The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies

by Connie Spittler

  He touched her arm. “Exactly how did you learn of the theft?”

  Her eyes lifted to meet his look. “From the law. The sheriff here in town told me after he issued my speeding ticket. Go ahead and ask him.”

  “I need to find out who took the manuscript from the locked case and everything points to your involvement. Do you know anyone connected to this crime?”

  She continued to gaze at him. “I do not. Truly, I don’t.”

  “Were you upset when you were fired?”

  “I was. I am, but it was my own fault. I got angry at the wrong time with the wrong person. And I walked away.”

  He took a step back. “Why did you mark the article about the book tour in the newspaper? I found it at your place. It ties you to the theft.”

  “You searched my home?”

  “Yes, I was there to find out how you were connected to the disappearance of the book. To get a sense of you.”

  She flushed. “I marked it simply because I was the one who’d arranged that first stop at our library. My brief claim to fame. Then I was fired and drove off in my magical bookmobile.”

  “On your post office form, you wrote ‘Now I do what I can. Destination unknown.’ That’s an odd thing to say.”

  “You are thorough, aren’t you?”

  “It’s my job. Besides, you’re an intriguing woman, uh, person of interest.”

  “I meant that I was taking my bookmobile on the road, and I didn’t have an itinerary. What else would I mean?” She looked at her watch again. “Look, I really don’t have time now. Pick a time and place for more questioning tomorrow. Ask whatever you want.” She tipped her head back and smiled. Her white teeth gleamed. “I’ll be available to you as long as you –”

  “What?” A hint of a blush darkened his tan.

  She moved closer to him. “As I said, ask me anything in depth tomorrow. Anywhere. Anytime. At the bookmobile. Or Aggie’s. Or lock me in a cell at the sheriff’s office. Meanwhile, I’ll try to remember anything that might help you find the person who stole that book from the library. I’d like to know who took it, because revering and caring for old books was my career. I believe rare books are to be admired, not stolen.”

  He hesitated. “I have one more question. What do you know about Minnesota Fiddler?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Fiddler is the person who owned this vehicle before you.”

  “I don’t think so. When I bought it at the auction, they said it was owned by the county and used as a bookmobile. The shelves were in place. It was all set to go.”

  “Did you find any secret compartment?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I believe there is one, and I intend to find it. If I let you go now, I need to know where you’ll go.”

  “I’ll be in my room at Aggie’s. With a few books to study for the meeting tonight.”

  “Technically we should wind this up now.” His face was close to hers. Suddenly he turned away. “But I’ll give you a few hours to come up with any clues about what happened. Think it over. And stay in town.”

  She reached for her bookbag and purse. “Why would I go away? The nice ladies would be extremely disappointed if I didn’t show up for the meeting tonight.”

  “And what author have you chosen to read?”

  With great care, she put two slim books inside the bag. “That’s what I must decide in my rented room over the Verkie garage. Call Aggie to check on me. Or follow me, if you wish. That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?”

  He stepped near her and held out his hand. She shook it and sparks snapped. “Damn carpet,” he said.

  She watched the nape of his neck, his oxford shirt and trim khaki pants retreat from the bookmobile.

  She needed time to untwist her body from her brain and while she was at it, examine the bookmobile to find its secret compartment, if there was one. Intrigued, she went about it methodically, looking under the driver’s seat, in back of the glove compartment, checking for loose carpeting, peeking behind the shelving, and beneath the built-in seating. She was certain he’d tricked her, until she poked at the floorboard in the closet and detected a slight shift. She got the screwdriver from her driver’s kit and wedged the board up. In a small well underneath, she saw a cardboard box and reached down to remove the lid.

  Boom! Boom! The loud clap of gunfire sounded nearby. The lid dropped to the floor as she jumped up, clutching the open closet door for support. Outside, the town was silent. Holding her breath, she took a quick peek out the window and thought she saw a gray shadow move away, melting into the pines, but not a soul, not a vehicle, was in sight. Just parked cars and closed business doors.

  From the edge of a cloud, an eerie light poured down on the town. A close rumbling noise sounded. She grabbed her purse and the bookbag and scrambled out of the bookmobile. Locking the van, she heard the rumble again and felt some relief when she realized it was thunder. But she didn’t go back into the van. All she wanted was to get back to the safety of her room with her treasure, the Book of Cures.

  Boom! The same sharp noise broke the air. An old, vegetable truck jerked its way down Main Street, backfiring. Her hand shook as she turned the moped key. The engine sputtered, and she heard footsteps behind her. Her hands flicked the key in the ignition, on, then off, then on again. When she gave a quick turn of her head, the area was clear. No sign of the detective or the woman from the bench. She clicked the key again, heard a rattle, followed by a purr. The moped engine started.

  As the moped sputtered along at top speed down the country road, sounds of a car engine hummed far behind. Someone was there, but she refused to look back. Her heart pounded. The book bag bumped against her body, the thump of a stolen old book. If it was the woman in gray coming after her, did she have a weapon? Was she after the book? Lily felt helpless. All she could do was ride on. If it was the detective, he’d regard the historic document as evidence and take it away from her. That was his job, while she saw the book in some tenuous relationship with the Dewey Decimal System, where books are regarded as reading material accessible to others.

  The road ahead was clear. The land rolled on and the wind from new storm clouds blew her back to the goat farm.

  As she parked the moped by the garage, a car drove by. She was certain it was the detective, following to see that she kept her word. Tomorrow, she’d talk to him and bring up other worrisome things. About being followed. About the strange woman in the square. About Aggie’s stolen leaves of poison.

  She raced up the stairs to her room. She’d been given time. As a professional librarian and student of literature, she had an insignificant scrap of a few hours, in contrast to the thousands of years the volume had waited, hidden away. Somehow, this old manuscript had slid down through the centuries. Through fate, she’d caught it with open hands. Could a thoughtful police official like Hugh Jamison, understand her need to hold and read such a book? She had no idea.

  Piper undressed and slipped into the open-fronted cotton garb. When told, she let one corner slide down, so the technician could fit her breast into the revolving mechanism. She held her breath as big metal plates squeezed and squashed her body parts. She endured another position, another picture, another view. Finally the mammogram was over. On the way home, she drove by the gas station, ready to talk to Freddie, but customers were lined up for the pumps, cars going out, coming in, going out.

  At home, she closed the door to the lonely spare room to hide. Reaching under her bed for her book, she propped it up to read. But Boswell’s London Journal did not comfort her.

  I am surrounded with numbers of freehearted ladies of all kinds: from the splendid Madam at fifty guineas a night, down to the civil nymph with white thread stockings who tramps along the Strand and will resign her engaging person to your honour for a pint of wine and a shilling.

  Piper frowned. “Boswell, you’re a jerk.”

  She wanted Freddie home. She wanted to be in his ar
ms, but he was busy running his business. She’d have to wait until he closed up and came home.

  Griffo’s roadster roared in as Aggie pulled clothes from the line. She refused to face him, but spoke out clearly. “I remind you again. Return the cape and the vardo.”

  “I need the cape for my performance in Groverly,” he said. “After that, I’ll have money to buy my own. And the vardo’s close by, parked in a field with the circus vans.”

  “Another thing is important for me to know. On an oath of Rom, did you take any plant leaves from the garden?”

  “No, cross my gypsy heart.” His fingers moved across his chest. “But I’d sure appreciate some food from the kitchen.”

  “On an oath of my own gypsy heart.” She signed her bosom. “You will be forever sorry if you use any poisonous plants from my garden. And you never told me what you were after, ripping apart the house and my flower tribute to Cim in the garage.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Not that you’d tell me anyway. I’ve decided. I don’t want you living here anymore.”

  “Then I need my clothes. Is your tenant in my room?”

  “Don’t bother her. Your clothes are clean and folded in the basket by the back door. Were you going to ask her for money or try and sell her something illegal?”

  “Why would you think that?” Griffo sneered. “She’s the thief.”

  “Go. Go now.” Aggie waved him away. “You’re trouble, plain and simple.” She rushed inside, put the basket of his clothes outside the kitchen door and turned the lock.

  Detective Jamison admitted it to himself. He was attracted to Lily McFae’s obvious intelligence and quiet spirit, but he wasn’t a fool. He’d thrown her a long length of proverbial rope, to give her time and space to contact Boris. So far, his two main suspects had ignored each other. And now another piece joined the puzzle. A new face was in town. Minnesota Fiddler.

  The search warrant for the bookmobile came through, with permission for Jamison to check for one stolen book as well as hidden coins. He decided to conduct an immediate inspection without Ms. McFae or Ms. Fiddler present. Although he knocked, he was reasonably sure no one was inside, since he’d followed Lily to the goat farm and didn’t expect her back. If she went anywhere, it would be the Emporium. When his door thumps went predictably unanswered, he adjusted the simple lock on the front entry of the bookmobile and entered. The blinds were drawn. The place was dim. He started at the first stacks, using his flashlight to immerse himself in the librarian’s literature. He checked every volume, up, down, and sideways. Birds of South America. May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude. Each book went back in its slot after he examined it. How Things Work. The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson. The Notebooks of Camus. Three Lives by Gertrude Stein. When he got to the back, he noticed the open closet door with more books in place. He checked the titles, but no stolen Book of Cures appeared. His beam flashed downward on a piece of wooden flooring propped along the wall. A cardboard lid leaned sideways against it.

  “Hey, pay dirt.” He moved the cover and stared at the shoe-box nestled inside a hollow floor space. Something glinted inside, and he flashed his light directly on the contents. “Gotcha,” he said, taking time to put on gloves before removing the cardboard box. Enclosed in hard plastic containers, the old coins gleamed. He lifted out one container at a time to study the collection of Double Eagles, old colonial issues, and Indian Heads. “Damn, looks like they’re in mint condition.” He returned the lid to the box, laid the floor covering back, closed the closet door, and left the bookmobile with his prize.

  From his trunk, he selected a large evidence bag and slipped in the shoebox of coins. Snap, he locked the bookmobile, then drove to the police property room in Groverly. On the way, he issued an all-points bulletin for Minnesota Fiddler.

  A cyclone in Mozambique and a twister in Limassol heralded a mild change of weather in Nolan. Light breezes swirled around horse farms. Haystacks poked up like medieval hats. The wind picked up speed and with its witch’s broom, hurried along any fallen leaves, fanning the fate of Lily McFae.

  CHAPTER 30

  At the farm, Lily stopped by the kitchen to see Aggie. “I might be a little late getting to the meeting tonight. There’s something I need to do. Go ahead without me. I’ll use the moped.”

  “Do you want some mint tea? Or a radish sandwich?” Aggie puttered around the room. “It’s safe. I just ate.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ll be in my room.”

  She carried up the bookbag and made sure to lock the door. She sat on the bed, a pen and notebook beside her, the package on her lap. Her meeting with Hugh Jamison was set for tomorrow, light years away. As the barometric pressure shot up outside the window, so did her excitement. She felt no guilt. Billions of earth dwellers weighed in with opinions on crime and punishment every day, everyone judging matters from self-interest. Each personal world turned on its own axis. Just like all the others, she deserved a point of view. Sometimes the earthly marble reflected the dark side of humanity. Other times, the light. And she was halfway in-between. Holding a stolen book she’d not stolen in her white gloved hands.

  The once taped bookmark from Used Stuff hung loose on the newsprint. She smiled.

  Oh would that I were where I would be, there would I be where I am not.

  Leaning against the crumpled pillow, she drew a breath with the first page, translating the French.

  Thanks be, our herbs and vegetables follow the whims of nature with blessings from above. Our humble garden is depicted for special eyes and pure hearts to appreciate.

  With a delicate touch, her fingers turned the pages, paper old as mountains, binding fragile as a cuckoo egg. The seven beds of a garden radiated from a center. Graceful drawings of medieval herbs were familiar from the seeds ordered from the Jardin Estate.

  She concentrated on each word, each illustration, each simple remedy for common illnesses, jotting down notes. At the back, a sealed pocket promised another mystery to be revealed, but some inner force kept her from opening it. She wanted to copy more things down, but the clock moved relentlessly, marking time before the evening meeting of the book club. At every gathering of the three, the bond that linked them together grew stronger. Lily closed the manuscript. Instead of racing through the book, she’d wait until afterward to resume this pleasure. Later, alone in this tranquil space, she’d forego sleep to decipher the depths of the book and learn its secrets. The manuscript was hers alone until tomorrow. She prepared for book club.

  Meanwhile, Llewellyn relaxed in the last row of the Neubland annual meeting. He watched his brother update the group of forty shareholders, who attended the power point presentation on the latest R&D projects.

  Elcott Blanding dripped confidence at the podium. “I have exciting news about Neubland that will change our fortunes forever. We’re diligently at work on new formulas for cancer and heart disease.”

  After a burst of applause from the audience, he continued, “In this revolutionary new venture, we’re basing our laboratory work on ancient cures. In more than one way, we pursue the use of herbs from old European gardens.”

  A young board member raised a hand and when not recognized, stood up. “Sorry to interrupt, but isn’t that contrary to the image of Neubland representing the most modern technology? Why put money into old remedies?”

  One glance at his notes and Elcott clipped off his reply. “Think of belladonna. Extractions from its roots and leaves are used in small doses as diuretics and sedatives. Atropine, which dilates the eye, is also an extract. And foxglove flourished in old gardens. From its dried leaves came digitalis, the cardiac stimulant.”

  “Tell them about the experiments for an aphrodisiac.” Llewellyn spoke with enthusiasm.

  Elcott threw him a dirty look. “I was saving that for my surprise ending. However, now that you bring it up, it’s a remedy that might apply not only to Alzheimer’s, but to an extended vibrant sexual life. An updated version of
products available today, but for both sexes.”

  The group clapped with enthusiasm.

  “Naturally, we’d have first shot at the new drug,” the voice of an old board member called out.

  “Naturally,” Elcott responded. “I’ll put your name right after mine.”

  “Don’t forget me.” Llewellyn’s cell phone chimed.

  His brother glared at him from the stage. “You know perfectly well, no calls during the meeting.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” Llewellyn dashed into the hall to answer his phone. “Hello, this is Lew Blanding.”

  The voice was clear. “This concerns a certain book.”

  Lew’s stomach flipped. “I’ve been waiting for you to call.” He heard bird song twittering in the background. “Do you have the book? When do we meet? Elcott’s given me the okay to proceed with this project.”

  “First of all, has Neubland come up with the money?”

  “I have it ready to go. When can we get this done?”

  “The authorities are still nosing around, but soon.”

  “Reach me on my cell anytime. Day or night.”

  The moment Llewellyn hung up, he raced to his brother’s office. He waited for the meeting to end, pacing about the room.

  Elcott marched in, his face stern with annoyance. “You’re a distraction, Lew. You’ve got to get your act together.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve done just that. That phone call concerned the stolen Book of Cures. My contact asked if we had the million dollars and I said yes.”

  “Well, keep my name out of this transaction, will you? And be careful. The reputation of Neubland is at stake. You know how to get in touch with him?”