Arsenic with Austen by Katherine Bolger Hyde

it? Lots more money.”
    â€œFor whom, exactly?”
    That took him aback. “Why, for the town. The business owners. You and me.” He gave her a repellent wink. “For people who know a good thing when they see it.”
    â€œI see. So you don’t actually expect the town as a whole to benefit? The people who work for you, for example. Will you pay them more? Give them more hours, better benefits? Hire more workers?”
    His grin faltered and his eyes narrowed. “Whatchou gettin’ at? You some kinda socialist? You believe in this ‘of the people by the people’ bull?”
    â€œMr. Cash, you are quoting President Abraham Lincoln. He, like our founding fathers, wanted this country to have a government of the people, by the people, and for the people.”
    â€œGovernment, okay. But those guys weren’t talkin’ ’bout money. They had more sense. Money is of, by, and for the people who know how to get it. And how to keep hold of it. To him who has, more shall be given. Jesus said that.” He shoved a horny finger in her face.
    Emily drew herself up. “He also said, ‘Give, and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For with the same measure you use, it will be measured back to you.’ How much do you give to this town, Mr. Cash?”
    She left him gaping as she turned and walked out of the store.
    *   *   *
    Next door to the Cash emporium was a bookshop called, with refreshing directness, Stony Beach Books. Emily pushed open the door and paused to take a deep breath of thoughtful, well-educated air.
    From somewhere far up in that air, a pleasant male voice floated down to her. “Can I help you find anything?”
    â€œJust looking around,” Emily said, suiting the action to the word in search of the voice’s source. At last she spotted a ladder in the far corner with a pair of chino-clad legs perched several rungs up. “Actually, I was hoping for a book on local history.”
    â€œSure, I can help you with that.” The legs descended, revealing a tall slender male figure and a young mocha-colored face of remarkable ascetic beauty. The man could have posed for an angel in an Ethiopian icon. With a diffident smile, he led Emily to a table near the front of the store. “Not much in the way of comprehensive history, but we’ve got lots of specialized stuff—lighthouses, pirates, legends, marine life, whatever floats your boat. Of course, if you’re not interested in anything nautical, you may be out of luck.”
    Emily flipped through several of the volumes and chose one on local legends as covering the most ground. Then she wandered through the store, noting an eclectic mixture of subject matter in books old and new. A couple of racks up front contained a selection of “beach reads,” but apart from that, most of the books seemed more appropriate to a university town than a tiny tourist community.
    She took her selection to the counter and introduced herself.
    â€œBen Johnson,” the young man replied. “So you’re my new landlady? I hope you’re not planning to sell to some out-of-towner. I’m afraid my store might not look like a big profit-maker to a developer.”
    â€œNo, at this point I’m not thinking of selling. Though I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised you can keep going with a shop like this in this location. Do people really buy books on German philosophy and Russian music in a place like this?”
    He dipped his head. “To tell you the truth, I sell more online than I do in walk-ins. I tend to buy what I like more than what I think will sell. Except for the front racks, of course.” He punched the book’s price into a manual cash register. “But you’d be surprised what locals do sometimes buy. Like the other day, Mayor Trimble bought a big illustrated book on the Borgias along