Excerpt from Perky's Chapter Four

May 3

 

“Looky, looky, looky!” Jeremy, our public relations coordinator foisted a massive foam hat at me as I walked into the back room. “Just in time for May.”

Two-foot masts blossomed with canvas sails. Hemp rigging attached the sails to the two and a half foot boat.

“It’s a ship,” I blinked, taking it from Jeremy.

“The Mayflower.” Jeremy identified the hat with a Scarlet O’Hara twang.

“Wait ‘til you see the pilgrims,” growled Doreen.

“Is this an anchor?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Calvin smiled coldly. “Turn your head just right and smack! You hook someone’s eye with it.”

Everyone laughed nervously because as much as we loved Calvin, sometimes he wasn’t joking.

Doreen clapped her hands for attention. “Good morning my Perky Ambassadors! Welcome to the first Monday in May!” She called our monthly associates meeting to order, and turned the meeting over to our newest of a long line of short-lived managers. He stood before us, trim, tidy, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, red power tie, and shiny leather shoes.

“Good morning. My name is Thomas Ambrose. I have been known to change traditions. I’m going to do so this morning. I would like us to go up into the café for our meeting. I think it’s very important for every employee to know all of our products, not just books, so I’m going to treat you all to breakfast. Tea, coffee, doughnuts, and bagels.”

“Please tell me you brought them in from Martin’s Bagels down the street,” Calvin gasped.

“I love humor in the workplace,” replied the new GM grimly.

“Then you’re gonna love the coffee!” Jeremy swished.

“A bribe by any other name,” suggested Sam Wayne. “You’d think these GM’s would leave notes for each other. GM number 572, treated staff to breakfast to get them on my side.”

“That’s a good idea, but then they’d have to keep tallies of how many died from food poisoning,” laughed my best friend Lilly.

“But NOW, they have to make another list of tallies for those who died from being ripped apart.” Henry shoved past us.

“Well, looks like someone didn’t enjoy being taken downtown for interrogation about Mrs. A’s murder!” Calvin did the teapot gesture, so I smacked him on the head.

“Interview, not interrogation,” I smirked.

“Did you get that detective’s phone number, Henry? He could ask me anything he wanted—at anytime,” cat-called Jeremy.

“Now, now, children,” scolded Angelique. This stunning six-foot blond with an hourglass figure, stiletto heels, size D cups, and blood-red fingernails’ real name was Adam. He smoothed his linen suit over his hips and tugged the hemline of his skirt a little closer to his mid-thighs.

“We’re not really going to wear that thing, are we, Uncle Billy?” Bessie was a new ambassador. She clung to Billy’s arm.

“There, there, little girl. You’ll get used to the h#%&&* things. Pardon my French.” He patted her hand.

Each of us sat with a steaming cup of Perky’s finest brew and a pastry; no one except Henry had touched them yet.

We looked up at the new GM without quite achieving the expectant hush most new GMs demanded. “My name is Thomas Ambrose.” He glanced around the tiny café. “I expected a larger turn out. I’m sure you are aware that these monthly meetings are mandatory.”

“Preaching to the choir, brother,” sang Jeremy.

“This is the entire staff. He fired seven people this week,” Calvin mumbled.

“Seven?” I usually keep my mouth shut at these meetings, but Calvin’s information startled me.

Lilly held up seven fingers.

“Yes?” Thomas pointed at Lilly. “The woman in jeans and the Have you martyred a Christian today T-shirt. Did you have something to add?”

“Sir, no sir!” she snapped. Despite a face like an angel haloed by glossy black ringlets which cascaded below her shoulders and were held back with a turquoise ribbon; despite size eight faded jeans and hemp sandals; despite rings on her toes and no need for a bra (due to firmness, not size); once a Marine, always a Marine.

“Mr. Thomas?” Bessie raised a trembling hand.

“Yes?”

“We don’t really have to wear that thing on our heads, do we?”

Thomas glared with obvious distaste at the Mayflower sailing on top of Calvin’s head. Calvin had almost managed to hook Angelique’s hoop earrings twice now. Thomas sighed in disgust. “Yes. They will help identify you as Percival Floor Ambassadors.”

“Or escaped loonies,” Sam Wayne snorted.

“Ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” Jeremy pointed at Sam.

“I notice none of you are eating or drinking. Or—few of you.” Thomas put his hands in his pockets. Henry snatched the shiny doughnut off of Doreen’s plate.

Doreen was a solid chunk of muscles and would have been happy plowing fields, baking bread, and slaughtering hogs on a prairie farm during the Western Expansion. At five foot one, she was the only Perky Ambassador shorter than me. She wore beautiful dresses that just didn’t look quite right on her, and scuffed Doc martens, which she’d gotten from the Catholic thrift store for two dollars. She brooked no insolence from anyone for any reason. But she had a soft-spot for Henry.

Thomas continued. “I’d like to take this time to thank,” he peered at an index card in the palm of his hand. “Elizabeth Smythe-Covington for filling in as café manager during your recent loss.”

“Who?” Sam asked.

“Elizabeth Smythe-Covington,” Thomas repeated.

“Who’s that?” Angelique questioned.

Thomas referred to his card again. “Did I pronounce your name wrong?”

“No. It’s fine.” Henry kept her eyes on the tabletop.

“Elizabeth? Your name’s Elizabeth?” Sam gawked.

“Yes.” She glared at him.

“Like, a girly girl’s name, Elizabeth?”

“Sam, don’t piss her off!” I warned softly.

“Well, I can see why you’d go by Henry. It’s a man’s name. Manly. For a man.”

“Sam!” Lilly hissed. “Don’t make it worse!”

“Sam, Henry’s real name is Elizabeth. She’s called Elizabeth because she’s a girl.” Billy said this in a stage whisper, behind his cupped hand.

Excerpt from

Perky’s Books and Gifts

© Evelyn Rainey 2013

Bedlam Press

ISBN 9781939065377

Excerpt from Perky's Chapter Three

April 9 Through the End of the Month

 

Jack returned later that afternoon.

“I’m sorry, but this is the busiest time of the day, and I’ve got to re-supply the café with three day’s worth of shipment.” I pushed the cart into the café.

“That’s alright, Ms. Madison. I’ve finished my interrogations,” he stopped. “I’ve finished my interviews. I thought I’d just sit here and observe for a while.”

I shook his hand and began unloading the cart.

“That’ll be nineteen dollars and sixty-nine cents.” Henry, manning the café in Mrs. Abercrombie’s place, smiled at the middle-aged man who had just purchased an inspirational book from the Christian Living section and a mug of coffee. Henry’s face was devoid of make-up. Her chestnut hair was straight and held behind her in a ponytail. She wore no jewelry and the only adornment on her apron was the nametag identifying her as “Henry, Paperback Specialist.” Despite her outward plainness, Henry had a haunting beauty that caused women to look twice at her in admiration and men to look twice at her in longing.

“I hope you don’t mind breaking this bill.” The man smiled apologetically at Henry and handed her a one-hundred-dollar bill.

She sighed, took the bill, and began gathering change.

“I tell you what, I hate to take all of your change.” He pulled a wad of ones out of his wallet. “Why don’t I pay for my purchase with these twenty ones?”

He spread out the twenty ones on the counter and pulled the hundred dollar bill back from Henry’s hand.

“Oh, I forgot! I’ll need a five dollar bill. I always put a five dollar bill in the offering at Sunday School.” He pulled a five dollar bill from the change in Henry’s hand and pushed five ones from the pile of twenty ones on the counter toward her.

She cocked her head, a slight smile on her face.

Jack White was sitting at the café. He bit the inside of his bottom lip and watched the hustle.

“Well, if you need fives, why don’t I give you change for that twenty I saw in your wallet.” Henry smiled sweetly.

The man hesitated.

“That would be a month of Sundays for you!”

“Well, OK.”

The man pulled the twenty out and handed it to her. Henry pointed at the five in his hand. “Five.” She pulled a five out of her hand and waved it, “Ten.” She slapped it on the counter, “Fifteen.” She pulled another five from her hand but hesitated, “Twenty.” She waved the five between them. “But if I give you these four fives, I won’t have enough for closing. If you give me that five back, I’ll give you ones for it.”

The man blinked helplessly. Henry took the single five out of his hand and scooped up the remaining fives and ones on the counter. “Oh no! I can’t open the cash drawer unless you buy something. How about a pack of mints?”

“Uh, I just have a hundred dollar bill left.”

“That’ll work. I’ll give you change.”

He handed her the bill with a puzzled look on his face. She began counting his change into his hand. “Three ninety-nine and a penny makes four, five, and five is ten. And ten more.”

“Uh, and if I could get change for this ten?” The man floundered.

“Why certainly.” She took back the ten and spread the rest of his change on the counter. “Five and five more is ten.” She pressed the two bills into his hand and pocketed the rest. “Sugar and milk are on that table over there.” Henry pointed across the café.

As he walked past, Jack winked at him. “A word to the wise, Mister.”

“What is it?” The man stared helplessly into his empty wallet.

“Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”

The man looked shocked and then embarrassed. He set his coffee on the table and left Perky’s Books & Gifts.

White peered at Henry over the top of his notebook. Henry came around the counter and stood in front of White’s table.

“Are you still running that youth center, Jack?” Henry glared at him. He nodded. She plopped the one-hundred-fifty dollars she’d scammed from the would-be conman on the table in front of Jack and turned away.

“Elizabeth.”

“What?” She turned to face him, fists on hips, ready for a fight.

“I’m glad you’re out.”

“I’ve been out almost a year now.”

“I know. Mom told me.”

“She wrote to me every week.”

“I know.” Jack patted the bills on the table top. “She read me your letters, too.”

Henry drew a breath and looked away from him. “You never wrote.”

“Didn’t think you’d appreciate it. I’m the reason you went to jail.”

“No you’re not, Jack. I’m the reason I went to jail. I was guilty. You had to do your job.”

“So, you forgive me?”

Henry scoffed and turned away.

“Bethy,” Jack picked up the wad of bills.

She glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Thanks.”

Henry nodded and went back behind the counter.

 

 

April 20

 

I put on my apron and walked with a till to the front counter. I could feel—more than hear—a disgruntlement among our morning patrons. No one was ready to buy a book, so I closed the cash drawer and walked toward the café.

“I just think it’s in poor taste,” a woman in an embroidered denim jumper and tennis shoes shook her head. “It’s only been two weeks.”

Henry patted her arm. “I know, Ruth. I’m sure Jack hasn’t given up. Maybe this is just a police tactic. Jack will solve this. He doesn’t give up on anything.”

“Or anyone,” Ruth squeezed Henry’s hand and walked away, revealing an eleven by fourteen inch poster glued to the counter. I could read the title: Cold Case, and saw a picture of Mrs. Abercrombie with a few details about her life and unsolved (or as Henry’s faith in Jack White’s detective skills asserted—yet-to-be solved) murder.

Excerpt from

Perky’s Books and Gifts

© Evelyn Rainey 2013

Bedlam Press

ISBN 9781939065377

Excerpt from Perky's Chapter Two

April 9

 

“What is your full name and occupation?” Jack White the detective sat with me in the café. His sandy blonde hair buzzed severely short, made his green eyes seem incongruously innocent. He had a notebook out, and an uncapped pen at the ready. He looked to be about seventeen and had nicked his chin shaving.

“Madison Jefferson. I’m a Floor Ambassador here at Percival’s Books & Gifts. I’m also a Commissioned Officer.”

“I served four years myself. In which branch of the service were you?” The detective slurped his coffee and then grimaced.

“No, not in the service, here at Perky’s.”

He glared into the coffee and then pushed his mug away in disgust. “What is your date of birth?”

“June 17, 1980.”

“And so you’re on leave from the Navy and work here part-time?”

“No, I work here full-time. Well, thirty-nine hours, so it’s not considered full-time as far as benefits go. But I’m not in the Navy.”

“You just told me you are a commissioned officer. Are you rescinding that now?”

“I’m not rescinding anything.”

The young man reached to the coffee and tapped the mug with his pen. It made a clink sound. He repeated that clink clink clink and smiled. “Ms. Jefferson, what month were you born?”

“I was born in June. June 19, 1962.”

He blinked at me. I smiled.

“And when you’re not here at Perky’s, you work in the commissary.”

I took a deep breath, hoping against hope that my disability, which is sort of like stuttering, didn’t kick in. It does that when I’m nervous or annoyed. So I took another deep breath. “I’m a commissioned officer here at Perky’s. It’s less than a manager but more than a floor ambassador.”

“Like a Red Badge at Books-a-Million.”

“I guess so.”

“My mother was a Red Badge. But they don’t have those any more.”

“But we do.”

“Hmmm. When did you say you were born?” Jack wrote something on his little notepad and turned it face down on the table.

“May 17, 1931.”

He squinted at me.

“Would you like some more coffee, sir?”

“No, thank you.” He picked up the mug and peered at the viscous liquid. “This is really nasty.”

“The absolute worst coffee ever,” I agreed. Of course, I didn’t add that it was still coming from the last pot that the late Mrs. Abercrombie had brewed. (Mrs. A being the body found in aisle seventeen three days earlier.)

“How long did you know the deceased?”

“I didn’t know the deceased. You can’t get to know dead people. Something about a lack of communication. Well,” I stopped to correct myself and tell Jack White about Sam Wayne. Sam talks to dead people. Sam insists that the only reason the dead speak to him is that his name sounds like the Gaelic (aka Wiccan) name for Halloween. I had never figured out what other reasons there might be—like that made a difference. Jack’s eyes were squinting—I was taking too long to answer his question about how well I knew the deceased. I made a definite decision not to tell the detective about Sam Wayne. “I knew Mrs. Abercrombie for the five years I’ve worked here.”

“And what impression did you have of her?” He leaned forward, a mouse about to pounce on a rabid wolf.

“That she made the worst coffee I’ve ever had in my entire life. When were you born?” I asked calmly.

“August 29, 1989. Hey, I’m supposed to ask that!”

“OK, Detective White, for the third time, this is the way it happened. A customer asked me about a werewolf book and then made a comment about the inappropriateness of the werewolf display. I went to check on it and discovered the remains of a human body, which were later identified as belonging to our café manager, Mrs. Abercrombie. You police came and taped off the entire New Age section and took the names of everyone in the store. Then you shut us down for the entire day yesterday, and none of us got paid. And then you came back today. Your officers are blocking the doors, intimidating our customers and eating all the free samples.”

“They’re,” he interrupted, looking gray. “They’re not with me. Not with the police. They’re a different branch of law enforcement.”

“What do you mean—they’re not police. Look at them! They scream law-enforcement.”

“How?” he growled.

“Black suit and tie. Shades. Muscles that are making our teen-age customers drool.”

White snorted, adjusted his tie and smiled. “This is a Beall’s Outlet tie my mom bought because it had a lavender dot on it. My suit is from the Salvation Army. I have had these shoes since my confirmation in the ninth grade. They are not with the city’s police department.”

One of the previously described men stomped up to the table and laid a ream of paper in front of White. “Sir, background info on the last sixty-two customers to enter the store.” He saluted and marched back to his position by the front double doors.

White glanced up at me and clinked the mug a few more times. “You were saying, about the murder?”

Enjoying White’s embarrassment, I said, “I don’t know what Mrs. Abercrombie died of, nor when, nor why. All I know about the lady is that she made really bad coffee and that something ripped her to shreds.”

The young man licked his top lip with the tip of his tongue while he wrote rapidly in the notebook. “So you’ve worked here a long time. Why did you get a job here in the first place?”

“I came in to—because I needed information about—about something I’d discovered in a book.” I took a deep calming breath, hoping my nervousness wouldn’t set off my disability. I didn’t think the detective would react well if I sat babbling in front of him while he questioned me about a murder. “And I met Lilly. And the next thing I knew, I was strapping on an apron and I’ve been here ever since.”

“Do you like working here?”

I smiled. “It has its moments.”

Excerpt from

Perky’s Books and Gifts

© Evelyn Rainey 2013

Bedlam Press

ISBN 9781939065377

#PerkysBooksandGifts 7

I would like to dedicate this book to everyone who has ever worked, shopped or lived at Books-a-Million #575 in Lakeland, FL.  I would also like this book to be in memory of Patrick Collier, the best BaM Discount Card salesman ever.

A great Holiday gift for that special book lover - you know - sits in the bookstore sipping coffee and reading books. She's mentioned in the book. By name.
Perky's is now available on Amazon as e- and paperback. You can purchase an autographed copy from me. I set up an entire website dedicated to this book. Please take a look, tell me your thoughts, order books and shirts!
Perky's Books & Gifts

Excerpt from Perky's Chapter One

April 6

 

Putting price stickers on books was a pretty mundane experience, but it was part of my job and I got to see the latest sales books fresh out of the shipment boxes. Dressed for the task in thin cotton slacks, a peasant blouse, and moccasins, I was sweating as if I’d just run a marathon. I’m in good shape. Well, tolerably good shape for a woman in her mid-thirties whose main source of exercise is running to catch the bus and shopping. And the task of putting price stickers on the sales books wasn’t that difficult. It was the combination of the store’s thermostat (which the managers never quite seemed to master) and my apron. The neon orange apron all employees wear is made of a wool-like synthetic fabric. I think the fabric is actually recycled tires, or so someone said. They’re hot. They don’t breathe. They smell like old tires. And have I mentioned they are orange? The story is that a customer had complained to head office that she couldn’t find a sales clerk (a.k.a. floor ambassador), hence the switch to the sickeningly visible orange.

I’m not sure why the fabric is made out of whatever material it is, other than the head-office prides itself (or advertises itself) as being recycle-friendly. The work aprons used to be organic black cotton. Now there is nothing organic about the apron, except maybe the green stuff that grows in tufts around the pockets. The only thing black left are the letters emblazoned across the bib spelling out the bookstore’s name: Percival’s Books & Gifts. Around here, though, it’s known lovingly as Perky’s.

The apron I could live with, it was the hat that challenged me. April, for some unknown reason, is Mad Hatters’ Month at Perky’s. The hat, sculpted from the floppiest foam rubber available, perched on my head in the quaint shape of an enormous teacup, complete with saucer, spoon, and teabag tag advertising the store’s most popular blend: Percival’s Zimbabwe Ginseng.

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

I tried to smile in a Perky manner at the mousy blond woman who asked me the question. I gritted my teeth, longing to point out my orange apron (not just a nice tangy orange that is cheerful and compliments yellow - NEON, in your face, here I am—bite me ORANGE) replete with a name-tag spelling out Madison, with my title as Commissioned Officer beneath it. There are times when one must keep silence, or else all is lost. I kept my silence, but I did so only because I had to adjust the slant of the mad hatter teacup hat before it fell to the floor.

“I’m looking for a book.”

I have been told repeatedly not to make comments like you’re looking for a book in a book store? to this kind of statement, so I smiled encouragingly.

“I don’t know the name of the book.”

“We can research it on our computer by the author’s name. Do you remember who wrote it?”

“Yes!”

I took a relieved breath.

“Bob somebody. Or maybe it was Ted. He had an initial between his first and last name.”

My job is to help the customer. My job is to help the customer. My job is to help the customer. “What was the book about?”

“Well, that’s sort of hard to explain.”

“OK. Was it nonfiction?”

“No, it was real! It was about werewolves.”

It is amazing how easy it has become to smile instead of speak. I’m not allowed to contradict the customers. “If you will go up to our customer service kiosk and tell the woman there that you are looking for books on werewolves, she’ll be happy to help you.”

“I did. She told me to ask you. She said she’s new and she doesn’t know how to work the computer.”

At the kiosk, reading a magazine with a face on the cover that was more metal than skin, dressed in what could only be described as gray sackcloth, slumped Henry. When Elizabeth Smythe-Covington came to work here seven months ago, she was given Henry’s nametag. She liked it so much, she refuses to answer to anything else. The original Henry has left for parts unknown. Rumor has it, he sells very new-looking paperbacks at the flea market. He supposedly has a warehouse full of them.

“Werewolves should be found in New Age on aisle seventeen in the center, just past the huge poster of Seth Green.”

“I looked there. The book I want isn’t there.”

“The one by Bob Ted Somebody?”

“Yes! Do you know which one I’m talking about?”

“I think so,” I lied. “I believe we have that on back order. It should come in by next week. If you’re not able to come back at that time, just call and ask for Henry.”

“Henry.” The customer beamed. “Thank you so much, Henry!”

“You’re welcome.” My smile didn’t hurt at all.

“By the way, do they really grow ginseng in Zimbabwe?”

“I can’t imagine Perky’s advertising something that wasn’t true.” OK, so my smile hurt just a little bit.

“Oh, and I don’t mean to sound like a prude,” the woman turned back to me. “But don’t you think your werewolf display is a tad garish?”

“Werewolf display? You mean Seth Green?” I scowled, trying to imagine Seth being anything but adorable.

“No, not the poster. It’s all the fake blood and gore behind it.”

“I’ll tell my manager.” I took a deep breath, put down my pricing gun and meandered toward the New Age section.

“Ms. Madison!” The Colonel had a snap to his voice that could bring an entire battalion to a complete stop mid-step. “I’ve warned you about this before.”

“Colonel,” I smiled, feeling my day had just brightened. I know I shouldn’t play favorites, but the Colonel was by far my favorite Perky customer.

He wore crisply ironed and starched tan cotton slacks and a navy blue oxford shirt, a pack of cigarettes poking out of the pocket. Shiny though worn boots, tanned and wrinkled face, lips set in a no-nonsense mode, the Colonel was probably in his mid-seventies. I was reminded of the saying, Old soldiers never die, they just fade away. But his brown eyes had a way of boring into me sometimes, and I often fought the urge to salute the old man. He held out a book, pointing it at me like a sword. “This does not, and I repeat, NOT belong in Military History.”

Excerpt from

Perky’s Books and Gifts

© Evelyn Rainey 2013

Bedlam Press

ISBN 9781939065377

#PerkysBooksandGifts 6

All in a day's work for any normal bookstore.

So, welcome to Perky's Books and Gifts!


\A great Holiday gift for that special book lover - you know - sits in the bookstore sipping coffee and reading books. She's mentioned in the book.

Perky's is now available on Amazon as e- and paperback. You can purchase an autographed copy from me. I set up an entire website dedicated to this book. Please take a look, tell me your thoughts, order books and shirts!
Perky's Books & Gifts

#PerkysBooksandGifts 5

Oh, and along the way, Madison and Thomas get married, the god and goddess of War shape-shift and fly away together, and Elizabeth is reunited with her true love.

Pre-order it now! A great Holiday gift for that special book lover - you know - sits in the bookstore sipping coffee and reading books.

#PerkysBooksandGifts 4

When librosprites (they are sort of like static electricity with a wicked sense of humor) infest Perky's bookstore, Madison and her Perky friends devise a plan to evoke spritephage demons which will consume the librosprites. Her friends, however, have to overcome their religious differences (spanning from Roman Catholic to Wiccan and every faith in between) to evoke the spritephage demons, solve two murders and prevent a third, and adapt to the take-over of Tobogaton Nationals.

Pre-order it now! A great Holiday gift for that special book lover.

#PerkysBooksandGifts 3

Greg is an egregore (a man-made demon) which doesn't want to die, so he has to prevent the last heir of his creator from becoming good. (Oh, and by the way, Greg breeds librosprites as a hobby in his spare time.)

Pre-order it now!

#PerkysBooksandGifts 2

The story of Perky's Books and Gifts begins with murder and ends with true love. It is told by Madison, Perky's Night Manager.

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#PerkysBooksandGifts 1

Welcome to Perky's Books and Gifts where gardening books blossom into bouquets, cookbooks sizzle with succulent juices, and military history books can be lethal. Don't mind the mutilated body behind the werewolf display, or the fact that the café manager is an egregore; Frankenstein was one, too.

Pre-order it now!