My first destination this morning was the independent bookstore, the Athenaeum. Some locals and visitors might scratch their heads over the name, but I thought it was clever. Its present location was on the town square, across from Farrington House, but it had started life about twenty years ago in a house on a street near downtown. The present owner, Jordan Thompson, had inherited it from her father, and when I moved back to Athena, I was delighted to find it thriving.

It was a few minutes past ten when I pulled my car into a spot directly in front of the store. The neon OPEN sign was on. Diesel hopped down from the car, eager to go inside. Jordan always made a fuss over him and gave him a kitty treat or two. Or five. Diesel sometimes went into starving-cat mode around her, and I pretended not to notice.

I paused at the front window. There was a large pile of Godfrey’s latest book, a hardcover with a garish cover, on display. It would probably sell even more copies now that he was dead.

With that morbid thought, I entered the bookstore, Diesel stepping ahead of me. The bell hung from the door handle jangled and, as usual, Diesel swatted at it until I pulled him away.

“Good morning.” I called out the words because I didn’t see any staff members in evidence.

The head of one of Jordan’s assistants popped up from behind the counter. “Let me know if you need help with anything.” The head disappeared.

“Thanks.” The head belonged to Jordan’s younger brother, Jack, who was about the same age as Justin. He was always in a hurry, it seemed, and I took no offense at his abrupt manner.

The Athenaeum occupied about four thousand square feet, and there were thousands and thousands of books lining the shelves. I could easily spend two hours here—and often had—such was the wealth of the printed word available. I headed for the mystery section, where I usually started. I had been here the previous Saturday, so there might not be anything new in. It never hurt to look, though.

I was checking the Hs for three of my favorites—Haines, Harris, and Hart—when I heard a voice behind me.

“Good morning, Diesel. What a beautiful boy you are.”

Diesel tugged at the leash, and I let him go as I turned to greet Jordan.

“Good morning, Charlie,” she said, bending down to give my cat an affectionate greeting.

Her long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, Jordan looked younger than thirty-one. Tall and willowy, she was a striking woman, with flawless skin and flashing green eyes. “Good morning,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, standing up. “Can Diesel have a treat or two?”

“Sure,” I said. “You spoil him, you know.”

Jordan laughed. “He’s a big guy. Needs to keep up his strength.”