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  For Beverly

  ONE

  The bell above the bookshop’s front door jingled. I scooted my chair and stood from where I’d been working at the back table and peered around the dividing half wall. I saw Rosie at her desk. She’d been so quiet that I wasn’t sure, but there she was, standing to help the customer who had entered. I could get back to my project. However, when I caught sight of who’d come in, I paused again, curious enough to join Rosie and Hector—the cutest dog in the world—up front.

  A young man had come through the door. He stomped snow from his boots and swiped some off the top of his pillbox-like cap before standing at attention. “Ms. Delaney Nichols, please,” he said.

  “Can I help ye?” Rosie asked as I made my way to the front.

  Suited in black from head to toe and wearing that unexpected cap, the young man squinted at her. “Are you Ms. Nichols?”

  “I’m Delaney,” I said as I put my hand on Rosie’s arm. He seemed harmless enough.

  “Aye?” He smiled. “I have a note for you.”

  He and I met halfway, and he handed me the folded note.

  “Thank you,” I said automatically.

  The messenger nodded, smiled again, and then left as if in a big hurry to get out of there. I blinked at his exit, shared some raised eyebrows with Rosie, and then read the note aloud:

  Ms. Delaney Nichols,

  Your presence is requested this afternoon at 2:00 at Deacon Brodie’s Tavern to discuss Ms. Shelagh O’Conner’s vast collection of rare and valuable books. Please don’t be tardy.

  Sincerely and with gratitude,

  Ms. O’Conner’s representative, Mr. Louis Chantrell.

  “Well, isn’t that strange?” I said. “What about the collection would we be discussing?”

  “Aye.” Rosie moved closer to me and peered down at the note.

  “Do you think it’s … for real? Maybe the books are for sale?” I asked.

  “I dinnae ken.”

  I laughed once and glanced at the time. It was slightly after noon. “Do you think I should just go and find out?”

  Hector, a miniature Yorkie who lived with Rosie but took care of us all, trotted to my feet and put his paws on my boot. I lifted him to the crook of my arm.

  “Do ye ken who she is?” Rosie asked.

  “I do, but only because of an article I read recently. It was about her and her books, not to mention her mansion and all her money. Brigid wrote it.”

  “Aye. I ken who she is and I read that too.”

  “You’re reading Brigid’s articles now?” I said with a small smile.

  Rosie’s mouth quirked. “Sometimes.”

  “She’s really good, huh?”

  “Not as good as you.”

  “I’m not a journalist.”

  “Och, that’s not what I meant.”

  I laughed. “Well, thank you, but she is a fine journalist.”

  Rosie, my grandmotherly coworker, was protective of me and my recent marriage to Tom Shannon, handsome pub owner—who had also, at one time, been boyfriend to Brigid McBride, pretty blonde newspaper journalist. Brigid and I had become friends, sort of, but that hadn’t stopped her from barely reining in snarky comments regarding Tom’s previous commitment issues. To his credit he was ashamed of his behavior regarding their breakup, and he’d apologized to Brigid. She wasn’t ready to let it go.

  Rosie was the most loyal person I’d ever known, and she would always have a suspicious side-eye for Brigid. That was okay.

  “Anyway,” Rosie continued, “what do ye think? Are ye intrigued by the inveet?”

  I looked at the note and then out the front window. I hadn’t paid attention to where the messenger had gone. Grassmarket Square’s first-of-the-season snowfall had turned the world into a winter wonderland.

  “I wish I could ask someone more questions first. Maybe I could find”—I looked at the note—“Louis Chantrell.”

  Rosie shrugged. “I doubt it. It all seems purposefully mysterious and delivered with little time tae spare.”

  Briefly, I listened for a bookish voice. My intuition sometimes spoke to me, lent some guidance, using the voices of characters from books I’d read. But all was silent; there wasn’t even enough information for my intuition to have an opinion.

  “Yes, mysterious. Weird,” I said.

  “A wee bit. Are ye going?”

  “I’m interested in any book collection, of course, but something about it feels manipulative.”

  “Aye, it does, but if ye want tae go, I dinnae think there’d be any harm done.”

  “It is a public place.”

  “Aye,” she said with a distinctly doubtful tone.

  “What?” I prodded, wondering what was bothering her.

  Rosie looked at me a long moment. “I think ye should go, but I think ye should call Edwin first. Not because ye need permission from him but because he’s met Shelagh a few times I think, and he can give you some insight as tae her personality.” She nodded toward the note. “I doubt you’ll be able to reach Mr. Chantrell.”

  “Good plan.” I glanced at the time again. “Have you ever met Shelagh O’Conner?”

  “Aye, a long time ago, she came into the shop. She didnae stay long but searched for some books. When she didnae find what she was looking for, she left and never came back in, as far as I ken.”

  “How does she know me?” I asked.

  “Ye’ve been here a while. Ye have a reputation.”

  “Really? Well, I hope it’s a good one.”

  “I believe it is.” Rosie smiled, but only briefly. “Except with the local police—they might be a wee bit worrit about ye.”

  Inspector Winters, local police inspector and friend, had an esteemed place on my phone’s favorite-numbers list, but it wasn’t necessarily because I’d been in trouble. I’d just found myself in places where a variety of troubles had occurred, and I’d helped a little to clean up the messes. Inspector Winters and I got along just fine.

  Still holding Hector, I made my way to the table in the back.

  My younger coworker, Hamlet, usually worked in this space, but he wasn’t in yet. I’d been the first one to the bookshop today and had been briefly worried that Rosie hadn’t arrived before me as she usually did—it was cold and wintry out there—so I’d stayed on this side of the shop instead of moving to the other side, where my desk was located. By the time Rosie came in, fifteen minutes later, I was enjoying the snowy view and my cozy comfort too much to move.

  The Cracked Spine, the Edinburgh bookshop that had called to me from over the sea—Leave your safe Kansas world and come live an adventure—was made of two separate buildings that had, many years earlier, been remodeled and connected by a short hallway up a flight of stairs on each side. I’d named the two sides the light side and the dark side, but simply because the light just wasn’t quite as good over there—until you went inside my workspace, the warehouse, at
the very back of the building. The warehouse was behind a locked door and topped off by a line of windows that, even when it was cloudy outside, let through plenty of natural light. With the help of a bright desk lamp or two, it was easy for me to work, day and night.

  The small bookshop’s light side, the side where the customers came in to browse and buy, had been homey today … well, once I’d turned up the old radiator. Even if I hadn’t wanted to wait for Rosie, I might have stayed. The falling snow out the front windows made a beautiful backdrop for the pedestrian traffic moving through Grassmarket Square. I’d seen it snow in Edinburgh the year before, but it was always hard to resist a season’s first fall.

  The book-filled old wooden shelves were in decent shape, and anything newer would have seemed misplaced atop the scuffed marble floor. The shelves were more organized than I’d imagined I could make them. But I had worked hard, and my system was pretty good. My current project was to create a master list of the location of each and every book, not just the sections they were shelved in. It was a huge process, but I was ready to tackle it, and I’d been jotting down some spreadsheet ideas when the messenger came in.

  Rosie had an office on the dark side too, but mostly she sat at her desk on this side. She preferred talking to customers, welcoming them in with her innate warmth. I’d recently learned that she’d even sold a book to the queen a few years back. Yes, that queen.

  Though Edwin MacAlister owned The Cracked Spine, and it seemed almost everyone knew who he was, it was Rosie who brought people back in time and time again.

  I would be honored if my reputation at the bookshop were anywhere near hers, but I knew it wasn’t. As I thought about the note, I decided that it must have been Edwin who’d told someone—Mr. Chantrell or Ms. O’Conner—that I was the person to work with if a large book collection were being discussed, perhaps put up for sale.

  I was thrilled that Edwin trusted me with such tasks and not surprised that he might have forgotten to mention this one. Lately he’d been stepping away more and more from the bookshop. In his mid-seventies, he’d found a new romance with an Irishwoman who owned and operated a local restaurant. When he wasn’t there, they were together somewhere else, enjoying everything from mundane everyday tasks to traveling the world. They’d recently returned from Australia.

  It’s why he’d hired me—so he could work as minimally as possible and have more fun in his older years. I was happy to accommodate, and his lady love had been a perfectly timed surprise.

  Settling Hector on my lap, I grabbed my phone and rang Edwin.

  “Lass, hello, how are you this beautiful snowy morning?” he answered.

  “I’m well. You sound cheery.”

  “It’s a lovely wintry day.”

  I smiled. “Yes, it is. Are you heading into the shop this morning?”

  “I can if you need me.”

  “No, no, it’s all right.” I unfolded the note again. “A messenger just stopped by the shop and delivered a letter, but I’m wondering if you might know about it.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “It’s from a representative of Shelagh O’Conner. It’s signed by a man named Louis Chantrell. They’ve asked me to meet them this afternoon at Deacon Brodie’s pub to discuss Shelagh’s book collection.”

  “Aye? Of course, I know Shelagh some, and her love of books is legendary, but I don’t know Mr. Chantrell. The invitation is completely fascinating.”

  “I thought so too, but I wondered if they’d heard about me because of you.”

  “No, not at all. Are you going to go?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Seems safe enough. Aye. If her collection is being put up for sale, I would most definitely be interested in it. No budget. Pay what you think they’re worth.”

  I laughed. “I have the best job ever.”

  “No, lass. I do.”

  I laughed again. “All right. I’ll keep you up to date.”

  “Have fun.” Edwin disconnected the call before I could ask another question. I was going to do as Rosie’d suggested and inquire about Shelagh’s personality, but I put the phone down and looked at Hector. “I think I remember reading that there was something unusual about her collection. Do you suppose Hamlet still has a copy of that paper?”

  Hector panted up at me as Rosie came around the corner. “What did Edwin say?”

  “That I could buy the books no matter the budget. That sounds extreme, Rosie, but I appreciate the leeway. I didn’t get a chance to ask about Shelagh’s personality, but Edwin said he’s aware of her love of books. He didn’t even hesitate.”

  I turned in the chair and reached for the stack of newspapers Hamlet kept on top of a file cabinet. Brigid worked for one of Edinburgh’s alternative papers, the Renegade Scot. Despite the fate of many of them, this one was defying all odds and doing very well, much of the credit belonging to Brigid herself. She could be highly irritating, but she was quite good at getting and writing a story, and that skill brought in lots of paying advertisers.

  I found the edition from a couple weeks earlier and spread it open on the table. Hector stood up and put his front paws on the table so he could better read too. Rosie sat in a chair across from us.

  “Here it is, the article about Shelagh O’Conner,” I said. I read aloud, relearning that Ms. O’Conner was fond of all literature but most particularly anything written by Scottish native Robert Louis Stevenson. And though Ms. O’Conner enjoyed books like Stevenson’s Treasure Island and others, it was his Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde that she loved the most.

  Ms. O’Conner had multiple shelves filled with copies of the short horror novel from the late 1800s, many of her copies considered priceless.

  I looked at Rosie. “Is that what you meant about her personality?”

  Rosie had fallen into thought. I didn’t want to interrupt, but she was silent a long time.

  “Oh, lass, it’s a wee bit more than that. Ye might not want tae go after all,” she finally said.

  “Why?”

  “Maybe Brigid simply isnae auld enough tae ken some things, things that happened a long time ago. It wasnae in the article, and I didnae even think aboot it until right this minute. Michty me.”

  Hamlet usually translated the Scots that my older friends spoke, but he wasn’t here. “Michty me?”

  Rosie looked at me. “It means I’m surprised. I should have remembered something sooner.”

  “Remembered what?”

  “There’s a story from back in the 1960s, I believe, back when Ms. O’Conner herself was caught imitating a beggar on the street; just like in that book, she dressed as a Mr. Hyde. She was even suspected of murder but was never officially arrested. I wish I could remember all the details.”

  “What? Really?” I looked at the article and then back at Rosie. “How does Brigid not know something so juicy?”

  Rosie shrugged. “Maybe she’s not as good as ye think.”

  Hector barked. I closed the paper.

  “What else do you remember?” I asked.

  “It was strange. Shelagh was strange. Oh, it’s been such a long time, and she was young enough tae do strange things without being held too accountable, I suppose. When she was released, it all blew over. At least that’s what I remember. Once that happened, the story disappeared. It was much more interesting to think that a young, rich woman who had everything was misbehaving, committing murder, rather than just dressing up and playing a part, roaming the streets.”

  “Did they catch the killer? Who was killed?”

  “I cannae remember, Delaney. I’m sorry, but it’s been a long time, and we all came tae know Shelagh as a lovely, philanthropic woman who gives when it’s most needed. She’s very charitable.”

  This new information solidified my plans. “I’m going to that meeting. Want to come with me? Hamlet will be here soon, so he can watch the shop.”

  “No, lass, ye go and report back.” She squinted. “It occurs to me, though, t
hat ye might not know something else ye should. Deacon Brodie’s Tavern—it’s said that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was at least partially inspired by the real Master Brodie.”

  “Who was Master Brodie?”

  “A man who built cabinets, for Mr. Stevenson’s family and others. He led a double life and stole from his clients. He went sae far as tae have duplicate house keys made so he could later sneak back in where he’d worked tae take the valuables.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was hanged before he was an old man. A big crowd showed up to watch his execution, his posture proud and his clothing regal. He was quite the character. We learned about him in school. Now, that part I remember.”

  “Goodness,” I said as the bell above the front door jingled again. Hector seemed to shrug as Rosie stood to greet whoever had come in.

  I was still lost in the stories of Deacon Brodie, Dr. Jekyll, and Mr. Hyde—as well as Shelagh’s strange behavior and the murder that Brigid McBride, fierce reporter, had forgotten to add to her story. What was going on here? Two o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.

  TWO

  I wrapped the scarf around my head and was glad for the boots my new husband had recently gifted me when we heard that snow was on the way.

  “Didn’t you have snow in Kansas?”

  “Of course we did. Lots of it. I just didn’t think there was as much in Scotland, so I didn’t bring my boots.”

  “You need boots.”

  Too anxious to sit still, I left the bookshop early and decided to first stop by Tom’s pub, “The Smallest Pub in Scotland.” Well, it was mine too now. We’d gone through all the legal things you were supposed to go through to ensure that it became mine and mine alone if something happened to Tom. He’d insisted, and I hadn’t argued. I wasn’t made for running a pub, and I really hoped Tom and I would never have to face a tragedy that would bring such a thing to fruition, but I understood the need to be prepared.

  “Delaney, hello,” Rodger said from behind the bar as I stepped inside. It wasn’t busy—probably because of the snow and the fact that there wasn’t any soccer (football) showing on the television secured to the ceiling in the front corner. There was only one customer in the place, and after he sent me a friendly smile, he turned his attention out the front window. I smiled back, but as I made my way to the bar, I wondered if I should have stopped to say hello. He didn’t seem familiar, but there was something about the smile that made me wonder if I’d forgotten meeting him. Maybe I’d remember by the time I left.