Boo Hiss Read Online Free PDF Page A

out, he would know it.
    And now here was the great Alfred Tennison at his doorstep once again, with another grand plan to resurrect his career. For a while he’d been thinking that his career wasn’t to be resurrected. But he was starting to realize something very profound: he didn’t do anything else well.
    He’d tried to sell cars. He’d tried to sell books at the bookstore. He’d even tried to do nothing. But all he really knew how to do was write. What perplexed him now was why he couldn’t seem to write anything. Was he that bad of a writer that a hop over to another genre caused everything to collapse?
    During the quiche dinner, Alfred had tried to politely eat, though Wolfe could tell he wasn’t enjoying it. Alfred explained there was a market for “you kind of writers.” By “you kind of writers” he meant the kind who “think God has to be in everything.” Once Alfred got past allthe rhetoric, Wolfe understood him to be saying there was a whole market for what he called religious fiction.
    “At first I thought they were talking about stories set in the Vatican, but no.” Alfred seemed completely in awe of whatever he was trying to explain, and he was doing a fairly poor job of it. “I mean, it’s nearly surreal,” he said. “You know how a book won’t sell if it doesn’t have one and a half sex scenes or a lot of gratuitous violence, right?” Wolfe nodded, though Alfred was exaggerating. It wasn’t quite boiled down to that kind of formula. Though close. “Well, these books don’t have sex scenes in them. Or gratuitous violence. In fact, they won’t even publish a book with something like that in it.”
    “That’s interesting.”
    “Bizarre was what I was thinking, but anyway, it sounds like it could be your kind of deal. And from what I can see, there’s quite a bit of money to be made. People actually like this stuff. I’m not kidding. I looked up the numbers. Turns out, lack of sex sells. Who knew?”
    Wolfe walked into the recently renovated coffee shop. He’d been enjoying the routine of trying a new drink at each breakfast. It helped break up his mundane mornings. The decor was nice too. The long metal tables and aluminum chairs that had been in here before had been replaced by wooden chairs and matching, small, round wooden tables. There was art on the wall instead of hometown newspaper clippings.
    He walked to the counter, where a huge selection of fancy pastries had replaced donuts. Was that baklava? Wasn’t that a German pastry he used to eat at Ingrids?
    “Good morning, Wolfe.”
    Wolfe turned to find Reverend Peck, also a new and loyal coffeehouse customer, standing behind him. “Good morning, Reverend.” The reverend liked to kill about half his morning in this place.
    “How is your day going?”
    “So far so good. Took a little walk, did some thinking, came in for a cup of coffee. That’s about it.”
    “That sounds fun.”
    “How is your morning going?”
    “Actually, it’s been pretty interesting.”
    “Oh? How?”
    “A woman came to visit me at the church, claimed she could turn it around, get people to start coming again. She said it’s all in the children’s ministry.”
    “Huh. Children’s ministry. Did you mention we mostly just have adults?”
    “I tried to tell her. But she insisted that she could multiply the parishioners. She would just need a box of Goldfish.”
    “Well, I guess that’s a cross between a loaf of bread and a fish product.”
    “Yeah, guess so.” He looked at the woman behind the counter. “Double vanilla mocha.” He smiled at Wolfe. “I’m feeling a little crazy today.”

    Hardy Bishop could hardly believe his eyes. This was a dream come true. Booky’s was now everything he’d ever wanted. He always knew money could buy happiness, and this was proof.
    “I have a vision for your store,” the woman with nice hair and expensive pants had said. “I think it has the potential to be amazing.”
    So they’d secretly