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  PRAISE FOR

  To Helvetica and Back

  “Will intrigue you from A to Z and then some. . . . Paige Shelton has come up with a unique combination of characters and setting.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Susan Wittig Albert

  “Clare is a charming protagonist who loves her work. The minor characters and subplots accelerated the novel’s pace to add intrigue and suspense. . . . I love cozy mysteries that are fast-paced, riveting, and intriguing, filled with exciting characters. To Helvetica and Back fits that bill nicely, and I can’t wait to read future releases in this great, exciting, and lovable new series.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “I really like Clare, Jodie, Chester, and Baskerville (the shop cat) as well as the side characters. Seth and Mutt look to be keepers. . . . I think I’ve found a new favorite!”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “All of the characters in this book are memorable, from cranky kitty Baskerville to Clare’s BFF/cop Jodie to her love interest, geologist Seth. . . . It didn’t disappoint in the least.”

  —Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries & Meows

  “A refreshing, imaginative start to a new cozy mystery series. . . . I highly recommend this exciting new mystery . . . to those who like well-crafted cozy mysteries, unique settings, and the first blush of a sweet romance.”

  —Open Book Society

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Paige Shelton

  Dangerous Type Mysteries

  TO HELVETICA AND BACK

  Farmers’ Market Mysteries

  FARM FRESH MURDER

  FRUIT OF ALL EVIL

  CROPS AND ROBBERS

  A KILLER MAIZE

  MERRY MARKET MURDER

  BUSHEL FULL OF MURDER

  Country Cooking School Mysteries

  IF FRIED CHICKEN COULD FLY

  IF MASHED POTATOES COULD DANCE

  IF BREAD COULD RISE TO THE OCCASION

  IF CATFISH HAD NINE LIVES

  IF ONIONS COULD SPRING LEEKS

  Specials

  RED HOT DEADLY PEPPERS

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Paige Shelton

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698180079

  First Edition: February 2017

  Cover art by Brandon Dorman

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Carole, Kathy, Fran, Walt, Steve, Astrid, and Jim

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust, and my editor, Michelle Vega, for their continued enthusiasm, support, and hard work.

  Cover artist Brandon Dorman and designer Lesley Worrell as well as copy editor Michele Alpern sprinkled their magic all over this book. I’m eternally grateful to them, and to everyone at Penguin Random House.

  My husband and son never tire of cheering me on. Thanks to Charlie and Tyler for always being on my team. I adore you.

  Contents

  Praise for To Helvetica and Back

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Paige Shelton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Excerpt from Comic Sans Murder

  About the Author

  1

  “It’s my good luck you’re here. I saw your shop last year but didn’t have time to stop in. You have the best selection of this kind of stuff I’ve ever seen. When I needed the note cards, I thought of you right away,” he said with a genuine smile.

  Silence. The uncomfortable kind.

  Even Baskerville the cat was quiet as he surveyed the scene from his seated position on the corner of the counter.

  Finally, I elbowed my niece, Marion.

  “Oh, of course,” she said in a voice so breathy I thought she was going to either faint or throw up. Unquestionably, surviving this moment would be difficult for anyone, but maybe more so for a teenage girl in the throes of fangirl-ness.

  He smiled again. Close-up and in person or on the big screen, when his face and his teeth and his smile were all enormous—at any size, his was a beautiful smile.

  The Star City Film Festival had been a part of our Januarys for going on two decades now. We’d all seen our fair share of movie stars. Most of them were friendly. Most of them in person looked close to what you might expect. But a few of them were, frankly, disappointing, though not because of their looks. Many Star City residents had experienced a random moment or two of actor surliness or arrogance, giving us the overwhelming desire to tell someone who thought they were being “creative” that they should learn how to mind their manners and not think themselves so wonderful.

  Matt Bane, however, did not disappoint. He’d been friendly from the moment he came through the door. He’d walked in with a humble smile already on his stubble-covered face. All the guys had at least a little stubble during this festival; clean-shaven wouldn’t be cool. Matt’s dirty-blond hair wasn’t necessarily brushed, but it was clean and he’d removed the ball cap he’d been wearing. He wore a thin khaki ski coat over some black jeans, a white T-shirt, and black work boots. They were heavy boots, and the thought that he wore them to help keep his legs in such great shape had crossed my mind. He was unquestionably easy on the eyes.

  He also smelled good, like laundry detergent and oranges. I know because I accidentally stepped close enough to him to covertly sniff once. I straightened my glasses as I breathed him in, so he wouldn’t know what I was up to. He might have noticed, though, because he smiled a little sideways at me when I did it.

  A few years before he’d been cast as a superhero. Two movies of the franchise had already done extremely well worldwide. I was sure there were many more set to be produced. But we Star City residents and businesspeople didn’t ask those kinds of questions. There were some un
spoken rules about the way we behaved toward the “movie people.” Sometimes some of us got to know them well, or at least as well as a brief acquaintanceship might allow. But mostly we just tried to leave them all alone. For ten days in January we wanted them to feel comfortable walking into our stores without worrying about wearing disguises or ducking from hidden cameras. We didn’t want them concerned that they’d be photographed shoveling pie into their mouths or consuming carbohydrates; they should feel at ease when ordering something loaded with too many calories. Though not everyone in Star City cooperated and there were specific media events that broke all the unspoken rules, for the most part we were welcoming and easygoing, and they were . . . well, nice.

  Matt Bane, though. Even my beautiful, intelligent, snowboarding, potential Olympic-qualifying niece couldn’t be expected to be normal around Matt Bane. I was going to have to intervene with more than an elbow.

  “We’d be happy to get these finished in an hour or so,” I said. “Right, Marion?”

  “Wow,” she said.

  Baskerville meowed and rolled his eyes, I think.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the movie star.

  “Not a problem,” Matt said. “I appreciate the rush. I like to write handwritten thank-yous and I forgot to pack the cards I bought in LA a month or so ago. So many people here I need to thank. I’ve been treated very well.”

  “So, you’d just like your initials? MB at the bottom-right corner?” I asked, thinking his mom would be so proud of him and his handwritten thank-yous.

  “Yep, that’s all I’ll need.”

  “Easy,” I said, knowing Marion could print the cards while he waited if I told her to. I was worried she’d fall apart if he remained in the store too much longer, though. If he stayed while she worked, I was sure a disaster of some sort would ensue. “Would you like them delivered?”

  “No, I’ll just swing back by again,” he said. “I’m walking around shopping this morning. It’s cold out there, but sunny.”

  “The snow’s perfect at the moment if you ski or board.”

  We had fresh powder, the right temperature, and only a few clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. As was normal for us, a storm could roll in at any moment, but conditions were currently ideal for hitting the slopes.

  “Not allowed. It’s in my contracts that I don’t take those sorts of risks, but I plan on watching other people conquer the slopes today.”

  “Conquer” was such a good word for a superhero.

  “That’s fun too,” I said.

  My grandfather Chester came through the door between the retail part of the store and the back workshop. He cradled an old typewriter in the crook of his left arm and he wore a plastic band around his head with an attached magnifying glass, lit and positioned over one eye.

  “Clare, where in the world are all the small wrenches? Oh, pardon me—I didn’t know we had a customer.” He dialed the magnifying disk to the right and flipped off the light.

  “It’s all right. I was just . . . Hey, is that an old Royal?” Matt said as he stepped around the side of the counter and eyed the inky machine that Chester held. Once the return was repaired, we would also clean off the grime and make the red, otherwise undamaged case look as good as it had when it had first been used back in the 1950s.

  “It is, young man. A red Royal Quiet Deluxe.” Chester laughed. “Not quiet by today’s standards, of course, but back when it was first invented, it was. You know your typewriters,” Chester said, though I was fairly certain that he had no idea he was talking to one of the most popular movie stars in the world. He often mentioned that he’d lost track of all “those people” when Gene Kelly passed.

  “Actually, just that kind. I have one. My grandfather gave it to me. Are you fixing this one?”

  “We are. It’s part of what we do. We rescue words,” Chester said.

  “The Rescued Word. I get it. Stationery, typewriters. I like that. I didn’t even notice the typewriter part because I was so impressed by your paper and pens.”

  “We also restore books,” Marion blurted out.

  We all looked at her as her face reddened and her fingers went up to her now-pinched lips.

  “Very cool,” Matt said with a smile.

  If Marion didn’t faint or throw up in the next ten seconds, this would turn out to be a great memory for her.

  “Yes, we keep busy,” Chester said cheerily, as if to draw the attention away from his seemingly embarrassed great-granddaughter.

  “That’s good to know. Mine still works pretty well, but if it ever starts acting up, I’ll know where to send it.”

  The front door slammed open, so loudly that we all jumped before we turned to see who had come in. A brief low growl came from Baskerville, but I signaled to him to be quiet. His return expression told me he’d think about it.

  “Matt, I’ve been looking all over for you,” the man said. “You need to take a call.”

  Our new visitor was short and mostly bald, though the dark stubble on his face was duplicated on top of his head, as if he’d shaved everything above his neck a couple days ago and all the hair had grown back at the same speed. His John Lennon glasses reminded me of Chester’s, though the man’s were much thicker and his eyes were severely magnified behind them. Farsighted, not nearsighted like Chester and me. He wore a thin, ragged green jacket, a red and blue scarf that had seen better days, and black jeans. But it was more his attitude than his clothing choices that filled the room. He’d pushed open the door and let it slam without one hint of apology or an excuse-me. He might have stomped a foot if we hadn’t all noticed him.

  “It’s my morning off,” Matt said. He glanced back at us with an apologetic smile before turning again to face the man.

  “It’s . . . well, it’s the call you’ve been waiting for,” the man said.

  “Oh, I see. I’ll be there in just a second,” Matt said, much less enthusiastically than I would have predicted regarding something that was the call.

  The man hesitated. “All right. I’ll wait out here for you. Come as soon as you can.”

  “Will do.” Matt turned to us again. Before the man at the door had made it back outside, Matt said, “I’m so sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” I wanted to break the unwritten rule and be nosy. I wanted to know what was going on. Some movie deal? Maybe the call would include a big-time name like Steven Spielberg. Though I wasn’t prone to fangirl moments, it was impossible not to be curious. It was Matt Bane, after all. The call must be something important. I bit my lip, working to keep my curiosity under control.

  “I’ll be back this afternoon to pick up the cards.” His eyes moved to a cup full of shamrock pens that I’d placed on the end of the counter just that morning. They weren’t expensive pens, but novelties—bendable and squishy with glittery bright green shamrocks sticking up from their tops. They were comfortable to hold, but the writing part—the business part, according to Chester—wasn’t high quality. A pen salesmen had given them to us. He’d had “The Rescued Word” and “Bygone Alley, Star City, Utah” printed on the squishy green part. Despite the addition of our shop’s name and address, Chester despised them, thought they were a waste of ink. He understood, though, that some people might think they were fun, even though we were still two months away from Saint Patrick’s Day. He’d agreed to let me put them on the counter, but only give them away, not take “even a pittance” for them. Matt grabbed one of the pens. “I know someone who would love this—believes in good luck, four-leaf clovers and all. I’ll take one of these too.”

  He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

  “Oh, you can pay for the cards when you pick them up,” I interjected. “The pen is on us. My grandfather”—I nodded toward Chester—“would love for someone to enjoy one, but they’re not very high quality.”

  “Piece of crap, really,” Ches
ter said.

  “Please just take it,” I said. “Can I put it in a bag for you?”

  “Thanks. No, I’ll just . . .” Matt slipped the pen into his back pocket.

  Before he could turn to leave, the door slammed open again.

  “Matt Bane. You probably thought you could hide from me.”

  “Gracious,” Chester said as we all looked at the woman who’d come through.

  She was not dressed in typical film festival attire. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and the long dress she wore was reminiscent of the style that pioneer women had donned: blue, buttoned-up high neckline, long sleeves gathered at the wrists, an apron around her waist. I’d seen plenty of women dressed the way she was dressed, but that was only because I lived in Utah. Tucked into pockets of the state were families who still practiced polygamy, and some of the women in such families wore this sort of simple, old-fashioned, hand-sewn clothing.

  We had our own polygamous compound in a small valley outside Star City, but the three sister-wives in that family all dressed modernly, and two of them had jobs out in the real world. Though most of us thought the whole polygamy thing was weird, I’d gone to high school with one of our local sister-wives, so I’d tried to remain mum when the subject matter was brought up. How the party girl Linea Riley had transformed into Linea Christiansen, sister-wife number three, would always be a mystery to both me and my best friend, Jodie, though.

  Our current visitor wasn’t demure in her body language, like many of the polygamists were. And she knew Matt Bane. It wasn’t tough to peg her as an actress, but a not very well-known one. I didn’t recognize her, and though I wasn’t fanatical, I did go to movies.

  “Cassie, hey. I wasn’t hiding,” Matt said.

  “Right,” she said as she stepped forward, marching with noisy shoes halfway through the store and throwing her hands on her hips. She stopped and struck a pose directly next to the dark wood shelves that displayed pastel-colored writing papers.

  Matt sighed and looked at us again. “I’m sorry. I should know better than to think I might have even a few minutes of private time anymore. It’s the price we pay, I’m afraid. Thank you. I’ll be back this afternoon.”