Double Booked for Death by Ali Brandon Read Free Book Online Page A

herself fortunate that James preferred to keep working. He’d not hesitated to inform her that his expertise buying and selling rare volumes brought in a nice revenue stream, doing much to keep the store going in an era when numerous independent bookstores were shutting their doors. Moreover, he had quite a customer following, despite his acerbic manner and barely veiled disdain for anything he personally did not view as worthy literature.
    Recognizing his value to the business, Darla had made the first move by paying him a substantial bonus in recognition of his past contributions. Mollified, he had allowed her to take on the administrative role after a week’s intensive training, though she’d insisted he retain the title of manager.
    “Perhaps it is better this way, after all,” he had conceded once he’d turned over the passwords to the various accounting and inventory spreadsheets. “Now, I can concentrate on fine literature and no longer have to pretend to enjoy selling genre fiction and tell-all books.”
    With his rich, cultured tones reminiscent of a Richard Burton or a James Earl Jones, James could have easily had a career in voice-overs had he not opted to teach. A couple of decades earlier, he might even have landed a leading man’s role had he been interested in a stage career. Now, however, his short-cropped hair and beard were completely gray in stark contrast to his mahogany features, though many of the older female customers—and even some of the younger ones—still considered him quite debonair. And although he was proud to say he’d been active in the Civil Rights movement in his twenties, he did not coddle the current crop of youth who hung out on the various street corners nearby looking menacing and occasionally poking a head inside the store.
    “If you wish to shop in this store, you will pull up your pants and shut off your iPods so as not to disturb the other customers,” was his standard speech to any young person bold enough to step over the threshold. “And if you would like a recommendation on some uplifting literature, I will be glad to provide it. Otherwise, you may take your business elsewhere.”
    Darla had watched this scenario perhaps twenty times in her first weeks there, at first with trepidation, and later with appreciation. Usually, the youth in question would spew a few choice epithets before turning on a heel and leaving without incident. A few times, however, the kid in question would actually pull up, shut off, and then come inside. About half of those young folk left with a purchase in hand—perhaps one of Ralph Ellison’s works, or something from Twain or Austen or a similar author.
    One or two of them had even become regular, discount-card-carrying customers.
    Yes, if anyone could handle the Lord’s Blessing people, it was Professor James James, Darla reassured herself. Besides, it was already Saturday, and no busload of church people had yet spilled out into the street in front of her store. She glanced at the letter’s envelope and saw the postmark was from two days ago. Not much time to organize a cross-country boycott. Perhaps it had all been an empty threat. But as for the Lone Protester . . .
    “Lizzie,” Darla called as her other employee made a timely if breathless entry through the front door that sent the bells jangling. “Is that girl out there this morning, the one dressed like Valerie Baylor and carrying a sign?”
    “Oh, Darla, I am so sorry I’m late,” the woman exclaimed, ignoring the question and almost knocking over a display of celebrity cookbooks in her rush to reach the counter.
    Lizzie’s plump face beneath a chin-length brown bob was flushed, and her pink lipstick was half gone already from her nervous habit of gnawing her lips. She stuffed the oversized canvas tote that held the manuscript she was perpetually rewriting beneath the register; then, with an exaggerated shudder, the middle-aged woman turned back to Darla.
    “The bus