Chaos at the Lazy Bones Bookshop

Book 1: Halloween Bookshop Mystery

by Emmeline Duncan

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Bailey Briggs adores her year-round Halloween-themed town of Elyan Hollow, Oregon, but when she takes over her grandfather’s beloved bookshop, Lazy Bones Books, she accidentally discovers the town’s secret dark side . . .

 Normally, spooky season is Bailey Briggs’ favorite time of year, and her Halloween-themed small town’s time to shine. But between managing Lazy Bones Books, working on her graphic novel-in-progress, and running the Spooky Season Literary Festival, Bailey hardly has a moment to enjoy Elyan Hollow’s spot-on seasonal vibes. Not to mention, at every turn she seems to be tripping over the contentious crew of Gone Ghouls, a ghost-hunting reality TV show currently filming around town. Bailey tries to stay focused on the Lit Festival, which is supposed to kick off Elyan Hollow’s annual Halloween Fair; instead, this year’s festival begins with a murder . . .

It’s bad enough Bailey discovered the victim, but now, as a lead suspect with some (admittedly) damning evidence pointing her way, she’s got to clear her name! With the help of her librarian friend, Colby, and Jack Skeleton, her world-class bookshop dog (and the absolute bestest boy ever), Bailey sets out to solve a murder . . .

As her investigation weaves through family secrets, professional rivalries, and town feuds, the list of suspects is growing fast . . . and unfortunately, so is the list of victims. If Bailey doesn’t find the killer soon, Elyan Hollow’s haunted reputation will get a little too real . . .
 

Release date: July 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Walking into a place where everyone knows your name can be overrated, but today, I appreciated it.

Which is a way of saying today had felt like a week in and of itself.

And it was only Tuesday.

But I couldn’t complain. When I’d agreed to take over my family’s shop, Lazy Bones Books, in the Halloween-themed town of Elyan Hollow, Oregon, I’d signed on for each fall to be stressful since the town was overrun by our annual Halloween festival that drew visitors from all over.

And while I knew I should embrace moments, like now, to destress with friends, it didn’t mean I wouldn’t worry about my never-ending festival to-do list.

Especially since I’d added a literary festival to the opening weekend.

And I was happy to run a business I loved in my hometown. Elyan Hollow used to be a small riverport town on the Columbia River, about thirty miles west of Portland. After a now-iconic Halloween movie had been filmed in town about twenty-five years ago, we’d started drawing visitors year-round to snap photos of the filming sites, with October being the peak tourist time. Since the town had added a formal Halloween festival and then rebranded to Spooky Season year-round, visitors have flocked to town, especially in autumn when the town adorns itself with decorations, holds weekend activities like children’s crafts and movie sites tours, plus traditional seasonal offerings like a haunted house, and other attractions, and events like the annual pumpkin-carving competition that drew everyone from amateurs to seasoned pros.

The festival cumulated every year in a massive trick-or-treat night, including festival booths with seasonal treats, costume competitions, and all of the shops and close-in neighborhoods handing out candy.

Our scenic downtown with small shops has a strong Christmas season, most likely due to our combination of locally made goods, a short distance from Portland, and a unique twist on Christmas. Since we still decorate for the holiday season, just with a combined festive and spooky vibe.

But Halloween was our time to shine, and a good festival could make or break the yearly profit-and-loss statements for local businesses.

“Bailey, do you want your usual?” Ash, the bartender-slash-owner, asked as I walked into her taproom, called Elyan’s Mortuary & Deli Bottle Shop, even though she only sells beer on tap alongside a handful of craft bottled sodas and sparkling water.

“What’s my usual?” I asked.

Ash laughed. “Sparkling water, but I just tapped a new hefeweizen you should appreciate.”

“Can I try it before committing?”

“Of course!”

Ash poured me a sample, and I noted that her pixie cut had been dyed a brilliant deep blue with a spiderweb shaved into the undercut on the back of her head.

“This is a true German-style hefe with perfect banana and clove esters from a newish brewery in Portland,” she said. She handed over a one-ounce taster glass.

Ash was determined to turn me into a beer aficionado, and as I took a sip, I acknowledged she had a better sense of which beers I’d enjoy than I did. Which isn’t surprising, as Ash used to be a brewer for one of the largest local breweries before packing it in to start her own taproom. Show any interest and she’ll happily start lecturing about the different tasting notes in German versus Belgium versus English beers and all sorts of beer trivia.

After discussing the beer, Ash poured me a pint. As she handed it over, she said, “How are things going at the bookshop?”

“We’re unbelievably busy. But that’s good, right?” My grandfather, who’d started the bookshop and ran it until passing it over to me last year, was in town and ready to help if needed. But I wanted to show him I could run the shop solo and that his faith in me was warranted.

“Better than the opposite.”

“True that.”

My dog, Jack Skeleton, had been sitting patiently by my side, but he must’ve decided he’d waited long enough for Ash’s attention, so he stood with his paws on the edge of the bar. I’m pretty sure the small fluffy dog in the corner felt jealous of Jack’s Great Pyrenees reach.

“Well, hi, Jack,” Ash said. She reached out and scratched behind his ears. “If you sit down, I’ll give you a treat.”

Once Jack saw the dog treat in Ash’s hands, he sat down with an angelic look, like he’d never stand, and put his paws on the counter. That must’ve been a different giant snowy white dog in a jaunty red bandana.

Ash leaned over the counter and dropped the treat, which bounced off Jack’s nose. He looked like Ash had insulted his mother, then leaned over and snagged the treat. I’m pretty sure the dog in the corner laughed at him.

“You have the strangest dog,” Ash said.

“Careful, he’ll hear you!” I said.

Ash is partly correct. Jack is frequently solemn until he’s not and unflappably calm until he’s not. His DNA test had claimed purebred Great Pyrenees, which surprised me since his fur is shorter than the breed’s standard. But he has six back toes and an overwhelming desire to patrol the perimeter everywhere we go. He’s a strange dog who always keeps a wary eye out, but those are also Great Pyrenees traits, as they were bred to be self-sufficient livestock guardians, frequently caring for sheep for days on ends in the Pyrenees mountains of France.

Some days, I suspected Jack saw me as his sheep.

“You can’t mock the dog,” a voice said behind me. “He’s an angel.”

Colby, aka my best friend, had arrived.

She joined me at the bar, and Jack immediately leaned his head into her hip. Her black hair was pulled back into a swishy ponytail, and her Elyan Community Library polo shirt had an uncharacteristic dusting of glitter.

“Trouble during craft hour?” I asked.

“I told the head librarian that we should ban glitter.”

“Glitter is the herpes of the craft world,” Ash said. “You’re going to find it in the books for years.”

“Gross.”

Colby ordered an IPA, and as Ash poured it, a man I didn’t recognize walked up to the bar. His eyes scanned the list of beers on draft with a quizzical expression. He asked, “This is a deli, right?”

Which was a fair question, given the word “deli” in the business name.

Ash smiled. “Sorry, we only have beers on draft. But you can bring food from one of the cafés down the street or from the food cart out back into the taproom. The cart’s pretty awesome.”

Colby slid a reusable lunch box to me. I glanced inside to see a few end chunks of gourmet cheese on a gel ice pack.

“Gift from my mom. Just remember to return the container,” Colby said. Her parents own the local cheese shop, Ghostly Gouda. “She knows this is a tough week. She asked me to tell you that you’ll love the assortment she’s putting together for the party on Friday, so don’t fret. She’ll do you and the festival proud.”

“I don’t doubt your parents’ cheese skills,” I said. So I knew I shouldn’t triple-check what they planned to bring, even though I wanted to.

Everything needed to be perfect for my festival, and the three fantastic writers scheduled to come. The weekend would go well. It had to. The three authors onboard were all fantastic, and included a hometown hero returning after a long absence, making the festival feel like fate versus my pet project.

I spotted the notebook that contained my ever-running to-do list as I tucked the cheese into my messenger bag. I nearly pulled it out to remind me there was nothing pressing I needed to do at this exact moment.

It’s time to unwind, I reminded myself, feeling like it was another item to check off on my to-do list.

“How’s my little sister working out? Do I need to talk to her?” Colby asked. I’d agreed to take her younger sister, Danby, on as an intern for the Halloween season. It was a win-win for both of us: I received an extra set of hands during my busiest times of the year, and she received college credit plus payment for her time.

Except corralling Danby’s energy was a complication I hadn’t expected. It could be worse; Danby had good instincts combined with the energy of five minor mortals.

“Danby’s doing great. You don’t need to worry,” I said.

“Famous last words,” Colby said.

“Oh, incoming,” I said. A redhead, about five foot eight and very slender, powerwalked into the taproom. Beside me, Jack let out a slight growl.

“Hello,” Ash said when she clocked her.

“Save your breath to cool your porridge,” I muttered. Jack pushed against the side of my leg as he shifted to stand between me and the redhead.

Colby looked at me and scrunched her eyebrows. “Someone’s been reading Jane Austen. But that phrase means stop talking, not keep your eyes to yourself.”

“Fine. Pretend this is a ball, and the woman who just entered said you’re not pretty enough to dance with,” I said. “React accordingly.”

“Ouch, that’s mean,” Ash said. “It’s from that zombies book, right? With the girls trained to fight zombies, but their mother wants them to get married instead?”

Colby shook her head at Ash, but the corners of her mouth edged up as she tried to suppress a smile.

“We should have Pride and Prejudice and Zombies showing in the taproom. It’d make a nice shakeup to our usual Halloween fare.”

Monday evenings are the slowest in the taproom, and the local movie theater is dark. So Ash shows Halloween movies during the festival on the large screen she can pull down on one side of the bar. She usually shows Portland Thorns games, along with the Timbers and Blazers, plus an annual Nightmare before Christmas showing in mid-December.

“So, who is it?” Colby asked as the redhead held out a small black device toward the corner of the room. It beeped slightly, and the redhead stopped and made a note on her tablet.

Ash leaned in as I talked.

“You know the ghost-hunting show I told you about?”

“The one run by people who think the town is haunted versus knowing we accepted our fate and leaned into our spooky-vibe because of our movie, right? I met one of them at the library today,” Colby said. She referred to the beloved, family-friendly Halloween movie The Haunted Hounds of Hamlet Bay.

“Hello, this place is haunted,” Ash said. She motioned to the renovated former fire station turned taproom.

“Who by? Some hunky firefighter who couldn’t bear to leave his crew behind after he tragically died in a fire station accident? Or maybe he perished rescuing a cat from a tree?”

“Who was his lost love in cat form, since she was a shifter who got stuck, but he didn’t let that come between them,” Colby added.

“You two think you’re funny, but you should hear the strange noises when this place is quiet. The building doesn’t like to be empty,” Ash said.

“Good thing you’ve started renting the upstairs rooms out, then,” Colby said. Ash had turned the old firehouse rooms upstairs into a low-key hotel. We’d helped her decorate the four rooms to showcase a hip Halloween vibe without being overstuffed.

Ash raised her eyebrow at me. “Back to what we were talking about. Who is the redhead?”

We all glanced at the woman, who’d moved over to a different corner of the room and was scanning it with a black wand. The couple sitting at the table by her openly stared. She brushed against their table like they weren’t even there.

“That’s Taylor Edison. She’s the research assistant from the ghost show, and she’s been scouting locations in town for filming. She stopped by the bookstore a few days ago.” She’d been rather snooty and scoffed at several of my decorations. She’d also called Jack, who’d spent most of the visit ignoring her, a dirty area rug, so I was pretty sure we were in a passive-aggressive death grudge match.

“Does the show want to film in the bookshop?”

“That’s the plan.” Although I still debated whether I should’ve said no.

Taylor turned and walked up to me. She didn’t acknowledge Colby or Ash, just stared at me with her intense brown eyes.

“Do you know who owns this building? It’s dripping with paranormal activity,” Taylor asked me.

“This is Ash, the owner.” I motioned to my friend.

“You’re not a bartender?” Taylor’s eyes narrowed, and skepticism dripped off her.

Ash motioned widely with her arm. “Yep, this fine establishment is mine. I have the business mortgage to prove it.”

“I need to talk to you about using your building as a filming site for my ghost-hunting show,” Taylor said.

“Your show? Are you the showrunner?” Colby asked. Her voice was overly chirpy.

Taylor sniffed. “I’m scouting out locations.”

“Gotcha. I met someone at the library earlier—Lance Gregory? I thought he said it was his show.” From the tone in her voice, Colby had decided to lightly antagonize Taylor, so I decided to follow along.

“That’s the show host, but he’s not the brains of the show,” Taylor said through clenched teeth.

“Did you know Lance is local?” I said. “Everyone in town will be so excited to see him.”

“Just because someone grew up here doesn’t mean he’s a good TV host.” Taylor looked down at her tablet. I’m pretty sure she was trying to be dismissive, but it just came out as petty. But I’m biased against her.

“I heard he’s done a ton of TV shows, though. He’s probably the first star to visit town since The Haunted Hounds filmed here.”

“Star,” Taylor scoffed.

If I was feeling kind, I would’ve told Taylor that Lance being local would open doors for them. But I stayed silent and let her dig her own proverbial grave.

“If you decide you want to film here, drop off a contract, and I’ll happily discuss it with you.” Ash turned and took an order for a pint of ale.

I looked at Colby and tilted my head toward the backyard. When I started to walk away, Taylor stuck with me for some reason. Jack wedged himself between us and Taylor moved slightly away but kept pace.

“This town is so odd. But small towns always have that weird, inbred vibe,” Taylor said. She was staring at three women sitting in a group of club chairs in the corner, knitting, with pints of beer on the tables next to them.

One of the knitters, Pearl, made eye contact with me, and I nodded hello at her.

I paused.

“Taylor, this is Pearl,” I said. “She owns the local yarn shop, Stitch Craft.”

The knitters all looked our way, but their hands didn’t stop. Colby had started dragging me to a group that met at the yarn shop each week, and over time, I’d befriended several knitters, many of whom were longtime bookstore regulars. They’d always ask me about my WIPs as they entered Lazy Bones. I’d always needed to remind myself they meant knitting “work in progress” projects, not the secret graphic novel I’d been working for ages on the down-low. I’d helped quite a few of them download Libro.fm, an audiobook source they can use and support the indie store of their choice, which I hoped was Lazy Bones Books.

“Is that a spiderweb pattern?” Taylor leaned in, and Pearl held up the lacy black shawl on a circular needle that had to be at least forty inches. Taylor was right; the pattern looked like a spiderweb.

“I’m selling kits for this pattern in the yarn shop if you’d like one.” Pearl resumed knitting.

“But I’d have to actually knit it?” Taylor asked.

“That’s the point,” Pearl said. She nodded at me. “Bailey was reluctant, but she’s a pretty good knitter now. You should see her color work. There’s a drop-in group on Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings that you’re welcome to join.”

Taylor scoffed and said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Pearl glanced at me. “Remind me to show you how to fix dropped stitches. I dropped one in the pattern, and look, I fixed it, and you can’t tell.”

“Awesome.” I’d “frogged,” meaning unwound and started over, a project last month that made Pearl shake her head in frustration. She was positive I could fix anything with a few knitting tricks and perky can-do spirit.

“Are you coming to the knit night tomorrow?” Pearl asked, but I didn’t have a chance to answer.

A man walked in, bypassed the door, and homed in toward Taylor. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Taylor’s posture straightened up when she saw him.

“Lance.” Taylor’s voice had switched from aloof to almost grating.

“Do you have the rest of the schedule set?” Lance asked her. He didn’t glance at Pearl, or me.

“I’m working on it.”

“If scouting is too much for you, tell everyone now. It’s a big step from what you did last season, and you should’ve had the schedule set a week ago. We can’t go into overtime, and this lack of organization could tank the show.” Lance sounded blunt.

“It’ll be fine.” Taylor glanced at him, then looked away.

As soon as Taylor said his name, I realized why Lance looked familiar, although I’d never met him. I’d heard the ghost-hunting show Gone Ghouls planned to film in town and it was led by a local boy turned TV ghost hunter. I’d checked out the show and then Lance’s bio. He’d worked a few gigs per year in TV for about two decades, frequently as the murder victim on crime shows or in small bit roles. About five years ago he’d picked up a gig hosting a low-budget reality show, and had done several more, with the ghost show being his newest. I hadn’t heard of the show, or Lance Gregory, until last week, although I’d heard mentions of one of my mother’s classmates in Hollywood. As I glanced at Lance, I was struck again by his even, symmetrical, and dark hair that set off his brilliant blue eyes. He probably looked fantastic on-screen.

“Lance,” Pearl said from her spot knitting.

Lance glanced her way. “Do I—I bet we were in high school together, right? You’ll be the third person who’s recognized me in the past hour. I didn’t know so many people had stayed local, versus moving on to bigger pastures,” Lance said. His voice had taken on a mix of patience and niceness, but there was clearly an unsettled note underneath. From the angry expression on Taylor’s face, Lance’s comments about her being unprepared had hit home.

Pearl’s eyes went down to her knitting as Lance turned back to Taylor. Taylor’s face evened out, like she didn’t want Lance to notice she was furious.

“I expect you to email the production team a completed schedule by lunchtime tomorrow.” Lance turned and left.

Under her breath, Taylor muttered, “You’re not my boss, even if you think you’re all that.”

Colby nudged me, and as we walked away from Pearl towards the back patio, with Jack alongside us. I glanced at my friend.

“Do you think Pearl knits in her dreams? When I swam competitively, I’d dream I was swimming through the world.” I’d swum competitively from ages six to eighteen, training at the community center in the corner of downtown, adjacent to the park featuring the Goblin Gate Bridge. Colby had been a teammate, even though she was two years older.

“You had the swimming dreams, too? I thought that was just me. And what was all of that drama about the show?”

“It sounds they could use someone with your organizational skills,” I said.

“Yes, I totally want to plan reality TV shows.” Colby’s voice was deadpan.

“I wonder if they usually have someone else handling logistics?” While Taylor’s attitude had rubbed me the wrong way, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. It’d be mortifying to be chastised in public, period, but would feel especially unfair if this part of the show had been dumped in Taylor’s lap unexpectedly. Maybe her attitude is the result of stress.

But she’d called Jack a dirty area rug, so my sympathy was limited.

Colby and I paused in the center of the back patio, scoping out the half-empty seating.

Ash had converted four shipping containers into seating, which lined two sides of the patio. Each had a picnic table inside, topped with a small electric fire for warmth in the winter. But a fire wasn’t needed now since the late September weather still felt like summer, although the air was starting to cool as the sun went down. Weather-wise, October in Oregon is usually my favorite month, with sunny days, highs in the sixties, and cool evenings. It’s perfect for a monthlong festival.

We snagged the last empty shipping container since they’re fun.

Jack collap. . .