by Mel Sterling
THE HANGOVER FROM ALL-night dreams of kissing Jack Tucker was nearly as bad as the hangovers from the prolonged tension of the open microphone events. Lexie felt sluggish as she crawled out of bed and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. Melville preceded her, meowing all the way. She popped the top off a can of wet food and plopped it onto a plate for him. His purr filled the kitchen, and she gave him a rueful look. He didn't like her until it was feeding time. She was his best friend while he filled his tummy.
She saw her reflection in the window over the sink as she washed her hands and filled the teakettle. The morning was still gloom-dark, but she hadn't been able to stay abed. The dreams of Jack had progressed from kisses to mutual undressing, and from there to a bizarre session of trying to stay on Horace's narrow pink horsehair sofa while tangled together. Her blurred reflection in the double-paned glass showed dark rings around her eyes, and lips that were still a little too full, bruised. She blinked at herself and wondered if Jack would notice.
She had let him hold her hand as he walked her home, though she couldn't say it had been a pleasant walk. At every step he seemed to be more intent on staying alert to what might be unseen in the few blocks between store and home, than enjoying holding her hand. If she were honest with herself, she was glad of his bulky presence next to her in the darkness, after they'd surprised the prowler. Once he'd put the idea in her head that too many odd occurrences were lining up, she couldn't shake it, and had to control herself so she wouldn't flee home like a monster was after her.
At her door, Jack had bent over her hand very formally, lightly kissed the back, and left her in her foyer, bemused, and without a kiss goodnight. She supposed he considered that respecting her boundaries. Lexie had stood with her hand on the knob of the deadbolt, her nose practically pressed to the small panes of the glass beside the door, watching Jack out of sight, while Melville complained from the kitchen.
A shower revived her a little. Dressing in her favorite charcoal gray tights and tweed skirt bolstered her confidence. In the foyer, Lexie pulled on her light jacket, slung her satchel across her body, and bent to pick up the bag of packages so she could take them to the post office.
Then she stared at the bag. This morning it wasn't tipped over, no parcels strewn over the foyer floor, but it was definitely not as full as it had been the night before. She checked the floor anyway, and pushed aside the hanging coats and rummaged amongst the shoes, but saw no boxes, no envelopes.
She frowned. She couldn't blame a mess on Melville this time. As she looked around the foyer, knowing she and Jack hadn't dropped a package on the walk home, knowing how full the bag had been after she was inside for the night, her gaze passed over the deadbolt knob.
It was in the open position, tilted away from the doorjamb.
Her heart pounded, hot and hard, and she caught her breath.
Someone had been in the house, and that someone had taken one of the boxes from the bag.
She stood there staring, hearing blood rush in her ears, until Melville twined around her ankles on his way to the front door. She gave a shriek of terror, startled. Melville mewed at the closed door, and the small sound shattered her frozen immobility. She bent, scooped him into her arms, grabbed the bag of packages, opened the door and shot through it, barely pausing long enough to lock it behind her.
As if locking it would make a difference.
Melville squirmed and yowled angrily in her hold, but Lexie was taking no chances. She lugged him to the garage and stuffed him into the car. Today, she was driving to work. She jumped in herself and locked the doors immediately, then realized she'd failed to open the bay door so she could back the car out.
A shaky wail squeezed out of her throat. Melville replied with one of his own. Lexie gripped the steering wheel so hard her hands hurt, but the discomfort helped her begin to focus again. She could do this, one tiny task at a time. First, get out of the car. Second, open the garage door. She helped herself along, reciting each task until she could drive without feeling panicked.
She focused on getting to the bookstore and locking herself in until time to open. She had to think about what to do. Make certain there wasn't a box still waiting in the back room.
Be very sure, before she took the next step of calling the police.
The drive took only a minute or two. She angle-parked across the street from the front door, the hood of her car aiming at a bench and a planter. She grabbed her keys and Melville, leaving the satchel and bag for a second trip. The cat was trouble enough all by himself, and this morning she was not risking his escape. He could take his morning constitutional another time.
When she had the door locked behind her at last, she sat down in the chair Jack habitually used, and fought back an overwhelming urge to sob. As it was, her eyes filled with unsteady tears. Her legs felt wobbly.
Someone had been in the house. Horace's house. Her house. And she hadn't heard a thing.
"Get up, Lex," she said aloud. "Go to the back and make sure. Be sure."
There was no parcel waiting on the shipping bench. She'd gathered them all up, like always. She put a hand to her mouth, breathing deeply. Which parcel was missing, then? She carried her satchel and the bag of books to the back room. She compared the shipping labels on the parcels with the stack of yesterday's invoices, and discovered the missing package.
The book hadn't been traveling far at all—just to an H. Barczak, a post office box in a small town less than a hundred miles away in Washington. Now it was missing. It was the title she had joked about, the one Gilly had borrowed, read, and returned. Gilly, who Ben said had the Midas touch to make a book sell.
The coincidence clicked a connection in her brain and made her suddenly wonder if, that other morning when she'd blamed the mess of packages in the foyer on Melville, there actually had been one missing. Maybe this was a trend. Maybe Jack was right about the prowler in the hedge. Maybe someone out there had the key to Horace's house, which could explain why she hadn't heard anything.
Lexie thought for a moment, trying to remember the date that had happened. It had been after that first open mic, and that day she and Ben had wrapped a previous book Gilly had borrowed and returned, from before Horace's funeral.
It was wrong to blame this mess on Gilly, who was just the barista next door, unless Lexie found proof. She couldn't think of a single reason Gilly would want to steal a book she had read and returned. The bookstore gave courtesy discounts to the people who worked in buildings on the town square. Besides, Gilly would have had to know which customer had bought the book and when, in order to take the correct box. It didn't make sense.
She went to the file cabinet where Horace stored his invoices, and flipped through the sales for the month until she found the title she recognized. She compared the day's shipments to the line items on the post office mailing receipt.
Seven invoices.
Six parcels mailed.
Six. Not seven.
Lexie's legs trembled. She sank onto the pink sofa, the paperwork in her hands. It made no sense, no sense at all. Jack's voice rang in her head. Too many coincidences. She looked down at the invoice for the other missing book.
It, too, had been going to H. Barczak, but this time to a post office box in a town in California. She frowned. The name was uncommon. Two completely different delivery addresses within a matter of days? Lexie bit her lip. Too many coincidences, indeed, increasing her concern rather than alleviating it.
She heard someone knocking on the glass of the front door. She glanced up, startled. The clock over the shipping desk showed ten minutes past opening.
How long had she been sitting there, shaking and sick at heart? She stood up and peered into the store. The overhead lights were still off, but she could see well enough to recognize Jack, standing at the door, two paper cups from The Cup in his hands, and a fat orange chrysanthemum—probably filched from the planters in the town square—between his teeth. He was grinning at her around its bushy bloom
head and leafy stem.
Lexie had never been so glad to see someone in her life. She hurried toward the front door, then stopped with her hand on the knob, struck by a sudden thought.
What if Jack was involved in this? She had noticed both missing packages the mornings after he had walked her home from the store. He'd been around to find—but not catch—the prowler both times. He kept insisting Horace had asked him to keep an eye on things in the store, but he'd never been clear about what, exactly, Horace had thought was going on.
She stepped away from the door, biting her lip. There he stood, holding cups of coffee that, undoubtedly, Gilly had made next door. Jack. Gilly. What did she know about either of them, really? They'd both been here long before she came on the scene.
"Lexie? Is something the matter? Let me in."
She heard Jack's voice as if from underwater, distorted by the closed door and the blossom in his teeth. Ben wouldn't be in until after lunch today due to his class schedule. If Lexie let Jack in, she could be putting herself in danger. She could just leave the bookstore closed. There was no law saying she had to open up at ten AM.
"Lexie? You're worrying me." Jack's brow furrowed. He managed to get the flower out of his mouth and pressed close to the door as if he could move through it by magic, or will her to comply with the power of his gaze. "Open the door, honey."
She went to the desk without opening the door and got the cordless telephone. Then she went back to the door and said clearly, "I'm going to open the door, Jack, but you need to come in and sit down and then we're going to have a talk. I have the police on speed dial."
She unlocked the door and walked to the desk again, where she turned on the store lights. Jack had to stack the coffees to free a hand to open the door, and when he came in, Lexie pointed at his table. "Sit. Don't say a word while I get the store open."
"What the hell, Lexie?"
"Please do as I ask for a change, Jack." She flipped the door sign to "open" and pushed the little cart holding bargain books out onto the sidewalk to draw in customers, then returned to stand several feet away from Jack, arms folded across her chest, phone still in hand.
For his part, Jack had simply sat down. The two cups and the chrysanthemum were on the table, but he'd made no moves toward starting his regular morning routine of setting up his work-station.
Now that she had him here, she wasn't sure where to begin. She was still trembling. What if he was the one who'd been in her house? What then? Maybe she should go ahead and call the police, but what would she say? She had no proof, but she knew someone was stealing books from her foyer at night?
She frowned at him, thinking back over all the little coincidences, and decided to start at the beginning. "You once mentioned that Horace thought there was something going on, and he wanted your help to find out what. So tell me. Fill me in, Jack, because right now my first instinct is to call the police and ask them to escort you out."
Jack's jaw dropped. "The police? Call the police? On me? Lexie, what's going on?"
Jack could hardly believe what he was hearing. Something had frightened Lexie badly, but she was also furious. Every impulse he had was telling him to grab hold of her and get her the hell away from the source of her fear, but he knew she wouldn't stand for it. At least he was here with her now. He'd take care of whatever it was.
Just as soon as he figured it out.
"Did the prowler come back? Is that why you're opening the store late?"
"I'm not answering any of your questions, Jack. You're going to answer mine instead. Start talking."
For a moment he wondered if the usual journalist tactics—a sympathetic tone of voice, a few leading questions—would break through her stone wall, but if she figured out that was what he was doing, she'd be even more furious. He spread his hands on the table to show he had nothing to hide.
"All right. I wish you'd tell me what's wrong and let me help, but if this is what you want, OK. I'm very confused, though. I can tell you've had a bad scare, and all I want to do is help." He tried a small smile, then pushed forward one of the coffee cups. "I got you a butterscotch latte. Gilly said you like them."
Lexie snorted, but didn't move. Her gaze flicked to the front windows as a pedestrian passed, then returned to Jack.
"Why not sit down?" Jack tried again.
"Why are you avoiding my question? What was going on in the store? What do you know about it? Why do you say Horace asked for your help?"
Jack realized she was serious. He was on trial here, and that irritated him. He'd only been trying to help, and see where it had gotten him. "Horace thought books were disappearing. Not being shoplifted. They'd vanish for a while—sometimes as long as a couple of weeks, but then they'd turn up again. Sometimes back in their places, like the rare books shelves, and sometimes he or Ben would find them somewhere else in the store. He was hoping I'd help keep an eye on things, watch for people mis-shelving books, hiding them in bags without paying for them, or putting back something that hadn't been there. It's why I was sitting in that aisle." He tried a little humor. "Well, that, and I liked it in that aisle. I didn't feel like all the Pulitzer winners were mocking me there."
Lexie's eyes narrowed as he spoke. "How long had that been going on? Did Horace tell you?"
Jack shrugged. "I've been in town since mid-summer, and I think he first noticed in the springtime."
She made a noncommittal noise. "Go on."
Jack shrugged again. "What else is there to tell? I didn't really notice anything out of the ordinary, not in the rare books aisle, at least. Horace said the inventory loss had slowed once I started being here regularly. I guess I was helpful. Lexie, what's going on?"
She turned the phone over and over in her hands, biting her lip. It was all he could do to make himself stay in his seat. He pushed the butterscotch latte forward again. "It's getting cold. Have a sip. It'll steady you."
Her hand flattened over her belly and she made a face. "I couldn't right now. Jack, why ask you to help? When he had Ben working here?"
"Ben was carrying a heavy summer course-load, working short hours. Me…well, I'm a journalist. I'm trained to observe and document."
"Horace didn't even know you."
"Not at first, no. He gave me a peaceful place to work. He understood what it's like to be so blocked you can't even think, let alone form coherent sentences and make them into a book. We talked a lot, Lexie. Hours and hours, even before he asked me to help keep an eye on the place. I think he knew he was…"
"Dying," she supplied harshly, and turned her face away. A muscle leaped in her jaw as she clenched her teeth.
"I'm sure he was only thinking about what would happen next, to his life's work, the people and things he loved."
Lexie was silent. Jack looked toward the door. He'd kill anyone who came in and interrupted them; he sensed that he and Lexie were at a critical juncture. If he could get past this—whatever it was—he'd be well on the way to getting inside her guard, reaching the real Lexie that lived behind the rigid shell she surrounded herself with. He was hungry to meet that woman. It went deeper than just wanting to get her out of her clothes, though that was part of it. He could have spent the entire night sitting on Horace's awful pink horsehair sofa, just talking with her. It had been a long time, a very long time, since he'd wanted something that much.
She turned her head and studied him. "Did Horace ever give you a key to his house, Jack?"
"What? No. Why?" He didn't bother to hide his confusion and surprise, and was relieved to find her features softening, just the slightest. She might be starting to believe him. Then it hit him. "Did someone break into your house last night? Was it the prowler? Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"
He was on his feet and moving toward her, instinctively ready to take her in his arms, when she put up her hand and stopped him with a firm palm on his chest. There was the hint of a defensive blow in the way the heel of her palm struck, and Jack halted, hands dropping.
&
nbsp; "Nobody broke in. That's the problem."
Jack shook his head and backed away two paces to release the tension in her arm, relieved when her hand dropped to her side once more. "You've got to help me out here, Lexie. I don't understand what's going on, but if what you want is to get me worked up, you're sure as hell succeeding."
"You remember what you told me—that coincidences were lining up a little too well? Jack, I have to tell you. When I throw you into that mix, they line up a lot too well."
"Lexie—"
"Hear me out. Something is wrong here at the store, and no matter where I look, I see you. You were working in the aisle Horace was worried about. You were around the night we saw the first prowler—or, maybe I should be precise. You saw that prowler, I didn't. I heard something, yes, but I've only got your word there was someone hiding behind that hedge. The next morning, there was a book missing from the stack I took home, but I didn't think anything of it, I thought the cat had jumbled up the pile. You had an opportunity there. Then—"
"Lexie! Are you saying I'm trying to gaslight you?"
She spoke right over him. "There was another prowler last night. Sure, this time we both saw him. You're in the store all day, you had plenty of opportunities to slip into the back room and unlock the door, leave it open for someone to come in after hours, but because I was working late, you had to make it look good so I wouldn't discover you have a partner in crime. You walked me home so I'd be 'safe.' Or maybe you were keeping an eye on me, instead."
She paused, her gaze level and unblinking. Jack knew she was watching for his reaction, and simply waited.
Lexie continued, mouth still tight. "This morning, again, there's a book missing from what I took home. I know for a fact that bag was full when I locked the door behind you. But this morning, the door's unlocked, and another book is missing. Someone's stealing books, Jack, books that are going to the same customer name at different addresses. They're sneaking into my house to do it."
Jack blinked. This, he couldn't let pass with silence. "Did you…did you just call me a criminal?"
