The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 22
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘Not really. I tried to get him to hold still, but he wouldn’t stop walking. He was muttering phrases on repeat, and I can’t remember the guts of it after all this time, but I know he kept saying “Beans, Beans”, which I suppose was maybe his pet name for Oddbean.’ She sighs. ‘That poor boy. I told him about this event, this exhibition, the other day, told him I was exhibiting again, and he just looked at me. I was hoping he might come.’
Meryl hunches, head bowed, as though brought low by this old, deep hurt. Lost friends, lost opportunities. It makes me ashamed at how little I’ve thought of who she really is, all the experiences that have made her, all the lives she’s lived before I ever met her.
‘Still, that was then, and this is now.’ Meryl gives her face another swish of the soiled hankie, then visibly pulls herself together and stands. ‘I’m off to mix with my public. I’m very glad you’re here.’ And off she goes in search of her wine glass.
‘Well,’ says Garth, ‘I wasn’t expecting a love story.’
We stay where we are, away from the general fuss, watching people come and go. It’s lovely to see them stop in front of Meryl’s work and really look at it, watch their faces react, their wondering smiles.
As we leave, I look more closely at the label on Meryl’s frame.
‘Oil paint and lacquer, found blooms: A bookshop is a home for more than books.’
Garth: 5 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck!’ I slam the advance reading copy onto the pillow. Stevie looks at me reproachfully, then slinks from the duvet and scrambles under the bed.
It’s not even a proper ARC. They normally look like a book, only with myriad promotional quotes and a release date on the back. Sometimes they’ll even have a totally different cover which is substantially better than the final cover decided upon by the publishers. However, what I’ve been reading isn’t a book, it’s nothing more than a collection of manuscript pages stapled together: the first three chapters of Dead Girl Gone, the new Isabella Garrante novel.
Today is my day off, so when Garrante’s publishers emailed me an NDA first thing, I signed it and sent it straight back. They then emailed three chapters from Dead Girl Gone, informing me that I was extraordinarily lucky to have them, Garrante never sending out advance reading copies or any promotional material until the release date.
Excited by this break from tradition and feeling remarkably privileged, I printed out the pages and stapled them together before jumping onto the bed with Stevie to read them. Three chapters later, my excitement has turned to anxious dread.
My problem isn’t with the writing style or authorial voice. As ever, the novel is beautifully written, showing Isabella’s unique blend of evocative prose and wonderful dialogue. No, my problem is with the content. From these three chapters it’s clear that the story is a thinly veiled retelling of the Tracey Jervis case. Actually, it’s not even thinly veiled: it is the Tracey Jervis case. The protagonist, a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl at Te Mata High, is called Tracey, so it couldn’t really be clearer.
That’s not the worst of it though. In the first three chapters we’ve met her overbearing father and her best friend Prudence, and — this is the real kicker — seen her have sex on the campaign office desk of Action Now Party candidate Franklin White.
I lean over the side of the bed and look at poor Stevie staring up, his golden eyes wide with concern. ‘Oh, Stevie, mate. We are so screwed.’
I fix myself another coffee and go out to the deck to look out over the trees and foliage and rooftops beyond. I love Havelock North; sure, it’s not perfect, but where is? And I love our little bookshop. We built it from nothing with hard work, sacrifice and love — ours, our booksellers’ and our supporters’. Now the spectre of Franklin White and the misdeeds of his past threaten to destroy it all.
Halfway through the coffee, I give up trying to be calm. This isn’t about me and Eloise anymore, it’s about Kitty who has a mortgage to pay, and Amelia and Phyllis and all our customers who rely on us. And I really mean who rely on us; when we reopened after the Covid lockdown, we had customers coming into the shop in tears, grateful that we had weathered the storm and weren’t going to close. It made me realise that our little bookshop is so much more than just a retailer; it is a safe, welcoming sanctuary for those who need us, a real community space. And one whose future is now in jeopardy.
It’s no good, I’ve got to go and talk to Eloise right now. We built the bookshop together and we’ll save it together.
Eloise and I have had some stellar conversations in our gloomy stock room surrounded by cardboard boxes, bubble wrap and an inordinate amount of junk that Amelia and Kitty refuse to throw away. Today, I deem that it is not discreet enough for the conversation we need to have, so I usher Eloise out of the back door to the car park beyond and do a quick scan for large motorbikes. The area is technically open to the public, but, other than the odd retail assistant going to work and occasional cinema-goer, it’s private.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ We’ve known each other long enough for her to know that this new venue is significant.
I don’t speak, not immediately, trying to fashion my whirlwind thoughts into something that makes sense. ‘The Isabella Garrante novel. It’s a retelling of the Tracey Jervis disappearance.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘The publishers emailed me the first three chapters of the manuscript this morning. I think they wanted to ensure that we could give a proper introduction at the launch.’
‘And it’s definitely based on the case?’
‘It’s not based on the case. It is the case. It names Tracey, Prudence, Franklin and a handful of others. It doesn’t even try to disguise their identities behind pseudonyms.’
‘So, what happened? Who murdered Tracey?’
‘I don’t know. As I said, it’s only the first three chapters.’
‘But how can she do that? Isn’t it illegal? Do the publishers know?’
‘They must do, surely? I appreciate Hawke’s Bay isn’t Auckland or Wellington, but the case was national news. Someone would remember. Rose would remember — she knows bloody everything.’
‘Is that why they sent you the first three chapters? To warn us?’
‘They didn’t say. It was all official, though. I had to email her a signed NDA this morning.’
‘Fuck!’ Eloise folds her arms.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘We’re the scene of the crime, the scene of the story. That’s why Isabella chose us for the launch.’
‘It’s not a launch, it’s a funeral. We’ll be ruined. Franklin isn’t going to let this slide. He’ll do our legs for sure.’
‘No. This could work for us.’ Eloise tilts her head, playing out some scenario in her mind. ‘If he’s so discredited by the book, he’ll lose any standing he’s got. He’ll have no power to pressure our landlords into selling, and it might give us the answers we need to get the Black Dogs off our back.’
‘Until his lawyers litigate against Isabella and the publishers, and he gets a big fat pay-out and an apology.’ I grind the toe of my boot into the gravel. ‘He’ll be so emboldened he’ll come for us next.’
‘Isabella must have solid evidence; her publishers would never take the risk otherwise. Maybe she found Prudence, got the truth of what was going on with Tracey and Franklin.’
It’s mad, but there’s a possibility that fits with the array of facts and rumours we’ve gathered so far.
‘Maybe she is Prudence.’
Eloise: 5 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
We’ve called an emergency staff meeting, which has freaked the team out considerably — a necessary evil seeing as we’re not supposed to tell them about the launch. We are, of course, about to tell them about the launch.
‘Have you all got a drink, because you’re going to need one,’ Garth begins.
There’s a worried hush.
‘So,’ he continues. ‘If we were to host a world-famous author, who would you want it to be?’
There is full bookseller buy-in; we love playing this game.
‘Roddy Doyle,’ says Phyllis. ‘I have his email if you’re interested.’ Phyllis knows everyone in Dublin and this is not beyond the realms of possibility. If the stress of hosting IFG wasn’t already killing me, I might be tempted.
‘Patrick Rothfuss,’ says Kitty. ‘I have some questions I would like him to answer.’ There are muttered agreements and sotto voce threats around the subject of ‘book three’.
‘Do you mean in actual real life or are we just playing?’ says Amelia. ‘I’ve already met Jack Heath and Neal Shusterman, so my life is practically complete.’
‘Okay,’ says Garth. ‘Well, the massive news is that Isabella Garrante is going to launch her new novel Dead Girl Gone with us in five days’ time. In person. Here in Havelock North.’
There’s a brief silence, followed by:
‘What?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I’m not doing the catering for that.’
‘I’ll get on to the nuts and bolts in a moment,’ says Garth. ‘We’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement because it’s such a big deal, had a secret meeting with Rose and everything. All very sneaky beaky.’
‘Won’t you get into massive trouble if they find out you told us?’ asks Amelia.
‘I think we’re officially allowed to tell you tomorrow, but anyway, you won’t snitch and there’s a very good reason why you need to know,’ I say.
Garth coughs. ‘The plot of Dead Girl Gone tells the story of Tracey Jervis’s disappearance.’
‘Well, that’s going to create some fireworks.’ Amelia makes a ‘kaboom my brain just exploded’ gesture and falls back in her seat, shaking her head.
‘It’s worse than you think.’ I look to Garth and nod for him to carry on. ‘We need to tell you everything.’
Our staff sit in silence as Garth goes on to explain the events of recent days. When he’s unloaded, he sits back, lips burbling his relief as if he were a slowly deflating balloon.
‘What?’ says Kitty.
‘Fuck me,’ says Phyllis.
‘So let me get this straight,’ says Amelia. ‘Sleazeball Franklin White is one hundred percent dodgy; Tracey Jervis was sleeping with him, which is completely eww and should be illegal by the way even if she was seventeen; and the Black Dogs have threatened you to back off but are now threatening you to investigate? And how the hell does Isabella Garrante fit in? Jesus, you really couldn’t make it up.’
‘So how far have you read? Why don’t you read to the end to find out what happened to Tracey,’ says Phyllis, reasonably enough.
‘They only sent me the first three chapters. If they release any more, someone will cut their legs off and post them to their grandmothers,’ says Garth.
Kitty sighs. ‘This is all getting a bit much, Garth. I just want to sell books. I didn’t sign up to be threatened by gangs and have my flowers nicked by a local artist.’
‘And to make matters worse, sorry, Kitty, Franklin White is threatening us with eviction if we don’t back off. Says he has influence with the landlord and will buy the building.’
Phyllis’s face hardens. She speaks slowly. ‘Well, just let that Franklin White come anywhere near our shop or our flowers and he’ll get what’s coming to him. I know where he lives.’ Her drawl is so menacing that no one questions her assertion. It is followed by a respectful hush.
Amelia breaks the silence. ‘It was such a strange time for the Village though. Our Ena was friendly with Victoria White, although goodness knows why, such a stuck-up piece of work, and it all got a bit testy at family gatherings when the Whites came up in conversation. I mean, she was only repeating rumours really, but things went quite sour with cousin Patsy.’
‘What was the rumour?’ I ask, deciding not to try to untangle the intricacies of Amelia’s family tree.
‘I can’t quite remember. That Franklin and Oddbean were an unlikely pair. That they were mixed up in things way above their criminal capabilities. Hang on . . . I’ll just ring Ena and ask her.’
Amelia pulls her phone out and goes onto the landing. Stevie lifts his head for a second, then returns to sniffing and rootling out snack crumbs. There’s a hush, and Garth gets up to fetch the usual, comforting dinner. He dumps foil-wrapped garlic bread on the dining table next to a steaming pot of Bolognese, one of penne and one of grated cheese.
‘Come on and dig in whilst we think things over and await Ena’s report,’ I say.
‘I don’t think I can eat now, I’m too stressed,’ says Kitty, getting up. ‘Vegan cheese, too, Garth? Are you feeling okay?’
We regroup on the dog-battered sofas, me on the old armchair that’s held together by a bit of gaffer tape. Bowls on laps, we resort to the conversation we’re most comfortable with.
‘She’s an extraordinary storyteller. Like Sally Rooney but funny.’
‘How old is “YA” anyway? I’m pretty sure I wasn’t a young adult when I was twelve.’
‘Have you got the reading copy of the Booker? I really ought to give it a go this year.’
Paperbacks are pulled from bags and passed over, compliments made to the chef, particularly around the addition of capers to the recipe, and for a moment this feels like any book team get-together. Then Amelia comes back.
‘Oh, start dinner without me, why don’t you,’ she says, smiling.
‘I saved you the best bits of garlic bread,’ says Garth. ‘The crispy end bits you like.’
‘Lovely. You’re forgiven then. Anyway, Ena was more than happy to gossip about Traceygate.’ She stops and spoons sauce into a bowl before continuing. ‘So. Get this for a rumour. Ena says when Tracey disappeared, and then Oddbean, the word on the street in the rotten underbelly of Havelock North was that Franklin had knocked off both of them.’
‘He killed Oddbean, too?’ says Phyllis. ‘What a busy boy.’
‘Well, missing people have to end up somewhere, I suppose,’ says Amelia.
There’s the clanking of forks on bowls and the crunching of garlic bread and the whirring of thoughts as Team Sherlock consider the implications of Ena’s juicy gossip.
‘This town, huh,’ says Phyllis at last. ‘Who’d ’a’ thought? And I’m from Dublin.’
There’s another moment of contemplative chewing, before I address the elephantine unease in the room.
‘So, team. Like Kitty says, none of you signed up for this. I don’t know how much power Franklin White actually wields, but there is a possibility he could cause us serious problems.’
‘Like get us closed down? Do you really think he could?’ asks Kitty.
‘Maybe,’ says Garth, looking focused and solemn. I like him much better when he’s away with the story fairies.
‘My question is, do you think we should go ahead with the launch?’
‘Are you kidding, Eloise?’ says Amelia. ‘Turn down the chance of launching the biggest book of the year in the whole world?’
‘Franklin Shite for Brains is a bully and there’s only one way to deal with a bully,’ says Phyllis.
‘Chop his balls off?’ I ask, and the laughter lightens the moment, even if I do get a stern ‘Eloise!’ from Garth.
‘We’ll stand up to him,’ says Kitty a little shakily. ‘He must have something to hide if he’s trying to threaten us.’
‘Oh my god, I don’t know if I’m terrified or thrilled. It’s like reading, I dunno, Chris Hammer or something,’ says Amelia.
‘Or Hunger Games maybe?’
‘Yeah, or that one where the woman’s husband is actually his twin so she’s not gaslit so much as they’re actually different people.’
But it’s Phyllis who gets the conversation back on track. ‘We need to act now,’ she says. ‘The bookshop faithful will be in full support.’
‘On it.’ Amelia is texting and talking. ‘My YA book group can do some great TikToks about the shop, and I’ve got a million ideas for the best Garrante window display ever.’
‘I wonder what flowers she likes. I’ll see what’s on offer tomorrow,’ says Kitty.
‘Or we could get Meryl to steal them from Franklin’s garden!’ adds Phyllis.
I look over to Garth, who is rather overcome.
‘You got something in your eye, love?’ I ask.
He nods like a small boy who’s just been given a puppy.
Amelia gets up and plants herself on the arm of the sofa beside him. ‘Don’t you worry, boss. We’ve got your back.’
He bursts into tears.
Garth: 4 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
‘Morning, lovely bookshop,’ I say as I head through the door painted to look like Doctor Who’s Tardis. There is no reply, not as such, although I like to think the shop sighs with a tender warmth. It makes me feel like some kind of traitor for risking everything with the launch.
I count the float into the till, boot up the computers, and open up the POS app and our website. Forgoing the usual vacuuming, I pull up the checklist for the launch. At the top is ‘venue’, which has now swapped from bookshop to big top. Then there’s ‘promo’, which Eloise is sorting this morning, creating a social media event and walking around the Village with Stevie, putting up posters. The publisher is also going to go hard-out from today with promises of national press and TV. With the change to the bigger venue, I’ve sorted additional wine from Red Vines and upped the quantities for glass hire. Hungry Havvers Catering are doing platters and have taken our tripled estimate of numbers in their stride. The circus will have its own PA system, but I’ll need to check that we are good to use it, and put a question mark next to it. Below this I add ‘security?’ to the list.
I’ve never been to a book launch that required security before, but this is Isabella Fucking Garrante. And if the plot of the book leaks beforehand and the press get a hold of it, things could get well out of hand. I take a deep breath to calm myself and cross out the question mark. I suppose the publisher may provide security for Garrante herself — close protection, as we used to call it back in the day. My thoughts of keen-eyed professionals in grey suits with suspicious bulges under their jackets are interrupted by a rapping on the shop door. It’s only 8.15am so, yes, the door is still locked and I haven’t switched on the main shop lights, but apparently the single fluorescent strip above the computer is enough of an invitation for someone to want me to open up.
