Killer Words

Book 7: Mystery Bookshop

by V.M. Burns

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Bookstore owner and mystery writer Samantha Washington comes to the aid of the cop who once arrested her own grandmother . . .
 
Sam and Nana Jo are back in sleepy North Harbor, Michigan, where Sam is eagerly awaiting the publication of her first book. In search of more immediate excitement, Nana Jo hits the casino with her fellow Shady Acres Retirement Village gal pals—but they get more than they bargained for when they witness Detective Bradley Pitt decking mayoral candidate John Cloverton.
 
As Sam well knows, mystery novels are full of brilliant detectives, genius sleuths, and hero cops. Detective Bradley Pitt—aka “Stinky Pitt”—is another story. In the past, the dull-witted detective has mistakenly accused members of Sam’s family for crimes they didn’t commit. Now, it’s his turn: when Cloverton turns up dead, he’s arrested. With his predilection for polyester, Pitt has been wanted by the fashion police for years, but Nana Jo knows her former elementary school math student would never commit murder—it doesn’t add up. Somebody’s framed the flatfoot to take a fall, and Sam and Nana Jo must step in to restore the reputation and good name of Detective Pitt.
 
Praise for THE PLOT IS MURDER
 
“A promising debut with a satisfying conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
 
“Cozy mystery readers and historical novel aficionados will adore this warm-hearted, cleverly plotted new series.”
—Kings River Life
 

Release date: November 30, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Reader says this book is...: female sleuth (1)

Sample

“Bow chicka wow wow!” Nana Jo fanned herself with the newspaper she was reading. “This is some steamy stuff.”

I cornered the dust bunny I’d been chasing with my broom for the last few minutes, swept it into my dustpan, and dumped it into the trash. Feeling like I’d just conquered Mount Everest, I strutted over to the seat where my grandmother was sitting and glanced over her shoulder. “What are you reading?”

“An article about the North Harbor Police Department. According to this, North Harbor is not only a hotbed of crime and vice, but the police department is in bed with the criminals.” She turned around to look at me. “Literally, in bed with the criminals.”

I read a paragraph and found myself gasping. “Who knew all of this criminal activity was going on in sleepy little North Harbor, Michigan?”

Nana Jo pointed toward an empty chair across from her. “Take a seat. I’m just about done with this page.”

I glanced around the empty bookstore and realized I wouldn’t be missed if I took a short break. I went to the counter and poured myself a cup of tea. I grabbed a plate of peanut butter cookies, placed the plate in the center of the small bistro table, and sat across from my grandmother.

She passed me the front page of the North Harbor Herald. Our local newspaper wasn’t much bigger than the Sunday morning comics in big-city newspapers, but for a town of fifteen thousand, it was standard. I was so shocked by what I read that I found myself rereading it, so it took much longer than it should have.

“Close your mouth,” Nana Jo said. “You’re going to catch flies.”

I hadn’t even realized my mouth was open. “I can’t believe what I’m reading.”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

“It’s not just the allegations of corruption and misconduct that are being presented; it’s the allegations that aren’t supported by facts. There’s absolutely no evidence presented. These are . . . allegations and salacious innuendo that have been printed in black and white. It’s . . .”

“The shoddy journalism you’d expect from supermarket rags, but not from a legitimate newspaper.”

“Exactly.”

“North Harbor’s a small town, and the Herald is a small newspaper, but in the past, the writing was always very good and supported by evidence.” Nana Jo pointed to the page she’d just finished reading. “Just take a look at all of that. I mean really, it’s almost as though a grade schooler wrote it.”

As a former high school English teacher, I noticed every misspelled word, misplaced comma, and dangling participle. “I noticed. I’ve tried to turn off my inner editor so I can read and enjoy books. Now that I have my first book published, I’m nervous about that.”

Nana Jo patted my hand. “No need to stress about it. It’s impossible to prevent some minor issues, but there’s no way your books will have this many problems. I mean, there’s one place where an entire sentence is missing.”

I glanced over at the section she pointed to and cringed. There definitely seemed to be something missing. We spent a few minutes pondering what it could be until the bell on the front door chimed. I started to rise, but Nana Jo waved me down.

“You finish reading. I’ll take care of the customer.” She headed toward the front of the store.

I couldn’t help but smile and say a quick prayer of thanks for my family’s support. When my late husband, Leon, and I talked about our dream to open a bookstore that specialized in mysteries, I never thought the dream would actually come true or that when it did he wouldn’t be here with me. However, it was Leon’s death that gave me the push I needed to take a leap of faith, quit my job, sell my house, and buy a building. Opening a mystery bookshop was hard work, but I was blessed to have my mystery-loving grandmother helping most weekdays. When Nana Jo wasn’t here, my nephews, Christopher and Zaq, were usually ready to earn extra pocket money. I’ve also become friends with some amazing students at Michigan Southwest University, MISU, what the locals referred to as Miss You, including my former high school student and local football hero Dawson Alexander, his girlfriend, Jillian Clark, and Zaq’s girlfriend, Emma Lee.

I glanced up and saw my grandmother, who was nearly six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds, towering over a petite man who came into the store about once a week. He was fond of both psychological thrillers and culinary cozies. It seemed like an unusual combination, but when Nana Jo asked him about it, he said that he loved the heart-racing drama of the thrillers but also loved to cook and had found some great recipes in cozies. That was one of the things that I loved about crime fiction: there was something for everyone.

I glanced around at my store’s bookshelves, which held everything related to crime fiction. I sold true-crime novels, like In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. Even though the book was first published in 1966, it was still very popular. I also carried noir fiction by authors like Raymond Chandler that tended to be darker. There was a substantial section of my personal favorites, cozy mysteries by Agatha Christie, Victoria Thompson, and Emily Brightwell. Filling shelves with my favorite books was just one of the perks of owning my own bookstore.

Nana Jo was extolling the virtues of Leslie Budewitz’s Food Lovers’ Village mystery series. As the person who first got me hooked on mysteries, Nana Jo was knowledgeable, and had a knack of helping customers find the right type of mystery. I watched as she sold the first two Food Lovers’ Village Mysteries, along with thrillers by Tracy Clark and John Balducci. Nana Jo was a great salesperson, and my petite mystery lover walked out with a big bag and an even bigger smile.

Nana Jo came back and flopped into the chair she had recently vacated.

“Are you tired?” I said. “Things are really slow, and I can certainly handle—”

She waved away my protest. “I’m not tired . . . not exactly. I just feel . . . bored.”

“I know exactly how you feel. Ever since we returned from England, I’ve been feeling the same way. I know every day isn’t a mad dash tour across England, but . . . things in North Harbor have been incredibly dull.”

“It’s not just touring England but solving two murders. Don’t forget that. We solved two murders and helped put a dangerous criminal behind bars.”

“I know, but that was just a fluke.”

“Fluke? Samantha, you have a knack for solving murders. England wasn’t the first time you’ve hunted down a murderer.”

“I’d hardly call what we’ve done hunting down murderers.” I sighed. “But I have to admit it was exciting to know that we helped piece the clues together and assisted the police to figure out whodunit and make sure that justice was carried out. Although that last time was a bit more excitement than I would have liked. I mean, we could have been killed.”

“Pish posh. We had everything well in hand. Detective Sergeant Templeton just came in at the end and took all of the credit, but it was you, me, and the girls who got to the bottom of that one.”

I smiled. My grandmother was biased, but we had played a major role in the case. “Don’t forget Hannah Schneider.”

“Hannah was invaluable. I just wish she lived here rather than in England. She would fit in well at Shady Acres.”

Shady Acres was the retirement village where my grandmother and her friends lived. Although Nana Jo spent several days of each week with me, she had her own house at Shady Acres. It was an active facility for senior citizens that offered surfing, cooking, martial arts, and a host of other classes that Nana Jo and her friends took, and it was where they lived. “I think she’s going to come for a visit in a few months. She said she wanted to visit her cousin in New Zealand, but she hoped it wouldn’t be long.”

“That’ll be awesome.”

“You’re right. I love my bookshop, but it can be rather dull, especially after England, and I’ll admit, I’ve been struggling.”

She reached over and patted my hand. “Well, we just need another murder to stimulate your little gray cells.”

“Nana Jo, we should not be hoping for a murder. That’s awful.”

“You know what I mean. Maybe we just need a little excitement.”

“I know what you mean, but I think it would be best if I focus on solving the mysteries in the pages of my book.”

“How’s the editing going?”

“Slowly. I’ve looked at this manuscript so many times my eyes are crossed. I think after a while my brain just sees what it wants to see. I’m so afraid I’ll miss something and it’ll be just as bad as that article in the Herald.”

“You’d have to work hard to make that many errors. Maybe you need to take a break. Let’s go to the casino.” She smiled. “Unless, of course, you and Frank have plans.”

I tried to avoid smiling, but my mouth had a mind of its own when it came to talking about my boyfriend, Frank Patterson. It still seemed alien for me to have a boyfriend. Leon and I were married for more than thirteen years. When he died, I didn’t think I’d ever want to be involved in another relationship. However, Frank helped me realize that my heart didn’t die with Leon. Leon died, but my heart kept beating, and eventually I realized there was room for someone else. “It’s Friday night, the busiest night at the restaurant. So, Frank and I aren’t going anywhere.”

“Great.” Nana Jo whipped out her cell phone. “I kind of thought you might be free, so I told the girls you’d pick them up around seven thirty.”

Despite a steady stream of customers, the time dragged. Normally, I enjoyed a slow, easy pace; however, today I just couldn’t get into the groove. When the last customer left, I locked the door and took a few minutes to clean and get ready for tomorrow. When I was tired, sweeping, dusting, and restocking the shelves was harder. But getting to sleep an extra thirty minutes in the morning was well worth pushing through any fatigue I felt at night. Walking through the aisles, I admired the brightly colored books that lined the shelves. I inhaled the woody, citrus aroma of the wood cleaner I used on my bookshelves and smiled. It was a familiar scent that wrapped around me like a warm blanket.

“You going to keep sniffing that polish with that goofy look on your face all night?”

Nana Jo snapped me back to reality. I finished dusting while she swept. Before long, everything was ready for our next day.

One of the things I loved about the building I’d purchased in North Harbor was my commute. I walked upstairs to the converted loft that was now my new home. When Leon and I dreamed of owning this building, we knew there was a loft upstairs. We talked about renting out the space to help pay the mortgage and alleviate the pressure of having to pay the mortgage and make the bookstore successful. However, when Leon was dying, he knew that I was a creature of routine and needed a change. He suggested I sell the house where we’d lived together and move into the bookstore’s loft. He was right. The house was filled with memories—too many memories. Leon knew I would have spent too much time in my past to move into my future. The new space was a large, open loft with beautiful oak hardwood floors, brick walls, seventeen-foot ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows. I worked with a designer and renovated the 2000-square-foot space, which now contained a nice kitchen area, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms.

At the top of the stairs, I was greeted by my two toy poodles, Snickers and Oreo. In the past, the dogs would have heard me coming upstairs and met me at the bottom. However, they were both getting older and enjoyed their daytime naps. Snickers was fourteen and the older of the two dogs. She stretched, yawned, and then did a full-body extension stretch that involved balancing on two legs and pointing her paws. Apparently, napping all day was exhausting.

At twelve, Oreo had also taken to enjoying long naps during the day, but he was still a playful puppy at heart.

We walked downstairs, and I opened the door to let them out into the enclosed courtyard. The building was on a corner. The previous owner had built a garage at the back of the property, and a fence connected the detached garage to the house and created a courtyard that was perfect for the dogs.

Even in the most basic of areas, the poodles were true to their personalities. Snickers stepped over the threshold, squatted, and quickly answered the call of nature. Within seconds, she was done, wiped her feet, and then came inside and stood beside me while we waited for Oreo. He bounded outside with a joy and exuberance that brought a smile to my face. A leaf blew across the yard, and Oreo spent a few minutes pouncing, barking, and tossing the leaf into the air. Snickers gave me a look that said, Really? Eventually, Oreo remembered why he was there. He walked to the edge of the garage and hiked his leg.

When he took an interest in a stick, I interrupted his second round of play. “Oreo, come.”

He picked up his stick and trotted to the door. I didn’t mind indulging his play, but I drew the line at bringing nature inside. I relieved him of his stick and tossed it as far away as I could and closed the door.

Back upstairs, I still had nearly an hour before I needed to go to Shady Acres. I fed the poodles and then fired up my laptop.

My e-mails consisted largely of spam proclaiming I was already a winner and that a prince of a small African nation wanted to give me millions of dollars to help get money out of his country. Despite my spam filters, my daily routine involved deleting fifteen to twenty e-mails. The three to five e-mails that were left were a lot less interesting. However, today my inbox included one from my agent. My heart raced whenever I saw e-mails from Pamela Porter of Big Apple Literary Agency.

I opened the e-mail. I read it multiple times and then read it again.

Nana Jo stuck her head in the room. “Squinting at the screen doesn’t help.”

“I’m trying to understand what ‘building my brand’ means.”

“That’s easy. It means you need to market yourself. You’ve got to get on social media. Tweet, blog, Instagram, and a host of other sites. Interact with readers and help them get to know you.”

I stared at my gr. . .