Libraries and Larceny

  Hearts Grove Cozy Mystery, Book 5

  Danielle Collins

  Fairfield Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 Fairfield Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Except for review quotes, this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Thank You!

  1

  “Looks like there’ll be no easy way to get the lemonade off of that.” Olivia’s eyes told the story of destruction.

  “Accidents happen,” Henrietta Hewitt said with a small sigh. “We’ll move it to the workroom.”

  “You got it.”

  Henrietta watched as her employee, Olivia Braddock, took the now-sticky embroidered pillowcase with Victorian era needlework through the curtains to the shop’s small workroom.

  She listened sympathetically for the next five minutes while the mother of the five-year-old who had spilled the sugary drink apologized over and over.

  Finally, she smiled and patted the woman’s hand saying, “Please, Mrs. Murphy, there is no need to fret. We’ll take care of it at no cost to you. These things happen.” Whether it was her words or the genuine smile she gave the woman, Henrietta couldn’t be sure, but the nearly frantic mother finally accepted that her child was not in serious trouble. She thanked Henrietta for her time and, after another apology from Mom and Child, they left.

  Ironically, Henrietta felt like swooning on to the Victorian-era fainting couch, but she resisted the urge. They had one more hour before the shop would close and she would be able to take a rest in her small apartment upstairs in the large Victorian house that housed her antique shop, H.H. Antiques.

  “When they said 4th of July weekend was going to be busy, I think a more accurate term would have been insane.”

  Henrietta turned around at the gruff voice of her friend and colleague, Ralph Gershwin. “There you are. I thought I had you on kid duty?” She smirked, and he rolled his eyes.

  “I can only be in so many places at once.”

  She moved a Hungarian Zsolnay porcelain vase further back from the edge of the marble-topped parlor table. “I didn’t think Gershwin Private Investigators would be that busy during 4th of July weekend festival.

  “You’d think that.”

  “What happened?” Henrietta turned to face her friend with concern on her features.

  “What didn’t happen would be more accurate. We’ve had to solve three cases of theft from out-of-towners and, get this, Ricky has hired Scott and I to run ‘private security’ for the concert tonight.”

  “Security?” Henrietta was incredulous.

  “I know. I tried to tell him that’s what the police are for, but he insisted. Said he wanted us in ‘fake clothes,’ which I told him really meant plain clothes, but he was insistent. I’m telling you, Henri. He’s got us wearing leather vests and America hats. I think they came from his own closet.”

  Henrietta nearly laughed at the mental image, but she put on an appropriately chastened expression instead. “How horrible.”

  “Don’t laugh or you’ll be next up. I’m sure Ricky has something for you too. You do contract out with us.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” She wagged a finger at him. “I’ve been run around like a firework’s show answering historical questions I’ve never contemplated asking. It’s been a madhouse.”

  “I’m telling you. Insane. And I’m not just talking about the crowds.”

  “Oh hush,” she said, sending him a look as a group of three older women walked into their section of the house.

  “Right, well, I just wanted to make sure you knew not to blow my cover tonight.” Another eyeroll.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She tried and failed to hide her smile, but he waved her off.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for coffee?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll see you at the diner.”

  Henrietta watched her friend saunter out of the room followed by the sidelong glances of all three ladies. While she’d be loath to do so to his face, she would admit that Ralph was a handsome man. His son, Scott, was a similarly handsome version, though many years younger. It made Henrietta think to ask Oliva how all of that was playing out.

  Even now she wasn’t sure how her young employee felt about going out to dinner with Scott Gershwin on one night and the town’s new head detective, Abraham Page, the next. But apparently, things hadn’t changed much in since the last time Olivia had opened up to her. Though, by Henrietta’s account, Olivia would have to make up her mind sooner rather than later.

  Henrietta picked up her dust cloth and moved into the next room. It was, admittedly, her favorite of all the rooms. It was filled with wall-to-wall bookshelves holding tomes of leather-bound, antique books. The one case in the far corner was the pièce de résistance. A case filled with first editions or other rare books. She often came in and, with gloved hands, browsed through the volumes. They were well kept, and she had her eye on many more to add to her collection.

  Today, the room was surprisingly quiet. The few chairs were empty and the large ottoman in the middle of the room, much like those you’d find in art museums for avid browsers, was only occupied by one woman.

  She was bent over nearly in half studying a worn copy with yellowing pages. Her scrutiny was so intense that she didn’t even hear Henrietta come in.

  “Are you finding everything all right?” she asked to the silence.

  “Wha—” The woman jerked back with a startled expression as her hand flew to her collarbone. “Oh, hello.” She relaxed when she saw Henrietta and rested her hand on the open pages of the book. “Yes. Yes, I am. Do you work here?”

  “I actually own the place. I see you’ve found a favorite.” Henrietta gestured to the book.

  “Ah yes, it’s fitting in rather well with my research.”

  “Research? May I ask about what?”

  The young woman held up the book, and Henrietta read the title out loud. “Famous Canadian Authors.”

  “Specifically, Joseph Laurabee.”

  “Oh, he’s one of my favorites.” Henrietta sat down, not waiting for an invitation. There was something about those who loved books. They needed no encouragement to sit and chat about writers and their work.

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that. I’m finding he’s not as well known in American circles as I would have expected.”

  “True. I have seen that as well, but I’m an avid reader of Gothic fiction and his work, The Castle on the Hill.”

  “Did you know that is actually written about a castle he was supposed to have lived in?”

  Henrietta wasn’t sure when she’d leaned forward, but she was now almost on the edge of the ottoman seat. “You don’t say!”

  “Yes. Though no one can agree on which castle.”

  “Are there really that many castles in Canada?” Henrietta asked with incredulity.

  “Not exactly. While Laurabee was Canadian, he actually lived in several places all over the world, so no one could say what castle it referred to. Some say that its sequel, The Castle’s Secrets, was penned in the library in the mysterious castle, but no one has been able to verify that.”

  “That is simply incredible.” Henrietta’s mind filled with the images from the book. Dark and stormy nights, a skeleton found in a closet, a curse, and even a romance budding between the hero and heroine despite the gloomy circumstances. “You seem to know an awful lot about Laurabee’s work,” Henrietta commented.

  “I do.” The woman smiled as if holding a secret in her lap rather than an age-worn book. “I’m actually writing his biography.”

  “No!” Henrietta gasped excitedly, just as Olivia stepped into the doorway.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a question about the provenance of a piece.”

  Henrietta could almost hear the eyeroll in her voice and sent an apologetic look to the young woman. “As much as I’d absolutely love to continue this conversation, duty calls.”

  The woman pulled a white card from her purse and handed it to Henrietta. “Please, give me a call. I’m always happy to talk with those interested in my work—truly interested.” She added a wink. “I’m staying in a rental on The Cliffs. Maybe we could have coffee or something?”

  “That would be delightful.” Henrietta accepted the card. “You will certainly be hearing from me, Miss—” She looked at the card. “—Dunsmuir.”

  Henrietta stood at the back of the large park, the music as loud or louder than she’d like despite the distance from the massive speakers. Everywhere bodies swayed in time to the music, some with raised glasses and closed eyes. The band was good, if not a bit of a throwback to a notable rock band. Perhaps that was the point.

  She’d spotted Ralph and Scott almost the instant she walked in despite the overwhelming crowds. While they didn’t exactly sti
ck out, they didn’t fit in either. Perhaps Mayor Ricky should have reconsidered his wardrobe selection for them.

  Now as the group was winding down, she could see groups of people behind the stage getting ready for what she assumed was a rousing sendoff with fireworks. It was at that moment that she felt eyes on her. It was the sensation that someone’s gaze had been trained on her for too long.

  She spun in a circle, slowly but deliberately. When she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, she tried to refocus her attention on the music, but she couldn’t. It was the feeling of an icy finger trailing down her spine. An itch that couldn’t be scratched. A whisper in the dark.

  Her heart picked up its thudding, and she resisted the urge to turn and look behind her again. She wasn’t sure what—or who—she was looking for, but it was certainly someone. How she knew she couldn’t even say, but she knew someone was watching.

  “Hey.” A hand clamped on her shoulder, and the next instant, her left hand latched on to the wrist about to yank down hard to throw the attacker off balance when Henrietta realized it was only Ralph.

  “Goodness. You scared me!”

  From beneath the massive red, white, and blue cowboy hat, Ralph’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

  “Down in front, cowboy,” someone yelled out behind them.

  He sent a glare toward the suggestion and shook his head. “Henri, you’re wound tighter than a Roman candle.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said, still trying to calm her pounding heart down.

  “I’m just saying—hey.” He bent down to look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “I mean it, American Grandpa, I can’t see the band.”

  This time, Ralph couldn’t ignore the young man. “I’m not your grandpa, and the point is they are a band, not a Rembrandt. Move if you’ve got a problem.”

  The kid looked confused at his mention of the famous painter but rather than protest, he simply scooted over a few feet and Ralph turned back to her. “Kids these days.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a grouchy old man.”

  “Maybe I am. That’s not so bad though, is it?”

  She forced a smile. “Perhaps not.”

  “But really, what’s wrong, Henri?”

  She pursed her lips and looked around again. Having Ralph beside her made her bold. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except… She turned back toward the bathrooms. There had been a figure standing there in the shadows the first time she’d made the circle and they were gone now. Then again, it could have been someone waiting for a friend. Though, if she were pressed, she would have said it felt that person had been looking her way, not at the stage.

  “Henri?”

  “I just had an…uneasy feeling. That’s all.”

  Ralph’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got some of the best instincts that I know. If you feel something, there’s likely something behind it.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Even she wasn’t fooled by her words. Ralph’s look said he wasn’t either. “Hey, didn’t you warn me about not blowing your cover?” she said, changing the subject.

  He narrowed his eyes further, looking covertly around them as well, then looked back at her. She knew he was weighing his options. Press her to open up or let it go.

  “Who’s to say I’m not just some regular old Joe hitting on a pretty woman.”

  She laughed outright at this and quickly covered her mouth as many around her stared her down. “Yes. Isn’t that a possibility?” She tried to hold her smile in check.

  “You want me to stay with you?” So, he hadn’t let it go.

  “I should be fine. Oh, but I did want to talk to you about our coffee tomorrow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was invited to have coffee at The Cliff’s with a young biographer who’s staying in a cottage there. Could we reschedule?”

  “You wound me, Henri.” Ralph placed a hand over his chest, the upper fringe of his vest covering his fingers in a comical way. “But yes, I suppose we could reschedule. Or, even better, wanna grab some pie after this is all over?”

  While she was tired and nothing sounded better than going to bed early, she didn’t want to totally blow off her friend. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

  “Good. I’ll come find you after my ‘shift’ is over.” He made air quotes, and she laughed.

  “I’ll look for you, Mr. American Cowboy.”

  Henrietta sat across from Ralph in their usual booth in the crowded diner. The after-concert rush had been greater than either had anticipated, but they’d still managed to claim their table after a few minutes when a family of four had left it open.

  With plates of peach pie resting in front of them, they’d caught up on the excitement that Ralph had experienced during the concert. Most of it had come from his outfit and friends heckling him along with a few rowdy teenagers, but thankfully, his and Scott’s intervention hadn’t been warranted.

  “Do you think it was worth it for Ricky to hire you then?” Henrietta asked.

  “How do you define ‘worth it’?” Ralph’s eyebrow quirked, and she smiled.

  “I suppose it was for you—unless the outfit was too humiliating.”

  In place of an answer, Ralph rolled his eyes. “So who is this person you’re ditching me for tomorrow morning?”

  She filled him in on Shannon Dunsmuir’s presence in town and how excited she was to meet with a writer.

  “Do you know if she’s any good?”

  Henrietta finished off her last bite of pie. “I looked her up from the card she gave me. She’s collaborated on several notable biographies, and this appears to be her first solo project. I would say she’s well known in the industry.”

  “Can she get you a publishing deal?”

  Henrietta nearly lost the unsweetened iced tea she’d just sipped. “Oh Ralph, you have no idea how publishing works.”

  “Course I don’t.” He looked affronted. “Just thinking it would be a good connection.”

  “Yes, I can see what you mean. And it will be good, but I’m meeting with her because I find Joseph Laurabee fascinating.”

  “Wait? Who’s that?”

  She wanted to tease him about not being the jealous type but thought better of it. He had been forced to walk around the concert in a large cowboy hat and a leather fringed vest all night.

  “Joseph Laurabee, a well-known Canadian Gothic fiction writer from the late eighteenth century. I’m so curious to know what she’s found out about him and his work.”

  “Sounds…great.” He wasn’t impressed.

  “There’s a mystery to it as well.” She saw that catch his attention. “It was said that there was a second novel to his most famous work, a type of sequel if you will, but it’s never been found.”

  “You think this lady’s found it?”

  “I doubt it. It would have reached news outlets—it would be worth quite a bit and very rare—but I’m sure she’s looked into it and I’d love to trade theories with her.”

  “You have a theory on this thing?” He took a sip of his decaf coffee.

  “Of course I do. What mystery writer wouldn’t?”

  Now Ralph did laugh. “So, you’ve decided to embrace it?”

  “Embrace what?”

  “That you are a mystery writer!”

  Henrietta shrugged, not affording him much more than a glance. “I would say that statement is accurate.”

  “Embrace it, Henri. You’ve got it in your bones.”

  “Thank you for that,” she said, checking her watch. “But I really must be going.”

  They stood and Ralph paid for their drinks and pie before they walked out into the muggy July air.

  “Say, what was all that at the concert about? You said you had a feeling?”

  Henrietta considered telling him about the feeling she’d had of being watched, but there had been no evidence to it, no specific person she’d seen, and nothing to back up the thought aside from an overactive imagination.