A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) by Elizabeth Ashby, Ellie Ashe

with a sneer. "He gave me information on a need-to-know basis, like he was the damn president or something. Even though I was organizing his tour. And then he couldn't even be bothered to show up on time."
    She slugged down the last of the mimosa, and I pushed my plate away.
    "Have you read his book yet?" Karen asked.
    I gave a nod but then had to clarify. "I'm not finished with it yet."
    "Well, if you're trying to help the police close this case, then I'd suggest you read it," she said, putting money down to pay for both our breakfasts. "If you want a list of potential murderers, it's a good place to start. And have a pen handy."
     
    *   *   *
     
    Taking Karen's advice, I left the bookstore midafternoon, after Katya arrived for her shift, so I could read Cal's book. The store was in Alicia's and Katya's capable hands, and somewhere in Cal's book was the clue that would help the cops close this case and keep my bookstore out of the news and me out of jail. This time, I wasn't going to nod off or drift into daydreams about a cute veterinarian. I was going to read the damn book.
    I made it into the early '80s, when Cal had a recurring role on a cop-buddy TV show as a police sergeant. I'd never heard of the show, but it sounded dreadfully cheesy. So I had to search online for some clips, which did not disappoint. Then I realized I was doing it again—drifting away from my homework. I snapped the laptop shut and returned to the book, curled up in a big chair by the fireplace. It was my favorite reading chair and the best place to get lost in a book.
    But that was not going to happen today.
    The sound of heels on my front porch shifted my scattered attention away from the page, and I knew instantly that it was my mother. I glanced around the room and breathed a sigh of relief. The house wasn't too cluttered. In fact, it was even clean, since I'd picked up before settling in with my book—another attempt at procrastination.
    I opened the door as my mom knocked, startling her.
    "Oh, you're home!" she said, and a look flashed across her face, an expression that I couldn't immediately place.
    "I took the afternoon off," I said, opening the door to let her in.
    My mother smiled and stepped across the threshold, and I saw that she was carrying something in her hand but sort of behind her, as if I wouldn't see the bucket of cleaning supplies.
    "What are you doing here?"
    "Well, I just thought that you've been working so hard you probably haven't had time to clean the house," she said and took a look around. "And I was right."
    "My house is fine," I snapped.
    Even if it wasn't, even if it looked like a crime scene, I would not let my mother in to clean it. That would set a horrible precedent. Kimberly Sinclair was a lovely woman, a good mother, and an absolutely insanely obsessed clean freak. If I opened the door to letting her do my housecleaning, she'd be stopping by whenever she felt like doing my laundry or straightening my linen closet. It would be like high school all over again.
    She set the bucket on the brick hearth and pulled out a feather duster, which she ran across the mantel.
    "Mother!"
    "Fine!" She jabbed the duster back into the bucket, and I could tell she really wanted to get her mitts on the bookshelves—which, admittedly, I had not dusted in the several weeks since I'd moved in.
    "Would you like some tea?" I asked.
    She looked thoughtful and then nodded. "That would be nice."
    I hadn't planned to spend the afternoon entertaining my mother, but despite our differences over her slight helicopter-parenting tendencies, we did get along well. While we waited for the teakettle, my mom picked up Cal's book and flipped through it.
    "Did you finish it?" I asked.
    She nodded, and I felt a little guilty that I hadn't yet.
    "It was different," she said.
    In her language, that meant it was bad. Different meant it was different from things she liked.
    "What did you think of it?"
    "Well, he certainly wasn't kind to Pippa