Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
The sign for the Queen Bee was a beautifully painted gilt bee against a honeycomb made of book spines. When the door opened, the delicious smell of old books tinged with a hint of mildew filled Truman’s nose and put him in mind of quiet afternoons spent reading on the second floor at Crescent City Books as Isabella the shop cat snoozed in a puddle of sun beside him.
“Hey, Maisey,” Ash said. Truman hadn’t even noticed the woman sitting behind the counter piled with stacks of books as they came in.
“Good to see you, sweetie. Who’s your friend?”
The woman who emerged from behind the counter was a petite white woman with keen brown eyes who looked to be in her fifties. Truman realized that he’d only seen white people thus far on Owl Island.
“This is Truman. Truman, Maisey Osgood.”
“Ah, of course. Greta’s friend.” Before Truman could ask whether perhaps her child was somehow involved in creating something visible on his person, Maisey said, “Carla told me you’d be stopping by.”
“Wow, that’s some phone tree y’all’ve got,” Truman said brightly, relieved that he didn’t, say, smell like Greta’s shampoo which was handcrafted by Maisey’s uncle’s step-nephew or something.
“You’re looking for Agatha Christie novels?” Maisey asked. “Don!” she called before Truman had a chance to correct her. “Can you take Truman to the Christies?”
“Oh, no, no. Sorry. No, there’s an author called Agatha Tark. I think she might have lived on Owl Island back when she was writing—or maybe before. I guess I don’t know. And I was really just wondering if you might’ve known her. Since she was an author, I figure if she lived here she probably came into the bookstore.”
“Who’s Truman?” came a call from across the shop.
“Never mind, Don!”
“What?”
The man Truman assumed was Don picked his way through the alarmingly full aisles between the shelves.
“Oh, hullo, Ashleigh.”
“Don.”
They shook hands. Don was nearly as petite as Maisey, with a shock of white hair and tiny round wire-rim glasses.
“Tell Don what you told me,” Maisey instructed Truman.
Truman did.
“When would she have lived here?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. Let’s see, the first Zagørjič book came out…gosh, I can’t believe it. It’ll be twenty years ago next year. I don’t know if she would have been living here while she was writing the series or before. And I don’t know how long before it was published she wrote the first book. She’s very private.”
Don and Maisey wore matching contemplative scowls as they stared at each other, like they were doing a particularly rigorous calculation.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Don said finally. “If she was here in the summers, I wouldn’t know. So many tourists come through then, everyone wanting a book for the ferry.”
“Smart lady living on the island twenty years ago,” Maisey mused. “Well, you know who you should ask, sweetie.”
This was to Ash, whose mouth was set in a grim line. He nodded tightly without making eye contact. “I’m gonna.” Ash nodded at Bruce, then outside, and swept through the door.
“Sorry we couldn’t help, dear,” Maisey said. “But do browse and see if anything catches your eye.”
Truman dearly wanted to browse, but a glance outside at Ash told him it wasn’t the moment.
“I’ll be back,” Truman assured her. “Oh, and you should definitely stock the Dead of Zagørjič series. It’s dynamite. Thanks!”
The icy air stole the warmth of the Queen Bee within seconds of going back outside, and Truman pulled his borrowed coat tightly around himself.
“So what’s New Orleans like?” Ash asked. “I’ve never been.”
“Warm,” Truman said bitterly, burrowing even further inside his outerwear as they walked back toward Thorn. “There are touristy areas that are loud and crowded, but mostly it’s relaxed. There’s great music, great food. It’s beautiful. I love the cemeteries…”
Truman had loved spending time in the cemeteries of the city from the moment he arrived for his freshman year at Tulane. He’d grown up in Metairie, near enough to New Orleans that he’d always known he’d go there for school but far enough away that it seemed like a whole other world from the shopping malls and mowed lawns of his childhood.
He’d arrived for new student orientation and been disappointed to recognize a dozen people from high school. In an attempt to leave those days behind, he’d accepted the invitation to party in the French Quarter when one of the girls on his hall had asked him. He’d had fun for the first hour or so, but the longer they stayed out, the sloppier people got.
One girl was standing in the middle of the bar yelling into her cell phone at a long-distance boyfriend who was supposed to have done something he did not do. Two people from his hall danced until they got sick and puked on the curb outside. A boy he’d gone to high school with thought it was hilarious to flip up a girl’s skirt, and Truman’s stomach lurched with uncertainty. He started to make his way toward the girl to see if she was okay when she turned around and punched the guy in the face, splitting his lip, spilling his beer, and getting them all thrown out of the bar.