by Cindy Davis
This shop was night and day different from that of two days previous. One floor up from the main street, it was well lit and organized. Magic marker signs were stapled to the ends of each row of shelves, which crisscrossed in the small room like the laser beams of a museum's security system.
The proprietor, a cocoa skinned woman of possibly Jamaican descent, greeted her warmly from between the rows of romances and westerns. Her gathered skirt was a colorful rainbow display as she swished a feather duster along the shelves. “Good morning, sweet pea. I'm LaVerne Stern. Almost didn't marry the man when he told me his last name.” Her laugh was deep and uninhibited. “Feel free to browse as long as you want. I'm going to the next shop to chat for a moment or two. Just knock on the wall right here if you want something and I'll be back in a flash."
Paige glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have an appointment in a half hour, but I simply couldn't resist stopping in to see what you had. I'll just look around for ... oh my word,” Paige said as a book in the glass case beneath the pocked wood countertop caught her attention.
Her collection of bracelets jangled as LaVerne slipped a key off a hook on the wall and unlocked the cabinet. She handed Paige the selfsame copy of Carrie she'd purchased from Max Baumgartner.
"I bought a copy of this book just yesterday,” Paige announced, opening the front cover with the tips of her fingers. “But, my copy is signed and in mint cond—"
LaVerne's black eyes showed white all around. “Would you let me see it, sweet pea? I think I can make you an offer on it."
"I really didn't buy it with the intention of—"
"I'd be willing to pay you $1000."
Paige hoped LaVerne couldn't see the sweat beads that popped onto her forehead. The price was more than two hundred times what she'd paid for it. “I am going to be late for my appointment if I don't hurry. I'll think about your offer and—"
"I don't suppose you have any other books...” LaVerne let the question dangle in the air like a charm between them.
"Yes, but like I said, when I bought them I didn't—"
LaVerne placed a cool hand on Paige's arm. “Think about it. Please. Here's my card."
Paige left feeling even more exhilarated than she had earlier that morning. Life was great. She turned right on Marquette, nearly jogging toward her meeting with Harry.
* * * *
Harry waved to her from a corner booth at the 8th Street Grille. Paige wove between the crowded tables and greeted her lawyer and hopefully ... her new friend. “You wouldn't believe what just happened to me."
"Well, you're smiling, so can I safely assume it has nothing to do with last night's discussion?"
"Yes, I stopped in a book shop on the way here. The owner offered me two hundred times what I paid for the same book in another shop just two days ago!” Paige dropped her purse on the adjoining chair and pointed at Harry. “And I bet I can get her to go a lot higher. She was exceptionally quick to make the offer and extremely eager to get her hands on my book. I'm going to find out the real value of that book before I get back to her."
"That's absolutely perfect,” Harry said.
A busty waitress, who must have been shoehorned into her uniform, appeared at the table that very moment. “Honey, I haven't been called perfect in many a year.” She laughed, then stood tapping her pencil against the pad while they ordered coffee and a pair of hot roast beef sandwiches.
"Okay, here's what I've been thinking,” Harry said after she'd scurried off. “The first thing you have to do is find a place to put the money—legally.” This he said with a grin, obviously recalling Paige's admonition about honesty. “You can't flit around town passing out large sums of cash. It's certain to raise some eyebrows."
"I thought I'd put it in the bank."
"Not wise. Any deposits over $10,000 are thoroughly scrutinized by bank officials. They're required by law to notify the IRS. You might ultimately have to explain where every penny came from. For the time being, I'd suggest a safe deposit box. You can go in during any bank hours and take out all you want without anyone asking questions. Every cent you make selling a book, put it in the safe deposit box—replace it with Stefano's cash. Use his money to purchase new books. Understand?"
Paige noticed he tactfully didn't ask how much money was involved. A fleeting thought of “what if he already knows?” sent a shiver through her body. Harry didn't appear to notice.
Over their sandwiches he outlined the process he would use to set up a trust for Paige's potential real estate purchases. “Every deal can be done through my office. All paperwork will be kept in a safe deposit box at a bank of your choosing. Two keys are necessary to open the box. We'll each have one. Is this agreeable so far?"
"I feel like I died and went to heaven,” she said, thinking about the other package she had waiting at Nina's while she poured another mug of coffee for each of them from the carafe on the table.
"Any idea where you'll settle down? Here in Minneapolis?"
"I don't know. Every time I see a place that seemed like a possibility, I end up on the run again. I think I'll spend some time here, get my affairs in order, find an apartment, get a job, and then make a decision."
"I know of a furnished condo that's coming available soon. It's private and it's right here in downtown."
"Nice that it's furnished. It'd be a shame to buy furniture then have to leave it behind if I have to leave. Bad enough I've left some things that were near and dear to me in Kansas City."
"We're going to do our best to see you're not running any more. If you're interested in that condo, I can try to set up an appointment for you to look at it. It's owned by a client of mine."
"Will you go with me?"
"If you wish."
"So, you're getting into the collectible book business? I'm assuming it's totally unrelated to anything in your past?"
She gave a nervous laugh. “Totally."
"Good. Very good. Not many careers you can buy low and sell high."
"You sound like Shamus Baxter, a nice old bookstore owner back in Kansas City. He taught me a lot about the business."
"Well, let's hope you learned well. If you keep finding deals like the one you mentioned, you'll not only convert Stefano's cash but turn a sizable profit in the meantime."
Harry dabbed mustard from a crease in his cheek and motioned for the check. “I have an appointment so I have to run.” He waved his credit card at the waitress, “Give this lady anything else she wants."
"Thanks, Harry. By the way...” She placed a hand on his arm. “We haven't talked about your fee."
"I know. I'll give you a price in a day or so."
"What if I can't afford it?"
He merely patted her shoulder.
"Harry, you've saved my worthless life..."
"Your life is certainly not worthless. As a matter of fact, I have a sneaking suspicion it's just beginning. I'm going to bury you so deep in red tape and paperwork that Mr. Santangelo and his men will be searching for you from their nursing home Internet connections."
Paige walked along Marquette thinking about Harry and his advice. Her a book dealer. Wouldn't Shamus be proud? His voice boomed in her head, “Don't ever go into a deal without knowing the value of your product. There are a number of appraisal books out there, but Huxfords and Bookman are the only two fit to be used."
Paige smiled at the thought of his self-confident mindset that sometimes bordered on arrogance. Many people took offense at it, and on occasion it had bristled Paige's feathers too, but she'd come to understand his attitude fathered by more than half a century working with the public.
Paige was glad for the few block walk to the Minneapolis Public Library. It gave her trembling legs a chance to regain their strength. The library building towered over the park like a giant television screen, a glass and cement testament to modern architecture.
"Good afternoon,” said the youthful librarian, nearly invisible behind a stack of books.
P
aige peeked around the pile. “Hello there. Could you help me, please?"
"Of course.” He punched a few buttons on the keyboard before him, and the rolling screen saver faded away, replaced with what the young man called a window. “What subject?” he asked.
Paige explained what she wanted.
"We have a two-year-old copy of the Bookman guide, but I really think you'd find more updated information on the Internet."
"I'm embarrassed to say I don't know anything about computers."
"That's okay. Just give me a minute and I'll get you where you need to go.” He busied himself typing and punching buttons, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, occasionally using a knuckle to shove his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
One screen was replaced by another until he finally grunted. “I think I've got exactly what you want.” He scribbled on the back of a library business card and handed it to her. “Here's the web address in case you want to get into the site again.” He stood up and motioned for her take his chair, then leaned over her shoulder. “All you have to do is type the name of the book or the author into that little white rectangle, give this button a little click and you're on your way."
"Thank you."
An hour later, Paige hailed a cab from the library, so excited she couldn't bear the amount of time it took to walk the distance to her hotel. It couldn't be, she kept repeating to herself. These kinds of things didn't happen to people like her.
As she waited at the crosswalk two blocks west of her hotel, the familiar sound of a diesel engine welled behind her. Paige spun around, crashing into a dark suited gentleman with a cell phone to one ear. The phone clattered to the sidewalk and broke in dozens of pieces. She muttered an apology as a bright yellow tractor-trailer bore down on the intersection. Paige stepped off the sidewalk and into the street.
The semi screamed to a stop not two inches from her left shoulder. Immediately horns began honking. Paige, who'd frozen at the sight of the bright chrome grill in her face, felt herself being wrapped in strong arms and dragged onto the sidewalk.
She knew she was sobbing but couldn't hear the sound of it over the horns and the shouting. She melted against the plaid cotton shirt. The arms tightened. His head bent against hers.
"Chris."
His lips brushed her left ear. “I've looked everywhere for you."
A loud pop. Then another. Something screeched past her ear. Paige was suddenly heaved sideways. Her elbow jolted up into her shoulder as she slammed to the sidewalk. More gunshots rang out. Something heavy landed on top of her, punching the air from her lungs.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Thirty-two
Paige's first breath inhaled Chris’ aftershave. Her second was a gasp of elation. Her third didn't happen for quite some time as she felt herself being yanked her to her feet and dragged into a nearby store. She was hauled down a long aisle lined with colorful items that brushed against her arms. Then she was shoved inside a curtained cubicle and pinned against the wall.
Chris began showering kisses on her cheek and neck. Her knees buckled; she would've slid down the warm wood panel if he didn't hold her erect.
"I looked everywhere for you,” he said, the words coming between kisses.
She pushed him away and gazed up at that well-trimmed mustache, the brilliant blue eyes, the lips—and wanted to melt into him, but had to ask the question burning her tongue. “Is that Stefano's men out there?"
His expression turned grim and he nodded. “I thought I got away from them in Des Moines."
When she shivered, he folded his arms around her. His shirt was soft against her face and smelled like fabric softener.
"What are we going to do?"
Chris backed away and sat on a small bench in what she realized was a changing room. She remained standing, but leaned in the corner, liking the secure feeling that two walls provided.
"What are we going to do?” she repeated.
Chris opened his mouth but before he could speak, a woman shouted, “Get out of my store!"
"I asked where they went,” came a gruff voice.
There was a thump and a scuffle as though something was upended. A woman screamed.
Chris shot to his feet. He grasped the curtain with two fingers and opened it enough to peer out into the shop.
More screams. More things being overturned.
Chris released the curtain long enough to bend and kiss her on the right temple. Before she could react, he moved away. “Stay here. Will you promise to stay right here?"
God, he was leaving.
"Promise me."
Words wouldn't come. She could barely move her head to nod.
"If I don't make it back,” he pulled the curtain aside, “meet me in—” The curtain dropped, the last word muffled in the commotion. And he was gone.
"There they go,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “Out the back way."
Paige cowered into the corner, trying to be invisible. Feet thudded toward her. The curtain moved, pulled open, caught on someone's shoulder. A woman screamed. The curtain dropped. The footsteps passed. The curtain swayed and Paige had intermittent glimpses of the shop, racks on their sides, clothing strewn everywhere.
Finally the curtain stopped moving and she was closed off from the world. Metallic scrapes and thuds said the racks were being righted, clothing returned to their places.
Her chest hurt and she realized she'd hardly been breathing. Normal store activity resumed. No police came. And no one came to the dressing room to try anything on.
Time passed. Paige had no idea how much. But it seemed like a long while. She pulled up her sleeve and checked her watch. That's when she noticed the blood. On her sleeve. Down the left front of her jacket.
Chris had been shot. She sagged onto the bench and dropped her face in her hands. No wonder he hadn't come back. He was dead or dying on the street somewhere. He'd lured them away and—no, she couldn't think that way. He was all right. He said he'd come back.
Yes, but he also said that if he didn't come back she should meet him.
Meet him where? What the hell had he said?
The curtain moved. Paige looked up, panicked until she saw a kindly face. The woman didn't seem to recognize her as the cause of the store's problems. She simply said, “We're closing now."
Paige managed a smile and a nod. Then she stood, and when the woman disappeared toward the front of the shop, she pushed aside the curtain. To the left was a door with a big red EXIT sign. She went out that way.
She followed the trail of blood. It gradually diminished. Within four blocks it had totally disappeared. She found herself standing in front of a large hotel. Across the street was a JC Penney's. Beside that, a shoe store. Everything appeared normal. There was no sign of a fight. Nothing at all to indicate whether Chris or Stefano's men even came this way.
She hailed a taxi and made it take her to every hospital in the area. No one had come in for treatment of a gunshot wound. In the long run, she thought that was a good thing. But where was Chris? How was she to find him in a city of thirty-eight thousand people?
It was well after midnight when Paige had the cab drop her off at the intersection where the shooting had occurred. Where Chris had shoved her into a woman's clothing shop and kissed her so hard she'd barely been able to breathe. Where he'd made her promise to wait for him to return.
She turned in a full circle. Both sides of the street were empty except for a Great Dane lifting its leg on a streetlamp post. Where was the truck? The only thing that showed the whole ordeal hadn't been a dream was the blotch of blood on the sidewalk where he'd thrown her.
Suddenly her tears were flowing. Chris had come for her. Found her somehow, and tried to protect her. Maybe even died for her. She plodded to her hotel and punched the elevator button. How much worse could things get?
Her steps sounded like cannon fire as she plodded down the hotel hallway. It took six tries before the little card would work the electronic loc
k. Inside finally, she dropped on the bed and wept.
Paige woke at three a.m. and moped to the bathroom. She took out her suitcase and set it on the bed. She took clothes from the dresser and laid them inside. Then she lifted them out and put them back in the drawer. She took them out again and crossed the room.
Indecision was like a plague. Stefano had found her. She should get the hell out of here. But Chris was here. If she ran again, he'd never be able to find her.
After a shower, she trudged to the bed, pulled down the comforter, and climbed in. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold the answer to her problems. How could she find Chris? She hadn't the slightest idea of his cell phone number or his dispatcher's name.
Paige dropped yesterday's clothes on the floor and lay on the bed crying—for the past, the present, and lack of a future—because during the mad dash around the city, she realized she'd fallen in real love for the first time in her life. This revelation didn't bring the feeling of elation the way it did for most people. It was just possible she was in love with someone who was an accessory to murder—hers.
She woke at ten in the morning feeling like she'd been run over by something very large. There was nothing about Chris on the news, nothing about shots being fired on Marquette. She sighed and raked a brush through her hair. Maybe on the streets of Minneapolis, shots were fired every day. No big deal.
Paige dragged herself from the bed and started to dress, but the exertion was just too much. She knew it was time to get on with her life. Forget about Chris.
But he'd come for her.
Paige nursed a cup of coffee and used the quilt as a diversion, sitting on the floor to set together the last of the calico squares. Of course, the diversion worked only for her hands; her mind was a blur of motion. On the nearby table, the telephone beeped gently. Her heart leapt. “Hello?” she said hopefully into the receiver. “Oh, Harry...” She took a breath and let the flutter of disappointment fade.
