Page 1 of Murder By the Millions
CHAPTER1
I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’sThe Great Gatsby
“Allie, I loveThe Great Gatsby,” my best friend, Tegan Potts, said as she did a two-step through Feast for the Eyes, the bookshop she’d recently inherited from her aunt Marigold. “Love, love, love it.”
“Glad to hear it.” I’d just finished straightening up the reading nook located at the back left of the store, because the beanbags and comfy armchairs had all been askew. Now I was intent on organizing the items on the pegboard behind the sales counter. That was where we posted notes to one another, like “Out ofThe Mystery of the Blue Train” or “Need three copies ofThe Diva Goes Overboard.” Once the issues were handled, the notes were tossed in the trash.
“I love the history.” She skirted the year-round book tree decorated with miniature book ornaments and disappeareddown the mystery aisle to pull books from the shelves. Though the bookshop wasn’t huge, her voice became muffled. “And the glamour.”
“What about the story?” I teased.
“The story’s good.”
Though my full-time career was working as a caterer and baker, delivering tasty treats to the good people of Bramblewood, I had inherited a small percentage of the bookstore, so I helped out my pal whenever my baking and deliveries were done. The tragedy of Marigold’s demise still brought tears to my eyes. She had been like a beloved aunt to me. But at least her murderer had been caught and imprisoned—the silver lining in an otherwise sad tale.
Tegan reemerged with a stack of books, which she deposited on the sales counter, already overflowing with others. On Sundays, before the bookshop opened, she was adamant about gathering all the preordered titles.
“The story is excellent when it comes to painting a picture of a tragic hero.” Tegan spread her arms wide, which made the bat wings of her oversized anime shirt expand. She reminded me of a bird about to take flight. A very tiny bird. She was a good three inches shorter than me. “After all, Gatsby brings about his own downfall.”
“True.” I began to tag the books using the list Tegan had prepared. “Fitzgerald tried to portray Gatsby as a perfect person, but his imperfections were clearly evident. And let’s face it, Gatsby shouldn’t have cared for Daisy so much. He shouldn’t have built his whole world around the possibility of her return.”
“But he believed she couldn’t possibly love her husband and would come running back to him because he was so rich.”
A man’s wealth wasn’t a good enough reason for a woman to fall for him. Character mattered, as did kindness.
As if reading my mind, Darcy, my tuxedo cat, emerged from the office, which abutted the storage room, leaped onto the shop’s desk beneath the pegboard, and swished his tail.
“Yes, my sweet boy. A man must also be a lover of animals.” I kissed his nose.
At first, when I’d started bringing him to Feast for the Eyes, he had been shy and had remained in the office. Other than liking me and a few of my friends, he wasn’t much of a people person. However, lately, he had grown bolder and made occasional appearances. His movement stirred the screen saver on the tabletop computer, and it came alive with magical swirling books.
I tickled him beneath his chin, and appeased, he bounded off the counter, trotted to an endcap and, using it as stairs, bounded to the top of the bookshelf closest to the front door for a snooze. I caught a glimpse of myself in the office window—the slats were drawn—and I frowned. My curly red hair was a mess. The scoop collar of my white T-shirt was uneven. I righted it and patted my hair into place.
“The book party forGatsbyis going to be such a success, don’t you think?” Tegan continued.
When Marigold died, Tegan and I landed on the idea of having a book-themed memorial for her. Marigold had loved the classicPride and Prejudice.At the memorial, we’d served food from the Regency era, and lots of people had worn time-appropriate costumes. Following the memorial, which had been widely attended, we decided we should have book-themed parties a few times a year—and no more memorials, if we could help it. If readers desired, they could wear costumes. I wasn’t a fashion guru. I preferred jeans or leggings and solidcolored T-shirts. However, although sage green was my signature color, forThe Great Gatsbyevent a week from Saturday, I’d selected anemerald-green flapper costume with silver spangles, a sexy V-neck, and shoulder fringe trim.Ooh la la.
“Lots of townsfolk will attend,” Tegan said. “And tourists, too.”
Bramblewood, North Carolina, was a serene community northwest of Asheville, the nearby metropolis, which, in addition to being the brewery capital of the country, boasted the famous inn on Biltmore Estate, a University of North Carolina campus, and a vigorous art scene, one that was rebuilding itself after a horrific hurricane. Our town drew a lot of visitors, but nothing like Asheville. However, the rustic allure of the Blue Ridge Mountains made Bramblewood extra special. Hotels, rental homes, and bed-and-breakfast inns were constantly filled. Most were within walking or biking distance of Main Street, where Feast for the Eyes as well as Dream Cuisine were located.
“Isn’t it amazing the response we’ve gotten?” Tegan went on. “Readers are coming out of the woodwork. I’ve ordered fifty copies of the book. Fifty!”
Tegan and I had been best friends for over twenty-one years, ever since kindergarten. We both loved reading, though she liked fantasy, sci-fi, and comics, while I preferred mysteries and suspense. Her soon-to-be ex-husband also enjoyed fantasy—one of the few reasons they’d stayed together as long as they had.
“I’m telling you, these parties are going to put Dream Cuisine on the map.” She knuckled my arm.
“Ahem.” I cleared my throat mock-haughtily. “My business is already on the map.”
“Sure, sure, but did you have a clue when you gave up becoming a teacher and moved back to Bramblewood to open your business that you would become this big a hit?”
“Well, I’d hoped.”
Though I’d graduated Davidson College eager to introduce young minds to the classics, no teaching jobs were available, soI went to work for a caterer in Charlotte. I’d learned to cook at the tender age of five because my mother and father wanted me to be self-sufficient. The skill helped me get the job. Then when my ex-fiancé dumped me for a younger model, I decided to move home and parlay my cooking skills into a business. Now a number of restaurants and other businesses ordered my baked goods or hired me to cater their soirees. For some souls who were averse to cooking, I provided personal meals.
“How about you?” I asked. “Look at the success you’ve become, going from wannabe librarian to bookshop owner.”
