The Best Seller

Rick’s hands shook as he held the thick book in his ink-stained hands. He marveled at the deep red cover and the large white block letters, his name printed across the top. The best-selling author. He signed the fan’s name with a note, shutting the book and handing it back to them, meeting their eyes. Rick glanced at the long line of fans waiting for a signature.

It was then that the clang of commotion startled everyone, the sounds unfamiliar to the modern world: bells and chimes of an old grandfather clock that stood against the wall of the bookstore—a staple of its old charm.

The crowd looked towards the source of the cacophony, watching in wonder at such a contraption. One witness who was towards the front of the line would later swear Rick had yelled out then—had seemed to want to convey something urgently—calling for help?

And when the adoring line of fans turned back, and the next fan stepped forward, nothing about Rick seemed amiss. He looked as though he was leaning down, reaching to retrieve something he’d dropped under the table.

When he wouldn’t move, gasps erupted, and whispers danced down the line snaking through the store, out the door, down the street, jolting the literary world like a live wire.

~~~

Detective Harris had never heard of the dead author before. Supposedly this Rick Yates was quite famous before making headlines for dropping dead at his book signing for his latest and last novel, Acknowledgements. He'd still been gripping his marker. Rick’s manager, Mitch, was inconsolable.

The detective’s husband couldn’t believe she didn't know him. “Really? That 90s movie No Swimming? That was based on one of his books,” he said to Harris, who shrugged. “His books were all over—airports and shit.”

The bookstore where it happened, Page Turner’s, was located near the village center of a little-known, but scenic New England town called Trestle. It sat among a hair salon, a few restaurants with food city folk would call “fine”, and an endearingly no-frills dive bar called Netty’s.

For a week the town was swarmed with a blend of summer tourists, locals, fans, social media conspiracy theorists, and paparazzi—now all united by morbid curiosity.

~~~

A stroke? Or a heart attack? Investigators agreed it was plausible: mid-60s, heavy smoker, a notorious struggle with substances that caused his public fall from grace into reclusivity.

Detective Harris privately suspected an overdose. Case closed.

But then the toxicology report had come back: lethal levels of cyanide.

~ ~ ~

Detective Harris assembled a team to identify a roster of witnesses to question. They were tasked with combing through footage and the store’s sales records.

The social media videos seemed endless, offering several angles of the attendees who were able to make contact with him that day.

The surveillance system of the store, on the other hand, wasn’t robust. “Not many people are clamoring to break into a bookstore,” the owner Mindy Turner explained.

~ ~ ~

The media followed the investigation closely.

There was the superfan who had been first in line. Rick Yates’ long-time manager Mitch identified the man easily; for years the fan had sent many letters, manuscripts—even photos—to the author. Rick admitted the man was weird, but brushed him off as harmless. "Fame is like a rip tide, others can get pulled along with you," he'd said to Mitch.

The media loved him, because he spoke openly. He loved to show the autograph he received, the note to him from Rick that read Thanks for letting me explain myself accompanied by a strange circular drawing. Rick was known for giving cryptic signatures and original drawings.

There was the bombshell of the ex-girlfriend who surprised him, skipping the line altogether. Rumors spread that she’d been demanding a paternity test for her now twelve-year-old child.

When questioned, she shared the signed book he had given her. It read Not written, maybe spoken accompanied by a rudimentary drawing of what looked like a fly. She said it wasn’t an inside joke, and she wasn’t sure what it meant. Their relationship seemed amicable, and the paternity rumors disproven.

But of course there was a cup of water found next to the body. And Rick Yates’ long-time manager Mitch, who admitted to giving Rick the water. Testing came back with traces of cyanide and his prints.

“It’s not looking good for Mitch,” Detective Harris said.

~~

“Have any of you even read the book?” Mitch said on the stand. “It’s a novel about a sick man. He was sick,” Mitch said, though not convincingly enough to avoid a 20-year sentence. The jury agreed cyanide in a cup of water is very pre-meditated.

~~

However many fans did read the book, the novel about an old, apologetic sick man who had a secret inoperable brain tumor. They agreed Acknowledgements wasn’t Rick Yates’ greatest work—and there wasn’t even an acknowledgement section!

But they did declare it wasn’t his last work—not really.

~~

“You see this?” Harris said to her husband. She played the viral video compilation on her phone of the 23 signatures Rick Yates had given that day. The drawings, when put in a certain order, created a fluid animation of a flower blooming, the petals blowing away in an unseen wind.

And the order of the drawings dictated a sequence for the cryptic messages. Together, the message read:

Thanks for letting me explain myself.

I could sense it

A mass malignancy

Not written, maybe spoken

After all

The adoration

Perhaps the masses

The many

Festering words never published

It’s what created it

But also maybe

A gifted ending

One I could write

For you and me

My thanks

To the readers

To a life

Full

Full

So full

This is how I’ll operate

On my terms

My goodbye

~~

On the tenth anniversary of his death a retrospective was published on the tormented genius of a formally private man pulling off such a public suicide (allegedly).

A famous pop punk band made a song, its lyrics the author’s (alleged) autograph suicide note.

Mitch published his own book from prison—a biography on the great Rick Yates. It became an instant best seller.