BOOK FAIR SECRETS

  A Bookish Cafe Mystery Book 7

  HARPER LIN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Book Fair Secrets

  Copyright © 2025 by Harper Lin.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  www.harperlin.com

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  A Note From Harper

  Excerpt from “Inn for Murder”

  Chapter 1

  The Bennet Rockford Convention Center of Fair Haven, Connecticut, might not have been as immense as McCormick Place in Chicago or the San Diego Convention Center, which hosts one of the largest comic-book conventions in the world every year. However, Maggie Bell thought that whatever Fair Haven’s convention center lacked in space, it made up for in aesthetics and history. It was pretty. It was interesting. It was a single level with two massive showrooms connected by a corridor adorned with commissioned paintings and sculptures by artists from all over the country. Even a few of Fair Haven’s own had their creations displayed for months at a time. Walking from one end of the building to the other was a soothing yet inspiring adventure in texture, color, motif, and composition, punctuated by the faint scent of varnish and clean plaster.

  Every year the Bennet Rockford Convention Center hosted the book fair, and every year Maggie was among the first to enter the venue and spend all three days hunting for old books to bring back to the Bookish Café where she worked. The fair felt like Christmas had arrived early, and not only had she been extra good all year, but there would also be several local authors offering talks, signing books, and an evening meet‑and‑greet.

  Normally, Mr. Alexander Whitfield, the previous owner of the Bookish Café, would have happily attended the meet‑and‑greet and told her everything in detail, from what the authors wore to whom he thought was a fraudster and who was a real literary genius. But Mr. Whitfield had passed away, a thought still painful to Maggie. He had been her best friend. Maggie decided it was her job to pick up the torch and attend as a representative of the Bookish Café.

  As the date drew closer, her excitement grew so much that she sometimes found herself alphabetizing a shelf twice, simply because her mind wandered to the author talks, the smell of fresh‑printed paper, and the hum of delighted readers. Even Poe, the dignified bookstore cat, seemed to sense her anticipation; he would curl on her lap whenever she paused to jot down titles she hoped to find.

  “You want to use your vacation time to go to the book fair in town?” Joshua Whitfield, her new boss, asked one afternoon, his eyes partially squinted and a sly smile on his face.

  When he first arrived after his father Alexander died, Maggie feared he would ruin the store or sell it outright, along with the rare books for twenty‑five cents apiece. Instead, he had turned it into a lovely Main Street attraction and preserved the antiquities collection, minus the old books that Alexander willed to Maggie as a nest egg and payment for the years she not only worked for him but also cared for him like family.

  Although Maggie thought of Mr. Whitfield as family, she saw Joshua differently. He was the complete opposite of his father. Alexander had been an avid reader in a worn‑out sweater with a scruffy white beard. Joshua, by contrast, wore a tool belt almost every day with blue jeans and steel‑toed boots, a sight that made Maggie’s heart race more than she’d ever admit. Awkward from the word “go,” she had been a bumbling idiot when Joshua first showed up, blushing and bumping into shelves and doorframes. Yet something had clearly changed her. She now chatted with customers, and her gorgeously decorated storefront windows had earned two blue ribbons from the Fair Haven Town Beautification Committee.

  Although her introversion had lessened, it was not gone. Chatting with people who wrote books, not just read them, felt intimidating, but Maggie was determined to follow in Alexander Whitfield’s footsteps.

  “What do you think I’m going to do on vacation, travel?” she said as she pushed up her glasses. “I can go anywhere I want for the price of a good book. I don’t even have to stay on this planet if I don’t want to,”

  “You’ve got me there, Mags. Of course you can have those days off. Take an extra day or two if you need to recuperate after all the excitement. Casper can handle things while you’re gone,” Joshua teased, tapping a paint‑spattered thumb against a stack of receipts.

  “I might just do that,” Maggie huffed. She returned to the display window of the Bookish Café. The theme she’d chosen was “Hidden Treasure,” fitting for the gems she hoped to find.

  That evening, she sprinkled the display with bronze-colored glass beads that glittered beneath the recessed lighting, then stepped back to see how the pieces caught the glow. Poe twitched his whiskers at the sparkle and batted a bead onto the floor before deciding the tower of classics was a better perch than any velvet cushion.

  It was late summer, and tourist season was in full swing. Business was booming. Bibliophiles crawled out of the woodwork, some searching for that final book to complete a series, others for the next release by a favorite author, and a few like Maggie looking for a singular volume they wouldn’t know they needed until they saw it. In the quiet moments between customers, she created a neat, handwritten wish list organized by genre, title, and the maximum amount she would allow herself to pay. She also left a few blank lines, just in case destiny offered a surprise.

  She bought her weekend pass the moment they went on sale. Nervously, she checked the mailbox each day, worried someone might swipe it like a Social Security check. When it arrived, she breathed a long sigh of relief, hung it on the fridge for safekeeping, and admired it daily. Like an Advent calendar counting down to Christmas, she eagerly awaited her vacation. For the first time she would attend as an official representative of the Bookish Café and stay as long as she wanted. She might even chat with vendors—maybe.

  Outfits were chosen, comfortable yet classy, and she had saved enough money to splurge on any special tomes. She located a street spot within walking distance of the center to avoid the parking lot fee. A healthy breakfast awaited, and trail mix Joshua considered stocking at the café sat in her purse to spare her from overpriced pizza slices and hot dogs.

  Maggie had always gone alone to the fair. Alexander had invited her many times, but she declined, claiming the bookstore could not close. The truth was that she preferred slipping around unnoticed. Alexander struck up conversations with strangers, a prospect Maggie dreaded. Now that memory stung. She had been with him when he died among his beloved books. Although she took comfort in that, she still missed him fiercely.

  When the first day of the fair arrived, Maggie was up before dawn. Her three‑day pass and trail mix were in her purse, and comfortable walking shoes were on her feet. She looked chic in a long grey skirt, a pink sweater, and black sneakers. The sky had been bright blue for days, yet today a solid gray blanket hung overhead, and a cool breeze rattled the maple leaves along Main Street.

  She climbed into her car and headed to the Bookish Café as a customer. Babs, the rockabilly queen of croissants, was already bopping around, the strains of an old‑school rock guitar riff floating over the hiss of the espresso machine. Cinnamon, butter, and dark roast coffee scented the room. Anyone watching would think Maggie had been gone for months, not hours.

  “Don’t you look like the cat’s pajamas,” Babs gushed. “You might land a hot date or two at this shindig. What can I get you to jump‑start your engine?”

  “Just coffee, Babs. I’m so excited I can’t eat,” Maggie said. “I’ve been counting down for weeks.”

  “We are talking about the book fair, right?” Babs arched her black brows into her blond hairline.

  “Yes. I know I’m a nerd,” Maggie replied, rolling her eyes and pushing up her glasses.

  “Are you kidding? You’re the coolest bookworm I know. Here you go, and this one’s on the house,” Babs said with a wink, handing over a piping‑hot large black coffee. Maggie smiled, took the cup, and headed for the door.

  Just then, Poe hopped down from the window display and rubbed vigorously against her legs. His purr rumbled while he found a square of sunlight. After a languid stretch, he sat as if granting permission for her to continue. Maggie scooped him up, nuzzled his head, and placed him atop a tower of stacked books capped by a treasure chest brimming with volumes. Satisfied, Poe wrapped his tail around himself and stared outside, blinking slowly at passersby.

  Just then Joshua entered, smelling faintly of cedar and fresh paint.

  “Good morning,” he said, looking her up and down. “Wow.”

&
nbsp; “What?”

  “You look really nice,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she answered, cheeks flushing.

  “Are you … meeting someone at the book fair?”

  Maggie peered over her glasses. “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering. You look like you’re going on a date.”

  “It’s a date with destiny. I’m hoping to find real gems, diamonds in the rough at a good price,” she said, eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, well, that sounds fun. If you’re there all day, maybe I’ll meet up with you later,” Joshua stuttered.

  Maggie, too excited to notice his hint, blurted that tickets were likely gone and door prices much higher.

  “But try if you want. I need to get in line,” she said and slipped outside. Behind the wheel, coffee in the holder, she wondered if she’d missed something Joshua meant.

  Nah, she muttered, then drove across town. Her secret parking spot waited. She joined the line. A handful of bookworms stood ahead, reading their own books. Maggie had two books in her bag, along with her pass, trail mix, umbrella and spending cash. The air smelled of damp concrete and the distant spice of street-cart pretzels.

  Yet Joshua’s words nagged her.

  Maybe I’ll meet up with you later.

  Maybe I’ll meet up with you later?

  Maybe I’ll meet up with you later.

  Did he really want to meet her? She couldn’t focus on her book. Lines blurred like scenery outside a train window.

  No. She shook her head to dislodge the thought.

  A rumble of distant thunder rolled across the horizon, making a few people in line tuck their paperbacks beneath jackets. Maggie opened her umbrella, silver spokes clicking into place, and offered a quiet nod to the woman behind her, who held a well-loved mystery over her head.

  Time breezed by. The clouds thickened, then split with a bright flash, and the doors finally opened. Event staff in maroon polo shirts scanned tickets and passed out canvas totes emblazoned with the fair’s fountain‑pen logo. Maggie tucked her umbrella under her arm and stepped inside, heart fluttering as the scent of ink swept over her.

  Maggie looked behind her and saw the line of people wrapped around the building and down the sidewalk. She smiled. She was among her own kind. She knew this because the other folks around her in line didn’t even try to talk to her and kept their noses buried in their books.

  Chapter 2

  The convention center quickly filled up. The booths ranged from simple folding tables stacked with used books to elaborate displays mimicking bookstores, not unlike the setup of The Bookish Café. Maggie was in her element.

  Along the west wall of the convention center were the signing stations of local authors. Along the east wall was the book-cover-designer gallery. Across the central aisle, banners fluttered in the air conditioning. Fluorescent lights reflected off a polished floor, and a tinny public-address system pinged, announcing panel times in a cheerful yet slightly distorted voice.

  Maggie strolled down the first aisle, enjoying the hum of overlapping conversations that flowed around her without them being directed at her. She liked that she knew no one yet felt welcome. Her plan was to loop through the entire hall, note the titles she loved, and decide what she had to have immediately, what could wait for a potential price drop tomorrow, and what might simply add interest to the shelves at the Café, like the handbook on fly-fishing lures she had just spotted.

  The overall mood was calm, although employees answered questions from lost attendees and vendors fretted over displays that hadn’t arrived or boxes of books that had been damaged in transit. Some attendees took their reading very seriously. One man wore a T-shirt that read “Behave Yourself or You’ll End Up in My Novel.” Another shirt proclaimed Carpe Librum—seize the book. A chalkboard easel boasted the slogan “Eat. Sleep. Read. Repeat.” in looping cursive, and a cluster of teens took selfies beneath it, striking dramatic poses with hardcovers held like stage props. Maggie paused to admire a display of enamel pins shaped like tiny open volumes and mentally marked the vendor as a potential supplier.

  Maybe Joshua would like one, she mused, then shook her head. It was an intrusive thought. She didn’t want to focus on Joshua when she was having so much fun. Thinking about him was pleasant; she simply didn’t want to imagine feelings that might not exist. See how simple that is? Just push it out of your mind, she told herself, steering toward Authors Row.

  Some tables were busier than others. The first to draw a sizable crowd featured a female author. Maggie stretched to see the title of the book, which showed a hulking cowboy clutching a Laura-Ingalls look-alike. Lust in the Dustbowl made her chuckle, and she considered buying a signed copy for the bookstore. The author, Serafina Lawson, resembled a romance heroine herself, with wild curly hair and wearing a flowing red dress. She laughed, whispered, laughed again, and thanked each reader with a warm handshake. This was how a visiting writer should behave, enjoying her fans and chatting happily. Lust in the Dustbowl wasn’t Maggie’s cup of tea, but the line said plenty about its popularity.

  For a moment Maggie lingered, listening to Serafina tease a blushing reader about “dust storms that heat up more than the sky,” sending a ripple of giggles through the queue. Serafina was slated for the evening meet-and-greet. Alexander would have no trouble striking up a conversation, Maggie’s conscience whispered. That settled it; she would speak to Serafina tonight, if she could get close.

  Farther along, a tall, black‑clad man had a dozen fans around a table stacked with graphic novels. Maggie rarely read the genre yet stopped anyway. The art, rendered in meticulous cross-hatching, took her breath away. Tiny diagonal lines layered on one another produced shadows so rich that distant cityscapes seemed to float behind the panels. One oversize book she lifted must have taken years to finish. The creator would be at the meet-and-greet, too; she could ask about his process later rather than interrupt now.

  “You know what you did!” A loud male voice sliced through the chatter. Conversation froze across Authors Row.

  “Look, I’m a writer. I write what I know. If you don’t like it, don’t read my book. It’s as simple as that,” said a beanstalk of a man behind a folding table draped with a plain white cloth, stacks of books flanking him.

  “You ruined my life!” shouted the other man. He wore a rumpled suit that looked slept in. His tie was crooked. Wild-eyed, he punctuated each word by waving his arms. Maggie wondered whether he had a nose ring before squinting: it was a mole.

  “I have the feeling it was ruined before I wrote a single word,” the author retorted. Wrong move. The man in the suit swept half the books off the table with one hand, grabbed the author’s collar with the other, and nearly dragged him across the tabletop. With clenched teeth inches from the writer’s face, he threatened bodily harm.

  Maggie and another woman who was also waiting for Serafina Lawson knelt to gather the scattered books. Neither of them took their eyes off the men. Maggie glanced at a cover and recognized the title: Small Town Secrets by Otto Deitz. She had stocked it on the new-release shelf, and copies had sold out quickly. What was going on?

  “Why, you little smart‑aleck! I’ll break all your fingers, and you’ll never write again!” the man bellowed until two security guards arrived.

  Their presence cooled the scene. The suit-clad man released Otto’s collar. Otto swatted the hand away, stared him down, and murmured, “Just wait until the sequel comes out.”

  The man lunged, but security held him. “You’re a dead man, Deitz! Do you hear me? I’ll get you for this—if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Otto waved him off, ran a hand through his salt‑and‑pepper hair, and stepped around the table. Maggie handed him a stack, and he muttered thanks. The other woman, a thickset attendee with a deep spray tan and dramatically teased hair, returned the remaining books and launched into excited chatter.