Book :- Publishable by Death
Writer:- ST. MARIN’S COZY MYSTERY 1
Publisher:- ACF BOOKENS.
✍️This content collected from book.
It was a brisk March morning as I walked away from the cove toward Main
Street in St. Marin’s, Maryland. In the shadow of the buildings, I was just
beginning to see the tops of daffodils poking up their heads, but today,
I tugged the hood of my long sweater up higher on my head and pulled the collar
of my peacoat closed. Short hair was perfect for the warmer days – and for
owning my ever-graying locks – but in these cold months, I sometimes missed
my long ponytail. Spring was coming, but it didn’t feel much like it today. We’d
had ice overnight, and while the temperature had gone above freezing already,
the roads were still wet and ice clung to the edge of puddles.
Still, I practically skipped down the sidewalk, even though skipping isn’t
always that flattering on a slightly plump forty-four-year-old. I didn’t care. This
was going to be the first weekend my new bookstore was open.
I slid my key into the lock on the front door of the old gas station and put a
little muscle into turning it in the glass-fronted door. As I swung it open, I took a
minute to enjoy the little bell above my head as it chimed. That bell had been
hanging over that door as long as anyone in town could remember, so every
long-time resident of St. Marin’s told me when they stopped by to say hi and
take a gander at the newest shop in their – I mean, our quaint town.
I loved that
bell, not just because it was part of the charm of this building, but because I
looked forward to hearing it when it meant people were visiting my bookshop.
I had just come back to St. Marin’s the previous October. I visited when I
was a kid on a summer trip from our family home over near Baltimore, and I’d
never forgotten the charm and friendliness of this waterside community.
I hadn’t had much time to socialize since coming back though. I’d hit the
ground running because I wanted the shop open as soon as possible.
I needed the
income to help build my book inventory, but also to be able to help pay the
mortgage. My best friend Mart – an expert on wineries – was helping cover the
bills for our house since she had a good paying job at a local up-and-coming
winery nearby and was consulting all over the East Coast. I felt kind of bad
living off of Mart’s generosity, especially since she had basically followed me
here from the West Coast when I’d decided to live my dreams and open a
bookstore back here on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, but I knew that Mart
didn’t mind and that I’d pay my friend back in time.
Today, though, I needed to finish painting the brick walls at the front of the
store. I loved the charm of the old red bricks that I figured had probably been
made nearby, but years of smokers and exhaust had made them dingy and smelly
. . . so a good whitewashing helped spiff them up and made the shop look cozy
instead of dirty. I wanted the place to recall the old gas station that it originally
was, just not too much.
I had to get the window displays ready, too. In the north window that had
once been the station office, I was putting up a collection of books about Harriet
Tubman, the woman St. Marin’s was honoring this weekend in their annual
Harriet Tubman Festival. Tubman had been enslaved just down the road a piece,
and this annual festival honored her memory and her work on the Underground
Railroad while also trying to educate people about the history and continuing
legacy of slavery.
Local historians and genealogists were going to be giving talks
all over town, and I was hoping that Catherine Clinton, the woman who wrote
my favorite book on Tubman, might come by and sign the copies of her book for
the shop since she was in town for a presentation at the local library.
In the other window, which had opened onto the actual garage section of the
gas station, I wanted to put out some of my favorite gardening books, including
titles that ranged from how to build and maintain a raised-bed vegetable garden
to how to start a cut flower business. I’d asked around about what kind of
gardeners were in the community and quickly found out that St. Mariners were
passionate about their plants. I took that intel to heart and stocked books in a
sizable garden section near the rear of the store, where I had also placed a
wingback chair upholstered in floral fabric, one of my favorite antique store
finds.
The rest of the store was equally cozy with big armchairs, lots of tables
where readers could set a mug of something warm, and dog beds positioned
strategically to accommodate any pup, but especially Mayhem, my new rescue
puppy. Mayhem had been named Maxine at the shelter, and I had picked her
because she was – it seemed – the calmest in the litter. As soon as I got her
home, though, the little gal had started chewing anything wooden that she could
find – a beautiful piece of driftwood I had picked up on Bodega Beach, one of
the wine barrel staves that Mart had brought home to use for a sign by our house,
even the table leg of the farm table we had purchased at a yard sale back in
November. Plus, Aslan, my cat, took immediately to hiding under my bed
anytime the puppy was nearby because the dog desperately wanted to be her
friend. I had started calling her Mayhem as a joke, and the name stuck.
Fortunately, the Black Mouth Cur – a friend on Facebook had told me that
was Mayhem’s breed after seeing a picture – had no affinity for chewing books.
She was already a fixture at the shop, often taking up residence in a sunbeam
coming through the north window while I worked.
If nothing else, her presence
was sure to bring business if the number of people who stopped to talk to her
through the glass was an indication.
Today, I had left her home to rest up. I hoped tomorrow’s shop traffic would
be heavy, and Mayhem insisted on greeting everyone who came in. The puppy
needed to conserve her energy.
Once, on a trip to visit a friend in Denver, I had visited a bookstore in Frisco,
Colorado, and had loved that the owner’s Bernese Mountain Dog had free rein of
the shop.
I had vowed then and there that I’d have an open door policy for
pooches if I ever was able to fulfill my dream of owning my own bookstore.
My own bookstore. I stopped mid-paint stroke and let out a long heavy
breath. I’d done it. I’d finally done it. Tomorrow, I was opening my own