Murder in Waiting - Lynn Cahoon Page 0,42
Maybe they’d give me more information that could lead to a killer wife down the line.
Deek came into the shop and walked directly up to me. He sat across from me and didn’t meet my gaze. “If you want to fire me, I understand. I thought it was you.”
“We need a code word. If I tell you to do something out of the ordinary again, you just ask for the code word. Fake Me won’t know it.” I waited for him to raise his head to meet my eyes. “And no, I’m not firing you. I am tired of someone playing with the shop, though.”
“I told Greg everything I knew about the person who texted me. It didn’t sound like you, but I thought, given the circumstances, you might just be showing your emotions.”
I nodded, considering his statement. But really, I was trying to figure out a cool code word. “American Gods.”
“The book?” He glanced toward the paranormal section. We had a larger mythological gods section in fiction now that he had started ordering books. “What about it? I think we have two copies on hand.”
“No, our code word. It would be really random and strange for someone to say that in a normal conversation, especially because the book is over ten years old. So you ask me for the code word, and I’ll say, ‘American Gods.’”
“Maybe it should be ‘American Gods rule’?” He shot a smile my way.
I shook my head. “Nope. I like the randomness of the phrase. Just those two words. And I’m sorry they dragged you into this fight.”
“No worries. I’ll do what I can. And I won’t do anything stupid again without your code word.” He stood and walked to the coffee bar, stuffing his bag under the counter and putting on an apron.
“I’m heading into Bakerstown. Call me if you need anything.”
As I left, a ton of people flooded into the shop from the tour bus that had just stopped down the street. If I’d been a good boss, I would have stayed and helped. But if he got underwater, he could call Aunt Jackie. Besides, he was a big boy. He could handle a tour bus swarm on his own.
I got into my car, and when I reached the highway, I turned left to go find Lynda.
After waiting to be cleared at the entry gate, and then again at the door while a woman dressed in a business pantsuit and wearing a clip on her ear went to see if Lynda was available, I was tired. And I hadn’t even got to town yet.
The woman hurried back and waved me inside. “Mrs. Gleason will see you in the parlor. Follow me please. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Iced tea would be awesome.” I followed her to a room that looked like it had just been set up for a shot in one of the home and garden magazines. “Showcasing your Style” would be the headline, and there were several unusual items scattered around. There was a journal, the pages weathered and cracked under glass. From what I could read, it was about crossing over the land from St. Louis to here. The wife had wanted to stop in Sacramento and farm, but he kept pushing until they reached the shoreline. Then the husband bought up land. It was that land that the patriarch of the family had parleyed into a large fortune. I wondered how much of the journal was the whitewashed version of the trip, sanitized by years of telling the story.
“My family was one of the original settlers in South Cove. They have written a lot about the Mission that was here back in the day. I hear you and Frank were working on certifying the remains that are set in your backyard.” The woman who walked toward me was regal. She held her posture straight and her shoulders back. I’d watched a documentary in which the Queen of Britain walk across a floor just like that. “I’m Lynda. So nice to finally meet you. I order from your bookstore all the time, but I’m afraid I send my assistant to pick up the books. I haven’t been out much since my health hasn’t been the best.” Her gaze dropped to the floor, then she shook her head. “And apparently, I’ve forgotten how to welcome someone into my home. I’m sorry I was so chatty. Let’s sit. Our refreshments should be coming shortly.”
As if she’d been waiting for the cue,