"It makes me kind of sad to think of it." Rachel sighed. "But I'm making another one soon, so this time, hopefully people will enjoy it."
"Another one? What's the occasion this time? Not another book release, I hope." Tricia rolled her eyes.
Rachel bit her lip. She wondered if Dorothy wanted her telling others about the plan, or if she'd prefer it a secret so the murderer would be truly shocked. She opted for secrecy to be safe, and said as vaguely as possible, "Oh just one of those events, you know . . ."
Luckily, Tricia didn't seem too interested. "Hang on here just a second and mind the shop, would you? I'll get your check in a jiffy. It's upstairs."
"Sure." Rachel smiled broadly, her palms itching at the thought of being paid. Every little bit helped, and while she wasn't quite living paycheck-to-paycheck anymore, her bakery always seemed to suck the money away as soon as it fell into her hands. Rachel looked around the shop, feeling sad that it was so empty. She remembered Aunt Rose bringing her here as a child, and no matter the day or hour, Cranium bookstore had always been full of people browsing. She supposed most people preferred their screens these days, but it was sad to think of the lovely bookstores across the country that would shut their doors as a result. She hoped Tricia survived—the town wouldn't be the same if its last bookstore shut down.
There were only three customers in the shop. Two were teenagers with their heads bent down over comic books, and the third was a greasy-looking man browsing the sci-fi section. Rachel felt vaguely that she'd seen him before, but couldn't quite remember where.
Humming to herself, she looked down at the counter where Tricia had left her book facedown, and read the jacket. “Finnegan's Wake is James Joyce's epic work of avant-garde comic fiction," she murmured to herself, making a face. Books like this always made her feel rather stupid, and she preferred to stick to a potboiler. After all, the point of reading was to relax and enjoy yourself, really. Plus, Rachel often thought that the most philosophical of writers were often the ones who could communicate themselves through simple words instead of opting for bewildering complexity. But of course, she knew herself well enough to admit that this particular thought might just be a case of sour grapes since she never dared read more complex books.
She picked up the book out of curiosity, and gave a little start as a different book fell out from within it. It crashed to the floor, and had all three customers staring at her disapprovingly. Blushing from head to toe, she picked up the book and saw that it was Twilight by Stephanie Meyer.
"Hey!" Tricia snatched the book from Rachel and tossed it behind the counter. Her ears were bright red and she looked as though she wanted to sink into the earth.
Rachel opened her mouth, then shook her head. No words came out.
"Your check," Tricia said in a strangled voice, handing it over.
"Ah, yes. Thank you. Listen, Tricia, I wasn't being snoopy, I was just . . ."
"I know." Tricia's ears were still red. "It's not your fault. I just don't want . . ." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I mean, customers expect me to read a certain kind of book, you know?"
"Well, there's nothing to be ashamed of; I like Twilight myself," Rachel said. "Scott told me it's the most boring book he ever read, but what does he know? I enjoyed it thoroughly."
"Right." Tricia looked as though she wanted this line of conversation to end. "Don't tell anyone though, will you?"
"I won't." Rachel had to smother a laugh and work hard to keep her face serious.
"What did you come here for anyway?" Tricia asked.
"I wanted to go visit Brandon at the hospital and drop off these cupcakes," Rachel said. "I thought maybe I'd pick out a book for him too, since he has to stay one more night."
"Brandon's in the hospital?" Tricia looked horrified. "What happened?"
"He—you don't know?" Tricia shook her head.
"He had an accident while walking the cliffs and fell into the water," Rachel said, keeping it simple. "Luckily, we were picnicking nearby, and Scott jumped in to save him. Emily gave him CPR."
"Wow. Emily's one smart lady." Tricia's voice was full of admiration. "Both of them are pretty incredible, actually."
"I'll say. I just stood there like an idiot while they did all the work." Rachel nodded. "I'm planning to take a first-aid class soon so that if the situation ever repeats, I'll have a calm head on my shoulders."
"That's a brilliant idea. Do you think you'd be okay with me joining?" Tricia asked.
"The more the merrier," Rachel said. "But maybe it won't be any use. Maybe I'm just too anxious to ever calm down. I was also freaked out the night Stan Stickman punched . . ." Rachel froze. She suddenly remembered where she had seen the greasy man who was browsing sci-fi. The night of Emily's party, he was the one who had been standing opposite her house. She remembered how uneasy Scott had felt upon seeing him. Rachel swung around, but the man had disappeared. He'd probably walked off while she and Tricia were talking.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Tricia said. "What happened?"
"A ghost." Rachel smiled to herself. "Nothing. I just saw someone I recognized from the night of the party. Do you know him? Greasy-haired guy, with lots of pimples."
"Know him? He's the president of Swaddle's Stan Stickman Fan Club." Tricia laughed. "He's also the only member."
Rachel felt a prickle of suspicion crawling up her back. "Really?"
"Yeah. Tristan Shaw. He lives with his mother down Fulton Avenue. Nice house, colonial style. His family has loads of money, but he didn't end up doing much—mostly hangs out in the basement, I think." Tricia tapped the side of her head. "I'm not sure he's all there. I mean, he's very intelligent, but he's strange, you know? I saw him staring at me once or twice. I got the creeps."
"Maybe he just likes you," Rachel pointed out.
Tricia gave an exaggerated shudder. "I hope not. I'm happier being single forever."
Rachel laughed, then paused. "Hey, was Tristan here at the store the day of the murder?"
"Funny thing; I actually expected him to be at the head of the line, but he never showed." Tricia scratched her chin.
"Oh, wait—he did show; I think I saw him later on. But the police were there by then and I wasn't really in any shape to talk to people."
"Have you talked to him before? Has he said anything about Stan Stickman?"
"I mean, like I said, he's the president of the Stan Stickman Fan Club. I think he requested that I let him do a regular fan-club meeting in the bookstore, and I agreed of course. He hung up posters all over town, but nobody showed up. I guess people have better things to do on a Thursday at two o'clock. Poor guy was pretty disappointed. He hung out here alone for three weeks, waiting for people, then gave up."
Rachel felt a twinge of pity for him. "At least he's dedicated."
"More like obsessed," Tricia said. She suddenly looked horror-struck. "Rachel, you don't think he was the one, do you? I mean . . . obsessive fans can turn dangerous sometimes. We were even discussing the other day that the murder looked like something a crazy fan would do."
"I mean . . . I think it'd be awful of us to judge him based on his looks. He might be a sweet, gentle guy with some bad personal hygiene," Rachel conjectured.
"Yes, that's true. I'm being silly of course." But Tricia didn't look so sure. "I should really start keeping some mace or pepper spray here with me. Swaddle's not as safe as it used to be."
"I'm sorry," Rachel said. "It's hard when you lose that feeling of being safe in your own house."
"Yeah." Tricia sighed. "I've loved this bookstore since I was a little girl, you know. I mean, I grew up loving it automatically, the way you grow up loving parents and grandparents automatically. I have a sister and two awesome nephews, but really, I sometimes feel that this house and the store is the closest family member I have since my parents passed away." She looked at Rachel hopefully. "You know what I mean?"
"I do." Rachel put a hand on Tricia's shoulders. "I love the bakery too
, though not as much as you probably love the store. I didn't grow up there, but Aunt Rose's bakery was like an oasis from my regular life. My own home wasn't exactly brimming with happiness. Mom and dad divorced when I was a teen."
"Yeah." Tricia looked around the store, her eyes a little misty. "I'm doing everything I can to keep it afloat, but sooner or later, I think it's going to go. I can feel it slipping out of my hands with each month's bills."
"You'll figure something out." Rachel didn't really believe the words, but she felt she had to offer Tricia comfort somehow. "Things will look up again soon. I'm sure of it."
Tricia smiled. "Sometimes I dream of winning a lottery or magically getting a lot of money, and then I'd use it all to keep the bookstore alive forever. Maybe it will become a living museum fifty years from now, when e-books have taken over completely."
"Maybe," Rachel said. She remembered what Emily had said about Stan's death being indirectly good for Tricia's business, and wondered if the thought that she might be able to attract morbid tourists had taken root in Tricia's mind yet. Or whether it had been there all along.
*****
Chapter 16
The Past Is A Closed Book
Brandon was lying in bed and lazily flipping through TV channels when Rachel knocked on the hospital room door. He hastily sat up and invited her in. His face looked better now, not haggard as it had the other day. Rachel placed the cupcakes she'd made for him on the stand beside his bed, and handed him the book Tricia had given her.
"We thought some light reading would entertain you and help while away the hours," Rachel said. "Tricia's written a get well soon message inside."
"Thanks!" Brandon said enthusiastically, "I was feeling pretty low, to be honest. It's really good to see a friendly face, and the book will help when you're gone."
"You aren't brooding about the accident, are you?" Rachel asked. She knew from experience that once Brandon was upset about something, he'd mull it over and over until he'd exhausted every angle. She was sure he'd probably stayed up half the night worrying about his attack.
"I was worried, but now I'm fine," Brandon said.
"Worried?"
"Yeah, you know—worried that whoever tried to kill me will be back," Brandon said. "It doesn't help that the killer walked into the hospital and stole the manuscript so casually."
"I'm so sorry." Rachel was horrified. "I never even considered that you'd be scared."
"It's ok. I'm really fine now. Scott gave me this, and it helped my peace of mind." He reached under the bed and pulled out a baseball bat. "Scott's an incredible guy," Brandon said brightly. "I mean, I can't believe I didn't like him at first. But wow—I feel like I really see him now, you know?"
Uh-oh. I know what this is, Rachel sighed. Another of Brandon's enthusiasms about a man he thought was cooler than him.
"Scott's a good guy, Brandon. I know you really like him for saving your life, but don't go getting overenthusiastic. He isn't very quick at making friends."
"Well, he became friends with you quickly," Brandon pointed out.
"That's different . . . sort of," Rachel said. "He's not too pleased with me at the moment."
"Why?" Brandon looked confused. "I thought you two were an item."
"We're really not!" Rachel said. "He just thinks I'm a friend. That's all."
"He thinks you're a friend. What do you think?"
Rachel didn't answer. She suddenly felt like the sterile, white neatness of the hospital was getting to her. "I think I need to go back to work," she said. "I'll come visit again some time. Take it easy, ok?"
"Sure. Too bad they don't allow animals in here. I'd have loved to see Scooter," Brandon said.
"He'd have loved to see you too, I'm sure." Rachel smiled.
"Rach . . ." Brandon hesitated, then reached out and held her hand. He gave it a squeeze. "Thank you. For everything."
"I didn't do anything. Emily and Scott were the ones who saved your life."
"Yeah," Brandon said. "And it made me think about what really matters in life. People do. The ones who come stand by your side even if they hate you. You were by my side in the hospital yesterday."
"I don't hate you . . ." Rachel said.
"You did. You were furious when I sold the company," Brandon said. "I know you thought you had good reason to be, too."
"I didn't think I had good reason to be furious, I did have good reason to be furious," Rachel said. "I trusted you Brandon, and you sold it off without even asking."
"I really didn't have a choice, and it's not like I didn't want the best for you and me both. If you'd just stayed . . ."
"I couldn't."
"I know," Brandon said. "Sometimes I feel like you just used the whole thing as an excuse to leave."
"What!" Rachel felt her blood boil. "That's not true. I loved you, Brandon. Eight years I spent with you. We have a million memories together . . ."
"Yeah, so where did it all go? It's like the love drained out of you overnight," Brandon said. "You never even took the money—your fair share of the money—from me. Ever ask yourself why?"
"I didn't want to touch anything that belonged to you," Rachel said. "I still don't. I'd rather starve."
"No, it's because some small part of you felt guilty about leaving," Brandon said. "That's it, isn't it? You could have taken the money and broken up, but it was so important to you to paint yourself as a victim that you walked away and told yourself I was a bad guy who did it all for the money. That way, you didn't have to step back and think about whether maybe you had some responsibility in what happened too."
"I'm not talking about this," Rachel's voice was a low hiss. "The past is a closed book, Brandon. It's over and I'm not going back."
"Why not?" Brandon squeezed her hand even tighter, refusing to let go as she tried to wriggle free. "I made a mistake, Rachel. I admit it. I caved under our competitor's threats and sold the company instead of holding on and making us ten times richer. Worse, I did it without asking you. But my intentions were pure. You should know that."
"No they weren't!" Rachel stormed. "You were jealous of the company. You resented it. You hated how many hours I spent working and not being with you instead. You know that part of the reason you sold so quickly is that you got greedy—and the other part is that in your own twisted way, you thought I'd go back to having my life revolve around you."
"That's not true," Brandon said. He pulled her closer to him, and held both her hands, imprisoning her. "Look at me. Look into my eyes, Rachel."
Pointedly, Rachel looked out of the window instead. Her eyes were blurry with tears, and her throat had a lump in it again. Anger was flooding through her, taking away her ability to think straight. Despair followed closely after. What was the point of this? She'd broken up with him once. She'd done the hard work of mending her heart and starting a new life. How dare he come back into it this way and rip open her wounds?
"I've never stopped loving you, " Brandon said, his voice husky. "I tried, believe me. I tried traveling, I tried eating at the fanciest restaurants, I tried dating models, and I had the money to keep doing it indefinitely. But none of it made me happy. It's like you sucked the colors out of my life when you left. Come on, Rachel. You said you have a million memories with me. You stood by my bedside when I had an accident. You said you loved me once. It can't all have vanished. It just can't. Somewhere deep inside, you want me too. You know it."
"Let go of me," Rachel said through clenched teeth.
"No." Brandon was stubborn.
"Brandon, I don't want to hit a wounded man but I'm this close. Let go of me now."
"Not until you look in my eyes and tell me you have no feelings for me," Brandon said. "I can't understand how your love could be real if it vanished overnight."
"It didn't," Rachel said, her voice thick. "I still loved you even when we broke up. Even when I threw away my entire life in San Francisco and moved here for a fresh start, I still loved you. Even as I started my n
ew bakery and went through some of the worst days of my life when a friend was murdered, I still loved you."
"So you do still love me," Brandon sounded almost triumphant. His grip on her loosened.
"No," Rachel said. "That's what you won't understand, Brandon. I chose my self-respect. I can't be with a man who cared so little about me that he did what you did."
"It was a mistake. Just forgive me and let's move on!"
"I can't forgive you," Rachel said. "That company wasn't just about money, Brandon. My entire identity was tied up in it. I worked backbreaking hours because I loved the company, not just because I wanted to earn a million dollars. You stole my baby from me, Brandon, and there's no coming back from that."
"I . . ."
"Let me put it this way," Rachel said. "If Stan Stickman had stolen your book, pasted his own name on it and then given you money to try and keep you quiet, do you think you could ever have respected him again?"
She saw the horror of understanding dawn in Brandon's eyes. It pained her to see it. Creating something wasn't just about the money—at least it never had been for her.
"So it's really over, then?" Brandon sounded defeated.
"It is really over. Forever," Rachel said. "I guess I'll always have a soft spot for you, Brandon, but I'm not going to be your girlfriend ever again."
"It's because you're in love with Scott, isn't it?" Brandon sounded bitter now. "He's a better man than me. That's it, isn't it?"
"Why do you have to bring him into it? Scott has nothing to do with it. You shattered my trust in you, Brandon and it's not coming back. I'm not coming back." She took two steps back, angrily jerking her hands out of his grip. She put a finger to her cheek and realized that it was wet with tears. Turning away, she got a tissue out from her purse to wipe her face.
"You'll change your mind," Brandon said suddenly. He had slumped back onto the bed, but his voice was stronger. "You wait and see. You still love me, I know it. You'll come back to me and beg me to be your boyfriend again."
Rachel wanted to protest, or say something rude and cutting. Instead, she only sighed and shook her head. "Whatever you want to believe, Brandon. Bye."
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