Murder Between the Covers dj-2

by Elaine Viets

  The pregnant woman looked down at her bulging belly and slowly put the book down.

  Helen had never seen Gayle look so fierce. With her golden hair and black clothes, she looked like a commando in a James Bond movie.

  “Do you want me to detain this deadbeat?” she said to the pregnant woman.

  “No. I don’t need his money. Besides, he won’t go far.

  He’s got his little seduction routine. Takes his gullible fools to a free Shakespeare play, a cheap meal at the Thai restaurant, and a visit to his dream house.”

  Helen winced. He’d used all three on her.

  The earth mother turned to Helen. “Bet he told you he owned some lot and was building his dream house.” Helen managed a nod. “Go look again. It’s not his lot. You’ll see a ‘For Sale’ sign out front. He takes it down before he has a date.”

  Sucker! Helen thought.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” the pregnant woman said, giving her absolution. “He pulled the same tricks on me. That’s how I know. At least you’re not pregnant. Come, Gabrielle and Justin. Let go of Daddy.” Justin began whimpering, and Helen felt sorry for the little boy. He deserved a real father, not a deadbeat dad.

  Gabe kept looking at his paint-spattered boots. He seemed frozen to the floor. When the children had left with their mother, Gayle turned to him. “And you, scum. Get out and don’t come back. If I catch you in this store again, I’ll personally throw you out.”

  Gabriel slouched out the door. Helen was suddenly aware that he had a full-blown pot and a silver-dollar-sized bald spot on his crown.

  She also noticed that she didn’t feel anything. She was completely numb. Gayle took her upstairs to the office of the dead adulterer, Page Turner, and tried to make her sit down on the slashed couch. “You’ll feel better if you cry,” she said.

  Helen paced like a caged leopard and stayed dry-eyed.

  “I’m not wasting any tears on him.” Then she burst out, “Aren’t there any good men in South Florida?”

  “How would I know?” Gayle said.

  “Well, at least he fixed my air conditioner,” Helen said.

  “Hell, I’d almost sleep with a guy for that,” Gayle said.

  “If you think a good man is impossible to find in South Florida, try looking for reliable repair people.”

  Did Gayle really say that? Helen giggled. Then she started laughing and couldn’t stop until Gayle pounded her on the back.

  “If you’re not going to cry, you might as well work,” Gayle said. “I know you hate nights, but I need you to stay and put the store back together after the riot. Albert had a case of the vapors and went home. Brad can’t work past six.”

  “Might as well,” Helen said. She didn’t want to go home to the bed she’d shared with Gabriel. She wouldn’t sleep in it again until she changed the sheets. No, she wouldn’t change those sheets. She’d burn them.

  Sucker! She couldn’t spot false money or a false man.

  Sarah had warned her about Gabriel, but Helen didn’t listen.

  Sucker! She hauled heavy books back to their shelves, hoping hard work would shut up the voice inside her.

  Sucker! It screamed. Nothing drowned it out.

  At eleven-thirty Denny was mopping the café floor.

  There wasn’t a customer in sight. Denny flipped over his mop so the head was a microphone and sang oldies from the 1980s. His imitation of Sting crooning “Every Breath You Take” was hilarious. The kid danced over the tabletops and ended his act with a soft-shoe on the café counter. All he needed was some dry-ice fog, and he could be on MTV.

  God, he was gorgeous, with his auburn hair flying. He was born to be a star. Helen applauded wildly.

  Gayle did not. “Denny, get your feet off the counter,” she said. “Now you’ll have to clean it again. Helen, I found this stack of romances in the bathroom. Put them away.”

  As Helen headed toward the rear of the store, she remembered Mr. Davies. He was going to tell her more about the golden blonde in the silver car. She hadn’t gotten back to him, and he hadn’t come up front to see what caused the commotion. How could he sleep through that riot?

  Well, she knew where to find him. He never left until the store closed at midnight. She put away the books, then found Mr. Davies in his secluded book nook. He was dead to the world.

  Poor old fellow is really tired, she thought. His water glass had fallen over. The spilled water was dangerously close to his latest book, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. She smiled. He was still reading Mark Twain.

  A ruined book would upset the old bibliophile. She bent down to pick it up and brushed his hand. It was ice-cold.

  “Mr. Davies?” she said. “Are you all right?” She started to gently shake him, when he fell stiffly forward. His eyes were open.

  “Please, Mr. Davies, wake up,” she pleaded.

  But even as she said it, Helen knew that would never happen.

  Chapter 22

  Helen did not shed a tear for Gabriel, but she couldn’t quit crying for dear, gentle Mr. Davies. “He’ll never know how Huckleberry Finn ended,” she sobbed. Her Kleenex looked like soggy lace.

  Gayle handed her a fresh tissue and said, “Helen, the man was eighty-something. It’s not a tragedy when an old man dies.”

  Helen thought that was harsh. She sniffed and blew her nose. Young Denny patted her on the back.

  “I’m just glad there weren’t any customers in the store,” Gayle said. “We’ve already had the police here once today.”

  Gayle had called 911 for the second time that day. Once again, they heard the sirens. “That’s an ambulance pulling up,” Denny said.

  “I told them the man was dead,” Gayle said. “What’s this, the Lazarus brigade?”

  The fire department paramedics came running in as if they really could save Mr. Davies. For one moment, Helen felt hope. Maybe Mr. Davies could be revived. But she remembered his skin, so cold and oddly blue, and his stiff body.

  “I’ll go back with the paramedics,” Gayle said. “You two stay up here and lock the doors. We’re closed. All we’re going to get now are freaks.”

  The crowd gathering outside the store had hot, hungry eyes eager for a look at the body. One held up a child to see inside. The ghouls knocked on the glass, and Denny and Helen pointed to the CLOSED sign.

  Helen wasn’t sure how long it was before the paramedics gave up and called the police, but eventually uniformed officers pushed through the crowd. Helen and Denny let them in, then locked the door again.

  The blood freaks had grown restless. Helen was glad the police were there. She and Denny stayed at their post.

  Sound traveled in the empty bookstore. The two booksellers could hear people talking, but they couldn’t tell whether it was the police or paramedics. A woman was asking Gayle if she knew Mr. Davies’ next of kin or the name of his medical doctor. A man kept saying, “I can’t find any prescription bottles or Medic Alert bracelet on him. There’s no doctor’s appointment card in his wallet.”

  “I said, there’s something wrong with this guy,” said one man.

  “Of course there is. He’s dead,” said a second man.

  “No, look at his eyes.”

  “I’ll be damned. Are those petechiae? Any pillows around here?”

  “Over there on that couch.” That was Gayle.

  “I wouldn’t touch those pillows with tongs,” Denny whispered. “You won’t believe how often I find them next to a pile of skin magazines. Have you seen the stains on those things?”

  “Quiet,” Helen said.

  “What are petechiae?” Denny said in a small voice.

  “Broken blood vessels in the eyes. You get them if you’ve been strangled or smothered,” Helen said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I watch CSI, ” Helen said. “Please shut up, or we’ll never learn anything.”

  They heard the first man’s voice again “... get all the pillows bagged. Have to bag his hands, too, in ca
se he fought his attacker. We’d better get the evidence techs in here, although the paramedics have already done a great job of ruining the crime scene.”

  “Hey, we were trying to save his life,” said an indignant male voice.

  “Call homicide, too. Shit. Nothing’s ever simple.”

  “Is something wrong, Officer?” That was Gayle, sounding worried.

  “We’re just being careful, ma’am.”

  “They’re calling homicide,” Denny said, sounding impressed. “They think somebody killed Mr. Davies. Who would murder an old dude like that?”

  “It’s all my fault,” Helen said, and began to cry again. “I killed him.”

  “You were apparently the last person to talk with the victim,” homicide detective Harold “Gil” Gilbert said. Helen liked him. A lot better than Detective Jax. Gilbert had nice hazel eyes and luxuriant light brown hair. The kind you could run your fingers through, except she was keeping her hands to herself these days.

  “Now tell me about your conversation with Mr. Zebediah Davies.”

  Helen quit crying and looked up, startled. “His name was Zebediah?”

  “What did you think it was?”

  “I never called him anything but Mr. Davies,” Helen said.

  “‘Mister’ isn’t much of a first name,” he said. He also had a sense of humor. She could go for Detective Gilbert. If he wasn’t a cop. If she wasn’t on the run from the law. If she wasn’t a sucker!

  “I asked him about the night that Page Turner died,” she said, wiping her eyes. Her hand was streaked with black.

  Terrific. Her eyeliner was running. She probably looked like a panda.

  “Mr. Davies always sat in the same chair, by that window overlooking the parking lot. He was there from nine in the morning until we closed at midnight. He saw who picked up Page Turner. Detective Jax arrested my friend Peggy for Page’s murder. He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. I was doing my own investigation.”

  “That’s a dangerous game. People get killed that way.”

  “I know. I killed Mr. Davies with my stupid questions.”

  Helen started sniffling again and brought out the Kleenex.

  It was a series of interconnected holes. Gilbert offered his pocket handkerchief. When she blew her nose, it sounded like a trumpet solo. “Sorry. I’ll wash it and get it back to you.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “And you didn’t kill Mr. Davies.

  Don’t ever think that. Don’t take that guilt on yourself.”

  Helen didn’t believe him. But it was time to turn off the waterworks. She hated weepy women.

  “Detective Jax thinks Page Turner drove off with Peggy and was never seen again. But Peggy brought Page back to the store, and someone else picked him up. Mr. Davies saw that person. He tried to tell Detective Jax, but Jax got impatient and didn’t let him finish. Mr. Davies talks—talked—a lot, and he kind of rambles. I mean rambled.”

  I’m starting to ramble like poor Mr. Davies, she thought.

  But she could talk to Gil Gilbert. He was leaning forward as if he wanted to catch every word.

  “What did Mr. Davies tell you?”

  “He said a lovely blonde showed up in a silver car. He called it ‘a silver coach for a golden princess.’ I said there were a lot of blondes in the store. He said, ‘Not like this one. She had yellow hair and looked like Cinderella.’ I wanted to ask him what he meant, but then we had this problem with a pedophile.”

  “I heard about the Las Olas mommy riot. Those women sent Mr. Goggles to the emergency room.”

  “Good,” Helen said. “Things got pretty hectic after that. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Mr. Davies again. Then I found that sweet old man dead in his chair.” She was not going to cry. She fought back the tears.

  “So all he told you was that he saw a blonde with a silver car.”

  “It’s not much help, is it?” Helen said.

  “What do you think he meant by Cinderella?” Gilbert said.

  “Mr. Davies had an interesting mind. It didn’t work quite the same as everyone else’s. Peggy drove a Kia and he called it a Vietnam car, because to him KIA meant ‘killed in action,’ and they used that term in the Vietnam War. Who knows what Cinderella meant?”

  Gilbert had more questions, lots more. It was nearly three a.m. when the police released the booksellers. Even young Denny looked hollow-eyed and exhausted. Helen’s tear-reddened eyes were twin pools of blood.

  “Can I give you a ride home?” Gayle said.

  “I can walk,” Helen said. “I only live a few blocks away.”

  “You shouldn’t be walking alone at this hour.”

  Three drunks were weaving down the sidewalk, singing “Louie, Louie.” They looked harmless, playing air guitars and howling the words off-key, but suddenly Helen didn’t feel so brave.

  Gayle was parked in Page Turner’s old spot. Astrid must have given it to her as a perk for managing the store. Page’s widow rarely drove into Fort Lauderdale. Helen had seen her silver Mercedes maybe twice since she’d worked at Page Turners. Gayle moved a pile of books and papers off the passenger seat and Helen folded her legs into the little Honda. Only when she sat down did she realize how tired she was.

  “You see why I hate working nights?” Helen said. Gayle managed a weak smile.

  “I live at the Coronado Tropic Apartments,” Helen said.

  “You make a left at the next street.”

  “I know how to get there,” Gayle said. “What time do you come in tomorrow?”

  “Not till eleven. And if you want me to work tomorrow night, the answer is no.”

  Gayle pulled into the Coronado parking lot.

  “Listen, I really appreciate this,” Helen said.

  “No biggie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Helen waved good-bye, waiting until the silver Honda was out of sight. It was easy to get lost in these side streets.

  But the little car found the way back to the main highway.

  The Coronado was dark and still. Even Margery’s light was off. Hungry insects sang their blood songs. Predators rustled in the plants. Phil’s perpetual pot smog perfumed the air. As Helen passed through, she took a deep breath and inhaled. Maybe secondhand sensimilla smoke would help her sleep.

  Shoosh. Shoosh. Clunk-thud.

  Helen woke up at the noise and grabbed the pistol by her bed. Too late. Her cat Thumbs sent a book sliding off her nightstand. She shot him once with the water pistol. That usually sent him scurrying for cover.

  But this morning the big gray-and-white cat didn’t budge. He sat defiantly on her nightstand and with his huge six-toed paw flipped the clock off the edge. Helen caught a glimpse before it went overboard. Nine forty-five.

  It was hours past his feeding time. She must have slept through his breakfast cries. Now Thumbs was telling her to feed him or else. He had a system of escalation. Unbreakables like the book went first, followed by semi-survivable items like the clock. Fragile knickknacks were next. She heard the clink of china, and saw his catcher’s mitt of a paw scooting the bud vase to the edge of the nightstand. She caught it and picked up the cat before he could send anything else flying off.

  “All right, I’ll feed you,” she said, and carried Thumbs into the kitchen. He purred all the way.

  “My alarm didn’t go off at nine,” she said as she filled his food bowl. “So I should thank you that I’m not late for work.”

  I’m having a conversation with a cat, she thought. But I’d rather talk to Thumbs than think about today. I dread going to the store. If I can just make it through the next eight hours, I’ll have two days off.

  As soon as she walked into the bookstore, she knew something was different. Mr. Davies’ chair was gone, but more than that seemed missing. The store seemed barren and cold without the gentle old bookworm. He’d been so happy there, surrounded by piles of paperbacks.

  She stood on the spot where his chair used to be and said, “I’ll miss you, Mr. Davies.”


  “What were you doing back in that corner?” Albert said when she returned to the front. The prissy bookseller looked as if his starched shirt was holding him up. “I won’t go near it. It’s like that old man is still there.”

  “I wish he was,” Helen said. “Mr. Davies wouldn’t hurt anyone, alive or dead.”

  “I miss him,” Brad said. “We used to talk about J.Lo. He particularly appreciated her performance in Enough. He said her acting was underrated, although he agreed that some of her clothes in that movie did not flatter her opulent figure.”

  “She’s not opulent, she’s obese,” Albert said nastily.

  Brad looked stricken.

  Helen intoned:

  “Pain.

  “Pain.

  “Pain is a red scream in my head....”

  Albert turned dead white.

  “We all have things we care about,” Helen said. “We should respect them.”

  Albert didn’t say another word about J.Lo or anyone else.

  “Thanks,” Brad whispered, and went back to gathering up the books scattered all over the store. He moved slower today and smiled less.

  Only Gayle was her usual cheerful self, laughing and chatting with the customers. At the cashier’s counter, a little boy about four proudly presented his new book to Helen. It was shaped like a fire truck.

  “Here,” he said. His mother put a twenty on the counter.

  “Do you want to be a fireman?” Helen asked him as she rang up the book and bagged it.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “My brother is a firefighter in Fort Lauderdale,” Gayle told him. “He’s very brave.”

  “I’m brave, too,” the little boy said. “I’d like to be a fireman. Or an alligator. Then I could eat the bad people.”

  Helen stopped laughing abruptly. Firefighter. Firefighters have breathing gear. They could get into a tear-gas-and-Vikane building. Maybe Gayle got the SCBA equipment— or stole it—from her brother. Did she hate Page Turner enough to kill him?

  She looked at Gayle with the golden hair... and the silver car.