The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim (14 page)

The sisters finished their meal and Miss Prim paid, leaving cash on the table,
steadfastly blocking Celia’s numerous attempts to pick up the check. As they made their way to the front door, Miss Prim literally bumped into Detective Dawes, who explained that he sometimes indulged a hankering for Maude’s chili dogs.

“My sister, Miss Celia Prim,” Miss Prim said, gesturing to Celia by way of introduction. “Tell me, Detective, has there been progress
on any front?”

“
Nothing since we spoke at your cottage yesterday. But I’ll keep you posted. You’ll do the same for me, yes?”

“Of course, Detective. Would you excuse us? Celia would like to see more of Greenfield before she leaves for home, so we have limited time.”

As Miss Prim untied Bruno’s leash from the bike rack, Celia folded her arms and peered down at her sister, a knowing smile on her lips. “‘Nothing since we spoke
at your cottage
yesterday’? Well, Sister, I think we now know the identity of the third party in your love triangle. And do not deny it, dearest, for I know you
too well
.”

Cambria & Calibri

As the sisters
strolled along the east side of the square, Miss Prim noticed a bookshelf displayed outside Cambria & Calibri. She squinted (her vision wasn’t
quite
what it used to be) and read the hand-lettered sign over the display:

HALF PRICE

BEAUTIFUL BOOKS ON ARCANE SUBJECTS OF LIMITED INTEREST

“Let’s visit the bookshop,” Miss Prim suggested to Celia. “I haven’t been inside yet.” As Celia nodded enthusiastic ass
ent, Miss Prim added, “I must warn you, the shopkeeper may be a bit of a termagant.”

“This town seems to have more than its share of them,” Celia noted,
perhaps an allusion to the dark vibrations emanating from Miss Lavelle. “But fear not, Sister. If we can brave the bookshops of New York City, the two of us can certainly take on”—she looked at the sign over the bookshop’s window—“Cambria & Calibri.”

As they approached C & C, Miss Prim pondered her sister’s point. As a young woman,
Miss Prim had ventured into the City’s wonderful old bookstores—so many of them now gone—expecting to meet a society of kindred spirits.
Here
, she’d thought,
I shall find my niche, those burgeoning and established intellectuals who love learning, who yearn for witty discussion about the great books as well as the current best sellers, who spend their money on books first and on life’s other necessities second.

Her disappointment had been extreme. Employees, it seemed, did not wish to help but rather to condescend. She once asked a clerk for a copy of Thomas Nashe’s
The Unfortunate Traveller
, which had been assigned in her Birth of the Novel class. The clerk had responded peremptorily, “The book’s title is
Jack Wilton
,” walking away without a further word and without helping her find the book. Her efforts to engage other shoppers in conversation had met with little success, with the book browsers either giving clipped responses or ignoring her completely.

Mama had provided soothing wo
rds of guidance. “Felicity, you must not become upset over these matters. As you know, ours is a city of great thinkers, and great thinkers often live in a world of their own construction. It is not that they are spurning you. Rather, they are what the Jungians call
introverts
, or those who tend to be more comfortable in their own company than with crowds or strangers. I urge you not to cease your attempts to know your fellow humans, for through these efforts you will meet lifelong companions and friends. As for that wretched clerk, his snobbery bespeaks a sense of insecurity about himself, and his rudeness bespeaks a misguided upbringing. For the record, you are absolutely correct. Mr. Nashe did title his book
The Unfortunate Traveller
; the subtitle is
The Life of Jack Wilton
. Leave the clerk to his ignorance, my dear, and let us enjoy a cup of tea together.”

Miss Prim remembered these words as she entered Cambria & Calibri,
wondering what to expect from her second encounter with Mrs. Valeska Reed, proprietress. Still holding Bruno’s leash, Celia paused to view the half-price books on display, which looked to be lavishly illustrated treatises on—well, arcane subjects, as the sign had promised. There was one book on the art of
scherenschnitte
, another on matchboxes from 1940s China, another on the various varieties of kangaroo rat, genus
Dipodomys
. But it was an extensive catalog of the
ushabti
in the British Museum that caused Celia to exclaim with delight. Bruno, recognizing the opportunity for a nap, stretched out at Celia’s feet, yawned, and promptly fell asleep.

Miss Prim caught her breath as she entered the store. Her first impression
of the interior caused her to wonder if her soul mate had designed Cambria & Calibri. Bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, and a circular staircase wound its way to a second floor. Every book was properly and lovingly shelved, and in some cases merchandised to display its cover. A sunken area at the bookstore’s center provided two small couches and three stuffed reading chairs, along with two desks with reading lamps and sturdy wooden seats. A small sign on one of the desks read:

Coffee and tea available at Beantown

Fresh-ba
ked snacks available at Sweetcakes Bakery

In a corner of the sign, large red stars on a map of the town square marked the locations of Beantown and the bakery.

The store
seemed quite deserted, with the owner nowhere to be seen, and Miss Prim began to formulate an exploration plan. Bookstores, she had always thought, were much like museums. When visiting any particular museum, Mrs. Charity Prim had declared, one must choose one or two galleries to explore in detail, rather than running frantically past too many masterworks in an effort to see all of them in too condensed a period of time. A museum was a project for a lifetime, not for a day, Mama had believed, and Miss Prim felt much the same way about bookstores. She need not visit all of Cambria & Calibri’s shelves at once. The center of the store would suffice for today. She could explore the books lining the walls, as well as the second floor, on later expeditions.

From her decades of bookstore browsing, she had expected the shelves to be labeled with the usual signage: nonfiction, science fiction, mystery, home and garden, psychology. But Mrs. Reed had chosen nontraditional
—to the say the least—labels for the shelves at the store’s center:

New York Times
Best-Sellers That Nobody Reads

The Latest Dreck from Writers Who Phone It In

Ponderous Literary Prose with No Plot and Snotty Characters

Urban Musings by Self-Involved Authors Who Don’t Take Showers

Ongoing Sagas/Series That Lost Their Edge 4-5 Books Ago

Books by Ivy League Graduates That Got Glowing Reviews in Prestigious, Low-Circulation Magazines That Are Edited by Other Ivy League Graduates

In all her years, Miss Prim had never encountered such a daring, one might even say
cynical
, method of cataloging books. In a way it was quite wonderful, as the categories must have represented the personality of the owner, and shouldn’t a bookstore be
personal
, not corporate or canned? As she scanned the “Latest Dreck,” she was distressed to see the latest installment in the Fatima Larroquette series,
When Life Hands You Oranges, Make Orange Juice,
adorning the shelf. Clearly, Mrs. Reed did not appreciate Fatima’s adventures as much as Miss Prim did.

Miss Prim flipped to the first page of
Oranges
and was reading the first sentence—“I knew it was going to be a bad day when my cat, Fluffy, peed in my shoes”—when she heard activity emanating from the far corner of the store. She looked up and saw Valeska Reed approaching her.

“Well, Miss Prim, it’s about time. I’ve heard about those boxes of books that Josh and his crew moved into your house. Time for out with the old, in with the new, yes? Valeska Reed.” She extended her hand and shook Miss Prim’s hand firmly
—and, Miss Prim was shocked to find, warmly and affectionately. No, this was not a cold businesswoman’s handshake. It was the clasp of a longtime friend, or that of a person genuinely delighted to make one’s acquaintance.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Reed,” Miss Prim sputtered. “You see, my intentions have been all the best, but I have encountered a most unexpected series of events since taking up residence in Greenfield, and
…”

Valeska waved her ha
nd. “Yes, I know all about it. There are no secrets in Greenfield.” She took Miss Prim’s wrist and twisted it gently to reveal the title of the book in Miss Prim’s hand. “Oh,
her
. She was in here once to do a book signing for
When Life Hands You Apples, Make Apple Cider
. She was so drunk she could barely stand up. Mary Frances McCarthy brought in some of her older books and asked her to sign them, which Miss Snippy Authoress refused to do, complaining that the girl hadn’t bought them that day, or in hardback. Needless to say, Fatima Larroquette’s creator will not be invited to Cambria & Calibri again. The books sell all right, though. I recommend them to vapid-looking tourists who’ve had a lot of plastic surgery.”

Miss Prim eyed the
shelves. “To whom do you recommend the titles you’ve categorized under Urban Musings?” she asked, wondering about the target demographic.

“Those books tend to be favored by youngish men with bad facial hair wearing woolen caps to disguise, or perhaps call attention to, the messy, unwashed hair on their head. And, of course, by the
women who find that type of male charming, and who think they can beat a path to his heart by reading books written by pretentious hipsters living in Brooklyn and working for Internet start-ups. As you and I both know, Miss Prim, these women are barking up the wrong tree. These self-absorbed males are not looking for wives, or even lovers, but rather admirers.”

“I see,” Miss Prim said, trying to determine whether Mrs. Reed w
as the most perceptive of women or the most jaded. “But do your customers”—she searched for the proper word—“
appreciate
having their favorite books labeled in this manner?”

Valeska looked at Miss Prim incredulously. “Now, Miss Prim, don’t be disingenuous. People fall into two categories, as you very well know.
There are people like you and me, who understand these labels and know to avoid these books. For those people, I have the shelves lining the walls, as well as the second floor. Then there are the people who don’t quite understand my shelf labels or who don’t bother to read them at all. The books here in the center of the store are for them. The system works quite well.”

“Your reading nook is
most welcoming. I am surprised that you don’t sell refreshments. That seems rather countertrend.”

Miss Prim had hit a so
re spot. “One must specialize in what one does best. I am a bookstore owner, not a confectioner and not a barista,” Valeska replied. “This is a small town, and there are other businesses within walking distance that sell snacks and beverages. Greenfield has a vested interest in the success of all these businesses. I don’t wish to compete with other proprietors, which is why I am so enraged with Maude for offering those shelves with free books. You and I both know the value of a book, Miss Prim, but many people do not. Why should shoppers visit Cambria & Calibri to purchase a book when Maude is giving them away for free? Maude understands the drinker and the eater, but he does not understand the reader. For that, you must come here.”

“Have you tried
talking with Maude about this?”

Valeska nearly spat. “H
a! Have
you
ever tried talking with Maude? The man is an automaton incapable of human communication.”

Miss Prim
came to Maude’s defense. “True, Maude is not the most loquacious of men. But how could someone run such a successful business in a small town if he did not have the kindest of hearts? As Lorraine Koslowski pointed out to me, it is just a matter of knowing how to talk with him. If you’d like, I could try broaching the subject with him.”

“He shouldn’t have to be
told
about this sort of thing, which requires only the smallest amount of respect for one’s fellow merchants. But if you think you can make inroads, feel free.”

Miss Prim thought it prudent to change the subject. “I haven’t been to the Sweetcakes Bakery yet. Do I dare? You see, I recently began a new dietary regimen, and I have quite liked the results. One does not want to lead oneself into
too
much temptation, especially when the bakery is walking distance from one’s home.”

“Their specialty is German. You know, sacher tortes, linzer tortes, e
t cetera. All quite scrumptious, and their apricot biscotti—well, if you should become addicted, you cannot say you were not warned. I speak from experience. I have been trying to wean Martin off it for months now. Without much success, I am sorry to report.”