“Poor kid, she must be torn between her two lives.” I watched the waiter deliver my martinis to Avery’s table. Checkbook lubrication, I thought, and took a sip of Perrier.
“She’s not a kid—we’ve got to remember that about Peggy. She’s a fully grown woman. I’ve never known a student so mature, so aware of her responsibilities. When I think of some of the spoiled cry-babies at this school…Anyhow, that’s what makes me so uneasy about her missing classes and not showing up for her job in the library. It’s just not like her. And, in addition to everything else, Peggy’s been working on a book—”
“She has?” This was news to me. “What kind of book?”
“The story of her sister’s life and death. She’s just about finished it. She practically made me take a blood oath of silence. That’s why I didn’t say anything when you were at my house the other day. But now…You have talked to Charlie about Peggy, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
My brusque response merited a raised eyebrow.
“Why didn’t Peggy want anyone to know about the book?” I asked.
“I think she was…embarrassed.”
“You mean it’s no good?” The waiter placed the salads in front of us with a flourish, then produced a high-tech stainless-steel pepper-mill from a holster on his hip. Earlene waved him away before he could press the trigger. I had to grab him by the sleeve to get him back.
“No. Not that at all. It’s more like she feels she doesn’t have the right to be an author, that she’s encroaching on forbidden territory. She actually said, ‘People like me don’t write books.’”
“Trespass…” I thought about Sunnye Hardcastle, also from a deprived background, but with no compunctions at all about trespassing.
Earlene laughed. “That’s actually very apt. Literary trespass.”
“As if,” I mused, “the world of print was a reserve for the privileged.” I took a bite of salad. It was perfect, just the right touch of anchovy in the dressing. I wished I were eating a hamburger. “So…she wants to get it published?”
“Yes. She’s adamant that her sister’s story be told, and precisely as it happened, with no embellishments.”
“Hmm. True Crime—there’s a market for that. Have you read the manuscript?”
“No. She said she wanted to show it to a friend first. She didn’t say who, someone who knew about those things. Someone who was taking a creative writing major.”
“Must be Stephanie,” I said. “She’s a poet.” Then I recalled Stephanie waiting for Peggy after class the day of Peggy’s outburst. Peggy had handed her a bulky bag. I tried to re-visualize the scene. A plastic grocery bag, Stop ‘N’ Shop, with pages poking out of a rip in the bottom. And Peggy had been almost furtive about the exchange. It could have been her book manuscript in that bag.
“Stephanie definitely knows more than she’s letting on,” I said to Earlene. “How can we encourage her to tell us?”
My companion sighed. “She’ll talk if and when she wants to talk. Until then all we can do is make ourselves available.”
The sound and scent of sizzling steak caught my attention. I glanced over at Avery’s table where fajitas were being delivered. I beckoned to the waiter and requested the dessert menu.
Chapter Twenty-two
My class went well, and I called Amanda before I left for home. “Hey, Sweetie, how you doing?”
“I’m tired, Mom. I’m just really tired.”
“Can I bring you anything?”
“Videos. I’ve been watching Key Largo on HBO, and I want more, more, more—black-and-white, moody Humphrey Bogart.”
“I’ll see what I can find, kid. We’ll have a Bogie festival.”
When I pulled up to the house an hour later, a black Lincoln Town Car was parked at a skewed angle in my driveway, one wheel mired in the tulip bed. I stared at it hard but couldn’t make it belong to anyone I knew. My skin crawled: Amanda, alone, sick, helpless in the hands of a sinister intruder. The afternoon was just edging into evening. A wind had sprung up, tossing the bare tree branches. No one was anywhere around. Across the street, the only house in sight was long abandoned. The road was empty of vehicles. I checked my car for a weapon, and grabbed the plastic bag of videos—sharp edges, good heft. I swung it for practice, then crept toward the house. The kitchen door was ajar. I edged it fully open and tiptoed in.
***
A fire blazed in the wood stove. The smell of buttered popcorn hung in the air. Amanda was curled up in one corner of the couch, Sunnye Hardcastle in the other. Trouble sprawled between them. They were watching the end of Key Largo.
“Sunnye! What the—” She’d torn up my flower bed, left my kitchen door open, and scared the hell out of me. Now here she sat, cool as a cucumber, eating my popcorn and watching videos with my daughter.
The novelist held up an imperious hand. “Give us a minute, Karen. This is almost over.” No light in the room other than the glow of the fire and the flickering grey of the TV screen. Without removing my coat, I sank into the black Naugahyde chair. The theme music swelled and the film credits began to roll. No one spoke until the screen resolved into visual static. Amanda sighed, then looked intently at the video bag. “What else did you get me?” She was wearing one of the sleep shirts I’d bought her, over grey sweatpants. Her short hair stuck straight up on one side.
“You’re going to love these.” I tossed her the bag of videos. “Hello, Sunnye.”
“Hi, Karen.” She dipped her hand into the big green popcorn bowl. She wore dark jeans and a rose-red sweater. Next to poor, pallid Amanda she seemed to glow with health.
“Did we have a date, or something? Did I forget you were coming?” I levered myself up from the chair and unbuttoned my coat.
She shrugged. “I got bored at the hotel, so I thought I’d rent a car and come up to hit the antiquarian bookstores again. Then I decided to drive out here to see if you knew anything more about what’s going on with the library case.” She was talking too fast. “Got here just in time to catch Bacall tell Bogey to pucker up his lips and blow. What a knock-out film!”
Amanda stacked up the videos. “The Maltese Falcon! Co-oo-l! Sunnye, can you stay for dinner? We’ll watch this one afterwards.” Without waiting for a response, my daughter looked over at me with her beautiful hazel eyes. “You know, Mom, I should probably tell you something. Sunnye and I have been talking about—”
I broke in. I didn’t want to hear it. To tell the truth, I was envious of my daughter’s admiration for the mystery novelist. “She’s probably seen The Maltese Falcon a thousand times,” I told Amanda. Anyhow, I didn’t have time for company. I had tons of reading to do before class tomorrow.
“But it’s always fun. You want to watch it again, don’t you, Sunnye?”
“I’d like to…” Sunnye seemed hesitant. She slid her eyes over at Amanda. What had they been talking about, anyhow? Trouble fixed me in his enigmatic gaze.
Suddenly the writer’s uncharacteristic diffidence struck me. Sunnye’s lonely, I realized. Sunnye Hardcastle, celebrity author, world traveler, urban explorer wants to be friends. She needs a refuge.
And her little dog, too.
“Great,” I said, my jealousy dissipating. I could prep my class in the morning. “I picked up a roast chicken on the way home, potato salad, some other stuff. We’ll eat, then have an evening of film noir.”
Sunnye grinned at me, and hefted her leather bag, which had been leaning against the couch. “Isn’t that odd—I just happen to have a nice bottle of pinot noir in my bag.”
***
I was too tired to attempt anything complicated like carving the chicken. I slid it whole from the plastic container onto a platter, slapped down silverware and plates, took out wine glasses and rinsed them. We sat, and Sunnye poured the wine.
From the road, headlights raked the dining-room window, then vanished. Then another car passed slowly, its motor loud in the country quiet. Two cars in a row on my deserted road
. Hmm. I rose from the table and drew the curtains shut. Another car crawled by, this time in the opposite direction. I shuddered: What had happened to my safe, sane, predictable life? I hacked a thigh off the chicken, then flopped the bird over to fork out the two succulent pieces at the base of the backbone. Trouble eyed me lovingly. He laid his head in my lap. I hesitated, then slipped him one of the tender back morsels. He accepted it gingerly, leaving my fingers intact.
“You should assume you’re being watched,” I told Sunnye.
She paused as she spooned potato salad from the plastic tub onto her plate, then glanced nervously at the window. “You think there are reporters out there?”
“Well, maybe. But I meant, by the police. As far as I know, they don’t have any other suspects, and they’ll want to know where you are, who you’re with, what you’re up to.”
“Surveillance,” Amanda said. Her eyes were slitted, like those of a street-savvy television cop.
“Oh, the police.” Sunnye shrugged, and returned her attention to the food: No problem.
I wondered just exactly what had transpired that morning with her high-powered L.A. lawyer.
“Then I hope they had fun lurking outside Henshaw’s Rare and Antiquarian Books for over three hours,” she continued. “I know I enjoyed being there. Paul’s got terrific stuff.” She tore a wing off the chicken and winked at us. “In more ways than one.”
Amanda grinned. At least my poor, ailing daughter wasn’t being freaked out by the prowling cars.
“Henshaw’s? Isn’t that the shop you went to last week?” I asked.
“Yeah. Any law says I can’t go back?” Sunnye nibbled on a wing. “He is a bit of a hunk, don’t you think? Not bad for a…a mature guy.”
“Not bad at all, for any guy. So, you two hit it off?”
“Sure. He’s smart, knows everything there is to know about American first editions. He’s got a sense of humor. Great conversationalist, too. He showed me his stock. I signed some books. We had coffee. Talked for a long time. I bought a couple of books, even found a copy of—” She stopped abruptly.
“You found a copy of what?” I asked.
“Oh, just something I was looking for. Nothing particularly interesting.” I could almost hear the gears grind as she changed the subject. “Listen, Karen, you ever get in touch with Peggy Briggs?”
“No.”
“Hmm. That’s not good. Maybe we should take another swing by her house—”
“No!”
“Why not?” She laughed. “You afraid of that muscle-bound goon?”
“Goon?” Amanda’s head swiveled back and forth, trying to follow the conversation.
“Of course not. It’s just that I’ll…I’ll catch hell if I go there again.”
“Catch hell from who?” Sunnye wrinkled her brow.
“From whom.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” my daughter demanded.
“The correct pronoun relative to the direct object is whom, not who,” I lectured.
“Don’t evade the question,” Sunnye said.
“Yeah, Mom, who’ll give you hell? And for what?”
I set my fork down. The chicken was still warm and juicy, but my mouth was dry, and I had lost my appetite. “Lieutenant Charles Piotrowski of the Massachusetts State Police is displeased that I meddled in his investigation.”
Amanda: “Charlie! So that’s why—”
Sunnye: “That big cop? You gonna let him—”
Me: “Shut up, both of you.” I slapped my hand down on the table, and the fork clattered on my plate.
Amanda stared at me, wide-eyed. “Mom, it’s not like you to lose your cool. Are you guys—”
“I’d rather talk about the bookshop,” I said. “Sunnye, tell us more about your visit to Henshaw’s.”
She and my daughter exchanged knowing glances. Amanda, exasperated, spread her hands wide.
Sunnye tore a chunk off the wholemeal baguette and buttered it. “The bookshop? Well, okay. Paul’s got a great crime fiction collection. I couldn’t resist a first of The Dain Curse, signed, with jacket. He’s shipping it home for me.” She took a bite. “And, then—”
Another slow car with powerful headlights. Sunnye glanced at me. If it was the cops, they must have some particular reason for being so obvious. Was this plain and simple police harassment? If so, what role was Charlie Piotrowski playing in it?
***
After we’d watched the video, Sunnye slipped into her leather jacket and clipped Trouble’s leash onto his collar. She had her hand on the doorknob when she remembered something. “Paul Henshaw said he knew Elly Munro.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, but he knew him by the name of Bob Tooey. Tooey used to come into the store to schmooze. Never bought anything, though—a real Lookey Lou.” She wrapped the leash around her wrist, and turned the knob. “Over the weekend the FBI asked Paul to go up to the house in Chesterfield, give them a preliminary idea of the value of the stolen books. He was there all day yesterday. He told them five, six million dollars.”
Amanda gasped. “Millions!”
“And he said Munro’s collection is so knowledgeable and comprehensive he hated to see it broken up. Funny, isn’t it. A genius book collector, but a thief.”
I watched Sunnye’s Town Car turn—there went the rest of my tulips—then pull onto the road. A minute later another set of headlights raked the kitchen window, following the rental car.
I sat up until after midnight reviewing my underlinings in The Long Goodbye. Then I went to bed and fell asleep with the book in my hand.
I was with Sunnye Hardcastle at the Book House. Trouble had turned into a cat and was winding in and out between my feet as I stepped my way past precarious piles of leather-bound tomes. “This beast is trying to kill me,” I said.
“Don’t be absurd,” she replied. “He’s simply committed to intertextuality.”
“Oh. Well then.” I reached down to stroke the silky animal. He sank his teeth into my hand.
***
Paul was just placing the CLOSED sign in the shop window when I arrived at Henshaw’s Rare and Antiquarian Books after class on Tuesday afternoon. “Karen Pelletier? What a surprise.”
“Hi, Paul. Glad I caught you. Could I buy you a drink?”
“Now I have younger women after me.” He raised an amused eyebrow. “Life is good.”
“I have an ulterior motive.” I wanted to find out if he knew anything about Elwood Munro and Peggy Briggs.
“That’s what I hoped.”
“Flirt.” I grinned at him. Paul was of the generation just previous to the rise of politically correct male-female social interaction. We walked over to Rudolph’s, and sat at the bar. I ordered Cosmopolitans. Spring was on its way, and the fruity drink made me think of carefree days ahead, however delusional that thought might be.
“Salut,” Paul said.
I tipped my glass toward him, then drank.
Across from us Claudia Nestor sat alone, drinking beer from a green bottle. Her gaze was riveted to a local news program on the TV above the bar.
“Here’s what I want to ask you, Paul. I understand you knew Elwood Munro—”
“Bob Tooey, the little bum.” He twisted his lips. “Yeah, I knew him. Used to come into the shop, handle the books. Smell them, even. Never bought anything.” He gave an ironic laugh. “And I always had this feeling in my gut, you know, like I shouldn’t turn my back.”
“Good instincts.”
“Yeah. Why are you asking about him?”
“A student of mine is missing,” I said, “and I’m looking for her. I think she may have known Munro.” I told Paul about Peggy and her backpack. “And today she missed class for the second time in a row. That’s totally out of character for her.”
He shook his head. “You say this Briggs girl works in the library? Do you think she could have been Tooey’s—er, Munro’s—accomplice in crime? Given the guy’s obsession with books, I wouldn�
�t put anything past him. But if she started giving him problems, he’d have gotten rid of her in a New York minute.”
“He couldn’t have ‘gotten rid of her,’” I said. “She’s the one who found his body.”
“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “Then maybe she killed him.” He spread his hands. “It wouldn’t be the first time murder’s been committed in the pursuit of books. There was this guy in Spain sometime in the nineteenth century, a man named Don Vincente, who killed at least eight people in order to get their books. And he started out as a good guy—a librarian in a monastery.”
“Not Peggy,” I said. “She’s too…well, not Peggy. Do you really think that’s why Munro was murdered? For his books?”
Paul turned his glass slowly by its stem. “What better reason could there be?”
***
When I got home with burgers and fries from Rudolph’s, Amanda was deep into The Lady Vanishes. I set a tray on the coffee table in front of her. I came back into the living room a half hour later, and the untouched meal was still in its Styrofoam take-out case. The video had ended, and Amanda was asleep in front of the staticky TV screen.
Chapter Twenty-three
Thirteen women and Rex Hunter sat around the pine conference table in the Women’s Studies office Wednesday morning holding a post-mortem of the crime fiction conference. The consensus was that if it weren’t for the actual murder that had kicked it off, the murder-mystery conference would have been an unqualified triumph.
After the meeting I followed Rachel Thompson out of the building. I had more questions for the librarian.
An early spring sun had evaporated all traces of the recent snow. Crocuses poked tentative shoots though the raked earth of flower beds. Although March in New England could hardly be called tropical, students strolled by dressed in shorts and T-shirts. I foresaw a pneumonia epidemic within the week.
“Any word from Peggy?” I asked Rachel.
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