A Book to Kill For
A BOOK TO KILL FOR
A Bookish Cafe Mystery Book 1
HARPER LIN
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Book to Kill For
Copyright © 2021 by Harper Lin.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
www.harperlin.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
A Note From Harper
Excerpt from “Bloodier Than Fiction”
Chapter 1
Maggie Bell darted from doorway to doorway, trying to escape the rain as she struggled with her umbrella. No matter how hard she pressed the button, the contraption would not unfold and protect her from the elements. Instead, like a wet moth fresh from its cocoon, it remained folded up tight.
It was a strange morning. All the parking spaces in which she would have normally parked were full, so she practically had to walk from the other side of town to her job. Somewhere down Agatha Street, she remembered she put her coffee mug on the top of her car before getting in. This was the third mug she’d lost in the past six months. But there was also a shift in the air, like something was going to happen but hadn’t decided when. Maggie blamed it on her nasty attitude and the desire to go back home, crawl back under the covers, and call in sick.
“Oh, come on,” she moaned as she shook her umbrella.
Drier passersby gawked at her, but she barely noticed, since her black-framed glasses were covered in drops of water. When she looked through them, she had the compound vision of a fly. After taking a deep breath from the safety of the Old Cedar Bank doorway, she looked up into the sky. It was a swirling mess of gray clouds. The wind wasn’t strong, but it was enough to direct the drops right in her direction. She spied another doorway across the street at the Spotlight Boutique that would offer a couple inches of shelter.
After looking both ways to make sure traffic was clear, she hurried off the sidewalk and splashed into a puddle that went up to her ankle. She cried out a very unladylike word. Finally, she reached the Spotlight Boutique doorway. She had to press her back into it, as it didn’t provide the shelter she’d hoped for.
It took another ten minutes for Maggie to get to her place of employment. She leapt over two giant gray puddles and wove among the scattering of pedestrians who proudly displayed their working, manageable umbrellas before she reached the glass front door through which she’d been entering almost every day for over six years.
The words “Whitfield Bookshop” were painted on the glass in chipped and scratched gold letters, the hours of business below them. The little sign hanging there read “Closed,” but Maggie knew the door was open. Mr. Whitfield had always left it open for her. Plus, it wasn’t as if the people of Fair Haven, Connecticut, were busting down the door to buy a good book. They wouldn’t know a good book if it sprouted teeth and bit them on the hind end.
“Is that you, Mags?” Mr. Whitfield called from high up in the back of the store.
“Yes,” Maggie grumbled. She dumped her useless umbrella in the garbage can and shook her head, letting droplets fall everywhere. She squinted down the row of books and gasped.
“Alexander Whitfield, what are you doing up on that ladder? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: just wait for me to get here!” Maggie hurried up to her boss, who was in his seventies, and helped him get down from his perch.
“I’m not crippled,” he barked.
“Fine. When you fall off the ladder and crack your head open, don’t come running to me,” Maggie replied.
“I had to put The Olive Tree back in its proper place,” he muttered with his chin held high. “You finished it in three days. A three-hundred-plus-page book. I thought I’d have more time. Oh, what happened to you? Didn’t you hear the weather for today? They’ve been calling for rain all week.”
“Yeah, I heard the weather,” she replied as she pulled off her soaked sweater, walked over to the kitchenette next to Mr. Whitfield’s cubby, and wrung it out.
“Don’t you have an umbrella?” Mr. Whitfield asked innocently. “You know, I have a half dozen of them. People leave them behind all the time.”
“I had one,” she grumbled. “But it broke. The button wouldn’t work.”
“Ah, there’s your problem. Plastic buttons and flimsy material certainly won’t work for you. Now, on your way home, you will take this.” Mr. Whitfield hobbled over to his desk and pulled an elegantly carved hook handle from a tall brass canister. It was attached to a long umbrella with silver-tipped ribs and thick vinyl webbing.
After wiping off her glasses, Maggie walked over and looked at what Mr. Whitfield was holding. It was an old umbrella. When she held it in her hand, she could tell, because it was heavy, made of real metal and wood.
“This will protect you. And keep it with you, because the rain is not expected to stop for the next several days.” Mr. Whitfield reached under the flaps of vinyl, showed Maggie where to press the metal tab down, and then gently glided the ring all the way up to the top. The umbrella bloomed like a black flower.
“Mr. Whitfield, it’s bad luck to open an umbrella indoors,” Maggie said.
“Oh, posh. Here.” He slid the umbrella closed and handed it to Maggie with a wink. “Now, put this away. What do we have on the agenda for today?”
“You were going to finish my monthly list,” Maggie said as she took the umbrella, delicately touching the etched handle and admiring the silver tip.
“Have you finished all the books I gave you from last month?” Mr. Whitfield asked.
“You know I did.” Maggie rolled her eyes as she followed behind him after tucking the umbrella behind the small counter at which she spent most every day. “You say that every time you have to give me a new list.”
“Which one was your favorite?” Mr. Whitfield asked as he took a seat behind his small desk. It was covered with papers and notes, receipts and bills, rubber bands, sticky pads, and a large stack of used envelopes with stamps he found charming bound with a piece of red yarn. There was also an assortment of vintage pens in various stages of dryness that often required him to lick the tip to get the ink to flow.
“We discussed this already, Mr. Whitfield. I told you that The Count of Monte Cristo was my favorite out of this bunch. I’m glad I saved it for last, because Madam Bovary was…” Maggie pretended to yawn and stretch her mouth wide while patting it with her hand.
“But what of the main character, Emma Bovary?” Mr. Whitfield asked as he took a seat and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Ugh. I really didn’t care for her,” Maggie replied.
“Just because she wanted love and to be loved?” Mr. Whitfield asked.
 
; “She was a bore and ignorant by choice. Not to mention no one is going to buy the cow if the milk is free. That isn’t a saying that just popped up when I was a kid. She had to know that too,” Maggie joked, and she smiled as Mr. Whitfield laughed.
Just then, a sleek black cat crossed in front of Mr. Whitfield’s desk and came right up to Maggie, slinking affectionately around her legs.
“Poe, you agree with me, don’t you?” Maggie asked the cat as she picked him up. She felt his tail happily whipping against her side as she placed him on Mr. Whitfield’s desk.
“Speaking of which, do you have any plans this evening? A date perhaps?” Mr. Whitfield asked. He searched for a pen, licked the tip, and began to write notes on a pink Post-it.
“Speaking of giving the milk away for free… No, I don’t have a date. Are you nuts?” Maggie huffed. “Everyone I meet, Mr. Whitfield, pales in comparison to you.”
“Oh, posh. Maggie, I worry about you. I’m not going to be around forever. You can’t waste your life hanging around an old coot like me,” he said as he wrote.
“I can be myself around you, Mr. Whitfield. No one else in all of Fair Haven wants to talk about books or even reads. It’s what I love. And no one wants to know about it, so it’s pretty safe to assume they don’t want to know about me.”
“That isn’t true. You’re just shy,” Mr. Whitfield said.
After a deep breath, Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know how to talk to people.”
“You talk to me just fine,” he added.
“Yeah, but that’s because you’re just a crazy bookworm. It’s easy to talk to you,” Maggie said as she stroked Poe’s head and felt the vibration of his purring.
“You have more to offer than you think, Margaret Bell. Any man would be lucky to scoop up a young lady like you,” Mr. Whitfield said. “Now, I’ll read you your list for this month. I expect you to take all month reading them. Don’t finish all ten books this week.”
When Maggie had first been hired by Mr. Whitfield six years earlier, he had seen firsthand her severely introverted nature. She was the perfect candidate to work in his bookstore, as he was introverted too. But their mutual love of books had eventually brought her out of her shell—at least where Mr. Whitfield was concerned—and he began to care for her like a daughter.
So they slowly got to know one another. Mr. Whitfield, who had read almost every book in his secondhand and vintage bookstore, which boasted more than five thousand titles, would give Maggie a list of books to read for the month. They were all on the shelves. Some of them were old and forgotten by almost everyone but their authors, and others were classics Maggie had read several times. This was what she’d do most days as the hours ticked by. Customers at the bookshop were rare, since the store did not carry the latest young-adult vampire series or comic books.
“What is the first title?” Maggie smiled and was eager to know the first book Mr. Whitfield had in mind for her to read.
“The Streets of Laredo. Westerns. McMurtry,” Mr. Whitfield called out to her.
She walked down three rows of books that went from floor to ceiling to the Western section. She found the book, and her eyes sparkled; she loved westerns. Although she would never admit it to anyone, she loved how the men were so masculine and had no qualms stealing a long, passionate kiss from their fair lady before leaving to find gold or chase down the man from a Wanted poster.
“Found it! What’s next?” she called. But there was no answer. “Mr. Whitfield? Don’t leave me on tenterhooks!” She chuckled. But still there was no reply. Maybe the phone had rung and he was talking. But she hadn’t heard it ring. Maybe he was changing his mind and writing down another title.
With her book held tightly in one hand, Maggie slowly walked back toward Mr. Whitfield’s cubby, where she saw him sitting.
“Mr. Whitfield, are you all right?” she asked.
But still he didn’t reply. He made no movement at all. When she looked at his face, it was as if he’d fallen asleep and was just peacefully dreaming at his desk.
Maggie put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
His hand fell to his side, dropping the list of books she was to read this month.
He was dead.
Chapter 2
The smell Maggie noticed throughout the Pearlman Family Funeral Home was not unpleasant. It was lemony. There was a lot of hardwood throughout the place, and Maggie wondered how long it took Mr. Pearlman to polish everything, because there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Boxes of tissues sat on every table, along with a couple bowls filled with peppermints. She’d tossed a few into her pocket but didn’t eat any. Her stomach couldn’t handle having anything in it.
Even though Maggie had made all the arrangements for the funeral, she felt like an interloper. It was nice to see so many people from the town show up to say good-bye. They chatted with Maggie, telling her what a nice man her boss had been and how they’d miss him. A few people asked if she’d be taking over the bookstore, but before she could form a proper response, they moved on to chat with someone else more interesting.
So Maggie stood by herself near the head of the casket and quietly whispered to Mr. Whitfield. She wished he were alive to see the crowd he had drawn. He’d have laughed at all the people who showed up. But Maggie wasn’t surprised. She knew Mr. Whitfield had led a secret life of doing good. He’d dropped off crates of food for poor families on the other end of town every Thanksgiving. At some of the restaurants in town, during Christmas, he’d pay the tabs of large families or maybe a couple just starting out. The animal shelter received bags of dog and cat food anonymously donated year-round. Maggie saw some of the receipts, but she never said anything. If he’d wanted her to know, he’d have told her. The thought that these things would be missing this year broke her heart.
But she choked back the tears. The last thing she wanted was to attract attention to herself. It was bad enough that she felt like the only person who had dressed up. A vintage black cardigan and a long pleated black skirt weren’t hard to throw together. As she looked around, she saw blue jeans and khakis and yoga pants. Really? Yoga pants?
“Maggie? Maggie?”
It was Roger Hawes. He was wearing baggy blue Carhartt work pants and a button-down shirt that looked like he’d been wearing it for the past few days. He always looked like this.
“Yes, Roger?” Maggie asked.
“I’m assuming that you know about Alex’s finances. I’m wondering when he plans on selling the place.” Roger’s cheeks were red, and he was slightly out of breath, as if he’d been running.
“Roger, I don’t know any of the particulars at this time. Mr. Whitfield only passed two days ago and…”
“You know why I’m asking. I’ve made Alex several decent offers to sell me that bookstore. The place was bleeding him dry. But no. He had to be stubborn. The town needed a bookstore. Who ever heard of such nonsense?” Roger wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Now, I’m prepared to make a fair offer. A pawnshop in the middle of town is just what Fair Haven needs.”
Maggie squinted at Roger as if he’d just said, “An epidemic of lice is just what Fair haven needs.” “I’m not through with all the paperwork, Roger. And you will probably have to deal with his son, Joshua, for any sales or…”
“Is he here?” Roger barked.
“Is who here?” Maggie snapped right back in her usual annoyed and frustrated tone.
“Joshua, his son.” Roger looked at Maggie and shrugged.
“If he is, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him,” Maggie said, happy to be of no real help to Roger Hawes.
He shook his head and looked around for a moment and then looked down at Maggie. “Where’s the kitchen? Do you have coffee?” he asked with his lips pulled down like a bulldog’s jowls.
Maggie pointed to a hallway on her left but didn’t utter another word as she watched him slip away to drink the free coffee and orange juice and probably gobble down half the pastrie
s she’d brought. Mr. Whitfield had always liked the pastries from Tammy McCarthy’s Bakery, which was just a block down from the bookstore. Actually, she was pretty sure it was Tammy he liked. She was a pistol with bright-red hair and false eyelashes. She’d paid her respects earlier when she’d brought over more than the two boxes of almond croissants Maggie had ordered.
“He was such a good man, Maggie. And he thought so highly of you,” Tammy had said before dabbing the corners of her eyes with a lacy kerchief.
“Thank you, Tammy,” Maggie replied, biting her tongue so as not to cry.
Hopefully, the other mourners had enough of an appetite to eat all the almond croissants already, Maggie thought, and she was sure Mr. Whitfield would have agreed with her. She would never forget how Roger would come to the bookstore and look up and down the shelves as he spoke to Mr. Whitfield.
“You’re not getting any younger. What are you going to do with this place? When was the last time you turned a profit?” he’d say as he looked at the books as if they had tentacles or were covered in spiderwebs.
Maggie had never said anything, but had it been her bookstore, she would have told him to get out. And if he’d ever set foot inside her store again, making such vulgar comments, she’d have him thrown in the hoosegow.
The wake was scheduled to go from eleven in the morning until six in the evening. Maggie had brought a book, hoping that she could just sit quietly with Mr. Whitfield and read like she’d done with him at the store. But it was as if they were giving away free cemetery plots, and a steady flux of people kept coming and going. Maggie was sure these people stayed longer at Mr. Whitfield’s wake than they ever had in his store. Plus, it was still raining outside. Maggie knew she should have been grateful that the folks came even in the bad weather, but it annoyed her. By the time Joshua Whitfield arrived, Maggie was in a fouler mood than usual.