Chapter 1
The brass bell tinkled brightly when the door to the bookstore swung open.
The ocean’s aroma and the summer’s humidity entered along with the older woman. She took her time closing the door, then turned to wipe her feet several times on the well-worn mat, which once read All Good Stories Begin Here. Unfortunately, most of the Good and all the Begin had rubbed off over the years, so the remaining message was All Stories Here.
When she finished cleaning the soles of her shoes, she lifted her head, her eyes widening in anticipation. It was apparent the slight woman enjoyed bookstores, and it appeared to be her first time at The Red Herring, Pleasant Valley’s only mystery bookshop.
Before moving, her eyes scanned every inch of the store, passing over the huge man standing behind the counter.
When the woman felt she had a good understanding of the layout, she stepped inward but stopped suddenly when an orange cat appeared out of nowhere to rub itself against her leg.
“Hello, sweetie,” the woman said, bending over to pet the scruffy tom.
It, however, had no intentions of being touched and hurried away, deeper into the store.
The woman righted herself and beamed. She appeared to be a cat person as she was not offended by the feline’s snub of her interest.
“Where to start?” she mumbled and stepped toward a small display with the headline banner Local Author Carrie Fenton. Underneath were several True Crime books that blatantly worked Maine into the title—The Death of Maine, Maine’s Bluest Blood, and Maine Line Murder. The woman dismissively shook her head and moved toward a nearby book spinner.
In the back of the shop, something fell to the floor.
“Cat!” the man hollered from behind the sales counter. “Knock it off!” His deep baritone voice was gravelly and seemed to shake the small store.
The woman stopped then to take him in fully. As she stared, her hand slowly lifted to her chest.
“I apologize,” the man said, his voice returning to a reasonable level. “The cat, he knocks things over. Aren’t they supposed to be graceful?”
The woman dropped her hand and stepped forward. She looked up at the man with awe. It was the reaction he got most when in polite company. He stood six-foot-four inches and weighed roughly two-hundred twenty-five pounds.
“You sure are a big fella,” she said with a southern accent. “My son played for the University of Alabama, and you’re even bigger than him. Didja play ball in school?”
“No, ma’am.”
“How come?” she asked as if not playing football was an odd choice for a man of his size.
He thought for a moment, then said with a conspiratorial half-grin, “It was too dangerous.”
She patted the counter in a knowing gesture and gave him a kind smile. “Oh, of course. I always worried about my boy getting hurt, but my husband insisted our son play. Your father was smart for not letting you. It’s a risky game, for sure. Owning a bookstore is much smarter. I’m assuming you’re the owner, that is?”
“I guess I am.”
She stuck out her hand. “I’m Helen.”
“Brody.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. Her words trailed off as she noticed the tattoo on the back of his right hand. The ink seemed to disappear underneath the plaid, long-sleeved shirt he wore buttoned up to his neck.
Brody pulled his hand back and shoved it into his pants pocket.
Helen regained her smile and said, “Everyone in this town is so nice. My sister and I are touring through the northeast and spent last night here. I’m so delighted by the hospitality everyone has shown.”
She watched him expectantly, hoping Brody would engage in conversation. Instead, he remained silent and studied her. They stared at each other for a few moments until Helen spoke again.
“We’re leaving this afternoon and going up to York Harbor.”
Brody’s brow furrowed.
“York Harbor,” the woman repeated. “It’s ten minutes up the way.” Helen pointed absently toward the north.
“Ah.”
“But we’ll be in Pleasant Valley until lunchtime. What do you recommend we do?”
“No idea,” Brody said.
“Really?”
He shrugged.
“How long have you lived in this town?”
“A day.”
“One day? But you own this store.”
Brody hesitated before saying, “I bought it online.”
“Online?”
“Through the Internet.”
“The Internet?” Helen repeated before whistling softly. “You bought a business on the Internet. Who would have thought such a thing possible?”
Something again fell in the back of the store, and Brody turned his head to yell, “Cat!”
“Is today your first day?”
“I wouldn’t lie about that.”
“And that’s your kitty?”
“He came with the store.” Brody leaned in. “And if you want him, you can have him. Free.”
“Oh, honey,” Helen said, “I can’t take him. Besides, every bookstore needs a cat.”
“Not this one,” Brody muttered with a look of exasperation.
Helen’s face widened with excitement. “Am I, possibly, your first customer?”
“I believe so.”
The woman tapped the counter with excitement. “In that case, let me buy something! I like a good mystery. Agatha Christie is my favorite, but I’ve read all her books. So nothing by her, okay? I also like Sue Grafton and Janet Evanovich, but I’ve been through all their books, too. What new writer do you suggest I try?”
A frown creased Brody’s face, and he crossed his thick arms.
“If you don’t know anyone comparable to those writers, you can suggest anyone, my dear. Who do you like? I’ll buy any book you suggest so I can be your first customer. What a neat honor that would be.”
“I’m not sure who to recommend,” he admitted.
“I’ve stumped you?” She turned to survey the bookstore. “How is that possible with all these delightful treasures?”
“To be honest,” Brody said, “I don’t read.”
Helen stared at him, dumbfounded.
“I mean, I read,” Brody corrected himself. “Newspapers and repair manuals and such. But I haven’t read an actual book since high school.”
The older woman picked up a paperback copy of John D. MacDonald’s The Deep Blue Good-by that was lying on the counter, turning it in her hand. “But this is a …”
“A bookstore. I know.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“That makes two of us.”
“What?” she asked, clearly confused.
A large clunk occurred in the rear of the store, which was then followed by several smaller noises.
“Cat!” Brody yelled. He turned to the befuddled Helen and said, “I’ll be back.”
In the section identified as Thrillers, the orange cat was nowhere to be found, but several books were lying in the aisleway. Brody quickly scooped them up and stacked them on a shelf without consideration as to where they belonged. While he did that, the bell chimed again at the front of the store.
Brody stole a final glance for the cat and returned to the counter. No one was there now since the older woman had left without buying a book.
He smelled the ocean’s air from when she opened the door. The summer’s humidity had snuck in again, and the building’s swamp cooler had yet to beat it back. It wasn’t even noon, and he’d already had and lost his first customer.
Brody realized living in Pleasant Valley was going to take some getting used to.
