“Someone’s checking you out,” Linda whispered to me as she helped me ring up one of the last few customers.
“Who?” I asked. “The guy over there?” I cocked my head in the general direction of a balding man in his forties wearing khakis and a green sweater. He was lurking in the used-book section, a Buy the Book bag tucked under his arm.
“That’s a collector,” Sadie interjected. “Along with the Brennan book he bought a copy of Colin Wilson’s Ritual in the Dark from the resale section. Recognized a bargain when he saw one—an out-of-print first edition with dust jacket, in not too shabby condition.”
Linda blinked as if Sadie were speaking in tongues. “Ritual in the Dark? Never heard of that one,” she said.
“It’s a British thriller set in the 1960s, but based on the murders of Jack the Ripper,” said Sadie. “And considering his taste in reading, I’d say date the guy with caution.”
“Thank goodness I wasn’t talking about him then,” Linda said. “I meant that one!”
Linda nodded in a direction vaguely to the left of the green-sweater guy. I shifted my gaze and ran smack into the eyes of a handsomeish man in his midthirties with large, perfect teeth; slicked-back, dark brown hair; and round Harry Potter-esque glasses.
I don’t know why, but the idea that he might be a car salesman came to mind. That or an actor. Must have been the teeth.
To my surprise, the man’s smile grew when our eyes met. Suddenly he was crossing the store, making a beeline toward me.
“What do you think he wants?” I whispered, acutely aware I was still rather hung over. Last time I’d glanced in the restroom mirror, I’d had red eyes, drawn skin, and smeared lipstick.
“He’s sort of cute,” Linda said in the perky go-get-him tone I hadn’t heard her use on me since junior high. “Nice threads, too.”
Before I could answer Linda, the man’s creased khakis, snow-white button-down, and tailored navy jacket were heading right for me. The toothy smile came at me with such dazzling brilliance I briefly considered installing him permanently in our dimly lit back room.
“Hi, there. I’m a senior editor with Independent Bookseller magazine. I was in the area, and I thought I might take a few notes for a story about your charming store.”
I stepped around the counter and stood toe to toe with the man. He was only about two inches taller than I, which wasn’t very tall for a man since I’m a shoeless five-four, but he was more than passing fit. The jacket did little to disguise the fact that he was plenty musclebound, with very broad shoulders and a thick neck and arms.
“Howie Westwood,” he said brightly, holding out his hand.
Wow, I thought. The guy’s energy level almost spiked my own wattage shortage. “Hello,” I managed as I reached to shake. “I’m Penelope Thornton-McClure.”
He took my hand in his and looked into my eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Penelope. Oh, excuse me. May I call you Penelope?”
“Yes, of course.” He was still holding my hand. I eased my grip, but he held on. The guy was strong. Somewhere amid my responding hormones, I registered the fact that his palms felt callused. A yachtsman? I wondered.
“You must be the owner—” he began.
“Co-owner,” I cut in, correcting him. “My aunt is the original owner. Sadie Thornton.” I gestured toward her with my free hand and he lifted his chin at her—a little too dismissively, I thought. And didn’t appreciate. I tugged my hand back.
“This is truly a unique space,” Howie said with easy admiration. “Quite an achievement. You must have considerable retail experience.”
“Thank you,” I said. And that’s all I said. The guy was attractive; Linda was right about that. But that was no reason to instantly trust him.
“You wouldn’t think a town as small as Quindicott could support a store of this size.”
A fair question, and an observant one, I decided. Okay, maybe the guy was good at what he did. “Well, plenty of tourists pass through here on their way to Newport and the Cape,” I said. “You’d be surprised at how many. And we have a considerable mail order business. Out-of-print books, rare first printings, special editions.”
“Web site?”
“Not yet, but it’s on the drawing boards,” I lied. I’d been way too busy to figure that one out—but maybe by the time the article ran, I’d get something under e-construction.
I felt Sadie’s eyes on my back and stole a glance in her direction. She was smiling and nodding—the matchmaker nod. Eeeesh. I shot back the warning look: I am not in the market for a match, thank you very much!
“Of course, like everyone else, I heard about the incident last night, and about Timothy Brennan’s death,” Howie Westwood said.
“Yes,” I said, frowning. “A terrible thing.”
“Not really so terrible for you, though, right? I mean, business looks pretty good. You and your aunt seem to be profiting nicely from Brennan’s death.”
For a moment, I was speechless. It was true. He was right. I couldn’t deny it. But hearing it stated so coldly, so matter-of-factly . . . it made me feel awful.
“We didn’t plan for this to happen,” I finally murmured. “And as you can see, we haven’t raised the price of the book, despite the inflated bidding on eBay. We’re not trying to take advantage—we’re just handling the customers who’ve come to us. And I assure you, Mr. Westwood, Brennan’s death was a terrible thing to witness.”
“Witness . . . yes,” Howie continued. “And the whole thing unfolding in front of his daughter and son-in-law. They were right here attending the talk, right? Were they close to Mr. Brennan when he . . . was stricken?”
I wasn’t surprised by his questions. But with autopsy results still pending and Brennan’s family still in Quindicott, I felt it was the proper thing to duck any touchy questions—just as I’d ducked them with the television interviews earlier in the day.
Television . . . my mind considered the fact that a few of those interviews had already aired. I suddenly wondered if that was why Howie was here. Had he seen one of those interviews and—noting the lack of details—decided to come by himself and try his hand at prying them loose? Well, I couldn’t blame the guy for trying, I decided. But still, I held firm:
“Many people attended last night’s event,” I told him. “And many people rushed to Mr. Brennan’s aid. I think it’s best if you ask Mr. Brennan’s family these questions. They’re staying right here in town, at Finch’s Inn. It’s on the eastern edge of town, on the pond. Well, we call it a pond, but it’s really a small lake at the end of a coastal inlet.”
“Of course,” Howie Westwood replied. Though the smile was still plastered on his face, behind his little round glasses I saw a cold curtain draw down across the man’s green eyes.
“Could you show me around?” he said, his charm returning, a little more forced this time.
“Sure,” I said.
After all, like Publishers Weekly, Independent Bookseller was a respected magazine in the industry of bookselling, especially for its often-quoted review section. Its circulation had fallen off in the past decade, of course, with the closing of so many independent bookstores—due to the gross sales dollars of the book business being hijacked by the chain stores (and I’m not just talking Borders and Barnes & Noble, but also places such as Costco, Wal-Mart, and Sam’s Club, where you could toss your Grisham in a cart with your economy crates of grapefruit and galoshes).