Murder of a Bookstore Babe

“Sorry.” After closing the door of the cage, the person turned around. She was wearing a yellow polo shirt with TALES AND TREATS stitched in black across the pocket. Beneath the store name, RISÉ was embroidered in dark green. “I’m not Kayla, but I am enjoying my first day on the job.”

“Sorry.” Skye felt her cheeks redden. “From the back, you two look very similar.”

“No problem.” The shop owner smiled. “Being mistaken for a nineteen-year-old is extremely flattering.” She held out her hand to Skye. “How kind of you to come to our grand opening. I hope your being here doesn’t cause a problem for you with your cousin.”

“Thank you.” Skye shook Risé’s hand. “I’m Skye. It’s my pleasure to be here, and I couldn’t care less about Hugo’s opinions.”

“I’m thrilled that so many Scumble Riverites are here.” Risé was glowing. “I was a little afraid no one would show up, and then with those people picketing in front of the door . . . Well, you can imagine.”

“Of course,” Skye reassured her. “But they’re gone now, and at least the leader of the pack didn’t show up.” She paused. Why hadn’t Pru been there, since this was her cause? “At any rate, they don’t seem to have stopped anyone.” She didn’t mention that the protesters had probably actually attracted a larger crowd.

“Your friends told me how they fought them off.” Risé straightened a stack of bookmarks. “That Bunny is my kind of woman.”

“She’s certainly unique. She’s one of those rare, truly happy-go-lucky people who can enjoy the scenery on a detour.” Skye mentally shook her head. Risé the intellectual feminist and Bunny the man-crazy flake were the original odd couple, but you never knew what circumstances would cement a friendship. “You’ve probably already noticed we have a lot of quirky folks around these parts.”

Risé shrugged. “I’ve never lived in a small town before, but I imagine this is pretty typical.”

“Typical isn’t the word I’d choose,” Skye answered, distracted by a glimpse of silver-gray fur in the cage behind Risé. “Not to be nosy, but is that a cat?”

“No.” Risé laughed. “If it were a kitty, I’d let it out, but chinchillas are a little shy.”

“Did you say chinchilla?” Skye asked. “Like the coat?”

“Shh!” Risé held a finger to her lips. “Beelzebub and Cherub are sensitive about that.”

“Sorry.” Skye giggled, then sobered. “FYI, you may want to reconsider that one name, considering what those women outside were protesting.”

“Good point.” Risé tapped her chin. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“How much is this?” A young woman interrupted them, holding up a delicate porcelain letter opener.

“Excuse me,” Risé said to Skye. “I’ll be right back.”

While she waited, Skye wandered over to a table stacked with copies of If I Have a Wicked Stepmother, Where’s My Prince?, a young adult novel she had read at the request of one of the girls she saw for counseling.

She was paging through one of the trade paperbacks, remembering how much she had enjoyed the story, when Risé returned and said, “Those are ten percent off.”

“Thanks, but I already read it.” Skye returned the book to the display.

“Well, then”—Risé motioned to Skye to follow her—“let me show you the treats part of our store.”

When they entered the café, Skye noticed a table covered in cream moiré with a display of decadent chocolates in fancy gold boxes and coffee beans whose foil bags bore exotic names like RAINFOREST WINTER DARK, SEPTEMBER SUNSHINE, and MAUNA LOA SILK.

She commented to Risé, “I see you sell quite a few items other than books.”

“That’s true. In today’s economy a store has to be diversified in order to turn a profit. That’s why we decided to have the coffee and sweets and the gift items. We even have some used books.” She hurriedly added, “But we only accept ones in pristine condition, and in the three most popular genres.”

“Sounds like you’ve really thought this out.”

“Running a bookstore has been our dream for a long time.” Risé’s eyes shone. “Now, how about some refreshments?” She swept her arm toward the selection of pastries in steel-and-glass cases. “What can I get you?”

“These all look wonderful.” Skye scrutinized the array of goodies, spotting a tray of pale tan squares. “Are those shortbread?”

“Yes.”

“Yum.” Skye’s mouth watered. “I’ll take some of those, please.”

“Here you go.” Risé handed Skye a plateful. “They’re my husband’s specialty.”

“Did he make all of these?” Skye gestured to row after row of desserts.

“Yes. He was a cook in the army and loves baking.”

“Was he career military?” Skye took a bite of cookie, closing her eyes to savor the melt-in-your-mouth buttery goodness.

“No.” Risé’s expression was hard to read. “Once he left the army he became a book scout.” Risé must have seen the question in Skye’s eyes because she explained, “Someone who goes to yard sales, thrift stores, estate auctions, etcetera, looking for rare and valuable books and special collections.”