people who can’t mind their own business gene.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Sure. It’s a mutation of the I dislike people in general gene.”

“How did you convince that inspector to let me go?” Mitch asked, preferring to change the subject to preserve the mood of a day he was actually enjoying.

“You want the short version or the long version?”