Read Online Cancelled by Murder by Jean Flowers - Free Book Online

the local merchants had some rights to a buffer zone between them and the competition.
    I sometimes journeyed to the farmers’ markets in surrounding towns with somewhat larger populations than ours. They’d managed to find space far enough away from their main shopping area that no one complained. Not loudly, anyway. I wondered how they got their plan to work.
    Figuring it out was a job for the selectmen of the town, I decided, and perhaps the Reggie Harrises of the area. Iabandoned the issue for the night, doubly glad I had no political aspirations. Why anyone did was beyond me.
    *   *   *
    I adjusted my reading pillow and climbed into bed, hoping to lose myself in a thriller. But it was hard to focus when my mind was off on a tangent, replaying the real-life drama of Daisy Harmon’s murder. No need for spies, international intrigue, or hijacked fictional vessels when North Ashcot itself was the center of captivating theater. Was it possible that what I saw as a minor problem—working out fair business practices in a small town—could have led to murder? It was difficult to accept, no matter how many similar stories fiction and history might provide.
    At eleven o’clock, my computer, waiting on my bedside table, pinged. Quinn checking in. I put my book aside and replaced it with my laptop. Though we texted frequently during the day, we’d gotten into the habit of a voice-to-voice or electronic face-to-face good-night chat.
    Tonight Quinn was staying in a suburb south of Boston. Behind his handsome, ruddy face was a typically drab motel bedroom in oranges and browns, long past their primes. I felt I could smell the dust mites nestled in the drapes and carpet. It occurred to me how challenging it must be to live with furniture put together from a kit while you were seeking out hand-carved pieces from master Philadelphia cabinetmakers. Poor Quinn.
    â€œDid you find any hidden treasures for the shop today?” I asked him.
    Big smile over the wires. “I got lost for a while in a coolantiquarian bookstore in downtown Boston. It’s huge, and offers all these special services.”
    Quinn spoke in excited tones, as he always did when talking about his passion. I often thought how much Aunt Tess would have enjoyed him. I urged him on. “What’s a special service for books?”
    â€œGlad you asked. Say you need eight feet of books bound in blue, for example; they’ll put them together for you.”
    â€œThat seems strange. Why would anyone buy books by color, or order them by length?”
    â€œLots of reasons. It could be for a theater set. Or some people like to use books for decoration and they want colors complementary to their living room. Or they want a certain theme in their summer rental. Or they’re selling their house and they need to stage it. Or—”
    â€œOkay, I get it.” I ran my hand over the book at my side. The dust jacket pictured a large sea vessel, its front end in the water, its back end on fire. The image of red and yellow flames was raised from the glossy paper, an approximation to three dimensions and a promise of action to come. This cover hadn’t been designed for any particular décor. “I can’t imagine buying books for any reason other than to read, no matter what the cover looks like,” I said.
    He laughed. “That’s why you’re not in my business. I bought a couple of leather-bound sets, one in dark green and one in brown with gold trim. I have no idea what’s inside.”
    â€œAnd you think someone will buy them?”
    â€œUh-huh. Especially if I display only one set at a time. And if you don’t understand why I’ll put out only one at a time, you have a lot to learn about the games we play in this business.”
    â€œNot my first clue. And speaking of business issues . . .”
    I told Quinn about my meeting with Cliff, and the various town