The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 35
About the Book
Introducing . . . The Bookshop Detectives!
When a mystery parcel arrives at Sherlock Tomes bookshop in small-town Havelock North, New Zealand, husband-and-wife owners Garth and Eloise (and their petrified pooch, Stevie) are drawn into the baffling case of a decades-old missing schoolgirl.
Intrigued by the puzzling, bookish clues, the two ex-cops are soon tangled in a web of crime, drugs and floral decapitations, while endeavouring to pull off the international celebrity book launch of the century.
With their beloved shop on the chopping block and the sinister suspect who forced them to run away from Blighty re-emerging from the shadows, have Garth and Eloise Sherlock finally met their Moriarty?
For once, the cover copy is no exaggeration:
The Diary of a Bookseller really does meet The Thursday Murder Club meets The Bookseller at the End of the World in this witty debut novel, full of literary clues, comedic insights and the kinds of Kiwis you only ever meet in bookshops.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Imprint
Follow Penguin Random House
For Vonnie
When we opened Sherlock Tomes people warned us that we’d made a terrible mistake. People warned us that e-readers were taking over. People warned us that we’d never compete with Amazon. The one thing they didn’t warn us about was the murders.
Eloise: Tuesday
There’s a dry, paper-dust and furniture-polish scent in the air. I breathe it in as I make my way through the biographies and history, past the dumpbin of the frothy new political scandal, Jokers to My Right. I pop a copy of the new Fiona Kidman on an empty stand and retrieve an abandoned copy of A Summery Saturday Morning from a shelf at about a three-year-old’s height. A cursory check of front and back covers reveals no sticky finger marks.
Stevie’s shadowing me around the shop, sniffing suspiciously at the bottom of the New Zealand fiction; I dread to think what a toddler has done there to make it smell so appealing. We traverse the centre aisle. All appears to be in order.
The murmur of conversation that has been on the edge of my hearing becomes clearer. Garth and Rose, one of the book reps we entertain monthly, are in the event space near the counter, deep in conversation.
Stevie slips past, a slinky silver shadow heading for the safety of the stock room.
‘Steve!’ says Garth, but he’s too late. The pupper’s white-tipped tail disappears around the corner.
Garth looks disappointed but shifts his focus to smile a welcome as I find a chair at the small wooden table crafted in the shape of a book. Some people notice the genius of Garth’s handiwork, some don’t, which is a shame as it really is very clever.
‘Ah good, you’re here,’ says Rose, all impatience, looking me straight in the eye with a glare worthy of Medusa.
I try not to, but I squirm just a little bit.
‘We have a very important title to discuss first up.’ Rose lowers her voice. ‘It’s top secret.’
‘Cool!’ Garth sits forward, sensing drama and a story. I’m faffing about, getting my laptop out of my bag, fishing around for my glasses.
‘Do I have your full attention, Eloise?’
‘Err . . . yes?’ I do dislike being treated like a scatty five-year-old. Besides, we’ve been here before. Every publisher has an occasional top-secret, not-to-be-discussed-before-release-date title. It’ll be another political exposé or somesuch — Clowns to the Left of Me perhaps.
We settle in, calm down and look at Rose expectantly.
‘The reason I’m back so quickly after my last visit,’ she says, ‘is that I have momentous news for you.’ She looks at each of us, her eyes wide, her gob firmly shut. After at least twenty seconds I cave.
‘Well, go on then,’ I say.
‘Okay, so. Isabella Garrante.’
‘Brilliant. New novel? Why the big deal?’
‘It’s set in Havelock North and she wants to launch it here at Sherlock Tomes.’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘Language, Eloise, there are children in the shop.’ Garth’s very much a right swear, right place person.
‘Well, you can’t get much more of a big deal than this, can you?’ I counter, looking around. ‘And it’s only the one child way down by the comics.’ I stretch my neck further to see who it is. ‘And it’s that kid that hangs outside the dairy all the time, vaping. He’s a right foul-mouthed little bugger.’
‘Can you try and stay on task, Eloise? This could make or break you,’ says Rose.
As soon as she says it, my stomach lurches.
So little is known of Isabella Garrante, it’s not even certain she’s a woman. But she’s bloody famous. Her Tuatara Trilogy chronicling the lives of a New Zealand crime family has had the world in thrall for the past eight years, and a new instalment — never mind a launch in our shop — would be epic. Still, I can’t quite identify the feeling spreading through my gut: it might be the excitement of opportunity but could just as easily be terror.
‘She wants to launch it in our shop? We can’t fit that kind of crowd. It’d actually be dangerous.’
‘That’s right!’ Garth comes to my rescue. ‘We’ll have to hire a venue. We can’t possibly . . .’
‘Not an option,’ says Rose. ‘She has specifically stated that it should be here, at this shop. And it is so super-top-secret that it has to happen early October. We have stock in Auckland already, highly guarded, of course.’
‘Do you mean to say she’s actually going to make an appearance? And we’ve only got a month and a bit to prepare?’
‘Yes. In person. And, yes, because it’s a drop-in title and we want to get it on the shelves as soon as possible. Now you need to sign this non-disclosure agreement and—’
‘An NDA? Cool!’ says Garth.
Rose glares, I giggle, she frowns more. She’s starting to piss me off a bit, if I’m honest.
‘—and make damn sure you don’t tell a soul,’ she says. ‘Not a word. Do you understand?’
‘Well, I’m not really sure I want to be dictated to like—’
Garth cuts me off with a nudge of his foot. ‘Of course, Rose. Where do we sign?’
Trade embargo agreements add to the hype surrounding certain titles, and I hold little truck with the fuss and faff they involve: don’t open the boxes before the correct time, keep copies of the work out of sight of customers and provide adequate security, ensure that no part of the work is visible to others. I mean, it’s not like the autobiography of Prince Harry is going to bring down the world order if someone sees it before 9am on a specific Thursday.
‘But how are we supposed to organise a launch of this size in a month?’ I ask.
‘It’s seven weeks, so more like two months. I’m sure you’ll work it out. You always pull off the spectacular with no resources, don’t you?’
I’m trying to formulate a response when Rose puts a pen in my hand, slams a piece of paper onto the table and taps it, nodding at me, then back at the paper. I sign, and hand the pen to Garth who gives an old-man grunt as he leans forward, looking around for his glasses. You’d think he was in his eighties rather than his forties.
‘They’re on your head, love.’
‘Ah, of course.’
After a bit of mucking about and attempts to make sense of the legal jargon, Garth completes his part of the deal.
‘Not. A. Word,’ Rose says, pointing her finger at me, then Garth, then back to me.
We move on to the rest of the new titles. I pull my head together and try to focus.
The list includes some good stuff — a new Mary-anne Scott that piques Garth’s interest, an advance reading copy of something a bit differe
‘That vegan travel book you made me take is going really well, so thank you for that,’ I tell her.
‘Plant Based Meandering? She’s unstoppable, that woman. Currently in India researching edible grasses.’ She shrugs her coat on. ‘I’ll be in touch. I can’t stress how big of a deal the Garrante is. Brace yourselves.’
And with that, she’s gone.
‘Bloody hell,’ I offer.
‘Yeah,’ says Garth.
I tidy up cups and papers, and try to focus on the more manageable mundanities of the day ahead.
‘Have you finished the mags yet?’ I ask.
Garth huffs, then off he shuffles like a wounded martyr, trying to pretend he’s not just going to ask Phyllis to sort the magazines out when she arrives.
Soon there’s a bustle in the shop. A couple of women are down by the Dalek, a display case we had built for new releases that bears a slight resemblance to the bane of Doctor Who’s existence. They’re discussing the Booker longlist and speculating on who’ll make the next stage.
‘I couldn’t bloody read it. I mean, who is even talking? Is it a tree, or a spirit or what?’
‘I think it’s an old spirit. You know, omniscient or something. The writing’s exquisite, though. I reckon we keep going and just enjoy her skill with words and it’ll end up making some sort of sense. It’s supposed to be innovative, right?’
Her friend emits a non-committal ‘hmm’.
I leave them to browse and head up to the till. There’s a present to wrap and a wee girl who wants to choose the paper. Garth is poking at the magazines.
‘It’s for my friend Oriana and it’s a Very Secret Thing,’ says the girl, swooshing her sparkly pink frock.
‘Well, I think she’ll love it. Are you going to the party now? That’s a lovely dress,’ I say.
‘Yes, it’s a unicorn party and Ori will be four like me and I have unicorns on my socks, too, and that’s another secret.’ She shushes me, finger on lips.
I wrap the unicorn sticker book in unicorn paper and hand it to the little girl in the swooshy unicorn dress with secret unicorn socks. It’s a day for secrets, I muse, thinking about Rose and the secret-squirrel Garrante title.
An embargoed title is not unusual; the hype can be a lot of fun and a good opportunity for a release-day party. The threat of litigation is intriguing, though; we don’t get that so often. Jeez, this really is massive — and such a lot of work if we’re going to pull off a launch. I think I’ll have a five-minute pat with Stevie.
Garth: 50 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
Dinner is a seafood lasagne ready meal for me and Eloise, and for Stevie biscuits and Possychum, which is dogroll made from possum, garlic and semolina. It’s not as bad as it sounds, and Stevie loves it. To be honest, I’ve been tempted myself, even considered frying up a slice of Possychum with a couple of eggs and pretending it’s bacon. Possibly the only thing that’s stopped me is the semolina.
I carry two bowls into the lounge and offer one to Eloise. She is relaxing in a battered armchair, her pink hair bright against green leather. In one hand she grasps a glass of syrah, in the other the latest Catherine Chidgey. Finishing her sentence, Eloise necks her wine, deposits the glass and then places a scrap of paper between the book’s pages; we’re booksellers but for some reason never seem to have any bookmarks.
‘How’s the Chidders reading?’ I ask, using our pet name for the author that allows us to feel like she is an actual friend rather than a goddess of literary genius.
‘Brilliantly, obvs.’ Eloise slides the book onto the coffee table out of Stevie’s reach, just in case he feels it would make a satisfying palate cleanser after his Possychum.
I choose one of the three sofas so that I’m next to Eloise but get a wide view to the twinkling lights of Havelock North and Hastings beyond. The Heretaunga Plains with their patchwork orchards and vineyards stretch to the distant Kaweka Range that are like the hackles on Stevie’s back when he’s spotted the neighbour’s cat. I’m reminded of rural Lincolnshire, too, only here there’s sunshine, mountains and less interbreeding.
‘What are we going to do about the launch?’ asks Eloise through a mouthful of cheesy garlic sauce and pasta.
It’s the thought that has been bouncing around my head all day and one about which I have failed to come to any firm conclusions. ‘Well, we’ve got to hold it in the shop, so that’s a starting point, I suppose.’
‘The shop’s not big enough. This is Isabella Garrante. We’re going to get hundreds, maybe even thousands turn up.’
Good grief, did she need to say it out loud? I still can’t make sense of why we’ve been chosen. Our bookshop is fantastic, if I say so myself, and two years ago we won New Zealand Bookshop of the Year, but even so, why does Isabella Garrante want to launch here in the provinces and not Auckland or Wellington? Hell, why doesn’t she want to launch in New York, London or Paris? She’s a big enough name with enough mystery around her to warrant it. So what if the novel is set in Havelock North?
‘We could close the street and put up a giant screen on the shop’s awning like you get at concerts? Livestream the event to the gathered crowds and our Facebook page.’
‘Sounds expensive.’ Eloise rubs Stevie’s head. He’s finished his dinner and is now angling for some of hers.
‘The publisher might stump up for some of the costs. They see our figures, they must know we can’t afford to do this on our own.’
‘Rose can talk to marketing, see what they can bring to the party.’
A moment of self-doubt grabs me. I sometimes forget that not everyone shares our obsessive love of books. If I went into the street now and said ‘Isabella Garrante’s coming’ how many people would get excited and how many people would just look at me blankly and say, ‘Who?’ We like to think that the provinces are as culturally well versed as the big cities, and perhaps the bookshop means that in our local sphere of contacts they are, but I can’t push away the niggling thought that the latest and greatest sheep drench might have better brand recognition than Isabella.
‘You don’t think we’re getting ahead of ourselves? Will it really be that big?’ I ask.
Eloise puts her bowl on the floor for Stevie to lick and grabs her MacBook. ‘Are you kidding? It’s going to be massive.’ With an expression that I recognise as her ‘you’re being a total idiot’ face, she opens our stock management system and taps a few keys. ‘We sold nearly two hundred copies of The Sins of Smythe.’
‘Two hundred?’ Even I’m amazed. We sell fewer than five copies of most fiction titles. Even with a well-known author like Lee Child or John Boyne we may only sell fifty or sixty.
‘Yeah, in trade paperback. Another sixty-three in B format.’
A jolt of adrenaline chills me. The authors we normally deal with, even the big New Zealand names, are usually pretty laid back, and turn up on their own or with maybe just their publisher or a PR person. This isn’t going to be the case with Isabella. Will she travel with an entourage, security, personal assistants, publicists? Will there be a press corps, TV, overseas media? The NDA enforces a publicity blackout until a few days before the launch, which will go some way to limiting the numbers. Even so, Eloise is right: we can expect a massive crowd. We have only a handful of staff and we’re not allowed to disclose full details of the event to them till the last minute, so the planning, preparation and organising are all going to fall entirely on our shoulders. And September’s when we traditionally host our Battle of the Book Clubs charity fundraiser, our biggest event of the year. The whole thing is bonkers. I feel like Stevie after he’s been terrified by a loud noise. I just want to go and hide with my head under a blanket.
