Murder Between the Covers by Elaine Viets Read Free Book Online Page A

everywhere. Sticky café cups and napkins were abandoned on shelves and floors.
    “Screw it,” Gayle said. “Let’s leave. This store is going to close anyway.”
    That’s when Helen knew Page Turners was dead.

    Thursday brought more rumors that the entire bookstore chain was closing, and more whistling-in-the-dark denials.
    “The Turner family can’t close our store,” Albert said, all starch and sanity. “We’re the flagship, started by Page’s grandfather.”
    “They can do anything they want,” Matt said, the dreadlocked rebel. “And they will.”
    “How do you know?” Albert said, looking every day of his fifty-six years. “You’re what—twenty-two?”
    “Twenty-four,” Matt said. “But I don’t have your handicap.”
    “What’s that?” said Albert.
    “I don’t believe white men. Especially rich ones.”
    Albert flushed, but said nothing.
    The strain showed in the store. Lively little Brad nearly burst into tears when a customer berated him. He argued that his beloved J.Lo should have stayed with Puff Daddy. Helen took that as a sure sign he’d snapped.
    Stuffy Albert was rude and peremptory. Matt disappeared for two hours at lunch, which made more work for everyone.
    Only gentle Mr. Davies remained unchanged, sitting in his nook in the back, reading his beloved books. He presided over the store like some literary spirit. Thursday night, Helen found Mr. Davies asleep over his paperback when the store closed. She woke him up.
    “Oh, dear, dear, I’m so sorry. Did I hold you up? I know you want to go home.” He gathered his book and sandwich wrappings and headed for the exit.
    Helen was back at the store at nine the next morning. She didn’t care that she’d had six hours of sleep. Today was Friday. Her beach vacation started this evening. She couldn’t take another weird late night.
    Instead, she had a bizarre day. The first man at her register had coal-black hair, eyes like twin pools of tar, and a copy of How to Cast Out Devils.
    “I want to return this book,” he said.
    Helen was afraid to ask why. She didn’t know which scared her more: if the book worked—or if it didn’t.
    She gave him his money back without comment.
    “Is this a full moon?” Helen asked Brad. Like most people in retail, she believed the full moon brought out the crazies. “We’re going to have fun today at the registers.”
    “Not me,” Brad said. “I’ve got slush duty.”
    “Poor you,” Helen said. She meant it. “Slush” was the staff word for the books people left all over the store. Art books heavy as paving stones were abandoned in the Children’s section. Mutilated children’s books were dumped like slashed corpses in Mysteries. Bodice-ripping romances turned up in Sports. Copies of the Kama Sutra wound up in the Pregnancy section.
    The living room attracted the most slush. Old Mr. Turner had created “book nooks” for his customers. Brown leather wing chairs with comfortable reading lamps were scattered all over the store. In the center, sheltered by mahogany bookcases, he designed a living room with a beautifully worn Persian carpet, comfortable leather couches, and armchairs. Here, the slush gathered in three-foot heaps, until it was retrieved and reshelved by tired, footsore booksellers.
    Brad, skinny and agile as a monkey, could carry an amazing number of books. He returned from the slush run with tomes stacked to his chin, and a wild look in his eyes. He dropped the books on the shelving cart and said, “Do you have anything I can use to clean the coffee table? Someone knocked over a caramel latte and covered it with a stack of Harry Potter books.”
    “Are they ruined?”
    “Four totaled, and the finish is coming off the coffee table.”
    Helen rummaged under the register for paper towels, spray cleaner, and furniture polish and put them on the counter. She heard Brad say, “Thanks,” and stood up to face the sublime smells of hot grease and pepperoni. A delivery man was at