I realized over the last few years that Saturday mornings at B-Sharp Records had a rhythm of their own. The sun barely scraped the horizon before the shop opened, casting a golden glow through the big front windows. Fall made the old brick buildings of Flat Rock feel timeless. Leaves in every shade of red and orange lined the sidewalks, and the air smelled like wood smoke and damp earth.

Inside the shop, there was a different smell. Cardboard and vinyl, with just a touch of mildew. Like the smell of an old basement. The odor isn’t surprising, as that's where a good share of the records in our collection came from. Stocking a vintage record store isn’t easy, especially with vinyl making a huge comeback. The shop's collection was a patchwork of stories gathered from every corner of Flat Rock and beyond. Half of the shelves were filled with donated records. Stacks of old albums from attics and basements, dropped off by people who hadn’t touched a turntable in decades. They came with the dust of forgotten years and the hope that someone else might see the value in what they’d once loved.

Then there were the records I bought outright. Collections from serious audiophiles or people downsizing their lives. Some sellers knew exactly what they had, rattling off catalog numbers like they were reading from a sacred text. Others brought in boxes without a second thought, happy to trade memories for a few bucks. And of course, the new vinyl had its own section. Crisp, shrink-wrapped reissues alongside fresh releases from modern artists still clinging to the analog sound. It wasn’t as profitable as streaming, but for those who cared, nothing compared to the drop of a needle. My store didn’t follow some corporate inventory sheet. It was curated the way a record collection should be. Part treasure hunt, part nostalgia trip, and entirely unpredictable.

Today, we were warmed by the hum of the old heater rattling in the corner. CSNY spun on the turntable, Graham Nash crooning his way through “Teach Your Children”. Although the shop was only 5 years old, some days it felt like a time capsule. As though any second the door would swing open and someone in a faded band tee would ask if we had any Zeppelin bootlegs.

Instead, I had Jeremiah.

He turned up the volume on the turntable slightly. Not enough to bother customers, but enough for me to shoot him a disapproving look.

'What?' he said. 'It's not like Delores is here to complain yet.'

'Keep it that way,' I muttered. The owner of Krensky’s Antiques next door had made noise complaints a weekly ritual.

My only full-time employee was parked at the counter, his elbows resting on the glass as he nursed a gas station fountain drink that he’d picked up on the way to work. The straw was bent as if he’d chewed on it absentmindedly, a classic Jeremiah move. His denim jacket, the same one he’d been wearing since high school some 50 years ago, still smelled faintly of cigarettes and regret. But what he lacked in fresh laundry, he made up for in opinions. Loud ones.

“You know,” I said, sliding a couple of records back into the ‘New Arrivals’ bin, “we could bring in some eighties pop. Shake things up a little.”

Jeremiah’s brow furrowed like I’d suggested setting fire to the store. “Oh yeah? And while we’re at it, maybe throw in some leg warmers and a fog machine?”

“It could be fun. Ever think people might want a little variety?”

He snorted. “They can find variety at the big box stores. We’re not selling out to the synth crowd.”

I grinned. “So, no A Flock of Seagulls?”

“Not unless you want me to quit.” He jabbed a finger toward the nearest shelf. “Now, if someone comes in asking for Maiden or Sabbath, we’re ready. But if I catch Tiffany on these shelves, I’m walking.”

“Duly noted.”

Jeremiah’s loyalty to metal was unwavering. A few times, I’d tried to convince him there was more to music than just screaming guitars and epic drum solos, but it never stuck. He was a one-track kind of guy. So, I fully expected his response.

Although not exactly the same, we had similar conversations every Saturday. I was just trying to figure out how to create more traffic in the off-season. Flat Rock was a tourist destination that attracted cabin-goers and lake visitors. Summer foot traffic through the store was a given, as the community's population doubled from late spring until the kids went back to school. Once the leaves fell and the locals settled back into their routines, business slowed to a crawl. Keeping the lights on during the off-season meant getting creative. I’ve tried everything over the years. Live acoustic sets from local bands, vinyl listening parties where people could sip cider and debate whether analog really sounded better than digital, and I even brought in a local DJ a couple of times a year, usually when the store was just a little too quiet for comfort. He’d do a “Spin and Chat” session, parking himself behind the old Technics turntable, flipping through crates, and spinning whatever caught his eye. Classic rock, deep cuts, and even the occasional blues album if he was feeling sentimental.

“I’m putting in an order Monday morning,” I said, flipping through the clipboard behind the counter, "so if you have any suggestions, let me know before you leave here Sunday afternoon.”

I didn’t order many new pressings. After all, we were a “vintage” record store, but people still came in looking for popular music. My goal was for them to leave with a purchase in hand.

Jeremiah looked up from restocking the ‘Classic Rock’ bin. “Please tell me you’re not ordering more Taylor Swift.”

I grinned. “Nah. That last order sold out faster than you could grumble about it.”

“That’s because you shelved it right next to Stevie Nicks. People got confused.”

“I’m just saying, people like options."

Jeremiah scoffed. “They can get options at Target. This is a record store, not a teenage sleepover.”

“I also ordered the new reissue of Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, if that helps you sleep at night.”

He paused, then gave a reluctant nod. “Fine. But if I see one Ed Sheeran album sneak in here, I’m staging a walkout.”

“Duly noted,” I said. “But you’re the only employee, so I’d consider that more of a smoke break.”

He grumbled something under his breath, but I caught the smirk before he turned away. Still, something was off about him today. Normally, he’d go on about the latest reissue of Master of Puppets or complain about “kids these days” discovering vinyl like it was a brand-new concept. Instead, he was quiet. Well, quiet for him.

“Alright,” I said, leaning on the counter, “what’s got you so distracted?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he spun the empty cup in his hands, the plastic squeaking against the glass counter. Finally, he said, “Conrad’s show last night.”

That got my attention. Conrad Bishop hosted "Vinyl After Dark" on our local radio station, and because of the rock format, Jeremiah was one of his most devout listeners.

“Did something happen?”

Jeremiah’s face tightened. He played with a pin attached to his denim jacket before responding. “It was different. No requests. No dedications. Just one song after another, like he was trying to make a point.”

“Like what?”

“That’s the thing, he didn’t say. But it wasn’t like his usual rants. You know how he gets when he goes off about the ‘death of proper music’ or how nobody knows a proper guitar riff anymore?”

I nodded. Everyone in town knew Conrad’s Friday night show, Vinyl After Dark. He’d been on the air for as long as I could remember. People liked the late-night jock because he didn’t hold back. He’d play a half-hour of The Who without apology and then go on a tear about the latest corporate nonsense, trying to “sanitize the airwaves.” He was loud, opinionated, and somehow still one of the most beloved voices in Flat Rock.

“But last night wasn’t just him blowing off steam,” Jeremiah said. “It was personal. He was ticked off.”

“About the buyout?”

The local radio station was in the process of being purchased by a large media conglomerate based in Kansas City.

“Yeah. Well, maybe. You could hear it in everything he said.” He tapped the counter to emphasize a point. “But it was more than that. He knew something. He wanted people to listen.”

“And?”

Jeremiah crossed his arms, then added, “He played The Beatles.”

That made me look up. “Seriously?”

I leaned back against the counter, thinking about what Jeremiah had just said. Then it hit me. He was right. Conrad hated the Beatles. He thought they were over-hyped and too polished for their own good. One time, when he was here broadcasting, he told me that he thought they turned rock and roll into merchandise.

“In all the years I listened,” Jeremiah said, “I never once heard him play them. Not even on request.”

That sank in. I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a statement.”

“That’s what I said.” Jeremiah shook his head, missing the hint of sarcasm. “Then he started talking about how ‘the airwaves belonged to the people’ and how ‘real music doesn’t follow the rules.’ And you know what his last line was?”

I already knew. Everyone knew Conrad’s signature sign-off.

“‘Stay sharp, Flat Rock?’”

“It should have been.” Jeremiah said, “But instead, he stopped mid-sentence. The show stopped over an hour earlier than it normally does."

A flicker of unease passed through me. “Do you still record the shows?”

“Every Friday,” Jeremiah said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve got last night’s broadcast at home.”

“You’re probably the last person in town taping radio shows.”

“Someone’s gotta keep the archives.” He smirked, but it didn’t last long. “I’m telling you, Tony. Something was off.”

Before I could respond, the bell above the door jangled. A gust of crisp air swept through the store, carrying with it the scent of fallen leaves. Carrie Erickson Stubbs stepped inside, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. She and her husband, Michael, owned the sporting goods store in town. She wore a thick knit scarf and a worried expression that immediately set me on edge.

“Tony,” she said, her voice low. “Have you heard?”

I didn’t like the way she said it. It was the kind of question people only ask when they already know the answer is bad.

“Heard what?”

“Conrad Bishop.” Her eyes darted to Jeremiah, then back to me. “They found him this morning. He’s dead.”

The word hit like a stone.

“Dead?” I echoed. “How?”

“They’re saying it was suicide.” She shook her head, the words not sitting right with her. “The police department hasn't said much else. Just that they found him at his house.”

My mouth went dry. “This morning?”

“Early. A few hours after his show ended.”

Jeremiah’s grip on the counter tightened. “No. No way. That’s not right.”

“Jeremiah—”

“No.” He spun toward me, his face pale with something between shock and anger. “He didn’t sound like someone who was giving up. The man was angry. He was fighting. You didn’t hear him, Tony. That wasn’t a guy who was ready to check out.”

Carrie’s voice softened. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“Thanks, Carrie,” I murmured, though the words felt empty.

She gave a small nod before slipping back out into the cold. The bell jingled cheerfully, like it didn’t know what had just been said.

Jeremiah was still shaking his head. “They’re wrong.”

“Jeremiah—”

“No. They are.” His voice was steady now, and he met my eyes with the kind of conviction that made it hard to argue. “And you have to help me prove it."

“How?”

“I’ve got the tape.” He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Every word. Every song. If there’s something in that show nobody’s picking up on, you'll find it.”

Part of me wanted to tell him to let it go. But then again, a part of me wasn’t so sure.

“Alright,” I said. “No guarantees, but I'll listen to it.”

And just like that, the first track of whatever mess we’d stumbled into began to play.

 

-End of Chapter 1-

 

 

© 2026 Kevin Zelenka. All rights reserved.

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