The Mystery of Nevermore by C.S. Poe Page A

back bookshelves, scouring the titles she’d seen a hundred times already. “Good afternoon, Beth.”
    Beth Harrison turned around. “Oh, hi, Sebby.”
    “Sebastian,” I corrected. She never listened.
    Beth ran the used bookshop next door. It had been in her family nearly as long as the Strand had been around, and while it had never been an official part of what was once Book Row, Beth was determined to keep her little shop going. She ran all sorts of weekly events and had an impressive amount of authors, both known and yet to be discovered, walking in and out of her doors. There were readers’ circles, signings, release parties—she ate, slept, and breathed the book business.
    She also had a habit of spending at least two or three lunch breaks a week in my shop, looking over my antique books. I honestly hoped there was nothing she wanted today. I wasn’t ready to haggle prices.
    “Nothing new?” she asked, looping gray hair behind one ear. Beth was a pretty, older woman in her late fifties who cared about fashion just as much as I did. She wore big, thick glasses that hung off a rhinestone chain. Her hair was twisted back with a pen sticking out of the bun, and she wore a cat-print skirt with a flannel button-up.
    Yup, she gave no fucks.
    “Not since yesterday.” I paused. “Isn’t that a line from Beauty and the Beast ?”
    “Princess,” Beth mumbled as she turned back to the collection. “What about all those from the estate?”
    “We’re still cataloging,” I answered.
    Beth scoffed. “I can’t pay you if you won’t put the books on the shelf, Seb.”
    “You don’t pay me anyway.”
    “I paid my account last week.”
    “And immediately bought my first edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles ,” I answered.
    “You’d have gotten so much more for it if you’d had it in the shop when the second season of Sherlock aired,” Beth added.
    “You still owe me three grand.”
    “Next week,” she said with a wave of her hand. “And I thought we agreed on twenty-eight?”
    “Three,” I said firmly. “It was in fine condition, and I know you charged more than enough to your customer.”
    Beth sighed and smiled. “Fine, fine, Sebby, but only because I like you.”
    “Thank God.”
    “You know that poor guy who passed away,” she quickly started. “The estate sale gentleman—all those cheap books I won—”
    “I know you won them,” I managed to get in.
    A few weeks back, several antique shops had been given the first chance to bid on an impressive library of antique books that a bank was trying to liquidate after the elderly owner passed. I had won and then told Beth the remaining books—paperbacks and the sort—were going to be on sale to the general public if no one bid on the lot. So she did, and Beth had been happy with the haul she won and took me out to lunch as a thank-you.
    “Shh, listen,” she chastised. “He had so many gay romance novels.”
    “Really?”
    “Oh, tons, Sebastian,” Beth laughed. “And you know, they’ve been flying off my shelves. Lots of mysteries too. He had very diverse tastes.”
    “Huh.” I briefly considered switching it up and spending tomorrow’s lunch next door. Maybe I could live my happily ever after vicariously through some cheap gay paperbacks. “Any with cops?”
    Beth snorted. “Plenty with firemen.”
    “I prefer guns over hoses.”
    “Excuse me?” a quiet voice behind me asked, interrupting a conversation bound to lead down a rabbit hole full of bad puns.
    Turning around, I was met by a man perhaps a few years younger than myself. He was very tall and lanky, with a large smile and big eyes. “Oh, hello. Can I help you find anything?”
    The stranger beamed happily. “I was wondering if you had any American classics.” He turned to wave at the bookshelves. “Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dickinson, Poe?”
    Beth patted my shoulder and leaned up to whisper, “Send him next door when you’re done.” She excused herself and hurried