Murder Between the Covers dj-2

by Elaine Viets

  The tears came and she could not stop them. She cried for all that she had lost long before she knew Rich. She could not change the past, but she would not repeat it.

  She’d let her ex take her for granted. That would never happen again. Could Rich believe that a woman naturally wanted to clean house for a man? She would not be any man’s unpaid housekeeper, no matter how good the sex.

  She thought of her grandmother, a short tan-klike woman who’d supported herself with dead-end jobs, watching other people’s children and cleaning other people’s houses.

  Grandma never got a weekend on the beach with a man who looked like a shaggy Mel Gibson, but she kept going.

  She was tougher than I am, Helen thought. She seemed to hear her grandmother’s voice now: Pull your socks up and quit whining. She dried her tears and checked the clock. It was time to go to work.

  When Helen walked into Page Turners shortly before eleven, the phone was ringing. “It’s for you,” Albert said, and frowned. “It’s a personal call. Again.” He pursed his mouth in irritation. Helen hoped his starched collar would strangle him.

  The caller was Rich. “I can’t talk now,” Helen said.

  “Don’t hang up,” he said desperately. “I’m sorry.”

  “You certainly are,” she said, slamming down the receiver.

  He called every half hour after that. Helen didn’t know if she or Albert was more annoyed. She begged Rich to stop, afraid she might be fired. Finally he quit calling. At one o’clock, a florist arrived with an enormous bouquet. Rich had sent two dozen red roses.

  Forgive me, the card said. P.S.: I’ve hired a cleaning service.

  “You’ve got yourself one romantic dude,” Denny said.

  The newest bookseller smiled cherubically. He didn’t look like a nose breaker. But then, she didn’t look like someone on the run.

  “I guess,” Helen said.

  She wished Rich had not spent so much money on something that would be dead in three days. The roses cost almost as much as a new pair of pants. I’ve got to stop thinking like this, she decided. Being chronically broke was ruining her sense of romance.

  She wanted to take the roses to the break room, but Denny set them on the counter, “So we all can enjoy them.”

  “Those roses are beautiful,” gushed a gray-haired woman.

  “Her boyfriend sent them,” Denny said.

  “You are a lucky young woman. Not many men send roses anymore.”

  He doesn’t care about me, she thought. He had them delivered here to make a big public splash. But Helen was glad to have the Rich problem. If she was mad at Rich, she wouldn’t have to think about Peggy, in jail and on trial for her life, hiding the one fact that could save her.

  Helen was convinced that Peggy did not kill Page. Then who did? That was the problem. The list was endless. She would have to write down all the suspects. But the day was taking its own slow pace. At the store, the lines of book buyers went on endlessly.

  A tall woman with long blond hair and a soft blue blouse said, “May I write a check?”

  “Sure,” Helen said. “If I can see a picture ID.”

  The check said Willamena Delgarno. Her driver’s license said William Delgarno. The address was the same. The photo was the same, too, except William was not wearing makeup and had a military buzz cut.

  Helen looked at Willamena again. Under the makeup she had a five-o’clock shadow. Helen hoped the surprise did not show on her face.

  The next person in line was undoubtedly a man. In fact, he looked like a Viking recruiting poster. He was tall, with narrow hips, a tight T-shirt, and long strong legs in formfitting jeans. He was wearing work boots and a tool belt, but he had a natural air of command, as if he carried five stars on his shoulders.

  Helen felt a definite ka-zoing! somewhere south of her belt. She also heard warning bells go off. She’d had a disastrous date with a perfect man not too long ago. She looked at the Viking again. She was relieved when she saw his blond hair was receding. His front teeth were yellow from cigarettes and a little crooked. His stomach was not quite as flat as it first appeared. Perfect—he wasn’t perfect after all.

  The Viking handed her two books, Building Your Dream Home and The Red Tent.

  “Guess you must wonder what I’m doing with a woman’s novel,” he said, and blushed. Helen thought it was charming in a man so big. “My sister talked about it so much, I thought I’d better read it. Do you think that’s stupid? I mean, a guy reading a woman’s novel?”

  “I think more guys should read woman’s novels. And vice versa.”

  Helen’s hand accidentally brushed his as she picked up the books, and it was her turn to blush. His arms had little golden hairs and big muscles. He was not wearing a wedding ring.

  “Uh, are you single?” he asked her.

  “Divorced,” she said.

  “My name is Gabriel,” he said.

  Gabriel, she thought. And he looks like an angel. A balding, slightly paunchy angel.

  “But you can call me Gabe.”

  “Any children?” she said.

  “Never wanted any.”

  “Me, either,” Helen said. This man was a soul mate. At least on that subject.

  “Listen, am I rushing things? Would you like to go out?

  Maybe for coffee or a drink or something?” Gabe said.

  Or something, Helen thought. “Coffee,” she said. She really wanted a drink, but coffee was a safer choice. “How about the café here?”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Six-thirty tonight?”

  “Tomorrow night,” she said, not wanting to be too available.

  The woman behind Gabriel politely cleared her throat.

  “I better go, I’m holding up the line,” he said.

  Helen apologized to the woman, who winked and said, “No problem, but I’ve got to get back to work.”

  The customer line was gone suddenly as a summer shower. But there was one thundercloud. Dr. Rich Petton, her erstwhile boyfriend, came up to the counter.

  “Why were you flirting with that guy?” he said. “You don’t know him. It’s dangerous. You could get yourself killed. What if he’s a serial killer? This is Florida, home of Ted Bundy. At least find someone who knows him before you start flirting with that man.”

  “What business is it of yours?” Helen said in a hissing whisper, so her colleagues wouldn’t hear.

  “I care about you.”

  “I’m a grown woman, Richard. I don’t need a chaperon.”

  “You were making a date with him. You were picking up men in bookstores.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she said.

  “You don’t need another man,” he said. “You have me.

  Didn’t last night mean anything?”

  She looked down. His strong callused hand was clamped on her wrist like a handcuff. She felt the pain shoot up her arm. He was hurting her.

  “Let me go, Richard,” she said coldly, trying to keep control. “I’m not a dog on a leash. I won’t follow your commands.”

  “Helen, please, I didn’t mean it.” He let her go. There were red marks on her wrist where he’d grabbed her. They would turn into bruises. “I’ll do anything. I got a cleaning service for you. I’ll see a counselor. I’ll—”

  “Good-bye,” she said. Her wrist throbbed. She’d been manhandled. That scared her.

  Helen felt only relief when Dr. Richard Petton walked out of her life. Relief and regret that she did not feel more.

  Chapter 13

  Helen picked up the knife carefully. Her wrist hurt from where Dr. Rich had grabbed her. She wore a bracelet of bruises and a long-sleeved blouse to cover them. No man had ever treated her like that, not even her ex, Rob. She seethed with anger.

  Crack! A peanut-butter cracker crumbled into pieces. She imagined it was Rich’s bones. She should have hit him. She should have killed him. She picked up the plastic knife and plunged it into the heart of the peanut-butter jar. It snapped off. S
o far she’d broken two knives and six crackers. She had a pile of peanut-butter-smeared pieces, but nothing she could eat.

  Helen was alone in the Bawls-less break room with her anger and her lunch, a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a box of crackers. She was still furious after that humiliating scene with Rich yesterday. He hadn’t called her since. She almost wished he would, so she could tell him what she’d thought of him. She’d carried his roses home and thrown them in the Dumpster. Her only revenge was her date with Gabriel. Well, she couldn’t call it a date exactly. It was coffee at the Page Turners café, under the watchful eye of Gayle.

  “That’s your lunch?” Gayle said, opening the break room door. She’d brought back a lovely little salad Nicoise from a nearby French restaurant. She brushed cracker crumbs off the table and sat down in the second least wobbly chair.

  Gayle was wearing black, as usual. Her metal belt buckle looked like it belonged on a blast furnace.

  “It’s one of the few things I can cook,” Helen said.

  “You call that cooking?”

  “I opened the jar myself.”

  “Look out, Emeril. Doesn’t the break room look better since we got rid of all those cases of Bawls?”

  “It’s bigger, anyway,” Helen said, looking around the dingy room. It still smelled like Taco Bell takeout. “Did Astrid tell you anything about Page’s funeral?”

  “It was short and sweet,” Gayle said. “They had him underground in record time.”

  “Any of his old girlfriends show up?”

  “Not a one. That’s why Astrid kept the funeral service private. She didn’t want his weeping bimbos there.”

  Helen wondered if the other women in Page’s videos would weep for him. Peggy was just one of many in that locked cabinet. Maybe one wanted him dead. Maybe they all did. She imagined a scene like something from Murder on the Orient Express: A dozen flossy-haired beauties held a pillow over Page’s face while he struggled helplessly.

  “Did you know any of the women who starred in his videos?” she asked Gayle.

  “You mean besides the one who was arrested? Because I have to tell you, Peggy was here more than the rest combined.”

  Helen winced. Gayle didn’t notice. She was picking the tuna off her salad.

  “I knew most of them. They usually came into the store when I was on nights. Let’s see... there were Cheree and Maree, two skinny blondes with long straight hair. Very striking, those two. They looked like twins, although I don’t think they were. They always showed up together.

  They wore identical black dresses and black studded dog collars. I expected Page to walk them on a leash. I think they were pros.

  “Then there was Liza. She was a sweet little thing, curly brown hair, big brown eyes. She moved back home to Pittsburgh and married a dentist. You see any pepper over there?”

  Helen dug in the pile of leftover ketchup, mustard, and sugar until she found a pepper packet. Gayle ate her peppered salad methodically. First all the tuna. Then the tomatoes. She was working on the string beans when she said, “Jamie was a sad case. She OD’d on heroin last year.

  “Shelly was the smart one. She left Page for another man. Her new boyfriend got them a great gig on a yacht.

  She cooks, he crews. Last I heard they were headed for Brazil.

  “I’m sure there were more, one-night stands or women who showed up after hours, but those are the ones I knew about.”

  Five women, a typical South Florida sampling: Two thrived on the corruption here, one ran back home, one ran away to sea, and one died. Cheree and Maree wouldn’t care about sex videos. They’d consider them good advertising.

  Jamie was dead, and couldn’t be hurt any more. Shelly had left the country. That left one candidate for blackmail. How would the Pittsburgh dentist feel about a wife who starred in Page’s private porn library?

  “Liza, the one who went back home, are you in contact with her?”

  “I get a card from her at Christmas,” Gayle said, intent on spearing an escaped string bean.

  “Could you find out if she heard from Page recently?”

  “Why?” Gayle stabbed and subdued the slippery green bean and began working on the potatoes.

  “Because I think Page may have been blackmailing those women.”

  Gayle waved a forkful of potato as if it were a pointer.

  “Page Turner was a lot of things, most of them bad. But he wasn’t a blackmailer. Why bother? He didn’t need the money.”

  “Rich people never have enough money,” Helen said.

  “He certainly wouldn’t get it from the women in those videos. None of them had two nickels to rub together.

  Astrid was the only woman he dated with money. I think that’s why he married her.”

  “Then he did it because he could,” Helen said. “He liked the power.”

  “I never thought I’d hear myself defending Page Turner,” Gayle said, “but I’ll say it again: He’s not a blackmailer. I’ll call Liza for you, but I’m not sure she’ll tell me anything.

  We weren’t close. I knew Peggy better.”

  Gayle put her fork down and looked at Helen. “She’s your friend, isn’t she? That’s why you’re asking these questions.”

  “Yes,” Helen said. There was no point in hiding it. “Page was blackmailing her. I think he may have been blackmailing the others, too, if not for money, then for pure meanness.”

  “Page was always motivated by money. Always. How would he get money from Peggy? I don’t think Page’s sex videos are any big deal. The cops will watch them and snicker, but that’s all. Peggy is lucky there’s no video of the day she stormed into the bookstore in her nightgown. That was your blackmail material. I never saw anyone, man or woman, so angry. If she’d had a knife instead of a newspaper, she’d have stabbed him on the spot.” Gayle ran her fork savagely through the last potato.

  “But that was two years ago,” Helen said.

  “You don’t get over a hurt like that right away. Maybe not ever. He made a fool of a smart woman.”

  Gayle threw away her salad things and wiped the crumby tabletop with her napkin. “I’ll call Liza in Pittsburgh. But don’t expect anything.”

  That should have been the motto for the whole afternoon.

  A badly used blonde with a big chest wobbled up to Helen’s cash register with a stack of coin-collector folders.

  Either the blonde was wearing bourbon cologne, or she was trashed. She tried to pay with two rolls of quarters. Helen groaned. She’d have to count all the coins.

  “Hey!” the woman said, and slapped Helen with a wave of bourbon. “Why yuh taking ’em out of the wrappers? I already counted ’em for you.”

  “Because half these quarters are Canadian,” Helen said, and slid them back across the counter. The bourbonized blonde was hanging on to the counter and swaying. Helen felt seasick.

  “Oh, yeah.” She looked sheepish and shrugged her shoulders, a bad move. Her right breast nearly slid out of her halter top. She stuffed it back in, and the other breast almost escaped.

  “Shit,” said the drunken numismatist.

  “Can I help?” said the man in line behind her. Helen eyed his wedding ring and glared at him. “Er, maybe not.”

  He took a step back.

  The blonde was trying to subdue her slippery breasts.

  Helen spotted a star-and-dagger tattoo during the struggle, which threw off her quarter count. The line kept getting longer. She paged Brad for backup. The little bookseller eyed the pile of coins and whispered, “How exactly do you think she earned all those quarters?”

  “Who cares?” Helen snapped, her patience strained.

  “Now start ringing.”

  She finally determined that the woman had $17.25 in U.S. quarters. “You’re a dollar twenty-three short.”

  The tipsy numismatist produced a roll of dimes from a large, limp leather purse. The count started again, but this time it went quicker. Helen found twelve U.S. dimes in the welter of Can
adian coins. To heck with the three cents. The woman belched delicately, let go of the counter, and lurched out the door.

  The next customer was a round-faced, smiling teacher who looked like a Chaucer goodwife. She had a two-foot stack of bargain books. Even with her teacher’s discount card, her purchases came to $99.81. She handed Helen a hundred-dollar bill. Helen gave her back a pathetic nineteen cents.

  The teacher threw up her hands and said, “Thank God!

  Now I can have the operation.”

  Helen was still laughing when the woman bustled out.

  “Glad something’s made you happy,” Gayle said. The line had vanished, and they could talk again. “I found Liza.

  It wasn’t too difficult. She’s pregnant and the doctor’s ordered bed rest until the baby comes. There’s no way she was being blackmailed. She didn’t even know Page was dead. She sounded completely surprised.”

  “Maybe Liza’s a good actor,” Helen said.

  “Liza was always a bad liar. She’s telling the truth. Look, I did what you asked. Now maybe you need to ask yourself:

  If Page really was a blackmailer, why only Peggy? And why now?”

  Good questions. Helen tried to come up with answers all afternoon. She also asked herself why Peggy was holding back information. None of it made sense. Her brain raced like a gerbil on a treadmill, going round and round, getting nowhere, while she rang up books and watched the clock.

  At six-thirty she clocked out. It was time to meet Gabriel in the store’s café. She would even buy her own coffee, thank you. She wasn’t starting this relationship off on the wrong foot.

  Denny was working the café tonight, baking chocolate-chip cookies between latte orders. The heat from the oven made his auburn hair curlier and flushed his skin. There was something about a man working in a kitchen that was irresistible. Helen stood in line behind a painfully thin woman with red hair and tight Moschino jeans.