To Helvetica and Back

by Paige Shelton

  I took it out to the front to show to Olive and then put the dust jacket back over it. I wrapped the whole thing up in a paper bag, breathing a sigh of relief when it was covered and safe.

  Olive laughed. “You’re glad that’s over?”

  “I am. And, Olive, it was an honor to work on your book. Thank you,” I said.

  When Olive asked how much she owed us, both Chester and I insisted we couldn’t take a dime, that the chance to see, touch, and work on her book was greater than any fee we could charge. She tried to argue, but she knew she couldn’t win.

  I offered to walk her and her book out to her car.

  “You know,” she said as we made our way outside, “everyone knew about your grandfather and his store in the old days.”

  “That’s always fun to hear,” I said.

  “Do you know that when he built his printing press, he made national news?”

  “No,” I said. “I knew it was kind of a big deal around Star City, but I never knew it was something that was of interest nationally.”

  “It was. Chester Henry was—and still is—quite the character. The big newspapers back east ran a story that had first run in our very own Salt Lake Tribune. I remember it all. Chester beamed in the picture that was in the paper. The reporter who wrote the story made Chester out to be a big deal, but your grandfather was humble about his skills. It wasn’t just anyone who could build a working replica of a Gutenberg press, but he made it sound like he put together a simple puzzle. I think the article was in the 1960s maybe.”

  “I’ve never seen the newspaper story.”

  “I’m sure it’s been archived at the paper, but you should see if Chester has a copy. He might, I guess. I remember both Chester and the reporter being a pretty big deal for a short time.” Olive smiled back into the past.

  “Did you know Chester before today?” I asked.

  “Oh, I suppose we’ve met over the years, but he doesn’t remember me. I’m not the famous one, and age changes the way we look.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  Olive shrugged and smiled again. “I probably had a crush on him, but lots of women did, particularly after that article. He was so dashing. No straying eyes for Chester Henry though. He loved his wife.”

  “Yes, he did,” I said.

  Olive drove an old Mercedes sedan. Powder blue with a diesel engine that belched loudly and spit out a puff of smoke when she turned the key. The book was safe on the passenger seat, and her feet reached the pedals just fine, but the arthritis made me worry about her safety.

  “You all right, Olive? I’d be happy to drive you back to Salt Lake.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. This car and I can read each other’s minds. Thank you, Clare. Tell Chester thank you too.”

  With that she pulled away from the curb, and I waved as the car moved slowly down Bygone Alley. I hoped she’d be okay, and I was really glad we hadn’t had anything stronger than coffee.

  As I reentered the store, I was met by two less-than-cheerful characters. Chester stood beside the counter and Baskerville sat on it. I wondered where the cat had been when Olive was there. Normally, he liked to inspect new people.

  “Clare, now that we’ve taken care of business, come and tell me what the police wanted with you. I hope the attorney arrived in time. I’m sorry it was the boy. I’m thinking of suing the force over the mere idea of bringing you in for questioning,” Chester said.

  Evidently, Baskerville agreed with Chester. He looked at me and shook his head in disapproval of the police but nodded in agreement with Chester’s idea to sue.

  Chester must not have talked to Dan.

  “Let’s go in the back. I’ll tell you everything,” I said.

  14

  I didn’t tell Chester everything. He didn’t have blood pressure problems, and I had no desire to bring them on. And Baskerville paid such close attention to what I said that I was concerned he’d run away and wreak havoc on the police or one of the officer’s animals. It was a ridiculous notion, of course—that Baskerville the cat understood what I was saying and that he’d be capable of seeking revenge, but sometimes I wondered.

  “So, they didn’t really want much of anything?” Chester said after I told him about Officer Streed’s questions.

  “That’s correct. They just wanted to get the timing down, perhaps some of the logistics behind finding the body. Nothing serious.”

  Chester somehow made a noise that sounded exactly like “harrumph.” I was impressed.

  “Well, that’s good. I’m still going to have a talk with Jodie and Creighton anyway.”

  “They’ll probably want to talk to you too. Find out where you were that night,” I said. I didn’t need to add anything else, and I didn’t need to look at him with raised eyebrows. He knew I wanted to know what he’d been up to too.

  He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then he shut it again and frowned. After he shifted in the chair, he decided to speak. “Well, I’ll be happy to tell them.”

  “You will?” I said.

  Baskerville meowed the same question.

  “Of course. They’re the police.”

  “They’re also Jodie and Creighton. Well, they probably wouldn’t question you, but you’ve managed to put them in their place a time or two over the years.” I smiled.

  The corner of Chester’s mouth twitched. I’d wanted to say something that would make him less concerned, less wound up, and I’d found the right thing. Though Chester had always respected the police and the job they did, he’d fearlessly given both Jodie and Creighton a piece or two of his mind whenever the need arose.

  “Well, I have no place telling them their business, I suppose, but they made you go in there, Clare. That will bother me until I get a chance to let them know how I feel,” he said less adamantly.

  “I understand.” I did—he was only being Chester.

  Baskerville understood too. He blinked slowly and arrogantly. He was sitting on my desk, soaking up our conversation, his head moving back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. I scratched behind his ears, which even misanthropic cats liked.

  “All right. If you’re okay, do you mind if I step out a bit?” he said abruptly.

  “Uhm. Sure. What’re your plans?”

  “Nothing, I just want to run some errands. I won’t be long.”

  “Okay, what errands?”

  “Just errands. Do you, by chance, have some plans with that tall young man who was here earlier?”

  I blinked. I supposed it was okay for him to be cagey with whatever was going on in his life even as he expected me to answer honestly about mine. “I imagine there will be another date in the very near future.”

  “Another one? Well, this is good news. Tell me about him.”

  “Not much to tell. I don’t know him all that well yet. He’s a new geologist in town.”

  “Ah! Well, the geologists I’ve met take their rocks very seriously, and I can’t think of any way to say that other than the way it sounds like a double entendre, but none intended. I hope he’s a nice man and I hope you enjoy his company.”

  “Thank you, Chester. I hope so too.”

  “All right, now I do have to go. I need to run upstairs first and grab something and then be on my way.”

  I nodded at him suspiciously, but he didn’t seem to notice as he hurried away, a marked pep in his step.

  I didn’t mind being alone. I wasn’t worried for my safety. It was daylight and the back door was as locked as it could get. Besides, I had plenty to do. Other than making that call to Jodie, the press and the type blocks needed some attention, and I needed to clean up from the Tom Sawyer project. Also, the giant screw part of the press felt like it had a catch. I wanted to try to fix it by myself before I asked Chester to work on it. I got a huge kick out of fixing t
hings on my own. And I’d received an e-mail a few days earlier inquiring as to whether or not we were set up well enough to do a short print run of some books for a long-published New York Times bestselling author who had a house in Star City. He was interested in using our equipment to do all the work himself, including binding the books. I thought it was a book of his poetry, but he’d been just as cagey about the book as Chester was about his personal life. I hadn’t crunched the numbers or evaluated if it was truly feasible (or if I wanted someone—New York Times bestselling author or not—hanging out in my workshop, getting in my way for however long it took him), but I really needed to get back to him.

  I’d get to it all but not quite yet.

  I sat at my desk. So did Baskerville—he sat on a corner, his tail wrapped tightly around his feet. He did this when he wanted to stay out of the way. I pretended to be busy as I looked intently at a piece of junk mail. I thought that Chester would be in too much of a hurry to notice it wasn’t important. I was right.

  He bounded down the stairs, carrying something under his arm. I thought it might be a book, but it was wrapped in a white paper bag. It wouldn’t be a customer’s book, but one from his own private tumbling stacks upstairs.

  “See you later, dearest,” he said to me as he continued his quick pace around the wall and out of the workshop.

  “Later,” I said.

  The second I couldn’t hear his footsteps, I jumped up and hurried to the middle doorway, with Baskerville at my heels. We peered out and watched as Chester grabbed a piece of pastel lavender paper from the Easter side of the holiday shelves and held it gingerly by its corner as he went through the front doors. Then he turned left.

  I hurried through the store, pulling my keys out of my pocket as I went.

  “Sorry, boy. I need to do this on my own,” I said as Baskerville jumped up to the holiday shelf. He seemed just fine with me leaving him in the store and twitched a whisker before climbing up to the sun.

  I turned the window sign to “Closed,” left the store, and then locked the door behind me. I leaned out from the small entryway just in time to see Chester turn right at the end of Bygone. If he’d turned left, I would have wondered if he was going to visit Mirabelle. But turning to the right didn’t tell me much of anything. I knew of some people who lived on that part of the mountainside, but I didn’t know any of them personally.

  I continued to move quickly, darting around a few people, smiling and saying “excuse me.” Just as I reached his ornate door, Anorkory stepped out and onto the sidewalk. I dodged him expertly.

  “Clare!” he said as though he wanted to talk a second.

  “Hi, Anorkory. Gotta get somewhere. I’ll stop by later.”

  “Tempus fugit; so does Clare,” he said with a chuckle.

  Latin humor. I couldn’t help but smile as I waved backward.

  I made it to the corner just in time to see Chester’s destination.

  Just like on Mirabelle’s side of the street, the houses on this side were fairly small and built close together, though not cute and boxy enough to be on a postcard. Chester practically danced up the front stairs of the third house in from the corner.

  The only way I could see what was happening now was to either cross the narrow street or walk to the middle of it. The house wasn’t far away; there was a very good chance that Chester would turn around and see me.

  But curiosity guided me now. I crossed all the way because someone in the middle would have been a more curious sight than someone on the other side.

  I gained a great view of the white house with the wide front porch just as the door opened. A woman swung the door wide and then smiled big at Chester. I only saw her briefly, but it was clear she wasn’t young or even middle-aged. She was probably at least seventy but, as Chester would put it, a really good seventy. Her long hair was still mostly black but streaked with gray, and it fell softly to her shoulders. She was dressed in nice brown slacks and a satiny beige blouse. After she smiled, they kissed. It was a quick kiss but by no means chaste.

  “You have a girlfriend?” I said to no one. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Though I’d never known Chester to date anyone on a serious basis, I and the rest of the family would never have criticized him for doing so. My grandmother had died a long time ago. We’d often talked about how nice it would be for Chester to have a little romance in his life. A gruesome thought suddenly occurred to me, and I spoke aloud again. “Oh, I hope your girlfriend doesn’t have pancreatic cancer. She looks very nice.”

  I put my hands on my hips and stared at the house. It was a chalet like Little Blue, but it was more squat, making me think it didn’t have a loft bedroom. As I’d seen Chester on the porch and then kissing the woman, it seemed like he fit well with the space. I had to admit, though, I was kind of hurt that he didn’t want to share the news, even if it was no one else’s business.

  I turned to make my way back to the store, feeling way too conspicuous until I reached Bygone. I’d think about how to handle letting Chester know I’d followed him, but for now I had to get back to my original plan.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Jodie.

  15

  “Clare, you okay?” Jodie said as she answered.

  “I am, but are you? Are you still at that crime scene?”

  “Nope, on my way back to the station.”

  “Come by The Rescued Word? I’ve got more information.”

  “On my way.”

  Before I reached the store, I heard a siren come to life. I didn’t think I’d made my information sound like an emergency, but sometimes Jodie liked to turn on the siren just because she could.

  She pulled to a stop in front of the store just as I got the front door unlocked.

  “What’s up?” she said as she joined me.

  “Come in,” I said as I pushed through with her at my heels, almost closer than Baskerville could manage.

  “Hey, all is well,” I said up to him.

  He sent an impatient blink to Jodie and then put his head back down on his paws, closing his eyes on the way.

  “Have a nice day to you too,” Jodie said to him.

  “I have some weird puzzle pieces that might be relevant to the murder,” I said as I continued to lead her to the back. This time I closed the middle door. I didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing anything I had to say.

  “Great. Tell me.”

  We sat, but I didn’t offer coffee. Jodie leaned forward in her chair with her elbows on her knees and her attention fully on me.

  “Remember our time out with the biker gang and the goat relocation?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember seeing the name Mayfair on the back of one of the backs?”

  “I’m not sure. Not really. Not right at the moment at least. Why?”

  “Well, Mirabelle remembered where she got the typewriter. She bought it from the old newspaper offices. At the time, the editor was Homer Mayfair. I am ninety-nine percent sure I saw that name on a vest or jacket or something. I think I wrote it on one of those cards, but they’re at home—I think—and I haven’t run up there to check.”

  Jodie looked off into the distance and bit her bottom lip. She understood what I’d said and how I considered the information relevant, but she was just running it through the Jodie-meter.

  “Well, that’s interesting, I suppose. There could be a connection. It’s not a common name, but it’s not totally uncommon either. The purchase was a long time ago. I don’t know. I’ll take a closer gander at the Mayfairs just in case.”

  “There’s more,” I said.

  “Wow, didn’t we just talk to you at the station a little bit ago? Couldn’t you have shared all this then?”

  I gave her a sour look. “No. All this has happened since I left the station and had to walk up the hill to get back to work. By
the way, I wouldn’t have told Officer Streed anything. You know that, don’t you? You know that I would only tell one police officer anything. You. You’re the only one.” I took a deep breath and let it out.

  Jodie sighed too, but hers was less a release and more an attempt to keep her patience level intact. “I know, Clare, but please understand that the police have to at least give the appearance that we’re doing things the right way. I’m truly sorry. Creighton’s sorry too, but he’ll never tell you.”

  “I appreciate your apology again, and I don’t want one from Creighton.”

  “I understand. We good, then?” Jodie looked up at me from under tight eyebrows.

  “Yeah, we’re good.”

  I told her about the man I had followed who I thought might have been Brian O’Malley. The breaking and entering was much more interesting to her than the flimsy Mayfair connection I’d tried to make. She radioed the station, asking Omar to meet her in front of The Rescued Word as soon as possible. She also asked him to track down the empty building’s landlord if he could.

  Omar arrived only a few moments later. Now there were two police cars parked on Bygone. One never got much attention since everyone knew Jodie and I were friends, but two garnered curious looks out of store windows.

  “You going to look at that background check I did on your new boyfriend?” Jodie asked as we stepped outside again, this time to greet Omar.

  “Probably not.”

  “Suit yourself, but you should. Excuse me, Clare.” She lifted one finger as if to tell me to keep back, but I didn’t want to so I stayed close.

  “May I come with you?” I said before the partners could even tell each other hello.

  “No,” they both said instantly.

  “I’ll stay out of the way. I can show you what I saw.”

  “No, Clare,” Jodie said. “Go back inside. This is police business. Official police business. You told me what you saw. I can figure it out.”