Page 13 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
Smiling, I glance down at the skeletal hands coming together just beneath my cropped black corset. “Thank you, and I love your taste in books.” I wink at her, appreciating the rarity of such a young Whovian.
Her eyes light up. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Pish…” I wave a hand at the obvious answer. “Tennant, of course! But as far as I’m concerned, Ncuti Gatwa is giving him a run for his money.”
“I love Matt Smith,” she mentions.
For the next half hour, we intermittently discuss the Whovian universe because I’ll always make time for my customers, new or familiar, young or old. At the end of the conversation, Emmy takes two cookies and skips away with her book in hand and her light brown waves fluttering behind her. I gave her a free Dr. Who bookmark.
My Tim Burton playlist begins, and I hum “Sally’s Song” while bringing a mug of coffee to Mrs. Nedra as she sits in her usual leather chair reading the latest true crime novel. She nods in appreciation without looking up—our quiet and comforting routine. She buys a book every week.
Maria is on the hunt for another cookbook, always choosing recipes from pages instead of blogs. I grab one from a table display and hand it to her. “Great pumpkin soup recipe in here. Breakfast and dinner ones! Perfect for fall.”
“Bless your heart, honey-Belle,” she says in her strong Tennessee twang.
I notice the 40-something, Mr. Tyler, our local literature professor, snooping through the classic novels. “Finding anything good?” I ask. He nods, a small smile on his face. “Always. Time for a Mary Shelley re-read.”
“Ahh, our iconic author of history’s first and finest horror novel.” Naturally, that honor goes to a woman, not Bram Stoker or Robert Louis Stevenson. But we do owe Lord Byron for hers and Bram’sinspiration. And Edgar Allan Poe’s, my personal favorite.
“You owe me a visit over a cup of Earl Grey and telling me more about Gaston Leroux,” I remind him with a wink.
“Name the day!” he calls back as I return to the counter, skipping the whole way.
Throughout the day, I help a new mother named Chelsea find a lullaby-singing book for her rambunctious toddler, I sell one of my rare titles to Silke, a visiting collector, and deep-talk with our resident philosopher in the quieter evening hours.
I encourage a budding young poet to read her work aloud, which results in our local librarian asking if she has a book of poems.
I also direct new visitors to the Autumn Scavenger Hunt. They search for small, laminated leaf cutouts, each with a little quote or clue, I’ve hidden among the bookshelves and displays. The prize? A cozy autumn-themed gift basket filled with a mug, some cocoa mix, a handmade bookmark, and a free book of their choice.
Twilight encroaches, but we still have some customers remaining. Ugh, it’ll soon be dark, and a certain horny headless horseman will be on the prowl.
I packup the remaining blind-date-with-a-book boxes with their autumnal accompaniments, like a fall-themed candle, maple caramel corn from our town’s candy maker, and artisan coffee and tea. A warm wool scarf, knitted by yours truly, completes the ensemble. My second favorite hobby, next to baking, is knitting, especially during this season.
The fading of the twilight to welcome dusk sets my spirit in a tizzy. Tingles break out all over my skin, my nerve endings sizzling as I tidy up the bookshop, clearing plates with their cookie crumbs and bringing mugs to the kitchen.
As I do, a knock at the back door has me jumping. Gooseflesh buds on my skin as I suspect who it might be. Just as I go to touch the handle, the front doorbell jingles, announcing a new customer. I lean back, peering through the gap in the bookshelves.
Shit!
My insides knot with frustration. It’s Mrs. Kravitson. Ugh! Naturally, she would choose the absolute worst time to appear.
“Belle dear?” She calls in a voice like rusty nails. She’s already peering into every corner like she’s conducting a health inspection.
I race to the back, yank open the door, and drag Jack inside by his collar like a misbehaving dog. He’s headless, as usual. Uh, did I expect anything different? I press a finger to my lips, eyes wide in a silent, desperate plea.
Did you just shush me? Oh, my naughty, naughty Belladonna.He purrs, voice dripping with amusement.Afraid I’ll shout at the top of my lungs?
Rolling my eyes, I jab a thumb toward the storage room. “Just wait here while I get rid of the last guest,” I whisper.
“Belle?” Mrs. Kravitson calls out, her tone sharper, and I can practically feel her eyes boring holes into the back of my head.
He brings his hands behind his back, leaning down. Oh, the jackass doesn’t need a head for me to know he’s smirking. Every drop of him oozes a teasing smirk.If this rattles you so, imagine how you’ll fare when I truly set my sights on the hunt.
He might not be able to see, but I give him a glare that promises retribution.
Shoving him closer to the storage room, I mutter a very stern “stay” and hustle back to the front. Mrs. Kravitson has already made herself at home, plopping her oversize purse on the counter.
“Belle, darling! Still single, I see. Your biological clock is louder than Big Ben at this point!” She pats my arm with a condescending smile.
