Murder at the Bookstore


 
 About the Publisher
 Australia
 HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
 Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
 Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
 www.harpercollins.com.au
 Canada
 HarperCollins Canada
 Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
 22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
 Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
 www.harpercollins.ca
 India
 HarperCollins India
 A 75, Sector 57
 Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India
 www.harpercollins.co.in
 New Zealand
 HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
 Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
 Rosedale 0632
 Auckland, New Zealand
 www.harpercollins.co.nz
 United Kingdom
 HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
 1 London Bridge Street
 London SE1 9GF, UK
 www.harpercollins.co.uk
 United States
 HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
 195 Broadway
 New York, NY 10007
 www.harpercollins.com
 
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 I would like to acknowledge and thank everyone who helped me bring this dream to reality, including but not limited to:
 My agent, Dawn Dowdle, for her faith in me and all her hard work making this happen. 
 My editor, Cara Chimirri, and the rest of the Avon team for their enthusiasm for, and dedication to, this project.
 Cate Hogan, for helping me turn a story worth telling into a story worth reading. 
 Ann Dudzinski, Julie Golden, Liz Goldsmith, JJ Grafton, Arya Matthews, and Suzanne Oldham for suffering through draft after draft without a hint of complaint.
 And, last but definitely not least, my furry best friend, Sadie, for patiently being there through it all.
 
 
 About the Author
 Sue Minix is a member of Sisters in Crime, and when she isn’t writing or working, you can find her reading, watching old movies, or hiking the New Mexico desert with her furry best friend.
 
 
 CHAPTER ONE
 People watching is a necessary activity for a writer. I gazed out the bookstore’s window and studied the passersby. Their movements, their interactions. The expressions on their faces. Are they potential characters? Victims, perhaps? Better yet, killers. 
 Either way, after two hours plastered to the chair, I squirmed like a kindergartener ready for a nap. Pins and needles, brought on by immobility, constituted cruel and unusual punishment, an appropriate sacrifice to the writing gods. Too bad they weren’t appeased today. Or yesterday, for that matter. 
 The letters on my laptop screen merged, separated, and merged again. The cursor at the end of the last sentence flashed and mocked. Elusive words disappeared into my swampy brain as quickly as will-o’-the-wisps.
 The grandfather clock chimed twelve while the Davenport twins stared at the twisted limbs and oddly angled head of their father, splayed face down on the living-room Oriental rug. 
 Everyone loved the twins in Double Trouble, and now I had to come up with a sequel to the smash hit. No point in a successful first novel if you couldn’t write a second. However, unlike this one, that book wrote itself. A volcano of words erupted whenever my fingertips touched the keyboard. Turning points and plot twists flowed like lava down a mountainside. Characters swirled through the air like ash and settled in perfect proportions. All of which left me with an agent and a contract for a second book that refused to allow me to write it.
 So, what now? How would each of my teenaged detectives react? Dana, strong and reticent, and Daniel, the resourceful social butterfly, often traveled in opposite emotional directions. Shock for both, certainly. Perhaps anger for Dana and tears for Daniel? Perhaps not. Too clichéd. What if Daniel called for help while Dana checked for a pulse? Only, Victor wore the blank stare of death. Okay, call the police, skip the pulse check. Done. Next?
 “Jennifer Marie Dawson!”
 I snapped my head toward the voice. Aletha’s unblemished, dark brown skin highlighted her flawless white smile. “What? Jeez, you scared me. Furthermore, I told you my middle name because you asked, not so you could use it, Aletha Looo-eeez Cunningham.”
 In a display of coordination I’d never even experienced in my dreams, she settled with a dancer’s poise into the seat opposite me and placed a cardboard cup of coffee on the table. “Here’s another round. Cream, two sugars, the way you like it.”
 I hefted it toward my lips, and the picture that always made me smile caught my eye. Aletha in an oversized wingback chair with a tiger-striped kitten asleep in her lap and an open copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in her hands. Ravenous Readers in cloud letters floated above her head and below: Books Make the Best Friends. 
 “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.” Steam tickled my nose, and just one small sip instantly warmed me all the way down. Perfect.
 Aletha motioned toward my laptop. “How’s it coming?”
 “It’s not. Mental-pause has commandeered my brain.”
 “Oh, please, Jen. You’re only twenty-eight.”
 “Maybe, but they’re dog years.” I waggled my eyebrows, along with an imaginary cigar.
 “What’s that supposed to be?”
 I dropped my jaw. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen the Marx Brothers.”
 She took a sip from her cup. “Were they a boy band?”
 “They were comedy actors in the thirties. Every time one of their movies came on TCM, Gary made me watch with him.”
 Aletha wrinkled her nose. “Sounds awful. I’m ten years older than you and never heard of them. Your stepfather was mean.”
 “It wasn’t so bad. Nothing like a little Monkey Business. After a while, the old shows he loved grew on me. Besides, the positive time we spent together made it worthwhile.”
 Her ever-vigilant hazel eyes flicked around the store, then back to me. “No progress?”
 “What else is new? Three whole sentences today. It might be a record.”
 “Hmmm. Three sentences in two hours. It’s possible.”
 I stuck out my tongue, stood, and stretched my arms overhead. The soft concerto, which emanated from the ceiling speakers, flowed over me. Russell Jeffcoat—friendly and clever with a hint of darkness underneath—poured coffee into the community urn. The bouquet of fresh brew tantalized me the way his mahogany eyes did. My fingers itched to run through his wavy brown hair. I looked away.
 A fortyish woman decked out in a