The Knight of Pages

by Alexie Aaron

  “I see you have voluntarily supplied your DNA, had your blood drawn, and given a urine sample.”

  “I want to know what happened to me.”

  Jones nodded. He gathered his papers. “I’m going to ask you to stay in the city. I, or one of the other officers, will be in touch with you or your lawyer.”

  The detective left. Kabir turned to his lawyer, who also happened to be his second cousin, and asked, “What happens next?”

  “I imagine you will be released. They don’t have a body, so they can’t charge you, or even caution you.”

  “Do you think I killed someone?”

  “Kabir, it’s not what I think; it’s what they think.”

  “What do you think they are thinking?”

  “They think you made it up for attention. But they aren’t sure.”

  Detective Jones notified the duty sergeant to show Mr. Patel and his lawyer out. He walked over to his desk and sat down at the computer. He pulled up Wendell Baumbach’s information and put through a call.

  “Hello,” an older woman answered.

  “This is Detective Jones from the Chicago Police Department. May I please speak with Wendell Baumbach?”

  “This is his mother Catherine Baumbach. Wendell has gone out on an errand. May I help you or take a message?”

  “Mrs. Baumbach, I’m looking for the contact information for a Marc Davis.”

  “Is he from the book club?”

  “I think so.”

  “Hold on, Detective.”

  Jones listened to the sound of a drawer being opened and, perhaps, a file pulled. A rattle of papers preceded Mrs. Baumbach picking up the phone. “I have his home phone number and a cell phone. The address given to Wendell was Mr. Davis’s work address. Most people don’t want to give out home information these days.”

  “It’s understandable.” Jones copied down the information. “Thank you, Mrs. Baumbach, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Shall I leave a message for Wendell?”

  “Just tell him the reason for my call. Have a good day.”

  “I will. Goodbye,” Mrs. Baumbach said.

  Catherine looked at the phone as she set it in the cradle. She returned the materials to the folder and the folder to the book club file. She picked up the phone and called One More Time.

  Nash picked up the ringing phone. “One More Time bookshop, Nash Greene speaking.”

  “Mr. Greene, my son, Wendell Baumbach, has on his calendar that he is coming in to see you today. Has he been there yet?”

  “No, Mrs. Baumbach, he hasn’t been in yet. May I help you?”

  “Please tell him to call home. He’s been having trouble with his cell phone holding a charge. I just get his voicemail.”

  “Are you alright? Is there an emergency?”

  “Oh, oh dear, I’m sorry. I’m fine thank you. Please have him call home. Thank you. I’m sorry for being such a bother.”

  “No bother,” Nash lied and hung up the phone.

  The bells sounded, but instead of the fussy Wendell, Clara walked in. There was something different about her. Instead of the shy smile, her face was pinched. She had her hair tucked into her jacket, and it looked as if she had been crying.

  Nash’s stomach twisted, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to take the woman in his arms. “Bad day?” he managed.

  “Horrible day,” Clara said. She walked over and opened her jacket. She slid it off and turned around. The back of her shirt and the bottom of her beautiful auburn hair were deep violet.

  “Oh boy,” Nash managed.

  “I didn’t even get my chef’s coat on when the top of the blender popped off on Raul, and the contents of his blueberry reduction covered him and drenched me as I walked by. I couldn’t do more than ditch my shirt for the chef’s coat before I had to take his place in the kitchen so he could have his eyes examined at the hospital. The morning was brutal. We had a tour group in. I didn’t have a moment to think until we saw the last of them. That’s when I unbraided my hair and…” Clara’s eyes filled with tears. “It won’t wash out.”

  Nash raised a finger and pulled a black store T-shirt out of the box he had jammed under the counter. He walked over and flipped the closed sign on the door as he locked it and directed Clara to the bathroom. “Come on, let’s get you out of that shirt.”

  “Buy me dinner first,” Clara said, her voice not really strong enough to pull off the joke.

  He handed her the shirt. “Did you get a chance to wash your back?”

  “After. My shirt was already dry and the stain set, so I just wore it home.”

  But she wasn’t home. Nash didn’t know why Clara came to the store instead of going straight home. He didn’t want to ask, but part of him was happy her instinct was to come to him for comfort.

  He left her behind the closed door. He could hear a few sniffles and a muted curse, but soon, the door opened and Clara emerged. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail.

  “It looks like a fox’s tail.”

  “One that sat in blueberries,” Clara pouted.

  “It may fade out, but I kind of like it,” Nash said. “I bet someone will come up to you and ask where you had your hair done.”

  Clara’s face eased into a weak smile. “I was going to have it all cut off but…”

  “You came to me first.”

  “You’re the only person I know will tell me the truth.”

  “Ah,” Nash said, trying not to let the disappointment of not being her emotional refuge seep into his voice. “My ex used to have long hair. She would French braid it and tuck the end up through the braid. You could do that until you decide whether you’re brave enough to wear it.”

  “Brave?”

  “I think it looks more like a statement than an accident.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  A persistent tap on the door drew their attention away from Clara’s hair.

  “I would ignore that, but I think it’s Wendell Baumbach. His mother called and told me he was on his way over.”

  Clara nodded.

  Nash walked back out into the shop. He unlocked the door and turned the sign around. “Wendell, your mother wants you to call home,” Nash said as the man pushed past him. “You can use the store phone behind the counter.”

  Clara walked out from the back. She expected to see a child, possibly a teen, who was given permission by a nervous mother to go to the bookstore by himself. Instead, she saw an attractive man in his fifties frantically pushing the numbers on Nash’s phone.

  “Mother, is everything alright? Detective who? Oh. You did right. I wonder what’s going on? I’m on my last stop. Do you want two percent or skim? Whole? Oh, you’re baking. Sure, sure, Mother, I don’t want to tie up Greene’s phone. Soon. Goodbye.” Wendell replaced the phone into the base and took a moment to pull out a small notebook. He looked around and picked up one of the bookshop’s pens. “Whole milk.”

  “Is everything okay at home, Wendell?” Nash asked.

  Wendell looked up and nodded. “Mother got a call from a police detective wanting the phone number of one of the members of my book club. He didn’t say why, but Mother didn’t think it was her place to ask.”

  “Intriguing,” Nash said. “I take it you’re here on book club business?”

  Wendell nodded and pulled a stack of flyers out of this briefcase. “I know you don’t normally do this, but could you hand these out?”

  “No.”

  “Put one up in your window?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Greene, I send you customers.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll tack one on the back of the register and keep a few behind the counter.”

  “Your boss is a tough cookie,” Wendell said to Clara.

  She was momentarily surprised but quick enough to get that she was in T-shirt that had blazoned across it in white letters: One More
Time. She would have probably made the same error. “He’s tough but fair.”

  “You don’t normally recruit for Page Turners,” Nash observed, reading the flyer.

  “I normally turn them away,” Wendell said. “We’ve lost a third of our membership in three months.”

  Nash frowned.

  “Have you heard anything? Bad gossip? Did I pick bad books?” Wendell asked.

  Nash hunched his shoulders. “Let me see your reading list.” He waved Clara over. “Miss Tyler, maybe you could give us a youthful perspective.”

  Clara’s eyes displayed the amusement she was feeling. She walked over and looked at the paper. “Nothing offensive. Heart of Darkness is a bit…”

  “Standard book club fare,” Wendell filled in. “I know it bores me to tears after the seventh reading, but it really sparks good conversation. I usually cover two classics a year. Do you think people dropped out because of too much Conrad?”

  “No, just giving you my opinion.”

  “Miss Tyler…”

  “Clara, please call me Clara,” she said, extending her hand. Clara looked Wendell in the eyes, her brown eyes meeting his blue ones. She saw a smattering of fading freckles across his nose. This gave the older man a boyish charm.

  Wendell took it and gave it a gentle shake. “Clara, I have a few members who love Conrad. If you were going to study a classic, what would it be?”

  “The Master and Margarita.”

  “I was prepared to shoot you down, but Mikhail Bulgakov is a great choice.”

  “Magical realism is a great launching pad, Wendell. Maybe put it in as a suggestion,” Nash said.

  “I’m going to do that,” Wendell said, adding it to a separate page of his notepad. “How many Bulgakov books cross your threshold?” he asked Nash.

  “Not many. If you do decide, I’ll make some calls. I suggest getting them by the same translator.”

  “This book would stimulate a lot of discussion. Kabir and Marc love to discuss religion or lack of religion.” Wendell sighed. “That’s if they come back to book club.”

  “Kabir as in Kabir Patel?” Nash asked.

  “Yes. He and Marc were AWOL last evening. They never miss a night. Between you and me, that’s why Mother called. A Chicago detective wanted Marc’s information. How do you know Kabir?” he asked Nash.

  “He’s purchased a few first editions from me. Clara, he’s quite refreshing to speak with. He knows his classics inside out.”

  “Is he a professor?” Clara asked.

  “No, he’s in finance,” Wendell said. “He’s a voracious reader and quite a pleasant man, but when he and Marc go at it, I’m tempted to put them both in time-out.”

  “Wendell, I really don’t see a reason why you lost so many book club members,” Nash said, scratching his head. “Marianne seemed very pleased with your group when she came in a few weeks ago for her books.”

  “Marianne called me last week and told me that she was going on a retreat of some kind. I assume it was for work.”

  “I’ll give Kabir a call and see if he mentions anything,” Nash volunteered.

  Wendell put a hand on his chest. “Thank you.” He turned to Clara. “Nice to meet you.”

  “It has been a pleasure. I hope you resolve your problem soon.”

  Wendell finished packing up. Clara walked him to the door. She waited until he had walked down the street before turning to Nash. Her face was glowing with an extraordinary smile. “How did I do?”

  “Miss Tyler, you’re hired.”

  “What’s his story?”

  A thud from upstairs surprised both of them.

  “What time is it?” Clara asked.

  “Two.”

  Clara took off running for the stairs. Nash moved to intercept her, but she had made the stairs and was taking them two at a time before he reached the staircase. She moved from aisle to aisle before she found a book on the floor.

  “Don’t touch it,” Nash said, catching his breath.

  Clara looked down and then at Nash. “I thought it was a screenplay.”

  “He put it into a series in eighty-four.” He stooped and picked up Psycho by Robert Bloch.

  Clara leaned into Nash, and he put a protective arm around her. “Don’t scare me that way again.”

  She looked up into his face. She could see he meant what he said. “Is this your normal shop-owner protection?”

  Nash jammed the book on the shelf and bent down and kissed her. It was a tender kiss, and Clara was surprised how much the kiss moved her. Romance books began falling off the shelves around them and opened as if in a swoon. Clara touched his face and returned the kiss. When she finished, Nash whispered hoarsely, “Please don’t let this be the books.”

  “What books?” Clara asked, resting her head on his chest. The bell on the front door rang. “You go. I’ll pick these up.”

  “Don’t pick up anything from the horror section, please.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

  Nash left her. He stopped at the end of the aisle and looked back. Clara was smiling as she looked at the books while she picked them up. “You guys are such softies.”

  Nash walked down the stairs to see a group of youngsters under the watchful eye of Sister Margaret Clarke.

  “Sister,” Nash said.

  “Mr. Greene,” she said. “May I introduce you to my afternoon reading club?”

  “I’m pleased to meet you all. How can I help you?”

  “We’re looking to restock our bookshelf. No tired old classics. They want books like Diary of a Wimpy Kid.”

  “Right this way,” Nash said.

  Clara watched as Nash transformed from the dragon behind the counter to a kid himself. She walked over to the counter.

  “Miss, can you help me?”

  Clara turned around and saw a ten-year-old girl with an armful of books. Clara swept the pile up into her arms and then set them on the counter.

  “I need to make sure there are no swear words in the books.”

  “Anne of Green Gables is a safe bet. Now, the others I’m not familiar with. Let’s look them up on my iPad.” Clara pulled her iPad out of her backpack, accessed her browser, and held the tablet close to the girl. “Ask.”

  “Does The One and Only Ivan have curse words in it?”

  Nothing happened.

  “Try product details…” Clara suggested.

  The girl did so, and she and Clara worked their way through the books.

  “Now I must decide which one I can have. We have a budget. Sister Margaret said our budget is one book under five dollars.”

  “Excuse me, Clara, remember, it’s Three-Book Thursday,” Nash said, arriving with a few more books.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. I’m sorry, I’m new here,” Clara said.

  Sister Margaret Clarke stood behind her charge and raised an eyebrow. “Three-Book Thursday?”

  “Yes,” Nash said.

  “I’ll tell the others,” the nun said.

  “Please see if you can move them along a bit faster. I have an important meeting at three,” Nash said.

  “I’ll go and help,” Clara said, picking up a basket. She stopped, adding up the children in the group, and returned for another basket.

  Nash picked up Clara’s iPad. He was tempted to root around. What was with him invading Clara’s privacy? He closed it and picked up the books that were rejected by the girl in front of them.

  “Sir, could you put them aside with my name on them? I’m going to call my grandmother and tell her to come and pick them up for me. I have some money from my birthday. My aunt always sends me money.”

  “Will do, and your name is?”

  “Kylie Brown.”

  “Miss Brown, tell your grandmother I will have them behind the counter.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Clara came back carrying one overfilled basket. The other basket was in the pos
session of Sister Margaret.

  Would you like them in bags or one big box?” Clara said as Nash handled the check the nun wrote from the Catholic charity.

  “Box. Kevin and Sheila can take turns carrying it,” Sister Margaret said, pointing out the tallest of her charges.

  When they had left, Nash locked the door. He turned to see Clara standing there behind him with her jacket and backpack on.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “It’s going on three.”

  Nash smiled and looked down at his feet. He looked back at Clara. “I’ve never known anyone like you.”

  “I find it hard to believe you haven’t had your fill of purple-tinged women in your life by now,” Clara said, her eyes twinkling.

  “Do you want to hole up behind the counter while the gloaming hits, or can I take you out for lunch?”

  “On Three-Book Thursday?”

  “Thanks for going with the flow,” Nash said. “Sister Margaret Clarke is a proud woman.”

  “The more time I spend with you, the more I realize I want to know more about you.”

  “I can offer you mint cookies and coffee.”

  “Deal,” Clara said. “I have a confession to make.”

  “What did you do?” Nash teased as they strode back to the counter area where Nash had two barstools that had seen better days.

  “I did remember one of the other books that presented itself.”

  “And that was?”

  “Jane Eyre. I believe that the common theme of the books was highlighting my insecurity regarding you.”

  “I don’t have a wife in the attic or have been suspected of murdering one.”

  “No. It was that there was someone very important in your life before me and I was an interloper, a pale imitation.”

  “I was married before as I said. Rita and I were college sweethearts back east. Me an academic, and she was in the drama department. I won a few small literary prizes and was on my way to a nice little career as a lecturer, so we got married. Rita wasn’t happy with the east-coast scene and pleaded to move to Chicago. Me, I figured I could work anywhere, maybe get some substitute teaching jobs, so I agreed. I gave up my position and moved with her. Within nine months of us being here, she gets a movie, sleeps with the producer, and divorces me. Her guilt was so great that she wrote a very big check. Here I am.”