The familiar, comforting, theatrical scents of aged wood, fabric, mothballs, and sewing-machine oil greeted Ellery as he walked into the costume room at the old theater on Wallace Street Monday evening. It was clear, from the sudden cease fire, that everyone had been talking about him.
Even the blank papier-mâché faces of the masks on the prop shelf looked vaguely guilty. Nora, in charge of costumes for the play, glanced up from her worktable beneath the fluorescent lights and audibly gulped. “Dearie!
There you are! We were just wondering whether you’d make tonight’s rehearsal.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Ellery asked.
“Oh, well, you know…” Nora faltered. “You’ve got little Watson to consider.”
“Little Watson is being babysat—puppy-sat—by Sandy’s daughter.
Like he’s been every other rehearsal night.”
Nora cleared her throat nervously. “True. True. That child is wonderful with animals.” Ellery shook his head. The Scallywags, Pirate’s Cove’s local amateur theater guild, were putting on Murder Mansion, which Ellery had been talked into adapting from his own rejected screenplay Murder Under the Eaves. He was serving as a consultant to the production.
His gaze traveled over the little crowd, taking in the uncomfortable expressions of nineteen-year-old Libby Tulley and her boyfriend, Felix Jones, son of Pirate’s Cove newly reelected Mayor Cyrus Jones, who was also present, Nan Sweeny, Sue Lewis (oh, great, the editor of the Scuttlebutt Weekly was part of this gossip session), and a few others, including theater director Dylan Carter. In addition to running the theater, Dylan owned the Toy Chest, the shop next door to the Crow’s Nest. Dylan was the closest thing Ellery had to a best friend in Pirate’s Cove. During the rainy winter months they had bonded over a shared love of Broadway, “real” pizza, flavored vodka, and cities that did not roll up the sidewalks at nine thirty.
“Et tu, Brute?” Ellery said.
Dylan blushed. “Hey, I’m here for a fitting!”
“Turns out so am I!” He wasn’t even sure what he meant by that, but everyone laughed. Everyone but Dylan, who looked pained. Libby giggled. “Not me. I want to hear all the news.”
“Quiet, you,” Dylan growled. He was small, slim, and Always impeccably dressed—in costume or out. A well-preserved sixtysomething, he had merry blue eyes and silver hair stylishly buzzed short on one side. When they’d first met, Ellery had figured Dylan was gay, which just went to show you should never judge a book—or a theater director—by its cover.
Libby laughed again, unimpressed.
Anyway, it wasn’t like Ellery wasn’t used to it. You can’t be suspected of murder and not spark a little neighborly chitchat. But after the Maples murder case wrapped up, he’d hoped his fellow citizens would find somebody else to talk about. And, in fairness, they had: Brandon Abbott. But Ellery had made a fatal mistake when he’d blurted that shocked admission in front of five of Pirate’s Cove’s finest blabbermouths, about once having been close to Brandon. Brandon was the nearest thing to a celebrity resident Buck Island had ever had. It was probably all over the island now—and half the island wasn’t even inhabited.
“What’s he like?” Felix asked. “Is he as creepy as his books?”
No question who he was.
“No clue. I haven’t seen him in years,” Ellery said.
And he’d have been happy to go more years without seeing Brandon. He knew it was paranoid to think he had anything to do with Brandon’s decision to buy Skull House. Brandon probably hadn’t given him a thought since they split up. Out of sight, out of mind was Brandon’s motto. Especially when he owed you money.
“How did you meet him?” Libby asked.
Ellery sighed. “We were at Tisch together.”
“Tisch?”
“The New York University Tisch School of the Arts. We were roommates.”
“Okay, people!” Dylan clapped his hands. “Enough lollygagging.
We’ve got four rehearsals left, and we need every minute.” He ushered his cast out of the costume room, throwing Ellery an apologetic look.
“And at your age!” Ellery said—only half joking—and Dylan—only half joking—glowered.
As the last cast member filed out, Nora cleared her throat. “I may owe one or two deposits to the, er, gossip jar.”
Ellery snorted. “Ya think?”
“But no one said anything bad about you. Not even Sue Lewis. Well, not really. We all know what Sue’s problem is. It’s just…you’re different. You’re interesting. And Brandon Abbott is famous.”
Ellery shook his head and exited stage left. He made his way through the backstage rabbit warren of dressing rooms and narrow hallways—passing gallery after gallery of framed photos of cast and productions through the decades—to the stairs and then to the front of the house. He found a seat a few rows back from the stage and settled down for the dubious honor of watching his words be brought to life.
Ellery Page was thinking of murder. Given that he was standing in the middle of a mystery bookstore, maybe that wasn’t surprising. Or maybe it was, since he had never expected to be the owner of a bookstore, mystery or otherwise. However, Ellery was not thinking of fictional murders. He was not thinking of locked-room or impossible mysteries, nor romantic suspense (definitely not romantic anything) nor serial-killer thrillers. Nope. He was thinking of picking up the small bronze crow (it was actually a raven, had Great-great-great-aunt Eudora only known) paperweight and conking Trevor Maples over the head.
“Yes or no?” Trevor demanded, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air of the Crow’s Nest bookshop. It was the middle of the day, and the sunlight off the ocean filtered through the big bay windows of the corner shop, glancing off the row of ships’ lanterns lining the back wall. The light reflecting off the glass, prismed in sea glass flashes of blue and green, created the charming illusion of an undersea grotto.
Well, it wasn’t all illusion. Financially speaking, the shop was definitely underwater. Which was why it made sense to accept Trevor’s offer.
“Same answer as before,” Ellery replied. “No.” No one had ever accused him of being overly sensible.
“I don’t understand you,” Trevor protested. “You asked for more money. I’ve upped my original offer twice.”
“I didn’t ask for more money. You said I was holding out for more money and that you wouldn’t raise your offer.”
Trevor’s buffed, professionally manicured nails beat impatiently against the wooden counter. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Each time his fingertips hit the counter, Ellery tried not to wince. Trevor was, at least in his own opinion, kind of a big deal in Pirate’s Cove. He owned three of the most successful shops in the village and was currently the leading candidate for mayor.
Apparently, the fact that the Crow’s Nest had a few dusty first editions for sale put Ellery in direct competition with Gimcrack Antiques, Trevor’s most successful business enterprise, but Ellery found that hard to believe. The Crow’s Nest had been foundering for a long time. He had to believe there was some other more pressing reason that Trevor was so determined to buy him out. So determined, in fact, that he’d shown up on a Saturday morning, taking time out from his campaigning. This made it histhird attempt in as many weeks to buy the Crow’s Nest.
“You said the shop held no sentimental value for you. You never even met Eudora. What else could you mean besides wanting more money?”
Trevor looked around at the store as he waited for Ellery’s answer. His lip curled.
It wasn’t hard to read his mind. Great-great-great-aunt Eudora had died in February, and though Ellery had been working steadily for the last three months, trying to get everything shipshape, you couldn’t undo forty years of dust and disorganization just like that. To add to the challenge,
Great-great-great-aunt Eudora had been quite a hoarder during the last few years of her life. Every time Ellery had to go down to the cellar, he feared he would be crushed beneath one of those teetering towers of moldy paperbacks.
“Well?” Trevor cocked a gingery eyebrow at Ellery. He looked pointedly at his open checkbook.
“Well what?”
“What is it you want, if not money?” Tap, tap, tap. Trevor’s fingers drummed across the wood a little faster as his impatience grew.
“It’s not about money,” Ellery said.
Trevor drawled, “It’s always about money.”
And he wasn’t completely wrong. The offer of a ready-made home and business had definitely factored into Ellery’s decision to leave his life in New York. Timing had also been a consideration. Opportunity had knocked in the form of Great-great-great-aunt Eudora’s passing, and Ellery had answered. Someone behind the tall shelf of espionage and spy thrillers coughed. Ellery hadn’t realized there were any customers in the shop. That was a good sign!
“So?” Trevor snapped. “What’s it going to be?” Ellery didn’t want to get all expansive with Trevor, but he needed these impromptu visits to stop, and maybe he hadn’t been clear enough in their previous conversations. He said, a little apologetically because he did not like confrontation, “The thing is, Mr. Maples, my inheriting this bookstore gave me a chance to start over. I was ready to start fresh, and this is the opportunity I was waiting for. I like Pirate’s Cove. I’m getting to love living in a small town. I even sort of enjoy running a bookstore—”
“You don’t have to leave Pirate’s Cove,” Trevor interrupted. “I’m not running you out of town. You can stay in the village. You can even stay on in the bookstore, working for me. I can always use good help, and you’ve done an impre—decent job of cleaning out this rat’s nest and getting the shop up and running.”
What an ass. Ellery said firmly, “I’m sorry, the Crow’s Nest is not for sale.” His cheeks hurt with the effort of keeping his pleasant smile up and running.
Trevor looked as taken aback as if the bronze paperweight had spoken up. His expression hardened. “I see,” he said dryly. “Fine. Name your price. I’ll pay whatever you want. Within reason, of course.” Did Trevor really think this was all about negotiating for a better deal? Yeah, he probably did, because that was what he would be doing in Ellery’s place. Anyway, what the heck was his obsession with taking over the Crow’s Nest? Pirate’s Cove was surely large enough to support two antiques shops or two bookstores or two anythings. Especially in the summer, when business picked up. That was the rumor, at least. Business picked up when the weather turned warm and the tourists arrived.
Very interesting covers.
I read an ARC of this books…the whole series…so far! It is great!
I’m looking forward to these books. I’ll be reading book 1 soon.
Thank you for the post. These have been on my to read list for a couple of months.
Looks so interesting
interesting
I like the excerpt!
I love that cover. Heck, I love the series covers (so far)!