BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS
My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”
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I walked back to the bookstore with Police Chief Jim. He entered slowly. I didn’t go in. I stood outside, near my vomit.
Jim came back out after a few minutes. “This one,” he said, “is out of my league. I just called the state police.” Another Ligonier police car arrived. Police tape went up. An ambulance arrived. People started gathering. Most were crying, all of them were on their mobiles, texting and phoning.
Jim whispered to me, “You OK with going back to a bench on the Diamond? I want you nearby. State police will be here any minute. They’ll want to talk with you. But you do NOT talk to anybody? Understood?”
I nodded yes, went down to the town’s newsstand, got some gum for my breath, a bottle of water to wash out my mouth, and a Snickers bar for my now empty stomach.
About an hour later, Jim came and got me. We went back to the bookstore. As we neared, I saw Laurie’s body go into an ambulance which then slowly left, its flashing lights on, but not its siren.
Jim introduced me to a woman who identified herself as a detective with the state police. I can’t remember her name. We went into the backseat of her car. I told her everything I had told Jim. About being there yesterday, my coming back to sign more copies of my book, and there Laurie was, on the bloody floor. The detective used a mobile phone to record what I shared with her.
She nodded toward Caroline Swank who was sitting in a nearby police car. “She’s having a tough time calming down,” said the detective.
I know Caroline. She was a childhood neighbor and Second Chapter’s only staff beyond Laurie. The detective said, “We’d like her to look around, see what’s not right in there. You know, was it a robbery? Did somebody have it out for the victim? Stuff like that,” she shook her head, “but she’s in no shape for that to happen anytime soon.”
The detective continued, “Could you come into the store with me and look around, see if anything looks different than yesterday? I need anything at this point. There’re no cameras. And no witnesses we know of. My colleagues are talking with neighboring merchants. And another colleague is over at the victim’s house. We’re guessing you were first into the store after it opened and,” she nodded again at Caroline, “she’s not going to be of help.”
“Sure.”
I tried to not to look at the blood. When I thought of it as just blood, I was mostly OK. But the second I’d think of it as Laurie’s blood, I got dizzy.
I focused. I looked.
Hold on, that’s weird!
Laurie sold both new and used books. Thus the “Second Chapter” name for her store. And tossed on the bloody floor were copies of Norman Mailer’s Ancient Evenings, Herman Wouk’s The Winds of War, and William Shirer’s The Nightmare Years.
What the hell? The three old white guys I had just blogged about. Books that had something to do with a job I had 30 years ago. And it’s those three books that happen to be on the bloody floor? Of all the books in the world? In this little town of 1,500 nice people? This makes no sense! Is it personal? Holy shit!
“Notice anything?” asked the detective. I’m sure I looked shock, confused, scared, and sick all at the same time.
“Nope,” I lied.
I have no idea why I said “nope.” Maybe it all just seemed so stupid. What do I say? Well, I had this job 33 years ago, we published lots of old white guys, one of them made a lot of noise typing, one of them had two huge dogs, and one of them had one eye. Now their books are there on the bloody floor. Oh, and I have this blog about book publishing which on a good day has four readers, and I recently posted about those three authors....
See how so, so, so stupid that sounds?
“Nope,” I said again, sure after that bit of reflection, that it was still the right thing to say.
I turned my eyes from the books and the bloody floor, trying to catch my breath. An oh god! Another “holy shit” moment!
Next to the cash register, where my Olphabet book was displayed yesterday was instead a bound manuscript. On its front, in all caps, it simply read:
UNDER THE ROSE
THE FINAL DRAFT
BY JAMES DOYLE
The room spun a bit. I put my hand on the counter.
“Sir? You OK?” It was the detective. “Mr. Brallier, are you—”
“Yep, I’m good. Just got a bit dizzy.”
She took my left arm to walk me out of the store. And with my right hand, I grabbed a Post-it note stuck to the front of the UNDER THE ROSE manuscript, and slipped it into my pocket. The detective didn’t notice.
I took several deep and welcomed breaths of Ligonier air on our way back to the police car.
Once in the back seat she again started to record me.
“Well?”
“Nothing,” I said, “nothing looked different.”
“Damn it,” she said.
When I finally got back to my room at the Ramada, I pulled out the crumpled Post-it note. The message on it read, “Fuck you, Brallier!”
I ended my night having too many drinks at Joe’s Bar....
Tomorrow: ...so it seems somehow right to try that three-guys-sitting-at-a-bar joke.