by Ellery Adams
Estella rolled her eyes. “When will you give me credit for having beauty and brains? Of course I have something for the guys. It’s pretty cool too. Check it out.”
Reaching into a paper grocery bag, Estella pulled out a cigar box and opened the lid. She’d artistically arranged a bar of soap, a tube of shaving cream, disposable razors, shaving cream, washcloth, and a roll of breath mints inside the box.
“Nice,” June said. “So that’s it. I guess we’re ready to assemble bags and make our first delivery.”
Hester shot Nora a questioning glance. “What about the books?”
Nora retrieved the stack of gift-wrapped books she’d set behind the checkout counter and carried them back to the circle of chairs. “I don’t view books about hope as gender specific, so these could go in any bag. For this round, I selected A Prayer for Owen Meany, A Country Doctor’s Notebook, Odes to Common Things, Kite Runner, and All the Light We Cannot See. I believe the right book will end up in the right hands. Also, I’d like to add Amanda Frye to our list of recipients.”
Estella, who’d been in the middle of piling spa samplers and cigar boxes on the coffee table, stopped what she was doing. “Seriously? You don’t even like her.”
Nora thought back to the last time Amanda, a notoriously difficult customer, had shopped at Miracle Books. Nora knew more about Amanda’s personal life than she cared to because Amanda was one of those people who overshared. Minutes after meeting her, Nora learned that Amanda was a widow whose husband had died while still in his prime. He’d made no financial arrangements for her, and her bitterness over his lack of foresight practically eked out of her every pore. As for her only son, he lived in Chicago and never called. Never.
“With all the sacrifices I made for those men, you’d think they’d have treated me better,” was one of Amanda’s oft-repeated lines.
Amanda Frye typically spent over an hour in Miracle Books. She’d read Nora’s books and replace them on the shelf when she was done. She was manically particular about the condition of the books she actually purchased. From the outset, she argued with Nora that a new book wasn’t worth its full purchase price unless it was in pristine condition. And she’d yet to find a book in pristine condition.
“I think you should knock a dollar off. Someone folded this corner,” she’d say, showing Nora the offending page.
Nora, who suspected Amanda of having done the folding in hopes of a discount, would refuse. “That hardback was released two weeks ago,” she’d explain. “I can’t reduce the price for such a minor flaw.”
“Minor? It belongs in the used books section in this condition,” Amanda would grumble.
Later, after reading the books she bought, Amanda would expect Nora to buy them back at a reasonable price. She was never satisfied with what Nora offered.
One day, a few weeks before the unexpected closure of the Madison County Community Bank, Nora had lost patience with Amanda Frye.
Amanda had approached the checkout counter and, without bothering to say hello, had unceremoniously dumped a pile of used paperbacks on top of the newspaper Nora was reading. After launching into a litany of complaints on how she hated the summer because the heat and humidity made her glasses turn foggy, her clothes stick to her skin, and her feet swell, she dropped a paper bag on the counter next to the paperbacks.
“I figure you don’t need to ring me up,” she’d said to Nora. “I’m swapping twelve used books for another twelve used books.”
Nora’s last customer had just left with a pair of teenage girls who’d tried to take a picture of her “Hamburger Helper face” before their mother noticed and shooed them out of the store. The mother had dumped the armload of books she’d planned on purchasing on a nearby chair before making her hasty exit. Between the loss of the sale and the rudeness of the teen girls, Nora was in no mood for Amanda Frye.
“This is a bookstore, not a lending library,” Nora had told Amanda as she pulled her newspaper out from under the bag of books and gave it an angry rustle. “This is my living. I work very hard, six days a week, to earn a meager profit. I won’t be retiring in ten years to a charming villa in Tuscany like the one in Where Angels Fear to Tread. I won’t end up begging on the street corner because I gave away my inventory either. I’ll gladly look at your paperbacks and offer you a fair price for them. You can accept or reject my offer, but I am not, nor will I ever be, open to negotiation.”
Amanda had not responded well to Nora’s speech. Mumbling that she’d never been so insulted in all her days, she scooped up her books and left the store. Nora hadn’t seen her since.
“No, I’m not her biggest fan,” she said to Estella now. “And though none of us have been living high on the hog, I get the impression that Amanda had nothing to spare. Whatever little she had is probably gone. Like so many, I’m sure she lost everything when the bank went under. She trusted that institution to keep her money safe. When the bank went belly-up, our terrified neighbors waited in line for hours to take out money that was no longer there. Amanda was one of those people in line. I saw her when I rode by on my bike.”
Estella raised both hands. “You don’t have to tell me. I have a list of clients who can’t afford my services anymore because they lost their life savings. It makes me sick.”
Hester opened empty grocery bags and placed a book at the bottom of each bag. “Speaking of sick, have you seen Abilene? She looks better. Less gaunt.”
“That’s good. But does she talk to you?” June asked as she dropped a pair of socks into a bag. “Nora hasn’t gotten a thing out of her.”
Nora shrugged. “I haven’t pushed too hard either. If she isn’t ready to talk, she’ll just lie to get me to stop asking questions.”
“You’re probably right.” Estella shooed June away from the bags. “The socks have to go in after the spa baskets. Come on. You’re in management now. Don’t you know how to organize things?”
“I have people to do this kind of stuff for me. My peeps at the thermal pools take care of all the menial tasks.” June flounced into a chair and struck a regal pose. “Wanna give me a foot rub when you’re done?”
Estella pretended to be insulted. “Nora, give me your heaviest book. I want to throw it at June’s head.”
The women finished assembling the bags, talking and kidding around as they worked. Though their friendship was still new, it was a welcome change from the lonely existence they’d chosen for themselves. Previously, they’d been secretive, distrustful people. Such people often found themselves alone.
We shared our secrets, Nora thought, gazing at her friends. Our stories are now knit together like a pair of June’s socks.
Hester folded the top of each paper bag multiple times, punched a hole through the folds, and wove an aubergine-colored ribbon through the hole.
“This is our signature color,” she said, referring to the bookmarks Nora had given to the members of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society. The bookmarks were made of aubergine satin ribbon and had a tiny brass key affixed to the bottom. The key opened a secret compartment concealed inside the coffee table positioned in the middle of their circle of chairs. The table’s hidden nook was currently empty, but Nora had invited her friends to use the space whenever the need arose.
“Should we write a message on the bags?” Nora asked, observing Hester’s ribbon handiwork with approval. “Nothing trite. These people don’t need motivational poster quotes.”
“Lord, that brings back bad memories.” Estella grimaced. “My high school guidance counselor had an office filled with those stupid posters. She had a HANG IN THERE with a kitten dangling from a ledge and SOME BUNNY CARES with a baby rabbit staring out at you with giant, creepy eyes. Do people really think baby animals and cheesy expressions help when your life is in the toilet?”
Hester shook her head. “If you’re a little kid? Maybe. None of these people are kids, though. Let’s just write, From a friend.”
The other women agreed and took turns penn
ing the message. When the bags were ready, they loaded them into June’s Bronco and headed out for their first stop.
“It’s not totally dark yet,” Estella said as June pulled out of the parking lot behind Miracle Books. “Should we wait?”
“It’ll be dark by the time we get to Amanda Frye’s house,” June said. “There’s a pig roast at the fire station, so traffic will be backed up from here to the county line.”
However, the road was clear. June reached Amanda’s rural address in fifteen minutes. After slowing to a stop by a mailbox pitted with rust holes, she stared down the length of the narrow gravel driveway.
“I think that pig roast is next week,” Nora said, following June’s gaze. “But we’re here now, so let’s drop off the bag. We don’t have to ring the doorbell and run away like teenagers pulling a prank. We’ll just leave it on the stoop.”
“I don’t know.” June was doubtful. “We’re out in the country. All kinds of critters could gobble up Hester’s bread before Amanda has the chance to find it. Raccoons, possums, foxes. The animals aren’t shy in these parts. I work with a guy who lives near here. He said that the deer in these parts are hungry enough to eat right out of a person’s hand.”
“That’s sad.” Hester glanced at the shadowy woods surrounding Amanda’s property. “Nature should be allowed to be wild. Animals shouldn’t have to live off our leftovers because we’ve destroyed their habitat. You have the right idea, Nora. Your tiny house has a humble footprint. I wish I could be like that, but I can’t part with my vintage kitchen collectibles. Stuff isn’t supposed to make you happy, but my stuff does.”
Estella, who was sitting in the back seat with Hester, smiled and said, “My beauty products make me happy. I love all the colors, and glitter, and what my pretty things can do to transform a girl’s mood. So let’s not feel guilty over our things. Didn’t some famous writer say that rolling in the muck isn’t the best way to get clean?”
Nora turned around to face Estella. “You never cease to surprise me. That’s from Brave New World. The line—”
Something caught Nora’s eye. There was an object floating in the pond off to the side of Amanda’s house. The pond was far too small for a boat. And no one would enter the algae-covered water to cool off. Still, the shape looked eerily human. If the human in question was partially submerged, that is.
“What’s wrong?” June asked Nora. “It feels like there’s a spider crawling up the back of my neck and I don’t even know why.”
The space where the rest of Nora’s pinkie finger once was tingled. This sensation had happened before, and recently too. In that instance, the tingling had foretold a death. A terrible death.
“Out of the car!” she commanded.
To their credit, her friends didn’t hesitate.
They exited the car to a chorus of wild barking coming from the neighbor’s backyard. There were three dogs. Big black-and-brown dogs. Too big for the tiny fenced area they’d been given. They sounded agitated. Frenzied. Their barks rising in pitch until they were almost baying. Nora was glad of the fence.
“I think someone’s fallen in!” she yelled. After pointing at the pond, she broke into a run.
Hester, who was younger and faster than the rest of the women, reached the pond’s edge first.
“Ohhh!” She cried out in horror and immediately backpedaled.
When Nora took in the full scene, she understood why Hester had felt compelled to retreat.
There was a body in the pond.
Judging by the floral-print dress, it was a woman’s body. She was floating facedown, her hair forming a murky cloud around her head. Her limbs were partially hidden by electric-green pond scum. Insects hovered over her. Buzzing flies. A billow of persistent gnats. Ravenous mosquitoes.
Some of the bugs gravitated toward the living women.
“I’m not getting any bars,” June said. Her voice was low and hoarse. “We’ll have to use Amanda’s landline to call for help.”
Hester shook her head violently. Her face was ashen. “No! We have to pull her out! What if she just fell in? What if she’s drowning right now and we’re just standing here, letting her die?”
Estella, who’d maintained a distance from the pond, swatted at a fly before reaching out for Hester. “Honey, that poor woman isn’t dying. She’s already moved on. All we can do now is see that she’s treated with dignity. Let’s get away from this disgusting pond. No one in their right mind should be within inches of that petri dish. Maybe Amanda wasn’t in her right mind.”
Wordlessly, Hester turned her back on the dead woman, the bugs, and the stagnant water.
* * *
June offered to call the authorities. Nora thought Hester might volunteer, seeing as she and Deputy Andrews were practically dating, but as soon as Hester entered the house, she dropped into a chair in Amanda’s living room and stared at the floor.
Nora disliked being in Amanda’s home without her permission. She knew there was no other choice and that no one was home, but it still felt wrong. Her friends were clearly uncomfortable too. After finishing her call, June paced back and forth near the front door, while Estella took up a sentry position by the living room window. From this vantage point, she could watch for the sheriff’s department cruisers.
Nora felt a pull from the opposite side of the room. From the bookcases. She wandered over to them and silently examined Amanda’s collection.
Amanda’s books were neatly arranged in a series of wooden packing crates that had been nailed together by an unskilled hand. Despite the crudeness of the shelving, Nora approached the books with reverence. They were all hardbacks and the dust jacket of each book was meticulously covered in a protective layer of plastic. Some of the books were contemporary fiction while others were old, leather-bound volumes.
After glancing around the rest of the room, which consisted of the sagging recliner Hester occupied, an equally droopy couch, and a television set that was state-of-the-art two decades ago, it was clear that Amanda’s books were her greatest treasures.
Without touching anything, Nora moved through the living room into the kitchen. The room was small and dated, but pin-neat. Which is why the book and pill bottle on the counter looked completely out of place.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and flinched in surprise.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you,” June whispered. “Help will be here in a few minutes. They’re wrapping up a call where the Trail crosses the highway.”
June was referring to the Appalachian Trail, which curved around Miracle Springs for several miles and was another natural revenue stream for the town. Each day, dozens of hikers patronized the local businesses. Unlike other nearby towns, the merchants of Miracle Springs welcomed hikers into their shops. Some had even created storage areas for their packs or offered hikers the use of their hoses or spigots.
On occasion, conflict arose between individual hikers or between hikers and townies. These conflicts usually involved petty theft, trespassing, or violence brought on by too much alcohol, and were swiftly dealt with by the Miracle Springs Sheriff’s Department.
“I’m glad they’re close,” said Nora. “I hate leaving her out in that water.”
“You think that’s Amanda out there?” June asked.
As Nora nodded, June’s gaze landed on the pill bottle. The crimson-colored plastic was hard to miss, and June was drawn to the meds like Nora was drawn to the books.
Because the bottle had fallen on its side, June had to tilt her head to read the label without touching the bottle. “Methadone. That’s for pain relief.”
“Amanda complained about pain to anyone who’d listen,” Nora said. “She said she had back, hip, neck, and knee pain. When she first started visiting Miracle Books, I asked after her symptoms so I could give her book recommendations on treating pain with diet or holistic remedies, but she wasn’t interested in those kinds of books.”
June shrugged. “Maybe she wasn’t looking for a subst
itute for her painkillers. It sounds like she went to Miracle Books to escape her problems and didn’t want reality interfering once she’d settled down with a book.”
“You’re probably right,” Nora said and moved closer to June. She pointed at the book on the counter and muttered, “This, however, isn’t right.”
“What do you mean?” June asked.
Nora was formulating her answer when the wail of sirens severed the tranquility of the country twilight. Next door, the dogs commenced another round of frantic barking.
She and June returned to the living room to find Hester standing near the front door. She looked scared.
“Should we even be in here?” she asked. “Will we get in trouble?”
Estella took Hester’s hand. “We had to call for help from this phone, remember? If it’d make you feel better, we could go outside and put ourselves at the mercy of those thirsty mosquitos. They seem to like to my jasmine perfume.”
Hester practically pushed Estella through the doorway.
June and Nora followed. By the time the sheriff’s cruisers pulled to a stop, all four women were lined up in front of Amanda’s stoop. They stood with their hands clasped, like naughty children awaiting a reprimand.
The new sheriff, whom they’d all seen around town but had yet to meet, was the first to approach them. Originally from Raleigh, Grant McCabe was serving as the interim sheriff until the next election.
The sheriff was of average height and build and walked with a brisk, confident stride. When he drew up to the members of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society, he immediately doffed his hat to reveal a receding hairline and a pair of dark brown eyes. His gaze was both patient and intelligent.
Deputy Andrews, who was in his late thirties but had the slim figure and smooth complexion of a man ten years younger, stood next to his boss. He tried to give off an air of professional detachment, but he kept shooting quick glances of concern at Hester. A second deputy waited by the cars.
“Good evening, ladies,” said the new sheriff. “I’m Sheriff Grant McCabe. I understand you reported the finding of a body. Could you take me to the lady?”
