“Normally, yes,” I said. “But Salient House just instituted a new penalty policy.”
“Oh, dear. I’d forgotten,” said Sadie.
To discourage returns, the publisher now made bookstores pay a penalty when returning more than 50 percent of any order. Plus postage.
“We’ll still come out ahead,” said Sadie.
“Yes, but it’s a shame to lose any of the profit,” I told her. “We need every penny—”
“Well, why don’t we at least refill the display?” she suggested. “Who knows, we might move a few copies over the weekend.”
We unpacked exactly one box of Shield of Justice and wheeled the remaining nineteen into the back, where I rubber-stamped them with the “Property of Buy the Book” seal. But I knew that designation was only temporary.
On Monday, the bulk of this shipment would surely go back to the publisher’s warehouse under the most dreaded designation in the book trade—a ghastly, horrifying word no bookseller, publisher, or author ever wished to utter:
RETURNS.
CHAPTER 7
Crime Scene
Chandler began to wonder whether even hard-boiled murder stories were not going to seem “a bit on the insignificant side” . . . considering the publicity given to real-life urban homicide.
—Tom Hiney, Raymond Chandler: A Biography
AS I RETURNED from the storage room, I noticed a crowd gathering on the sidewalk.
Customers? Already?
Buy the Book wasn’t supposed to open for another fifteen minutes or so, but now I considered opening early. I glanced briefly at the crowd and spied a familiar face: Josh, Shelby Cabot’s assistant from Salient House. I assumed he’d come to pay a courtesy call on behalf of the publisher. “We’re so sorry our author dropped dead on you and we stocked your business with an immovable ton of his unsigned books.”
I was just calculating how many Shield of Justice cases he could haul back to New York City with him—thereby allowing us to dodge the penalty and postage—when the crowd spotted me at the door and began to surge forward. I reached to flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN when something slapped against the window and stayed there. A Rhode Island State Policeman had just announced his presence by smacking his gold badge against my window.
The door opened and I jumped backward. A huge figure loomed in the doorway. Massive shoulders blocked out the sun. I saw a square chin covered with blond stubble, a bull neck, icy-gray eyes, and that big gold badge.
Suddenly I felt queasy all over again.
“Excuse me, ma’am. My name is Detective-Lieutenant Roger Marsh of the Crime Investigation Unit of the State Police. I have a warrant to seal and search these premises and any indoor or outdoor space attached to this address—”
He dangled an official-looking document in front of me as a small bull-necked army of men—some in plain-clothes, with silver metal attaché cases, and some wearing gray uniforms with red trim and Smokey the Bear hats—filed into my store.
“Why? Whatever could you want here?” Sadie demanded, rushing out of the stockroom. Lieutenant Marsh ignored her, his eyes fixed on me.
“—And to confiscate any and all materials deemed relevant to the investigation,” he continued.
“But—” I muttered.
Lieutenant Marsh’s cold gray eyes shut me up. He studied me with such ferocity, I felt my cheeks burning with a sudden flush, realizing how disheveled I must have looked. Marsh noticed my discomfort immediately. I swear his eyes grew even more frosty.
“What investigation?” I asked, finally regaining the power of speech.
“The investigation into the events surrounding a suspicious death that occurred on these premises last evening,” Lieutenant Marsh replied, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Suspicious death?” Brainert said with a snort. “Don’t you mean ‘mishap’?”
The lieutenant’s eyes shifted to Brainert.
“Who are you, sir? And why are you here?”
I could see Brainert’s thin chest swell as his face turned scarlet with indignation. I took a breath and waited for the explosion. But before it came, Officer Eddie Franzetti of the Quindicott Police hurried through the door and practically threw himself between the lieutenant and Brainert. Behind Eddie came four more officers of the State Police, and Eddie’s partner, Officer Tibbet. Beyond them I could see the shocked and surprised faces of the crowd still waiting on the sidewalk to enter the store.
“I think you should leave now, Professor Parker,” Eddie said diplomatically as he took hold of Brainert’s arm. “Let’s give Lieutenant Marsh the space he needs to do his job.”
“I . . . I . . .” Brainert stammered.
As graceful as a dancer, Eddie sent Brainert into his partner’s arms, who led Brainert out the door. Then Officer Franzetti turned and faced us. “Detective-Lieutenant Marsh needs access to any foods or beverages left over from last night’s event,” he explained, looking at me. “And his forensics team will need to see where the garbage was dumped.”
I stammered, unable to help Detective-Lieutenant Marsh for the simple reason that I was in an alcohol-induced slumber when the community events space was cleaned and the chairs folded. Fortunately, Aunt Sadie stepped in.
“There are some bottles of water in the storeroom,” she said. “And the garbage from last night was thrown into the Dumpster in back.”
Detective-Lieutenant Marsh nodded to his team, and two uniformed officers took off—presumably to the back to retrieve our suspicious garbage.
“Lock that door,” Marsh barked.
“We’re due to open—” Sadie said.
“Only when we’re done here,” Detective-Lieutenant Marsh said. “Not before. Right now these premises are considered a crime scene and are closed to the public until my forensics team gathers evidence and completes their initial investigation.”
Aunt Sadie nodded.
The plainclothed detective turned and scanned the sidewalk. “Looks like death was good for business,” Marsh said meaningfully. Then his eyes fixed on me once again.
“I will also need to interview”—he doubled-checked the warrant in his hand—“a Mrs. Penelope Thornton-McClure.”
I nodded, getting more and more uncomfortable under the lieutenant’s suspicious gaze.
“If you need to see the leftovers, just follow me,” Sadie said. She turned and marched to the storeroom.
Marsh and the last of his uniformed Staties followed Aunt Sadie. When they were out of sight—and earshot—Eddie turned to me. We both let out sighs at the same time.
Officer Eddie Franzetti, the eldest son of Joe Franzetti, was one of my late brother’s best friends back in high school. Though now a family man, he still retained his boyish charm. And he was quite handsome—especially so in his dark blue police uniform. Unlike his brothers, who were content to sling pizza dough at the family restaurant, Eddie wanted something different out of life. A stint in the military was followed by a job on the local police force—and marriage to the most popular girl in Quindicott High School. I always liked Eddie and knew I could trust him to be straight with me now.
“So what’s going on?” I asked in a soft whisper.
Eddie tilted his hat back and scratched his head. “Apparently, Councilwoman Binder-Smith made a few phone calls last night after she heard what happened here. When the police chief was less than responsive to the councilwoman’s ‘suggestions’ she went over his head.”
“To the State Police!” I said. “She must have called in a lot of favors to get them involved.”