I’m not accustomed to catering to the desires of total strangers. That would be my sister Ruth; at least until she met Ray, the Destiny Chief of Police.

I’m Hannah Fogarty Evans, the proud owner of the new Death Warmed Over Mystery Books store. I’m also the owner of six-year-old pixie named Emma, and a blind, semi-incontinent cat we call Hobo.
Mystery bookstore owner, or bookstore owner of any type, had never been a profession of mine. However, while trying to recover from my three-year post-divorce pity party, I stumbled upon some previously hidden self-confidence and decided to follow my dream.

My life had taken a sudden upturn and, who knew, maybe before too long I could stop living with my parents. Well, a garage apartment behind your parents’ house doesn’t necessarily qualify you as living “with them.” But it sure as heck felt the same. It did, however, come in handy when you needed a babysitter; Papaw had come to the rescue today and taken Emma off my hands.

The bookstore grand opening was about to begin and I was cool as a cucumber. Well, maybe an over-ripened cucumber basking on the ground of a sun-cracked garden in the direct heat of a full Texas summer sun. Sweat was actually rolling down my spine.

Potential customers had lined the sidewalk in anticipation. Knowing this town, they were probably just here for the free coffee, tea, and pastry, not to buy books.

Ruth had sent out brochures to everyone in a one hundred mile radius. Marie, my best friend, was encouraging all her customers from Tres Chic to stroll down the block after their coiffure styling to meet and mingle. 

Trying to assuage my fears, Ruth offered her assistance as crowd control and greeter. Momma and Evelyn, a good friend and fellow mystery lover, were on hand to “float”-which Ruth told me was the proper term for serving refreshments at a reception. 

Stepping into the shop’s dainty bathroom, I took a final look in the mirror and decided to smear on a fresh coat of lip-gloss. I inspected my black crepe pantsuit to make sure I had removed all stray cat hairs, and finished by tucking away a loose dishwater blonde curl that had fallen away from my French twist.

Just as I’d convinced myself the curvaceous reflection was looking good and ready to face the world, up strolled my petite sister in her miniskirt and three-inch heels.

“Look at you,” she said. “You look great.” Knowing that she was trying to pump me up and give me encouragement, I wanted to respond in kind with a nice compliment. Screw that. She’s a size four, that should be compliment enough.

“I look like a cow. How can I face these people looking like this?” Well, my pity party had lasted for three years; it was hard to give it up cold turkey.

Ruth’s face turned into one of those Richard Simmons “you poor fat girl” expressions. “Hannah, you need to take a deep cleansing breath. Inhale with happy thoughts, exhale and blow those bad ones away.” “What in the heck are you talking about?” I snapped. “Did you start taking those new age yoga classes down at the YMCA?”

She’d always acted a little loopy, and her head had been in the clouds since it was determined she had nothing to do with murdering a local beauty queen, but this was ridiculous. Even for her.

Before answering, she treated me with her best “you’ve injured me” pout. You know, the one where you place one hand over your heart and use the other hand to pat away make believe tears.

“Hannah, I’m trying to help you. You look absolutely beautiful.” Although, she was so busy staring at her own reflection I don’t know how she knew. “You always start berating yourself when you’re nervous, just get a grip.”

Then, she latched on to my arm and dragged me toward the front room. “Anyway,” she said, looking at me over her shoulder, “Sheriff Will seems to love that Rubenesque body.”

Leona, Ruth’s right hand at the antique store, and a marvelous designer, had really come through when helping me decorate the store. Taking some of the nicest pieces from Recollections (the antique store Ruth inherited when she and the Judge broke their matrimonial vows), Leona had transformed this old storefront on the town square into a quaint Victorian parlor accessorized with lace and Tiffany glass. The carpenters created the perfect mahogany masterpieces completing the ambiance we were going for. You know, kind of “Arsenic and Old Lace” –ish.

Oohs and aahs were abounding. The customers appeared to love the motif of the store.   

“I’ll never know how we managed to pull it all together so quickly,” I told Ruth. Only a few weeks had passed since the time of my first serious thought of becoming a proprietress until opening the doors.
In no time at all, I’d leased the only available storefront on the square, purchased enough books to stock the shelves, told my parents I would no longer be working for them, unveiled a murderer and saved my sister from a stint in the pokey, almost met my own death by said murderer, and may have possibly met the man of my dreams.

I’d been busy.