Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

“Oh, it just hid there by itself, did it?” I grab the new murder mystery and scan the jacket copy. A body turns up dead on a fishing boat, complete with a lure in the mouth. The detective smells foul play. “But does it have everything I like in it?”

Nigel looks up, strokes his beard. “Let’s see. Loads of red herrings. Bone-chilling suspense. A messy, on-page murder with tons of blood—I’d say it has all your favorite things, Heath.”

I thump the cover decisively. “Excellent.” I tuck the book under my arm and head to the counter. “And let me know when you get the Rhys Locke in paperback too. I’ve avoided all spoilers on his last jewel-heist mission for a year.”

“Your talent for avoidance knows no bounds,” he remarks.

“I could win a medal.” As he rings me up, I glance around the shop at the displays. Once upon a time, Nigel carried only books. Now, his little shop teems with cards, stickers, and coasters boasting ironic sayings, such as I like you. I’ll kill you last, and Wine. Because people suck.

“If memory serves, you used to sell books here, right?” There’s a pair of socks hanging near the till with an illustration of a young girl hugging a horse and the caption I hate everyone too.

Nigel’s eyes flicker with excitement. “Decided I rather like paying the bills. And these days, everyone loves cheeky sayings more than books.”

I finger the socks. “How many pairs of I hate everyone socks do you sell?”

His grin reeks of money. “Dozens. It’s the thing. People hate everything now, and they love telling each other so. Slap up a saying about how much you hate something, and you’re gold.” I’m hunting around in my wallet for some bills, and Nigel flicks a finger at my phone. “You could put your credit card on your phone, you know. Then you could tap it against the card reader.” He nods to a black, space-age device on the counter. “Makes it a lot easier for people like me.”

Shuddering, I shoot him a you’ve-gone-mad look. “Why would I want to do that? Make life easy for you?”

He shrugs, shaking his head. “Don’t know. Maybe fitting in with society and all that.”

“Ah, you mistook me, then, for someone who wants to be a part of things,” I tell him.

“Then you surely understand the market for these socks,” he says.

With a grin, I tuck the book in my canvas bag and head toward work, with a quick stop along the way. Around the corner from the bookshop, I dart up the steps into the local library for a drop-off.

“Better have something good this time,” Alice calls from behind the counter where she’s sorting returns.

“I only bring you the finest hardcovers and paperbacks.” I reach into my bag and grab the stack of books I’ve already read. “These all come with the Heath Graham seal of approval.”

“Someday, I’m going to turn that into a book club. Make you the next Oprah or Reese. For now, I’m just glad these are mine.” Flicking her long braid behind her shoulder, she bends over to check the titles one by one. “Ooh! I have a waiting list for the Rhys Locke,” she says, then pats the top of the stack. “I appreciate them all.” She winks. “And I won’t tell a soul you donate all your darlings.”

“Thank you for keeping my secrets,” I say, then I’m on my way.

The next day, I still have no clue who killed the fisherman.

At a café near the office, I flip another page, finishing my tea as I race through the whodunit. A quick glance at my watch tells me I can squeeze in one more chapter before my first phone meeting at the auction house where I work.

Normally, I’d head to the office and make sure I was there with five minutes to spare. But today is different.

Today, I desperately need the distraction of murder.

I focus on the story in front of me. The killer could be the bait supplier, the boat owner, or possibly the sea captain. It could be someone I haven’t considered yet. Intrigue has me racing through the pages, then a high-pitched voice slices through my concentration.

“Oh my God, I never saw that ending coming. I can’t believe it was actually the captain’s wife who did it.”

What?

Noooooooo.

Oh no, she didn’t.

In slow-motion, one painful millimeter at a time, I raise my gaze from the book in my hands.

A young blonde, maybe in college, notices me, starts to smile, then spots what I’m reading and gasps.

Her hand flies to her mouth then waves about like she can erase what she’s said. “Nope. I’m wrong.” She smacks the side of her head. “Dumb Sandy. That’s not what happened. I’m thinking of the first book in that series. Yes, that’s it!”