Page 99 of Booked for Murder

“How much are you selling it for?”

“Fifty dollars.”

I raised a brow at that, as with so many beads and the intricate carving of the cross, he must have spent a long time creating the piece.

I wondered what Bradley would discover if I were to take the necklace to him. If I purchased it, perhaps I would learn more about the artisan and his connection with the senator, too.

For fifty dollars, it didn’t hurt to try. Grabbing my purse, I dug out the bills and offered it to him. “While you may think it a lesser piece, it’s beautiful, and it would be my honor to treasure it.”

Unlike everything else at his table, it could serve a purpose, too. I could roll it between my hands, wear it as a necklace, or even smack my ex-boss and current fiancé. I would need to spend a lot of time thinking about how I’d gone from hiding from him to in line to marry him—even if the marriage was a safety precaution to keep me from becoming a permanent fixture in the military.

He took my money, smiled, and crouched, pulling out a carved wooden box depicting the four horses of the apocalypse. “I hope you do not find this box offensive. It is something I carved but could never sell. It seems fitting to send it off with something meant to bring peace. It keeps things in balance.”

If he’d tried to sell the box, he could have received a lot more than fifty dollars for it. Maybe he found the box offensive, but I loved everything about it, the realistic horses gracing its surface, and their riders. While I didn’t know a whole lot about Christianity, I recognized the four horsemen of the apocalypse when I saw them. “It is a work of art. Shouldn’t I pay you more for the box?”

“No, no, my dear. It is something I carved during a long winter.” He took out several pieces of black velvet, which he wrapped the mala in before setting it inside the box. He also wrote a receipt for me, tucking it within the box and wrapping it in more velvet before slipping it into a velvet bag. “Should you be asked upon leaving, simply show security the receipt. It’s unlikely they’ll ask, but just in case.”

“Thank you.” I tucked the box into my purse, pleased I’d brought one big enough to hold it. “Are there any other crafters here you recommend I should visit?”

He smiled at my question. “What sort of art do you like?”

“I’m usually pretty practical,” I admitted. “I like things I can use.”

“There is a pottery vendor at the end of the row who crafts cups, bowls, plates, and so on. They are works of art, but they are also functional works of art. That might meet your needs. You’ll find it difficult to get such things at this rally, though.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Senator Maybelle asked us to bring works of art rather than artistic works of function, preferably works of art that showcase what it means to be human. The ceramics artisan is one of her relatives, and all of his art tends to be functional, but he brought pieces inspired by various cultures with him, which she approved of. She wants art to be showcased more than anything else.”

Considering the price tags of his wares, I suspected the rally targeted the wealthy. I had no idea what she meant to accomplish by excluding functional items, but I hoped to find out. I thanked him, and after a moment of thought, decided I’d hit every stall I could before it was time to head to the main rally site, wondering what I might learn before even reaching the senator or listening to her speech scheduled to take place in several hours.

It would be a long day.

I needed to stop issuing challenges to life in general, as every vendor had some sort of morality they wished to impart on me while selling their wares and pushing Senator Maybelle’s political agenda. As warned, very few vendors had anything practical or functional in nature, with most of their goods meant to entice the high-ticket buyers that political campaigns wanted to lure in for contributions. However, aware of the secrets handcrafted items could tell, I bought a ridiculous number of trinkets, most costing within five to ten dollars, from barely polished worry stones to carved wooden balls that might have become beads if the artisan had been bothered to drill a hole through them.

One vendor had a collection of wooden bookmarks for twenty dollars apiece, and I ended up buying a set of four of them, each one depicting a different season. I particularly liked the tassels, which were made of thin, braided wire decorated with glass beads. I’d likely regret the expenditures later, but I appreciated beautiful things with a purpose, and I refused to sully one of my books by folding the corner to mark my spot. I’d have to be careful of the wire and wood to make sure I didn’t damage any spines, but some prices were worth paying.

It took me two hours to find the ceramics stall, which had a lot of people milling around for a chance to talk to the crafter, a young man who had ignored his natural calling to be a model to work with his hands, which bore enough scars I couldn’t help but wonder how many hours he’d struggled and suffered to learn his art.

I purchased a set of eight hand-thrown pinch bowls with a blue and green glaze that reminded me of the ocean. After I had Bradley check them to see if he could learn any secrets from them, I’d give them to my mother, who appreciated having little bowls littering her kitchen when she cooked.

They’d be wasted on me, who could handle the simplest of dishes and little else.

I needed to warn Bradley we’d both need some cooking classes if we wished to survive on our own while maintaining decent health. I’d need a lot of classes to be able to handle anything more than following the directions on a box.

The preprocessed foods I favored would do their best to kill Bradley with their dairy content.

Aware of my ongoing feud with my wheelchair, the short distance I could go before needing to catch my breath, and the perils of dealing with a crowd of people who couldn’t be bothered to give me room to move, I abandoned the craft stalls. Dodging people on my way across the park to where the senator would make her speech tested my patience. Somehow, I made it without incident, although I would need several hours to recover from the unwanted exercise.

The park’s setup reminded me of a concert venue with a stage, massive overhead lights and speakers, and everything else needed to put on a show for the masses. Hundreds of people crammed close to the stage for a chance to get close to the woman they wanted to win the presidency. While the rest of the grounds hadn’t been precisely accessible, the inclusion of a ramp leading to the stage caught my attention. I came to a halt not far inside the general waiting area for the rally, close to the exit so I could escape before everyone blocked my ability to leave until the crowd dispersed.

Waiting an extra hour for thousands of people to leave would annoy me. Bradley would inevitably add to my annoyance, as he’d hover if I didn’t make it back to my apartment at the scheduled time, approximately two hours after the conclusion of the rally.

Considering how many people were packed into the park, it would take a hell of a lot longer than two hours to make it home.

I needed to have a long chat with my life and negotiate for a minimum of three calm, peaceful weeks with no hospital visits, minimal pain, my foot behaving to the best of its ability, and not a single annoyance. I could use a few weeks of working on the library renovation, spending some rich donor’s money to turn my favorite place in New York into a work of art. I indulged in daydreaming about a good few weeks at my job, making a mental note to tell Bradley I absolutely would not be giving up my life as a librarian any time soon.

He’d just have to cope with a librarian fiancée.