Murder at a Cape Bookstore

Book 5: Cozy Capers Book Group Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

Set in a picturesque Cape Cod town, the latest in this cozy mystery series by the Agatha Award-winning author will delight fans of Lorna Barrett's Booktown series and Kate Carlisle's Bibliophile mysteries, as bike-shop owner Mackenzie "Mac" Almeida and her fellow book club sleuths solve a bookstore murder.



Everyone loves a festival, though Mac has a few concerns about the Spring equinox event organized by the new Chamber of Commerce director, Wagner Lavoie. After all, March weather is unpredictable. Still, there's plenty to enjoy, between flower-shaped candies at Salty Taffy's, spring rolls at the Rusty Anchor, and a parade of decorated bicycles. But the festivities soon take a stormy turn . . .



Mac glimpses conflict between Wagner and other locals during the festival, but it's a shock when he's found dead in the Book Nook, pinned beneath a toppled bookshelf. It's an irresistible case for Mac's book group. She and the rest of the Cozy Capers will have to use all their sleuthing skills to bring the killer's story to an end . . .

Release date: August 22, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The question, “What could possibly go wrong?” seemed custom-made for the Westham Spring Festival.

It’s true, the businesses in our touristy town on Cape Cod’s upper arm suffered in the cold months after the December holidays. March, otherwise known as Mud Season, wasn’t any better. Sales and rentals were way down at my own business, Mac’s Bikes.

But when I heard that Wagner Lavoie, the new director of the Chamber of Commerce, was proposing an outdoor festival on the spring equinox—March twentieth—I’d groaned. Out loud.

All the businesses decorated with flowers sounded lovely. A parade filled with flower-festooned bicycles? Great for my bottom line. But what if a cold rain poured down? Or worse, a late, wet snowstorm could blow in. Either was more than possible here in the Northeast. Everyone’s organizing and work would be ruined, not to mention the spirits of the children and families eager to get out and imagine gardens in bloom.

Now, on the Thursday before the Saturday festival, I gripped my box of flyers and glanced around the dining room and bar of the Rusty Anchor, my favorite pub on Main Street. Few diners sat in the rustic wooden booths, and only two customers perched on stools at the bar, one nursing a beer, the other sipping a glass of red wine. It was three in the afternoon, which meant the slow time between the lunch and dinner rushes. I expected chef and co-owner Yvonne Flora would have a minute to speak with me. We’d met only recently in my shop, but I liked her competent attitude, and the food she prepared was to die for.

“Hey, Mac.” The bartender paused in her wiping. “Looking for Yvonne?”

“Yep.”

“She’s back there.”

I waved my thanks and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. I froze as my breath rushed in.

I hadn’t met him in person yet, but I’d seen the new director’s picture. Wagner Lavoie faced Yvonne, hands on hips, neck flushed, leaning into her personal space. Yvonne’s wide mouth was drawn down in a scowl. Her eyes glared. The knife she pointed at him looked lethally sharp.

Uh-oh.

“No, I won’t,” she snapped, her black chef’s jacket reflecting her apparent mood.

“Everyone is.” His voice was low, threatening. Clean-shaven, his dark hair was neatly parted on the side. He had to be in his fifties. Maybe hair dye was a regular purchase for him.

I cleared my throat. “Hey, Yvonne.”

Lavoie whirled to face me. Yvonne exhaled and set the knife on the cutting board next to her, where a pile of whole mushrooms sat next to another pile already sliced.

“Mac, what’s up?” she asked.

“Sorry to interrupt.” I mustered a polite smile. “I can come back.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “Have you met our new Chamber director yet?”

“I haven’t. Mr. Lavoie, I’m Mackenzie Almeida.” I extended my hand. “I own Mac’s Bikes down the street.”

He transformed his expression into that of a beaming, schmoozing ambassador of Westham’s businesses. Or he must have thought that was what it looked like. The sudden switch made me want to back away, but I gave his hand a firm shake.

“Pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Mackenzie. You must call me Wagner.” He flashed an extra-white smile.

“Thanks, Wagner.” I withdrew my hand. I barely avoided wiping it on my jeans. “And I’m Mac.”

“Wagner here was trying to convince me to give away free food on Saturday.” Yvonne crossed her arms over her chest. “I told him free food isn’t part of our business model.”

“Well, speaking of the festival.” I opened the box. “I’m a bit late with these flyers about the bike parade, Yvonne, but is it okay if I leave a pile out front?” I’d been nearly commanded—via email—to produce publicity about the parade, a flyer separate from the posters the Chamber had plastered the town with.

Wagner’s pleasant expression slid away. “That’s pushing it, Mac. The festival is Saturday.”

“Thank you, Wagner.” I gave him a smile I hoped didn’t look as cold as I wanted it to be. “I was informed only two days ago I was expected to produce this. Life gets in the way, you know?”

“Very well,” he said. “And what will your shop be giving away?”

I pointed to the flyers. “These, plus encouragement to the kids and their families. As you know, they’re going to assemble in my parking lot to kick off the parades. Plus, we’ll pump up any tires needing air.” In fact, I had planned to hand out a small token giveaway. I’d ordered a hundred red keychains featuring a locked bicycle and the store brand. Somewhat perversely, I decided not to tell Wagner about it. Businesses shouldn’t be strong-armed into distributing freebies.

“You both know I’m only trying to help out the Main Street businesses. Will you be at the pre-festival meeting tomorrow night?” He lifted his eyebrows, gazing first at Yvonne, then me.

“Tim Brunelle and I will be there.” Tim being my delicious husband of three months, also the proprietor and head baker at Greta’s Grains.

“Ah, Brunelle,” Wagner said. “He’s been most welcoming.”

What was this, bro power? I’d ask Tim tonight. I expected he had a different story, but maybe not. Tim had the biggest heart and most tolerant soul of anyone I’d ever met, with the possible exception of my father. I was one lucky woman, and I knew it.

“Can’t make the meeting. I’ll be cooking, as you might expect.” Yvonne returned to her slicing, wielding the knife with perhaps extra relish.

“Good day, ladies.” Wagner left via the swinging doors I’d come in through.

“Wow.” I stared at the door as it whooshed back inward and then stayed shut.

“Creepy much?” Yvonne straightened. She was about as tall as my five foot seven, but was at least ten years older, which meant she was pushing fifty. She faced me. “I mean, if he hadn’t pressured the businesses into this freebie nonsense, I might have considered giving out cups of chowder. Now? I doubt it.” She tucked a strand of dirty-blond hair behind her ear. Usually her multicolored cap contained her ear-length do.

“I don’t blame you. It’s super short notice.” I inhaled. “Man, it smells amazing in here. What are you cooking, Yvonne?” I didn’t cook, to speak of, but I was the first to appreciate those who did, my Tim among them.

Yvonne uttered a low laugh. “I’m doing a mushroom and shallot risotto for our vegetarian and gluten-free clientele.”

“Those who won’t order the double cheeseburger with onions?”

“Exactly.”

“Both those ideas are making me hungry.”

“I can whip you up a quick slider if you want. On the house.” She pointed. “You’re a skinny girl. Pull up a stool. I’m hungry, too.”

“Girl, I’m not. But who am I to say no to an afternoon snack? My crew has the shop covered.”

I sat. She cooked. We chatted and munched, with not another word said about smarmy Wagner Lavoie.

Outside the Rusty Anchor, I tightened my scarf and tugged my hat down. A damp wind smelling of salt blew in off the bay, which lay only a mile away. I checked my list of Main Street businesses, otherwise known as destinations for my flyers. I glanced up to see Wagner stomp out of Cape King Liquors across the street. Zane King—proprietor—stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring after him.

Uh-oh. I checked for traffic and hurried across when it was clear.

“What’s going on, Zane?”

“Come into the store, Mac.” He shivered. “It’s cold out here.” He held the door for me, his cheeks as rosy as the pink flowers on his yellow bow tie.

“Thanks.” I gazed up at my tall, lean friend after we were inside with the door closed. His signature bow tie went perfectly with a pale pink Oxford button-down shirt, the sleeves carefully rolled up as was his habit. His jeans were pressed, which never made sense to me, but Zane was nothing if not fastidious. “You’re looking springy.”

He gave a little eye roll. “I just finished putting away all the St. Patrick’s Day decorations, and now we have to go all floral for Saturday.”

“Your tie is a good start.”

“Do you like it?” He patted the tie as he smiled. “Stephen gave it to me for Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s perfect.” I fished a stack of flyers out of the box. “Can I leave these by your register? They’re about the bike parade.”

“Sure.” His smile disappeared as he stared at the door. “That dude is a piece of work.”

“Wagner Lavoie?”

“Yes.”

“Was he telling you to give out freebies Saturday?”

“Yeah.” Zane faced me. “Can you imagine, Mac? I can’t give away alcohol. What if a bunch of teenagers got hold of it? Lavoie is an idiot to even suggest it.”

“I hear you.”

“But instead I’m going to print up a recipe for a spring cocktail and hand out copies. I’m thinking gin or vodka, a few drops of orange bitters, some tonic or bubbly, garnished with strawberries and mint? How does that combo sound?”

“It sounds fabulous. And everyone will want to buy the ingredients from you. Plus, I want one right this minute.”

“That’s the plan.” He straightened a couple of bottles of his own King’s Bounty Rum on an end cap. “How are you enjoying Homicide and Halo-Halo?”

I wrinkled my nose. “I haven’t had a chance to start it yet. But we have until Tuesday.” Zane and I were both in the Cozy Capers book group. This week’s cozy mystery featured a Filipino-American protagonist and her cooking family.

“You’re going to love it. The book gives you a peek into a culture lots of us aren’t familiar with.”

“Cool.” I took a step toward the door but turned back. “I forgot. Can you pick out a nice red wine for me? Tim’s making meatballs tonight.”

“You bet.”

Wine purchased and in hand a couple of minutes later, I said, “You know, Wagner kind of rubbed me the wrong way, too. But I think he’s really trying to help out Westham’s businesses. We should give him a chance.”

“You’re a good person, Mac. Of course, we should. We don’t have much choice, do we?”

I decided to make one more quick stop, but this time I’d try not to stop and schmooze. The Book Nook was only two doors down and it was on the way back to my shop. I waved at Norland Gifford in the front window as he tweaked an arrangement of gardening books. A fellow book group member and Westham’s former police chief, Norland had taken over managing the bookstore for the winter months while the owner was away somewhere warm.

“The windows look great, Norland,” I said after I was inside.

“Thanks.” He turned to me, beaming. “Who knew decorating a window display could be so satisfying?” He’d kept his trim midsection, but his former police-short salt-and-pepper hair now hit collar and ears, and his sweater had a moth hole near the shoulder. He’d gotten over the worst of the grief of losing his wife a couple of years ago and seemed to be happily settling into his role of relaxed, mostly retired grandpa.

“I’m glad. Hey, I just want to leave these flyers about the bike parade. Okay to put them here?” I pointed to the counter next to a donation can for the local cat shelter. A picture of a darling kitten stuck up behind it. Adorable, yes, but it made me feel like sneezing just to look at it. I had serious allergies to cats and nearly all dogs.

“Be my guest.” He made his way behind the counter and fished something out of a box. “Check this out, Mac. It’ll be the bookstore’s freebie for the festival.” He handed me a purple pencil.

I read the words on the side out loud. “Spring into a great book!” On the other side was thebooknook.com. “This is brilliant, Norland.”

“Look, I ordered them in pink, yellow, and green, too.” He fanned out the array of colors.

“Nice. Are you getting along okay with Wagner?”

Norland rotated a flat hand back and forth. “Mostly. He’s trying.”

“I’ll say.”

He snorted.

“See you tomorrow night at the meeting?” I asked.

“Be there or be square.”

I groaned as I smiled. “Yes, Chief.” I ignored the shelf after shelf of books calling to me. Mysteries, biographies, women’s fiction, historical novels. They whispered in a chorus of, “Slow down. Stay and browse. Check out our back covers. Read our first pages.”

Except this was not a relaxed read-on-the-couch kind of day. With any luck, Sunday would be, if all went well on Saturday. Nothing would go wrong with the festival. Would it?

I was surprised by how many customers were in Mac’s Bikes the next morning at ten. My mechanic, Orlean Brown, had a line out the door of people wanting a tire fixed, handlebars straightened, or the seat on a growing child’s bike raised. Her younger sister Sandy McKean, my newest employee, was methodically ringing up purchases of bike shirts and helmets. And I had already rented out all our tandems plus another eight cycles.

Maybe the bright sunshine was the impetus for all this excitement about the parade. Yesterday’s bone-chilling damp wind had blown off the Atlantic and kept right on going. It was only fifty degrees out today, but twelve hours of sunlight could make the air a lot warmer. And one’s spirits, too.

In the door came two more spots of light. My abo—Cape Verdean for grandmother—Reba bustled in, followed by my mom, Astra Almeida. Tiny Reba’s cheeks were as pink as her ubiquitous tracksuit. Mom unbuckled her bike helmet but left it atop her flyaway blond-and-gray curls.

“It looks like you two rode over here.” I hurried over.

“We did,” Mom said. “We haven’t been riding all winter, and we wanted to be sure our trikes were in good shape for tomorrow.”

The two had bought adult tricycles last fall, one bright red, the other a brilliant yellow. They often rode together along the former rail bed now known as the Shining Sea Trail, a paved walking and biking path running from North Falmouth all the way to Woods Hole.

“I think my handlebars are a bit loose, querida,” Reba—my father’s mother—said. “Can you tighten them up for me?”

“Of course.” I was perfectly capable of doing all aspects of bicycle repair and maintenance. Still, I’d gladly hired Orlean as a full-time mechanic when I opened my shop two years ago after I moved back to my hometown. She freed me up to run all the other parts of the business. “Let me grab a wrench.”

When I joined the two ladies outside, Abo Reba was poking her extra-large senior-citizen cell phone. She might’ve been eighty-one, but nothing stopped the little powerhouse, and she’d recently become quite the texting machine.

I tightened the nut holding the handlebars in place. While I was at it, I checked to make sure the cushioned seat was secure, too. “There you go, Abo Ree. Mom, does yours need any adjusting?”

“No, dear. It’s all tip-top. I’m glad I switched my order from a bicycle to a tricycle last summer. The trike isn’t as likely to keel over sideways with me on it.”

Wagner Lavoie trudged up with a heavy step as if every merchant had pushed back about handing out freebies. Maybe they had.

“Good morning, Wagner,” I said. “Everything in good shape for tomorrow?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but my grandma preempted him.

“They’re forecasting a fast-moving spring snowstorm.” She glanced up from her phone.

A snowstorm? Bad weather was exactly what I’d been afraid of, even though I’d completely forgotten to check the weather report last night or this morning. Having his festival snowed out could be what had put lead in Wagner’s gait.

“A storm will throw the proverbial wrench in the works, won’t it, Wagner?” Abo Reba prodded.

“Yes, Mrs. Almeida.” He didn’t disguise his sigh.

“Now, didn’t I tell you to call me Reba, sonny?”

“Yes, ma’am, you did.” He cleared his throat. “Back to this weather event, I’m sure you know how it always is on the Cape. The impact depends entirely on how the storm tracks.”

“Maybe it won’t hit until the afternoon or evening.” Mom smiled. “Mr. Lavoie, I gather? I’m Astra Almeida, Mac’s mother.” She extended her hand to Wagner. “I’m also a business owner in town and have been receiving your emails, but we haven’t yet had the opportunity to meet.”

He blinked. “Ah, yes. The fortune-teller.”

“Not exactly.” Mom tilted her head. “Have you never heard of astrology, Mr. Lavoie?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m sure it’s all well and good, but it’s not as if you have a storefront, is it?”

“Does it matter?” Mom sounded genuinely curious. “I have an office open to the public, a dedicated entrance, and a shingle, so to speak.”

Her office was a few doors down and part of the parsonage where she and Pa, a Unitarian Universalist Church minister, lived. She was right. Her business had a separate entrance to the outside. Her tasteful sign reading “Astra Almeida, Professional Astrologer” had been expertly carved by a sign maker in town.

“Excellent.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which had been growing redder in the last couple of minutes. “I’d better get along to my next stop. Mac, I trust you got all your flyers distributed?”

“Yes.” I didn’t need to say more.

Sandy stepped through the door. “Mac,” she began. “There’s something wrong with the . . .” Her voice trailed off and her nostrils flared as her gaze fell on Lavoie. She took a step back.

“Sandy.” I jumped into the breach. “Have you met Wagner Lavoie, Westham’s new Chamber of Commerce director? Wagner, this is my newest employee, Sandy McKean.”

“Ms. McKean.” Wagner didn’t look at her as he spoke. “Have a nice day, ladies.” He turned and nearly fled. His step no longer heavy, he hurried down the sidewalk toward the Chamber office, which sat just beyond the library.

“Yes, I’ve met Wagner Lavoie,” Sandy muttered. “It was one of the worst days of my life.” She ran a hand through a head full of bottle-blond hair grazing her shoulders as she headed back inside.

“My, my,” Reba murmured. “She’s got bad history with that man, mark my words.”

“Kind of seems like it,” I said. “I’ll see what I can find out.” She could have had a personal run-in with him, or something in a workplace. I couldn’t pry too hard, though. I did my best to stay out of my employees’ personal lives unless they offered information.

Mom stared after Wagner. “If he isn’t a Leo, I’ll eat my professionally made shingle. In his eyes, the world is all about him, all the time.”

“He’s not the easiest guy to get along with, from the little I’ve seen so far,” I agreed. “But he’s trying to do a good thing for Westham, and I hope it doesn’t snow on his parade tomorrow. For starters, Cokey and the other children will be so disappointed.” My five-year-old niece was beside herself with plans to deck out her pink two-wheeler, which she’d only recently learned to ride. She’d practiced so long without the pedals on, she understood the balancing act right away after I’d attached them. I l. . .