"Yes?"
"You got any good stuff, lady? Porno, stuff like that?"
She froze, suddenly recognized the voice and shook her head. "You want degradation, mister, you'll have to watch TV." She replaced the book, turned and grinned, instantly felt her eyes brimming and cursed herself roundly.
Ed glanced around the aisles in slow examination. "Looks like a hurricane hit the place. I take it that's a good sign."
"I hope so," she said.
His voice softened. "You look tired."
She was about to play her courage role and deny it as vehemently as she thought Ed would stand it, then sagged against the wall shelf and pushed a hand through her hair. "Tired is not the word for it, sir. I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of elephants and the doctors left me on the table and forgot to put me back together again. Does that make sense?" She frowned. "I don't care. Yes, Ed, I am tired."
"Then how about some dinner?"
Her eyes widened and her gaze darted about the shop. "Oh, I can't, Ed, really. Do you see this place? I mean, I'm staying open until nine all week, do you know what that means? Really, I don't think I can—" He pressed a palm against her mouth until, playfully, she tried to bite him.
"All right," he said. "Paul isn't stupid, and neither is Iris. They work for you, remember? And you'll only be gone for an hour, I promise. And I also promise the store will still be here when we get back, okay?"
"But Ed—"
He grinned and dropped an arm around her shoulder, led her to the front. "Cyd, I know you, remember? I know your type. You're a fine manager, a great organizer, you'd make one hell of an executive if someone gave you the chance. But you'll be dead before the New Year if you don't learn how to quickly delegate some of the responsibility now and then. Look, today you're tired more because of nerves than anything else. Tomorrow you'll be tired because you're being slightly dumb."
"Slightly . . ." She looked over to Paul, who immediately began refilling his pipe. She knew he was right, especially since he'd shifted her concentration from the shop to her stomach and she discovered the hollow. She knew he was right, yet . . . she watched Paul studying a spot on the register, nodded and hurried back to the office to fetch her coat from the rack. Iris looked up, her glasses perched on her forehead like a second pair of eyes disturbingly transparent.
"Dinner?" she said.
Cyd nodded. "I'll be an hour, no more. Then you and Paul—"
"No matter," Iris said, reaching under the desk to show her a brown shopping bag piled with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. "We'll eat when we're ready, Missy. We don't have regular hours at home, we don't expect them here for a while."
Cyd smiled, reached out to turn up the bulb in the desk lamp. The switch clicked over twice, once more to turn the light on again. "Nuts. I'll have to stop at the drug store and get a new one. It should be three-way. You can't work in light like this, Iris, it'll ruin your eyes."
"Oh, I don't mind."
"Iris, don't argue."
The old woman glanced up, mildly shocked despite the quivering lips that traced a smile. "You do the boss part very well, Missy."
"Oh, I try, Iris. I try."
But it wasn't until she and Ed had reached the corner on their way to the Cove when suddenly she stopped, a hand on his arm. Looking back over her shoulder, she stared at the storefront.
"What is it, Cyd? You forget something?"
It was already dark, the streetlamps on to add to the neon. Traffic, for Oxrun, was mildly heavy as offices emptied and late shoppers did their chores. A patrol car slipped by, a long and dark taxi. A yellow school bus filled with noise and cheerleaders and the basketball team. The scent of moisture in the air. The promise of a frost.
"Oh my God," she said. "I don't believe it."
"What?" he said.
"I'm not sure yet. Let me think."
They found a small booth near the kitchen door in the Cove's restaurant, a room the same size as the adjoining lounge but twice as crowded with tables for diners. And though there were already several families with children the noise level was low, almost intolerably so. Cyd said nothing, waiting until they had ordered and the order had arrived before she launched into what she knew beforehand was a meaningless prattling about the shop's first day and the fears she had had of somehow offending a customer and not making a dime. Ed listened to her carefully, ate as quickly, making her increasingly uneasy by his too-thoughtful staring, and the muttered comments and compliments that came unerringly in exactly the right places. He knows I'm stalling, she thought in a panic, and she began to speak faster, stumbling over her words and forgetting her place until, finally, he snapped out a hand to lie on her wrist.
"Quiet," he said, and pointed with his fork. "Eat that damned scrod before it gets cold. Then you can tell me what's going on."
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know if anything's going on."
"Yes, you do," he said, disturbingly accurate. "Eat."
"Damned peasants," she muttered as she picked up her knife. "Never know their place."
But she ate nonetheless, mechanically, tasting little as she tried to make sense of what was invading her mind. And when the dishes had been cleared and the sherry served in fragile clear glasses, she leaned back into the booth's corner and stared over his head.
"The lamp," she said. "The car. You ever get the feeling someone's trying to get you?"
Ed lit a cigarette, blew the smoke to one side. "One thing at a time, all right? Yes, I do get that feeling someone's after me, but in my case that's generally true—at least it was when I was a cop around here. The car—if you mean that idiot who nearly squashed you last month, I understand. But what does the lamp have to do with anything?"
"The afternoon of the fire I was in the store," she said, the words coming slowly as she took deep breaths for calming. "I had the lamp on the counter so I could see what I was doing. Ed, I did not move it back to the office. I wasn't back there working that day. And the cartons, they were piled up against the back wall, not by the desk." She held up a hand to stop him from interrupting. "That lamp came from my room at home, and I'll bet a million of Father's dollars that the wire wasn't frayed. How could it be? I just bought it recently." She stared at his cigarette, at the hypnotic amber tip. "It never occurred to me. The excitement, the police, you ... it just went out of my mind I was so worried about the store."
Ed took a slow, deliberate sip of his sherry. "You trying to make a connection between that fool kid and his car, and the fire?" "The fire was set, Ed, I'll swear to it." Slowly he placed his glass in front of him, not looking at her, his fingers lightly tapping the thin stem until she wanted to snatch the glass away. A minute passed in century time before he snapped his fingers for the waitress, handed her a twenty-dollar bill for the check and slid out of the booth. "This is no place to talk about something like that," he said, holding out one hand until she took it and joined him. "I think we need to take a long, slow walk. And don't," he said as the double doors hissed closed behind them, "worry about the store. I'll get you back in time."
"Ed, we're going to freeze!" she protested as he steered them across the street and right, heading for the park. With one hand she bunched her camel's-hair coat at the throat while the other fisted in her pocket.
"You'll also think more clearly," he said. "Come on, step it out, Cyd. Think for a while more, then talk. Say one word before you're ready, and you'll only confuse yourself."
The park was enclosed by a tall, spike-topped fence of black iron; the sidewalk broadened into a concrete apron in front of the matching gates, and Ed scowled when he saw the thick-linked chain woven through the fence and around the lock.
Beyond, there was nothing but still, winter black.
"Good idea," she said when he shook the gates in frustration. "What do you do now, climb over and haul me up by the hair?"
"I never said I was perfect," he growled.
"You," she said, "must have been one heck of a cop."
>
He darted a playful hand toward the shock swept over her forehead. "Too short," he said. "You'd make a lousy Rapunzel."
A van sped past them, honked once, and a young girl's laugh hung coldly in the air.
"Oh well," he said, waited until she had linked her arm with his, then began walking slowly down Park Street, back toward Chancellor. They kept their heads down, watching their breath vanish as fast as it puffed white. Oxrun was silent then, and Cyd stayed off her heels so not to disturb it.
"I don't know," she said finally. "I don't think I know."
"Know what?"
"I don't know if they're connected, the fire and the car. But they must be, Ed. That fire was deliberate, and the limousine was no accident, no matter what you and Father say." She stopped, pulling him around to face her; her limbs grew colder, and the December night grew as if ready to swallow her. "Tell me I'm crazy, but it sounds like someone's trying to kill me."
"No," he said immediately. "No, not quite."
"But Ed—"
He forced her to walk again, to listen to the crack of his shoes on the sidewalk, the cars whispering past as they angled away from the park and its black iron teeth. A night bird called, was answered and called again; a pair of buff cats sped out from beneath a hedge, spotted them, veered sharply to retrace their flight; a radio, muffled; and Cyd began to debate on what the store had done to her mind, and her thinking, and her perception of what was real.
Two blocks later they were at the corner, standing beneath an ornamental street lamp whose two globes were crackling dim. They saw a group of men and women leave the Mariner Cove, huddle on the sidewalk before heading off toward the Inn; probably, she thought, to take advantage of the music featured five nights a week.
Ed coughed, and she jumped. She did not smile.
"Listen, Cyd," he said with his chin tucked into his dark coat, "if someone was trying to kill you, it would have been done already. By that car if nothing else, but it didn't happen again, did it? You were brushed back—"
"You call that brushed back?"
"—and you were chased. Not a damn thing else. The fire, too, was very carefully set—if, mind you, if that's true. And if it is, then whoever set it made sure it would be a smoldering one, not something akin to an explosive spreading. If it's true, whoever did it wanted damage, not death. Remember, it happened when you weren't even there, so late at night that nobody possibly could have been there.
"I don't know. It's a lot of conjecture, obviously, but I really think, Cyd, you've made a connection over two things that happened nearly three weeks apart." His smile, then, was gentle. "No offense, but I think you're reaching."
"Ed, the lamp . . . was not in the back room."
"Are you sure?"
"I just said so, didn't I?"
The smile grew and his hands took her elbows. "My dear lady, if you think hard enough you'll probably remember that you were rather excited at the time, planning the ads and the opening, getting the Lennons to work for you, things like that. It would have been very easy for you to stop work, for instance, and just pick up the lamp and carry it back into the office out of the way. An automatic thing, see? Something you might not remember even if you were shown a picture of it."
It made sense. It could have been true. It could be true now. She put a hand over her eyes as though blocking her vision would flush out the answer.
"M'dear," he added, "lamps do not fly."
"Now that much," she said, "I'll grant you in a minute. You know, this is all very confusing. And if I don't have enough troubles these days, I don't need this, too. But maybe you're right, maybe it is the day. You know what I mean: the shop opening and all this excitement and my nerves and people not coming in until almost lunchtime, which drove me right up the wall, believe me." She rubbed hard at the back of her neck, looked up at him ruefully. "But I still—"
"Come on, Cyd!"
"No, really, Ed, listen for a minute. I know that what you say has got to be true. I mean, who would want to kill me? Who would even want to hurt me? The fire ... it could be someone, I don't know, someone who didn't want competition, even though there isn't another bookstore for miles around here. Or maybe it's someone who wants the location bad enough that they're trying to scare me off. I don't know. Does that make sense? And what does that stuff have to do with the car?"
"Cyd, now you're confusing me."
She laughed, snapped her fingers and dug into her pockets. "Wait a minute. Bear with me just one more minute, okay? A list, that's what I need. I always make a list whenever I start confusing myself about one thing or another. It's compulsive I guess. And how did I get this thing?"
She held up a handkerchief, crumbled and white, and stared at it, at Ed, who only shrugged and flicked it with one finger.
"Oh. Yeah, now I remember. A few days ago Mother cut her finger on a piece of broken glass. She wrapped this thing around it. I think it was the day I went to see Iris and Paul about the store. Maybe the next day, I don't remember. When I got back, it was on the dining room table. I just picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket."
"Pack rat," he said.
"Could be worse. Here," and she pulled out a sheet of paper folded in quarters. "Pack rat," she agreed with a smile. "Beats carrying a purse sometimes, though it gets just as crowded in here. You got a pen, pencil?"
His bemusement increased as he slipped his hand into his coat, then shrugged when he came up with nothing.
"Some cop," she muttered as she unfolded the paper. "I thought you guys were always supposed to be…what in heaven's name is this?"
"How should I know?" he said. "I haven't got X-ray vision."
She held it up to the light. "Would you believe it's the note I wrote for my folks that same night, the night of the fire? I must have . . ." She turned the paper over, back . . . and her hand froze. A long second later Ed slipped the paper from her fingers and she barely felt the loss, barely heard his curse when he read what she had.
"It's a joke," he said. "What else can it be?" Cyd was not sure; she wasn't sure of anything anymore. If it was a joke, it was one in exceedingly poor taste. And if not ... it was meaningless.
"It's ..."
"I know," he said. "I know what it is. I've seen plenty of them. In fact, it's from Oxrun, though I don't know how he got hold of one."
"Ridiculous," she said, trying to rally. "What would he be doing with a damned death certificate?"
The date on the form was June 23; the name on the form was Barton Quincy Yarrow.
Chapter 8
The evening moved slowly. Voices droned as from a rundown Victrola while the air grew gel-thick and extraordinarily warm. Several times Cyd caught Iris looking at her strangely, her expression clouded with an unformed question not her place to ask. There were customers, many of them and buying, and she fought to keep her smile so not to frighten them away. Ed was gone, returned to his office to close it for the night. And by the time he had returned and was chattering with Paul, the first day of her dream had finally ended.
At nine o'clock the door shade was pulled down.
At nine-thirty, the Lennons left with flowers and congratulations and a kiss each for her cheek.
And as soon as the door closed, Cyd slumped against the counter and spread the certificate beneath her hands. Stared at it, examined it, twisted it around until she was sure it would not change.
"If you thought I was confused before," she said with a false, high laugh, "you ought to see inside me now."
"Hey," Ed said softly, standing beside her, one elbow on the register, a palm to his cheek. "Hey, Cyd, you know it's a gag. I mean, your father's home right now, recovering from a heart attack."
"It says here that's what he died from."
Ed closed his eyes, slowly. "Cyd, I don't know what your problem is—"
"Then you haven't been listening."
"—but this," and he slapped at the paper, "is a joke, okay? A lousy, miserable joke. And if you don't mind me sayin
g so, it sounds like something your brothers would cook up."
Cyd denied it instantly. Evan and Rob, though they had their light moments, were far too conservative, bound far too deeply in the staid world of finance to consider even remotely something that was too evidently in such poor taste. Yet, when Ed insisted, she reluctantly admitted that if it had to be one of them it would probably be Evan. Rob, too much like her father, didn't even know a limerick, and scarcely knew how to smile. Again, however, she dismissed the notion, moved to the nearest rack and picked up a book, flipped idly through the pages before replacing it, upside down. She reached then for another, but Ed took hold of her shoulders, turned her around and sat her on the stool. She did not protest.
"We do this logically and slowly," he said through a deep breath. "Good Lord, you're going to drive yourself into hysteria if you're not careful." He waited. She said nothing. "Good. Now then, let's go back to the beginning, from what you told me before.
"First, we know you got the paper from your father's room, right? Right. Exactly where did you find it?" He held up a cautioning finger. "Slowly, understand."
"All right." Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, broke apart and began toying with the buttons on her blouse. "They were sleeping, Mother and Father, and when you called I didn't want them to worry if they woke and found no one in the house. I don't know where Evan and Rob were. So I grabbed something out of Father's dresser, wrote the note on it and left. The next morning I was straightening up—they were still sleeping—and I must have shoved the paper into my coat. I—" She stared at him, trying to read his expression. "Oh my God, it was Father."
The Last Call of Mourning - An Oxrun Station Novel (Oxrun Station Novels) Page 9
