Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Collection

Chapter 1-1

The bell on the door rang, making me look up automatically from my work near the bottom bookshelves.

“Hi. Good morning,” a man said pleasantly. The man"s deep voice threw me into a panic and made me pop up from where I was crouched shelving the new Tami Hoag paperbacks. Going up on my tippy-toes, I flung a gold-brown length of hair away from my face in order to see over the shelf. It was one of those voices that tended to pull your attention, if you were of the female persuasion. And since it wasn"t who I dreaded to see, my heart calmed down.

Curious, I peeked around the corner of the shelving unit to spot my Aunt Jessica standing behind the counter near the door.

“Good morning,” Aunt Jessica trilled, turning to him, her silver onyx cross earrings glimmering in the overheads.

“I was wondering if you have some literature by Mark Twain?” His tall frame was decked out in a long, black canvas coat, a black Stetson with conchos around its brim hid most of his face. Long wavy brown hair with blondish highlights grew past his shoulders. He was a few inches over six foot.

My excitement about tonight"s planned activities had been interrupted by the man"s entrance into my aunt"s bookstore, Books "n Such, which was situated on Front Street in Montclair, Iowa. From the store front we could see the Mississippi River, as it was only two blocks away, and down an incline. There was a slight breeze today, and the river looked somewhat choppy, with the color beige, coffee and the sun glimmering in silver bands across its expanse. Through the large front window I spied, The Miss Twila, a river boat owned by Uncle Ed. It was docked as it had been for weeks, now.

Books "n Such,The Miss Twila“Oh, my, do we!” my aunt said enthusiastically to the man"s question.

Poe jumped onto the counter, coming to a halt and, ears going flat to his head, hissed and growled at him, then he jumped back down and disappeared, growling as he went.

“Wow,” the man said, startled by the large long-hair black cat"s reaction to him. He had one green and one blue eye (it"s a bit spooky to look into those eyes for very long), which was why my aunt had given him the name Edgar Allan Poe. He had been a mangy alley cat when she"d found and fed him about a year ago. Now Poe was our mascot for the store, and came home with us every night.

“Oh, don"t mind him,” my aunt said apologetically with a little chuckle. “He tends to not like men very much. Sort of a jealousy thing, I guess.”

I wondered why she had lied. Poe was a sweet cat. People could pet him, scratch his chin. Sometimes he wandered around the store looking for attention from patrons. He wasn"t afraid of anyone. Animals have a good sense of people. If a dog growls at someone, you know that person may have some hidden agenda, a mean streak, or there"s something bad about them that the dog picks up. A cat couldn"t be any different, my young mind concluded, and this had sent up a little red flag for me. So, I kept my eye on the man via our big fish-eye mirrors around the store. While I watched him secretly from behind the stacks, I imagined he might be here staking the place out, and he was going to rob my aunt at gunpoint as soon as he thought she was alone. I admit my writer"s mind clicked on a hundred different scenarios within those first moments of his entrance. So I stayed out of sight for the moment, pulled out my cell phone and went to my contacts, and, with a jittery finger, pulled up the number for Weeks, our local sheriff, just in case. I had a simple cell phone—it wasn"t modern by any means, but it worked fine. I"d had it since I was fifteen. I hoped for a new one before going off to college—dropping hints whenever I could, of course.

The man chuckled and shook his head. “Had a girlfriend once whose cat didn"t like me, did the same thing,” he said. “Guess I"m just not a cat person.”

“Come. I"ll show you what we have.” She waggled her hand for him to follow, and drew him to where all the books Mark Twain ever wrote, history or other works about the man, was displayed in its own separate narrow bookcase to one side of the magazine racks near the front of the store. Having a store along the Mississippi, it was natural people stopped in to ask for works of Mark Twain. We were also blessed (some would say cursed, depending upon your view of the man), with a Mark Twain impersonator, Ed Lamont. He was related to my aunt—her uncle, but we both called him “Uncle Ed”. He also happened to own a river boat The Miss Twila, currently being worked on.

The Miss Twila,Following my aunt, the man stepped noisily across the wooden floor. The thunk-ching, thunk-ching, thunk-ching when he walked brought my gaze down to his booted feet. Whoa, wait. He was wearing spurs? Not the kind with the wheel, but the kind with a blunt end. Probably drives a Harley, my thoughts came. Bet he has tats all over his body.

thunk-ching, thunk-ching, thunk-chingProbably drives a Harley,Bet he has tats all over his body.Today Aunt Jessica wore her long brown hair, which came well past her hips, in a single braid down her back. Usually she leaned toward long skirts, or jeans. Today she was in a pair of faded jeans, which fit her slim form like a glove. Her brown shirt was patterned with Native American images like the Thunderbird and spirals, and other such drawings common in the southwest. I once intimated to her that my mother had called her a hippy. My aunt had chuckled and said, “I"m not so much a hippy as an independent thinker.”

My aunt"s voice carried over the soothing, New Age music as she spoke about some of the books the man might be interested in. He turned around, offering a clean-shaven and somewhat handsome face. He had a bit of a swagger when he walked. It struck me that I"d seen him before. But where? Well, I did have a raging inventive mind, and sometimes I"d have the odd precognitive dream, now and then. Maybe I"d seen him in one of those dreams? Maybe I could use him for a character in a story, someday? my thoughts raged. I worked on writing stories, and from time to time I had a good story idea, like now. I already had him holding us hostage and our local sheriff comes to save us. My thoughts rambled on these, and other things as I slowly, and quietly tucked the rest of the books into the shelf.

Maybe I could use him for a character in a story, someday?After telling the man as much as she could, my aunt went back to her coffee mug at the counter, working on her orders to give him room to browse. I, meanwhile, worked my way through the bookstore straightening and dusting shelves. We also have gifts for every age in our store. It had an eclectic look, a little of this and that, including some jewelry a few crafters made to sell on consignment.

After about ten minutes of browsing, the man chose some books and brought them up to the counter to make his purchase. Our bookstore isn"t very large, and I watched from a far corner as he pulled out his wallet, which was chained to his belt. I"d already pegged him as owning a Harley. I noted he used a credit card. While my aunt rang him up, he turned slightly. It was too late to hide from his view, so I averted my gaze, moving and arranging the cute animal puppets on a display. I dropped a skunk puppet and had to dip and pick it up off the floor. Then I dropped my cell phone. Dang it! It was still open, and waiting for me to hit SEND. I picked these things up, stealing glances at the man, while my heart thumped in my chest and closed my cell phone and shoved it into my back pocket again.

Dang it!When he turned to leave relief rushed through me, and a wave of adrenaline that had filled me now left me slightly drained. I noticed my hands were shaking. I"d let my imagination get the best of me and now I felt a little silly. I still had no clear front view of his face. I wanted to see it in order to describe it. But I"d remember the way he"d dressed and his boots and spurs. Why was that so significant? I didn"t know. I reasoned it was just that you didn"t see men wearing spurs these days. Or a lot of leather—a black leather cowboy hat in July?

The door opened and at the same time the stranger was going out, Sheriff John Weeks, strode in. The two men side-stepped to avoid crashing into one another at the doorway. Two men with broad shoulders wouldn"t be able to pass through at the same time, and I watched them go through that odd dance men do to avoid touching each other. The stranger kept his face down, but Weeks stared at him. They both said “Excuse me”. The man was out the door, striding down the street, shoving on sunglasses, carrying his purchases, and crossed the street. I never had a full view of his face. I mentally shrugged.

Weeks came in, but kept looking out the door. He looked puzzled. Or was he intrigued, like me.

“Morning, John. What"s up?” Aunt Jessica asked amicably, paging through her ordering catalogue with a quick glance and smile his way. They had been dating for five years—three years before I"d moved in after my parents died in a flood. I wasn"t sure if my living at my aunt"s house had put a damper on their romance, but I must admit it made me feel a little guilty at times. This was one of those times. My aunt was a widow, and my godmother. Having had no children of her own, she may have not minded my moving in, as I began my junior year in high school. The up side, we became closer now than before my parents had died. I couldn"t help but love her like a mother, and I know she loved me.

“Hi. Who was that?” Weeks asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder as he stepped over to the counter. The silver eagle head ring prominent on his left hand, on the ring finger. There was a matching ladies ring on my aunt"s ring finger. They had bought these for each other as a promissory to marriage.

“I don"t know,” Aunt Jessica said, unconcerned. “Why?”

“He looks familiar.” Weeks kept looking out the door, as though he could still see the stranger. A slight chill ran down my back when he said this. Him too?

Him too?“Really? Someone on one of your most wanted posters?” Aunt Jessica joked.

“I really couldn"t say. But for a moment there, I—”

Aunt Jessica looked up, stopping in her casual perusal of whatever catalogue she was looking through and shook her head, the black onyx and silver glistening. “Serious?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged.