Free Cherringham--Playing Dead by Neil Richards

he lived — his address … a tiny flat in the village, above the bookshop.
    But he quickly said “No.”
    Then: “And not at that coffee house,” he said. “Bunch of busybodies work there.”
    She thought of the bookshop below his flat that Sarah hadn’t been to in months … with a new owner and new name, “The Book Cottage.”
    When she mentioned that possibility, he hesitated.
    “Ben — it will just be for a quick chat,” she added.
    Then, not hiding his reluctance, he said, “Okay. In ten minutes.”
    Now, the call ended and taking a breath, Sarah put her computer to sleep and turned to Grace.
    “Going to The Book Cottage,” Sarah said. “Shouldn’t be gone long.”
    Grace nodded, carrying on with her work, as Sarah got up from her desk, and headed for the shop.
    *
    A bell over the door jingled as she entered.
    The small shop — specialising in quality used books as well as the newest releases — looked empty.
    But then the owner, new to Cherringham, a small, rotund woman — Rosie McHugh — came out of a little room at the back, a smile on her face.
    “Hello,” the shopkeeper said. “Can I help you?”
    “Could be — I hear the new Archer is a great read, hmm? And—”
    “All sold out of that one, I’m afraid,” Rosie said. But then she came out from behind the counter. “Michael Connelly has a new one, getting great reviews.”
    The woman pointed to a neat line of the Connelly novel on the top shelf of new releases.
    “Thanks. Might be just the ticket.” Sarah took a look around at the otherwise empty store. “I’m also,” Sarah said as she slid the novel out, “meeting Ben Ferris here. In minutes, really. You know him?”
    A nod, and then, finally a smile. “Do indeed. The upstairs tenant! Haunts this place. Limited funds but always checking out what’s new.”
    “Quite the reader, then?”
    “Oh, more than that. Quite the writer . Always checking out the books about writing, plays, novels. Last week he picked up The Selected Letters of Elia Kazan . You know, Mr. Ferris once wrote professionally…”
    No … I did not know that, Sarah thought.
    Just thought he was quiet Ben Ferris, working his hourly wage job, struggling to get by.
    But a writer?
    “No, I didn’t, I—”
    And at that moment the bell over the door trilled again, and Ben Ferris walked in, face set, a nod to Rosie McHugh, and just a stolid look for Sarah.
    Sarah smiled and went over to him.
    *
    Ben wasn’t terribly good at eye contact.
    He led the way back to where there were shelves devoted to books on writing and writers’ biographies. As Sarah asked him questions, her voice low, Ben would slide out one book … then another.
    “Ben, I wanted to know your thoughts about what’s been happening in the theatre.”
    He paged though the book in his hands, bent over, and then slid it back in, pulling out another.
    “You mean the arguments and stuff?”
    “Well, yes.” Sarah paused. “That and the accidents.
    “Guess … accidents happen.”
    “You mean you think there will be more?” she asked.
    He looked up at her.
    “I don’t know. Do you?”
    “You think someone could be doing them on purpose? That they aren’t accidents?”
    “Anything’s possible.”
    Like pulling teeth here, Sarah thought.
    She moved on.
    “And that fight between Jez and Ambrose.”
    “Idiots,” Ben said.
    “For fighting?”
    Another look up. Ben Ferris weighing every word.
    Then the tiniest of smiles. “Sure.”
    And Sarah wasn’t sure at all.
    Ben had been a fixture in the local productions for years. She wondered what he thought of an outsider coming in, so now she asked him.
    Ben slid out another book.
    Sarah could see the title. The Trip to Echo Spring .
    After a long pause, Ferris said: “Guess the Board thought old Ambrose wasn’t quite up to it.”
    “And you?”
    Ferris shrugged. “Always seemed to do just fine before. Maybe they wanted…” seeming reluctant, Ferris slid the book back in. Buying new