For Whom the Book Tolls Read online

  For Whom the Book Tolls

  AN ANTIQUE BOOKSHOP MYSTERY

  Laura Gail Black

  For my mother, Linda Myers (1942–2002), who showed me the limitless universe held within the covers of books and who encouraged me to share my own stories with the world.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my husband, George. Your encouragement, support, brainstorming sessions, willingness to answer odd questions at even odder moments, and your unwavering belief in me are invaluable. I love you. Thank you to my sons, David and Will Johnson. All the years you gave me uninterrupted time to write and edit, as well as all the offered ideas, have paid off. You guys are awesome. Thank you to my sister, Ginni Myers, for your joy at my success. You’ve shouted about my book from the rooftops to anyone who will listen, generating excitement and becoming the inaugural member of my street team. Thank you to my network of writing friends: Pat Rohner, Sarah Wolf, Pamela Reese, Sheryl Torres, and Charlotte Parker. You read my book as it morphed from rough draft to finished product, and your brainstorming sessions, encouragement, and feedback helped me make the book stronger and tighter. Thank you to Dawn Dowdle, agent extraordinaire. Your skills as an editor and agent, as well as your encouragement and support, have made this an amazing process. Lastly, thank you to my wonderful team at Crooked Lane Books for giving me the opportunity to share my stories with the world.

  Chapter One

  I sat in my car, squinting into the darkened alleyway. The streetlamp my uncle had mentioned seemed to be burned out, as no light cut through the moonless night. He’d said we weren’t supposed to park behind the businesses, but an eerie chill skittered up my spine at the thought of parking here in the assigned lot at the end of the street and walking up the alley in the dark with only a flashlight and a duffle bag to protect myself.

  Uncle Paul might think this was a nice, quiet little town, but my recent past had left me more than a bit jaded and skeptical. However, I couldn’t guarantee I’d be up and about before morning delivery trucks might arrive. Last thing I wanted was to cause problems for Uncle Paul on my first day.

  I squared my shoulders, grabbed my duffle and flashlight, and got out of my car, wincing as the sound of the doors locking echoed across the parking lot. Sweeping my flashlight along the side of the old warehouse-cum-historic shopping district, I spotted the stairs up to the second floor, where the soaring upper space had been converted into apartments.

  A sliver of moon popped out from behind a cloud, shining enough light for me to avoid tripping over residents’ doormats and potted plants as I carefully aimed my flashlight at the numbers on the front doors. There! 205. A breath I’d not realized I was holding whooshed out, and some of the tension in my shoulders slid away.

  I stooped and groped under the doormat, hoping I wasn’t grabbing a bug or a spider. Dealing with a bite wasn’t what I had in mind for what was left of my night. My fingers brushed metal, and I pulled out the key Uncle Paul had promised to leave for me when I’d told him I would arrive late.

  Movement caught my eye, and my head pivoted, followed by the swing of my flashlight, and I glimpsed a ragged orange tabby cat hopping into the dumpster. The skin on the back of my neck prickled, and I peered out into the alleyway, on hyperalert for any other movement.

  The moon slid behind the clouds again, and the alley dipped into shadow. Gads, I was being ridiculous. Not normally timid, I mentally kicked myself for standing there expecting to play a starring role in a B-rated horror flick. I cringed and swung around to face my new home. At least for the next few weeks, this was home. What had I gotten myself into? I straightened my spine. I knew exactly what I’d gotten into. Or rather, out of. Ignoring the inky blackness of the alley at my back, I slid the key into the door’s lock, turned it, and eased the door open.

  I stepped softly through the doorway, relieved when the floors didn’t squeak. I hadn’t seen Uncle Paul in years, and I didn’t want our reunion to be the result of my noisy arrival in the middle of the night. Especially after he’d requested I be quiet if I came in this late.

  According to his email, the second door to the right was a guest bedroom, and I used my flashlight to guide my way, pointing it at the floor to keep from accidentally shining it into Uncle Paul’s room. Tiptoeing, I moved across the hardwood floor and eased the bedroom door shut before flipping a wall switch and turning to survey my new digs.

  A made-up bed with clean sheets stood against one wall beside a nightstand supporting a bedside lamp. Across the room, a couple of bottles of water, an apple, and a bag of chips lay on a long, ornate dresser. I smiled at this thoughtful provision of a late-night snack. After I gobbled it down, exhaustion set in, and I shimmied out of my jeans and slipped off my bra, draping them over a comfy-looking chair in the corner, and crawled into the bed.

  The next morning I opened my eyes to a still-dark room, surprised to find it after eight AM when I looked at my phone. After flicking on the bedside lamp, I realized there were no windows, a detail I’d overlooked in my exhausted state the night before. Guess I wouldn’t be waking up to sunshine and birds singing, and I wouldn’t be opening a window to let fresh air in on a balmy morning or evening. After where I’d spent the last three months …

  Determined not to find fault with the only option I had for a home, and one that had been so graciously offered, I searched for a plus to having no windows. I’d have a nice, dark room if I needed to sleep in every once in a while. And I wouldn’t have to worry about Peeping Toms either. Okay, so I was reaching a bit.

  Following a call of nature and a desire to shower, I opened the two extra doors in the room, finding a closet and a small bathroom, which also exited back into the main part of the apartment. With both bathroom doors locked, I grabbed a quick shower and returned to my room to dress and unpack the rest of my small duffle. Later I’d bring in a few more things from the car.

  Clean, dressed in jeans and a lightweight red sweater, and with my wavy blonde hair clipped up into a messy bun, I opened my bedroom door to bright light flooding the open floor plan through tall windows set in the far end of the apartment. This was more like it. A kitchen stood across from me, with a long island and barstools. An eight-foot dining table filled an area farther down the home, with a large L-shaped couch, coffee table, and large flat-screen TV hanging over a gas fireplace taking up the remaining space. In the far front corner, a closed door led to a built-out room, too small to be a bedroom or office but possibly a storage closet or coat closet.

  “Uncle Paul?” I stepped into the gleaming kitchen and sniffed. Nope, no coffee yet. I crept along the back counter, locating the coffeepot but no filters or coffee. Two doors stood to the side of the kitchen. One led to a laundry room, the other to a pantry, where I struck pay dirt.

  As the coffee burbled down into the pot, I located drinkware, finally relaxing once I had a mug of the steaming brew in my hands. With my treasure, I moved around the apartment. A door farther down the right wall stood open, and I peeked into a larger bedroom, which must be Uncle Paul’s room, as he’d said it was a two-bedroom apartment. I ducked back out, not wanting to intrude on his private space, and continued my perusal of the home.

  “Uncle Paul?” Still no answer.

  I stepped to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and peered out into the quaint street below. Old-fashioned storefronts bordered a cobblestone street with wide, clean sidewalks running down each side. Wrought-iron benches and dwarf maple trees dotted the walkways, adding an inviting feel. As many of the stores hadn’t yet opened, few pedestrians moved along the walkways.

  Closing my eyes and inhaling the fortifying aroma of the steaming coffee, I let excitement and hope take the place of more recent, darker emotio
ns. I had a new direction, a new life ahead of me. My eyes popped open, and I strode back across to my new room, where, with my free hand, I grabbed my now-empty duffle. Might as well store it and give myself a feeling of actually living here.

  I smiled as I walked across to the storage closet area, hoping I could find a small nook to stash my unneeded bag. As I approached the closet door, I slowed. A deadbolt was set into the door, as well as a knob lock. What the hell did Uncle Paul have that needed both a deadbolt that locked from inside the closet and a knob lock that locked from inside the apartment? I tossed my duffle at the couch, wincing when it missed and landed on the floor, and turned back to the puzzle of the doubly lockable door. Gads, now I sounded like Nancy Drew.

  Rolling my eyes at myself, I reached to turn the knob. Unlocked. As was the deadbolt. Intense curiosity overriding good manners—my mother would be horrified—I slowly and silently turned the knob and eased the door open just enough to peek through. A surprised “Oh!” escaped my lips, and I swung the door wider.

  A polished-wood landing fronted a spiral staircase leading down into—what? Maybe the bookstore my uncle owned below? I started down the stairs, curious to see where I’d be helping out for the next few weeks and hoping to find my absent uncle. A few steps down, I could see to the bottom, and I froze, the coffee cup slipping from my fingers to tumble down the stairs, splattering coffee on the treads and handrail as it went.

  My heart crashed, and my breath rushed out in a scream. I caught the railing as my knees buckled, and I sank down onto a step.

  At the bottom lay Uncle Paul. The angle of his limbs and head told me all I needed to know.

  Chapter Two

  The blue and red police lights sent out happy rays of color as they twirled, belying the grim nature of what lay inside my uncle’s bookstore. I sat in the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, as shudders racked my body.

  A warm hand came to rest on my arm. “Would you like some water?” The EMT held out a bottle.

  Words wouldn’t push past the tightness in my chest and lump in my throat, so I mutely shook my head.

  “The police want to ask you a few questions. I told them I’d see if you were up to it.” She placed another blanket around my shoulders.

  As if the day couldn’t get any worse. My eyes closed, and I took a deep breath. “Tell them I’m ready.” Tears stung the backs of my lids, and I blinked them away before the police could see them.

  The EMT slid a tissue into my hand, and I blew my nose as she waved two men in suits over to where I sat.

  “Ma’am, I’m Detective Frank Sutter,” said a rotund man in a brown polyester suit that looked like it had seen far better days. “This is my partner, Detective Keith Logan. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

  “I’m not sure what I can tell you.” I sniffed and huddled deeper into the blankets, glad to have the shield of faux wool between me and the detectives.

  “First, can you tell us your name?” Detective Logan spoke softly, his warm chocolate eyes both soothing and alluring. Taller than his partner, Logan seemed fit and firm under his well-cut, albeit not overtly expensive, charcoal suit. Dark, wavy hair lay back from his face and brushed the back of his collar, and his skin tones and the set of his cheekbones gave the impression he was from the Pacific Islands.

  My mouth opened, and only a squeak came out, although I wasn’t sure if it was from the stress or because Keith Logan was one of the hottest men I’d ever seen. Good Lord, what was wrong with me? It had to be the shock. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I’m Jenna Quinn. I’m Paul Baxter’s niece.”

  “I understand you’re the person who found Mr. Baxter.” Detective Sutter pulled a pad and pen from his breast pocket and flipped it open in his meaty hands, making a quick note.

  My throat closed, leaving me only able to nod again. Dear God, he was dead. Dead. What was I going to do now? Where would I go? Guilt crashed through me as I realized my fear about my predicament had supplanted my grief over the loss of my uncle.

  “Can you walk us through what happened, please?” Detective Logan’s kind gaze caught mine, and he gave a tiny nod of encouragement.

  Another ragged breath shoved its way through me. “I arrived just before two AM this morning and used the key Uncle Paul had told me about. When I got up this morning, I went looking for him to let him know I’d arrived safely. I found him at the bottom of the stairs.” A lone tear slid down my cheek.

  Sutter grunted. “And you had never been here before?”

  “No, I hadn’t seen my uncle in almost ten years, and even then, it was when he and my aunt came to visit our family in Charlotte.” Damn it. I winced, wishing I could take back the word Charlotte, but it was too late now. I prayed he wouldn’t decide to dig too deeply into where I was from.

  Another grunt as Sutter made notes. “Why were you here now? Was this a planned visit?”

  Now came the sticky part. I chose my words carefully. “Uncle Paul had heard I was between jobs”—not a lie … technically—“and he wrote and asked me to come stay here for a while. We hadn’t seen each other for so long, and he wanted to have the chance to reconnect.” And now it would never happen. The sweet, funny uncle I remembered from all those years ago was gone, and I had no way to tell him I was sorry for never finding time to come visit. Grief finally outweighed my own struggles, and the tears flowed freely.

  The EMT pressed another tissue into my hand, and I sopped at my eyes and cheeks and blew my nose.

  “Can anyone verify when you left to come here so we can verify when you arrived?” Sutter looked at me, eyes narrowed and speculative.

  “I live alone.” Technically not another lie. I had lived alone, at least in the crappy rattrap motel I’d ended up in for the last two weeks. “No one can verify when I left.”

  More grunting. I wondered if he even realized he was doing it.

  “We have your number from the nine-one-one call. We’ll call you if we have any further questions.” Sutter snapped the pad closed and slid it into his pocket.

  Logan held out a business card. “Please let us know if you think of anything that might solve this.”

  His words registered as he walked away.

  “Wait, what? Solve? It wasn’t an accident?” Horror sliced through me.

  Logan turned back to me. “Right now, we honestly aren’t sure.”

  My mind reeled. What did he mean, not sure? Not sure as in “not sure exactly what happened,” or not sure as in “we think he may have been murdered”? I swallowed back the scream of frustration and desperation that shoved against my throat. Having them think I had lost it wasn’t a good idea.

  I stopped an officer and confirmed I couldn’t stay in the apartment until it was released as a possible crime scene, although I did manage to gain permission to gather my things, fully escorted and supervised, from the guest room and bathroom. As I numbly shoved my duffle into the back seat of my car, I shoved grief and fear to the back of my mind, almost losing that battle when the coroner’s van pulled into the alleyway. I turned my head away, forcing myself not to think about the black zippered bag they would soon roll out.

  I slid into my car and leaned my forehead on the steering wheel. My bank account had less than two hundred dollars in it, which wouldn’t last long if I had to find a motel, especially when I added food costs on top.

  Not wanting to witness the removal of the body, I turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear, slamming on my brakes when Sutter tapped on my driver’s side window.

  “Going somewhere, Ms. Quinn?”

  “You implied I was free to leave when you said you’d call if you had more questions.” I kept the car in gear, ready to scoot away the moment Sutter moved out of my way.

  Sutter grunted again. “I think it would be better if you rode with us.”

  The air left my lungs, and bile flooded to the back of my throat. I swallowed deeply to keep from vomiting on my steerin
g wheel. “With you?” My voice came out in a trembling whisper.

  Sutter’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, apparently assessing my onset of panic. “Yes. We have a few more questions we’d like to ask you down at the station.” His cold eyes bored through me as if he already knew all my secrets.

  My hands clutched the steering wheel, knuckles white. “I’d be happy to answer your questions, Detective. I’ll follow you in my car.”

  Detective Logan approached and whispered something in Sutter’s ear.

  Sutter straightened, narrowing his eyes at me again and nodding before striding off to an unmarked sedan and sliding into the passenger seat. Logan got behind the wheel, and as the sedan pulled away from the parking lot, I followed.

  Chapter Three

  Sitting in a cramped, cell-like room, I leaned my elbows on the table, attempting to look calm. A large mirror dominated the opposite wall, and I knew they were watching me through one-way glass.

  The door swung open, and I jumped.

  Sutter and Logan entered and sat in the two empty seats across from me.

  Sutter opened a folder he’d brought with him and slid a mug shot across the table at me. “Tell me about Charlotte.” His voice slithered across my skin.

  An icy chill froze me in place as I looked into my own eyes in the picture.

  When I didn’t speak, Sutter continued. “Embezzlement and murder. These are interesting charges, considering this morning’s events.”

  I raised my gaze to meet his squarely, my jaw firm, and I hoped I didn’t look like the trembling bag of Jell-O I felt like. “I was acquitted of all charges.”

  Another grunt. “So you were. But you haven’t been acquitted for the murder this morning.”

  The room spun. “Why do you feel my uncle’s death was murder?”

  “We’re not completely sure yet.” Logan shot a glare at Sutter.