A Killer Tail - Addison Moore
Chapter 1
My name is Bizzy Baker, and I read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but it happens, and believe me when I say, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Like now for instance.
Look at this tall drink of water. My mother shakes her head, her eyes thirsty for more of what she sees. I might just have to slip him my number later.
Ugh. There are some people’s minds I wish I never had to tune into, and my mother just so happens to be at the top of the list. It’s not always a gift to inadvertently pry into other people’s private musings, especially the lusty, private musings of the woman who gave birth to me.
“Wyatt Sanders.” The tall drink of water in question holds out a hand, and I quickly shake it as the chunky ring on his forefinger gives me a slight pinch. I glance down and note it looks like a class ring, a thick gold band with a black stone with some sort of silver etching over it. “I’m the owner here.” He grins proudly. “Welcome to Killer Books, where every novel is murderously good.” His dark hair frames his friendly face, and those ocean blue eyes of his look as if they’re penetrating your soul. There’s something about him that makes you believe he’s genuinely interested in you, and according to that look on my mother’s face, she’s taking his interest in her to a whole other level.
“Bizzy Baker,” I say in an effort to break the spell he’s inadvertently casting on my mother. “I manage the Country Cottage Inn at the end of the road just above the cove. This is my mother, Ree Baker.” I frown her way, hoping she’ll pick up on my disapproving cues.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she coos right at him. “I just love a classic whodunit.” She laughs as if it were the punch line to a joke, and I can’t help but note she’s blushing. My mother is as strong as she is svelte. Her feathered hair is a throwback from the eighties and so is that popped-collar preppy look she loves to perpetuate. But that’s one hundred percent her style, and to me it’s sort of iconic, just the way she is. My mother had to raise my sister, brother, and me pretty much on her own. Our father was far too busy chasing skirts, although he was still vaguely on the sidelines of our lives. He’s a great guy nonetheless, sort of a man-child, the quintessential boy who never grew up, so in that vein my mother had to be the firm and strong one for her restless brood.
“A classic whodunit?” Wyatt leans toward my mother an inch too close. “Upstairs, make a right, second bookshelf over, you’ll find my favorite section. Some say Miss Marple is Agatha Christie’s best work, but I’m a fan of Hercule Poirot.”
“Ohh,” Mom moans as if that was some flirtation come-on he just doled out, and since stranger things have happened, I’m not entirely discounting it. “I’m a Hercule Poirot fan myself. I’d better go check them out.”
His smile widens. “There’s a glass case in the middle of the room that contains a first print run of The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Her finest work if you ask me. Holler if you need any help at all.”
“Listen for the sound of my voice.” Mom winks before traipsing up the stairs, and I stave off the urge to vomit. Watching my mother work it on a Friday night isn’t what I call an excellent start to the weekend.
Wyatt gives a wistful shake of the head. Now that’s one lady with a nice rack of—
“Books!” The word jolts out of me. I can’t demonize the man for having thoughts, but I can sure do my best to intercept them, especially when my mother’s books are in the bounds.
His brows pinch as he looks back my way. “Yes, books.”
“Do you really have a first print run of an Agatha Christie novel? That must be worth a ton of money.”
“Maybe not a ton of money but a significant amount. My grandfather left it to me in his will. We shared a love of great mysteries. And I just don’t have it in my heart to sell it. I’m hoping to pass it down to my own grandchildren one day as well.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I say, taking a quick glance at the place. Killer Books is a shop that specializes in mysteries,