Last Word to the Wise: A Christie Bookshop Mystery

Chapter 1

Rather Be Reading

Never had I so dreaded a trip to the library.

Me, Ellie Christie, devoted reader, bookseller, bibliophile, and library patron since infancy. In fact, had I ever approached a library with anything less than delight? I recalled only joy and anticipation.

Now, however…

From my frosty nose to my mitten-clad palms, I yearned to turn in my boots and flee. I knew exactly where I’d go. Home to my loft above my family’s bookshop, the Book Chalet. Once there, I’d dive into flannel PJs, curl up with Agatha C. (as in Cat) Christie, and read.

It was the perfect evening for a fluffy friend and a good book. Late January snow, fine as icing sugar, pirouetted to my eyelashes. I sighed. Wistful sentiment froze into a mocking cloud.

A night in with a book and your cat? No, no, no…Not for you. Not until you’ve endured this date!

I sighed, launching another taunt.

Hee, hee, ha, ha! Not just a date. A blind double date! In the library!

Every bit of that seemed wrong. Date. Double date. Blind date. Most of all, the involvement of the library. The library was a readers’ sanctuary, like the Book Chalet. It shouldn’t be sullied by potentially (no, almost definitely) stressful blind meetups.

I consoled myself. The library had always helped me out. It would tonight too, right? If the date went south, I could…what? Excuse myself and hide among the books?

No. I’d be found. The library was open and orderly. At the Book Chalet, I could disappear for days. Shelves reached for the ceiling. Aisles twisted like a maze. Customers could literally find themselves lost among the books.

My imagination turned fanciful, or perhaps just desperate.

A magical library cart, that’s what I needed. I pictured a metal cart, rattling to my rescue. I’d jump on. Together, we’d bump down the library steps and clatter through downtown, speeding for the gondola station, where a glass carriage would await to carry me up to the upper hamlet and home. I glanced over my shoulder. Midway up the mountain, lights twinkled through the snow, beckoning like summer fireflies.

I smiled under my scarf. Riding the gondola was always special. But I had a magic library cart! We’d fly!

A bookish woman could always dream.

A frigid gust carried away my fantasy. I turned back to reality and my companion in blind double-date dread, striding a few yards ahead.

We’ll be early! I called to my older sister.

Meg was approaching this evening like an impending root canal or cream pie aimed at her nose: Hurry up and get it over with.

I tried again. We’ll look overeager!

Meg stopped in the middle of Galena Street, thankfully free of traffic.

Can I admit something? Meg asked when I caught up.

Of course, I said and admired the long views from the middle of the road.

I’d sooooo rather be home reading.

You and me both! Let’s go hide in the Book Chalet! You can sleep over in the loft and tell me ghost stories like when we were kids.

Stop, my sister groaned. Too tempting…

I piled on cozy lures. Flannel PJs, hot cocoa, a fire in the hearth, Agatha on your lap…

Now you’re just being cruel, Meg said. She countered. "My place is closer. We run there. You’ll stay overnight. We’ll watch a Masterpiece Mystery and eat cookies. Gram and Rosie are making a batch right now. Chocolate chip…"

It was my turn to groan. Cookies, a mystery, Gram, and my niece…that combo sounded divine. Meg and my niece—somehow transformed into a fourteen-year-old—had lived with our grandmother since our beloved Gramps passed away over a decade ago.

The arrangement suited everyone. Gram adored the company and her grandchildren. Meg, a single mom since before Rosie was even born, enjoyed parenting support. Rosie saw Gram as her BFF from another era and was soaking in Gram’s secrets to life, bookbinding, and legendary baking.

Since moving back home, I’d benefited too. Delicious dinners. Luxurious leftovers. Movie nights and sleepovers in the coziest guest bedroom in town…

Or, hey, we start on the taxes? Meg suggested. "That sounds like more fun. Pluck our eyebrows? Except Rosie already tortured my brows and convinced me to wear contacts. If my eyeballs freeze, that’s it, I’m going home."

I smiled. Misery did adore company. You’ll need your sister to guide you.

Noble of you. Maybe one of us could slip and sprain an ankle? Meg slid a boot over snow packed to ice. She looked almost hopeful.

Headlights turned our way a few blocks up. Get hit in the road? I suggested.

Fine by me, my sister muttered.

I slipped my mittened hand through Meg’s elbow and tugged her along. As we strolled, I told her about the magic library cart. Her laughter warmed me. The five years that separated us seemed like nothing in our thirties, but a part of me would always be the little sis eager to make her big sister chuckle. I was glad to have her at my side tonight and even happier to be reunited after my years abroad, traveling the world on bookish gigs.

So, Meg said. "There is some hope for this evening?"

The magic of the library. Carts wouldn’t fly, but I believed in the enchanting powers of buildings filled with books.

Bet I’ll still win, Meg grumbled.

When it came to dating, Meg and I lugged around baggage heavier than trunks of books. Since learning of our impending blind dates, we’d been engaged in a bit of dark humor in the form of sisterly competition. Who had the worst dating record?

Meg, hands down, held the lead. Fifteen years ago, she’d been stood up at the altar by Rosie’s dad.

Few could compete with that heartbreak and humiliation. However, I’d had a recent surge. First there’d been my long-term boyfriend. I’d thought we loved the same things. Bookshops, travel, literary landscapes, each other. I also secretly—foolishly—assumed he’d propose. Any day now, I’d think, every few years or so. Only when I stepped up and asked did I learn he wasn’t the marrying type. Turned out, he wasn’t the one-woman type either.

Our breakup left me adrift, but after some wallowing in tear-jerker novels, I moved on. Literally. Last October, I winged back home to little Last Word for my dream job, working with my big sis as fifth-generation caretakers of our family’s historic bookshop. I vowed to start a fresh chapter, to seek out new friendships and rekindle old acquaintances. A budding romance even seemed possible.

But then…I hadn’t even unpacked when murder struck my seemingly idyllic hometown.

My boot slipped. I steadied myself, physically and emotionally.

It was too soon to prod at the scars of last November. Way too soon to think about dating, too!

I returned to the fun fantasy. We need an escape word. If either of us says it, we bolt for the nearest cart.

Great idea. Meg pondered. How about ‘book’? ‘Book it’?

Mmm…Nice, but we’ll be in the library, and supposedly our dates are bookish matches? Presumably, they’ll talk books?

Dare we hope? Meg thought some more. Okay, how about ‘ostrich’?

I laughed. When we were young, our parents swapped out any foul word with ostrich. Not that our quiet father or love-the-world hippie mother made a habit of cursing, but they got a kick out of ostrich.

What the ostrich? Oh, ostrich! We’re up Ostrich Creek now, girls.

Perfect, I said, both in meaning and rarity.

Meg and I stopped in front of a grand-dame Queen Anne with gingerbread trim and fish-scale shingles painted in purples, golds, and leafy green. The Last Word Free Library began its life as a gold-baron’s abode. Now, like the Book Chalet, it was a treasure-trove for bibliophiles.

And I wanted to run from it.

Remind me why we agreed to this? I asked. Rhetorical question. We agreed because we loved our cousin Lorna. Also, because we were too nice and thus susceptible to Lorna’s guilt-tripping.

Lorna fell between Meg and me in age, thirty-five to my thirty-three and Meg’s thirty-eight. She had a husband, two kids, a nice house, and a Great Dane. What she hadn’t found was her thing, her life’s work. I’d lost count of Lorna’s self-started enterprises. Each time, she’d swear she’d found The One. That is, until problems sprouted and Lorna careened like a moth toward the flames of her next big idea.

Her newest endeavor was Bibliophiles Find Love, matchmaking based on bookish interests. Lorna wanted dating guinea pigs to test her concept before an official Valentine’s Day launch. That’s where we came in.

Meg quoted Lorna’s much-repeated sales pitch in a dire monotone. ‘We’ll delight in a full matchmaking package, a private, catered dinner in an exclusive dining space, the public library.’

Lucky us, I said, matching her tone.

Although, dinner in the library did sound pretty cool.

Foolish us, Meg said. Want to bet we’re the only ones to sign up? Well, us and our dates, wherever Lorna found them.

A fresh horror joined my dread. Lorna soft-opened for applications about three weeks ago. What if no one applied? Our cousin had no boundaries. I pictured her plucking random ringless guys from the produce aisle, ski slopes, or street corners.

My boots inched backward. On their own accord—I couldn’t be blamed for their actions.

Meg steadied me.

Maybe, Meg said, just possibly, Lorna has a winning idea this time. Matchmaking by reading tastes is a great idea. In any case, it can’t be worse than our past dating.

Dear Meg was an optimist at heart, which was truly a wonder, and not just because of her dating history. Meg was a reader, a lover of mysteries.

As we climbed the library steps, I held on to my sister’s arm. I clung even tighter to my safe and sensible dread.

Can’t be any worse? Any mystery reader knows, things can always get worse, with a blind double-twist along the way.

Chapter 2

Head in the Sand

Meg tugged open the heavy oak door, and we stepped into the vestibule of the Last Word Free Library. The wood-paneled room held back drafts and allowed all-hours book returns in an antique vault. However, the vestibule was more than practical.

It was a portal.

As a kid, the vestibule had been my wardrobe to Narnia, my time-traveling phone box, a wormhole to worlds past, present, and unknown. All the places that books could take me. I might have grown up in a bookshop, but the library was always special.

Meg and I stomped our boots on a rugged runner. To either side, marble tiles gleamed, dark as the deepest waters, spun with silvery threads like celestial rivers.

If we stepped off, we might sink down, down, down…

I tore my eyes from their depths. High above, bat wings glowed, the flared globes of an arts-and-crafts chandelier. A sway took hold, though I swore I was standing still.

The portal! I was back inside, but not in a giddy kid I’m Nancy Drew off to explore a Gothic mansion kind of way. I had the off-kilter feeling Meg and I were about to step into another world, one without an escape hatch.

Ready? Meg drew a breath.

No. But there was no turning back. We’d promised Lorna.

Our cousin waited on the other side. Lorna tapped a suede boot on floral carpet.

There you are! she said. Finally!

Finally? Despite our best foot-dragging efforts, Meg and I had arrived right on time, as confirmed by the Westminster Chimes of a grandfather clock.

Six o’clock on the dot, Meg said.

Yes, Lorna acknowledged. "But the library closed at five. I was here. I expected you to be too."

Meg and I exchanged a glance and sisterly telepathy, in which we agreed on two things. One, this was news to us. Two, we wouldn’t argue. Lorna would have opening-night jitters too. We smiled and shed our winterwear, which Lorna insisted on taking.

Lorna marched our coats to the circulation desk at the end of the wide entry hall. Rooms spoked to either side—young adult, kids, reference, periodicals, and adult fiction and nonfiction.

I nudged Meg. Take note: The magic cart will have to detour to circulation or we’ll freeze.

Meg grinned. I’ll risk frostbite.

Lorna returned and we composed polite smiles.

You both look lovely, Lorna said.

We had Rosie to thank. My niece had taken charge of our date looks, deeming us hopeless. So true!

Mascara weighted my lashes. Hairspray stiffened my naturally wavy layers. I could still detect a lingering hint of chemical cloud.

Meg smoothed her single-layer auburn locks, which Rosie had allowed to flow loose at Meg’s shoulders. "You look lovely, Lorna," Meg said.

Lorna did. She also looked dramatically different from her last professional persona, a fiery redhead hawking Lorna’s Doom Fire on the Mountain Hot Sauce. Tonight, Lorna could be on her way to a Downton Abbey tea or Harlequin cover shoot. Corn-silk curls cascaded to her boosted bosom. Her dress floated in gauzy layers and romantic florals.

She turned her saleswoman smile on us. Bright, forceful, a touch terrifying. "You girls are in for a treat. Meg, your biblio-match is tall, handsome, and very successful! Dashing, like your own Great Gatsby!"

My sister frowned.

Yeah, Jay Gatsby hadn’t exactly enjoyed a happy ending.

Lorna bubbled on. His name is Darcy! Joe Darcy! Get it? Like in that classic by whatshername?

Jane Austen, said Meg, looking stunned.

Was that how Lorna had found our dates? Scouring the phone book for bookish names? Who would she have for me? A moody Heathcliff? Mr. Rochester? No way am I playing Jane Eyre!

Lorna grabbed my elbow. Ellie, can you guess who I have for you?

Yes! Who was another leading cad disguised as a romantic? A draft slithered by with an answer. Maxim de Winter! I first read Rebecca as a teenager and considered it a romance. Right! I reread it a few years back and was appalled. Maxim de Winter wasn’t just high-maintenance, prudish, and brooding, he was a—

Lorna squeezed my funny bone, hard. "Ellie, I’ve found you a doctor. A doctor of books!"

A book repairer? That sounded promising. I was about to ask for more details when voices sounded in the vestibule.

The portal groaned. Or was that Meg?

Two men stepped inside, joined by wintery scents of frosty air and woodsmoke. One fit conventional definitions of dashing. Tall with a swoop of dark hair, an aristocratic air, and a well-cut wool coat. The other wore tweed from his brimmed cap and scratchy-looking scarf to a jacket with bronzy velvet elbow patches.

From Lorna’s descriptions, I could guess who was matched with whom. Meg with dashing guy. Me with tweedy.

Fine by me. I adored elbow patches and bookish looks, and I was definitely off dashing. All good so far, except tweedy’s frown was so furrowed it knocked his thick-framed glasses off-kilter.

I could have run you over, he grumbled, removing the glasses to let fog slip from their lenses. You should watch where you’re going, even in a crosswalk. A night like this…The roads are pure ice. My brakes shuddered.

A cautious driver, I told myself, and nodded approvingly.

Tall and dashing waved off the incident. Thankfully you and your shuddering brakes missed their mark. He turned a beaming smile to we three cousins. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this date for the world.

Lorna patted her breast, which was appropriately heaving. Thank goodness you’re both here safely and right on time.

On time? Hadn’t Lorna just scolded our promptness? I didn’t have time to question my cousin.

She tugged us forward for introductions. Bibliophile and world-traveler Ellie Christie, meet your brainy book doctor, Waldon O’Grady, professor of English literature at Mid-Mountain College. Meg Christie, bookseller extraordinaire, meet your mystery-loving match, entrepreneur and philanthropist Joe Darcy. Joe heads his own wealth-management firm, plus a children’s literacy foundation.

Joe thrust a hand toward Meg, an invitation for an old-fashioned shake.

Waldon removed his hat and gripped it in both hands.

Don’t be shy, Lorna declared. "Ellie, get in there! You two are perfect for each other."

With that, my cousin shoved me into the greeting I feared most: the air kiss and its oh-so-many ways to mess up. Which cheek? How many kisses? How distant from actual skin? How smoochy?

On the upside, Waldon and I already had something in common. Awkward kissing. Propelled by Lorna, I plunged toward Waldon’s left cheek. Caught by surprise, he jerked left too. We swerved—again in the same direction. We wobbled, head-stuttered, ran out of space, and—inevitably—collided.

My too-smoochy kiss landed on his earlobe. Waldon got caught up in my aerosol-stiffened hair. He backed away in wide-eyed horror.

My misery turned to Meg but found no company. Joe Darcy held my sister’s hand in both of his. Meg smiled into eyes a romance novelist would describe with a beverage menu: dark espresso. Americano, tall. Those yummy eyes took in Meg the way I’d gaze upon a new book by a favorite author.

With joy that something long-awaited was finally in my grasp.

With heart-fluttering anticipation.

With an I can’t wait to gobble you up hunger?

I frowned. I was being overly dramatic, I told myself. I was almost convinced when a gong reverberated, loud enough to flutter pages.

Waldon matched my startled jump. Ah, another commonality.

Bibliophiles, trilled a high-pitched voice. Appetizers will begin shortly.

Lorna’s fellow matchmaker, Marigold Jones, resembled her floral namesake, from her copper hair with its thick fringe of bangs to her leaf-appliquéd cardigan and red ruffled skirt. She was in her forties, I guessed, and a children’s librarian by day. The latter comforted me. If she could get kids to sit still for story hour, she could manage four adults on a date.

Marigold led us to the reference room with its dark wood and leatherbound treasures.

I gasped. Candles flickered on shelves, inches from antique pages. Flames blazed and tapers dripped at each end of the mahogany research table.

Oh, said Meg. How, ah…

Romantic! Lorna supplied.

I supposed romantic was a synonym for flammable.

Lorna bubbled on. Remember when I sold Serenity Flame Candles? Pure soy, high-drama drips. I have a bunch in my garage still. Available for purchase—friends and family discount! Fire sale, ha!

Lorna was a born salesperson. All she lacked were commitment, a healthy dose of caution, and actual sales.

Marigold directed us to our assigned seats with formal intonations. I was Eleanor J. Christie, Joe was Joseph Harrison Darcy, and my date was Associate Professor Waldon Q. O’Grady, PhD, MFA.

I was across from Waldon, with Joe at my right and Meg diagonally across. Perfect—I could catch Meg’s eye and mouth ostrich.

Except, as the dinner wore on, Meg had eyes only for her date. Meanwhile, Waldon’s gaze fixed somewhere between my shoulder and Mr. Darcy’s head, as unwavering as his topic of conversation. Waldon spoke only of his literary idol, the great Irish author Samuel Beckett.

Initially, I blamed myself. I should have asked about his middle name.

Instead, after Marigold plunked down Greek salads catered by an Italian restaurant, I asked Waldon (Dr. Waldon, he’d corrected) what he liked to read.

Big mistake.

He read Beckett, books about Beckett, and peer-reviewed articles on all things Beckett.

I’m drawn to the refined absurdity, Dr. Waldon said.

That made one of us. I sipped sensible Syrah and tallied the evening’s absurdities.

Candles. Thankfully, their flames were down in number. Marigold extinguished some when she swooped in with plates of pasta.

The meal. The food was delicious, but what sadist chose spaghetti and meatballs for a first date? A date in the library! I twirled a single strand, drenched in red sauce, all too aware of the antique books inches behind me.

My attire. Why hadn’t I worn black? Rosie said the sage in my sweater dress set off the hazel in my eyes. More realistically, my eyes were brown and the dress was a one-piece palette for ragu splatters.

Dr. Waldon? Did he make the absurd list? No, I decided, but he was a bore and a reminder that all things have their limits, even talk of books.

I tuned back in and confirmed he was still belaboring Beckett—specifically, his favorite play, Waiting for Godot.

Pavlov’s yawn rose. I gulped it back. That play! I understood its literary importance, but I’d also fallen asleep in it three times. I’d only been three times, twice with precautionary pre-play naps. I murmured to let Waldon know I was still awake.

Not that he cared.

Sublime futility, he said, staring toward Mr. Darcy’s good hair.

Would he notice if I sank under the table and crawled away? Doubtful.

Would Meg? Also unlikely. She and Mr. Darcy locked eyes. Over Waldon’s talk of the forever-late Godot, I caught snippets of their conversation.

Meg spoke animatedly of her favorite mysteries. Mr. Darcy listened with apparent rapt enthusiasm. The man was a bookish hero!

And I was an eavesdropper.

I sighed and turned to a favorite distraction, bookish list-making. Topic: favorite Austen novels.

Pride and Prejudice had to be number one. Then? Persuasion. Its poor heroine, wracked with romantic regret and already an old maid in her twenties. Meg and I would be beyond ancient by such standards. What was number three?

A shift in Dr. Waldon’s drone jerked me back. Had his words risen in pitch? A question? I attempted a fast rewind and failed.

Ah, sorry, what? Okay, so I was also failing at scintillating conversation.

Dr. Waldon had just stuffed a pasta clump the size of an osprey nest into his mouth. He chewed, thoroughly. He dabbed his napkin, meticulously. Finally, he said, "What are you reading?"

My favorite dinner topic! Karma was rewarding me.

Christie, I said. Agatha Christie, of course. I’ve read all her books, but I’m going back to her short stories.

I was about to elaborate when Dr. Waldon made an odd sound. A throat tickle? A bit of Parmesan or pepper gone down the wrong way?

A scoff?

No one would scoff at Agatha Christie. I’d misheard, surely.

Do you, ah, like Christie? As soon as the words were out, I regretted them. I’d just broken a key rule of small talk with strangers. Never ask a question that may invite a disagreeable answer.

He shrugged.

Uh-oh…

Dr. Waldon laid down his cutlery and tented his fingertips. I braced myself for professing.

Literarily speaking, he said, and proceeded to lecture. Christie, he contended, was overrated. More of a popular author.

Popular was a problem?

She’s the best-selling author of all time, I said. Over two billion copies sold. The number boggled the mind.

Dr. Waldon raised an eyebrow and a smile. No, correction, a smirk.

I squirmed like a called-out student. Best-selling after the Bible and Shakespeare, I qualified. "Best-selling novelist. She also wrote plays too, as I’m sure you know. The Mousetrap still sets the record for longest-running performance." Only the pandemic had temporarily put it on pause.

Yes, Dr. Waldon said blandly. I must always remind my students, popularity does not equate to quality.

As he meticulously quartered and chewed meatballs, I rehearsed a retort.

People should read what they like! If you liked a book, then it was quality to you!

I drowned my fuming in a glug of Syrah. I wouldn’t convince Dr. Waldon, and arguing certainly wouldn’t improve this date.

I did have to ask, though. Have you read Christie? What I really disliked was people dismissing books they hadn’t read.

Me? I’ve sampled enough to know. I find her characters and plots…silly? Extreme? Jane Marple, for instance. Could an older woman sitting around knitting solve all those crimes from her armchair?

Yes! And had he just picked on Agatha Christie, to a Christie? We Last Word Christies sadly had no relation to our favorite author, but still—that was personal! In a tiny act of absurd rebellion, I raised my wineglass and whispered, "Oh, ostrich!"

Ostrich? Indeed! Dr. Waldon suddenly looked interested. Yes, you’re absolutely right, Eleanor. We cannot see what others see, in books or life. To quote the great Beckett, ‘Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.’

I telepathed a scream Meg’s way: Ostrich! He said ostrich!

Meg was too busy glowing.

I aimed my fork at a globby clump of pasta and twirled with abandon. The candles dripped and flickered. Dr. Waldon resumed talk of Beckett, and I stuck my head in the sand until finally, blessedly, the date was done.

We stepped through the vestibule into frigid air as sweet as a summer’s evening. Our matchmakers waved from the library steps. I could have danced, twirled, and skipped.

I politely restrained myself.

Dr. Waldon didn’t. He aimed his keychain down the street. A black hatchback issued a cheery beep-beep.

Meg and Mr. Darcy lingered, still starry-eyed.

Dr. Waldon frowned their way, then remembered me. Ah…Thank you for the enjoyable evening.

Thank you! I said, overcome with smiles. I was free!

Can I give you a ride anywhere? my date asked. He shot a dubious glance up into the darkness, as if already anticipating shuddering brakes.

My smile could have melted the snowpack. No, thanks. It’ll be good to work off all that pasta.

All right. Dr. Waldon gave up way too easily. "I’ll hope to see