“We’re closing shortly,” I said as he slipped inside. “We reopen at ten tomorrow. Is there anything specific I could help you find?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized with a dignified British accent. “Yes, actually, I’m looking for grimoires.”
“Grimoires?” I repeated as a question. “As in spell books?”
“Precisely. A friend told me this was the place to come.”
“We might have something that was released as a companion Harry Potter, it’s a kids’ book. It came in last week, but it may have sold,” I said, turning to lead him to the children’s section.
“Thank you, but no, I’m not looking for children’s books. I’m a serious collector and willing to pay top dollar to expand my collection. My source may have been mistaken, but I understand you recently came into possession of three books of unusual scarcity and considerable value. I’m a buyer.” The stranger produced a small satchel which he opened to reveal a thick wad of cash. “Two of them would have green covers, a deep, arboreal green. The third is smaller, with a black cover. Yes?”
“Oh, Scott,” I muttered to myself. The man in front of me was fashionable enough that it made sense that he’d know Scott. Nobody else could have known about the books Ethan had brought in, but this man I’d never seen before had described them perfectly, despite the fact that they’d been locked up in my office all afternoon and hadn’t been seen by any customers.
As much as the prospect of a desperately-needed cash infusion to the business was tempting, the books weren’t technically mine to sell; they still belonged to Ethan, although his interest in them seemed negligible.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t had anything like that come through here, but our inventory is constantly changing. If you’d like, I can take down your phone number or e-mail address and let you know if I come across anything like you described, mister…?”
“Doctor,” he corrected me. “Doctor Baleen. Horace Baleen.” He produced a business card, which he handed me. It was a simple white card with his name in the middle, as he’d spoken it, Doctor Baleen, and nothing else, save a smattering of raised bumps on the right side, possibly Braille. I turned the card over in my hand and found no contact information whatsoever.
“Is that Baleen like the whale?” I asked. He nodded in the affirmative, smiling.
“This card doesn’t have any phone numbers or anything else on it,” I observed. “How can I contact you?”
“Just run your thumb across those dots there, on the right side,” the good doctor explained, urging me on. “Small circles, just the thumb.” As I followed his instructions, he closed his eyes and seemed lost in concentration. “Yes, that’s it. That will do perfectly. Thank you for your time, Violet Duncan. Please keep in touch.”
With that, he stepped through the door and into the evening, leaving me to wonder how he knew my name, who’d told him about the books, and what the deal was with his bizarre business card. What kind of doctor was he? A marine biologist?
Tulip, the store cat, suddenly appeared when Dr. Baleen left. She rushed to the door and stood there peering out the window, on high alert.
I came up behind her and locked the door, flipping the sign to “Closed.” I sent a text to Scott telling him his doctor friend had been in to see about the books.
He replied almost instantly:
As usual, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Don’t forget my lunch tomorrow!
TWO
Over half a bottle of wine, I spent the evening at home examining the peculiar books and thinking about my day. The majority of my customers fell into two categories; either senior citizens or harried parents, with children in tow, searching for bargains on Dr. Seuss and the like. As a single girl, I was “on the lookout,” so to speak, for available, attractive men, but my store was rarely the place to find them.
Ethan and Dr. Baleen, however, both fit the bill, although “tall, dark, handsome, and muscly,” as Scott accurately described Ethan, had never been the type to take notice of bookworm-as-little-makeup-as-possible me.
The good doctor was intriguing due to his brains and to the gray on his temples, which made him fodder for all sorts of student-professor and older man fantasies I may have indulged in from time to time in my mind. That killer suit he wore didn’t make him any less attractive, if I’m being honest.
Between the warmth of the wine and the wicked thoughts, I fell asleep with one of the green books open on my chest. Visions of scaly isosceles triangles lying on their sides, feathered trees, and odd symbols of octopi with arrows and flames at the ends of various tentacles that I’d seen in the pages, haunted my dreams.
I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache. I blamed the wine and the awkward position in which I’d dozed off. It was Sunday, so we didn’t open until later than usual, meaning I had time to cure my hangover.
The kitchen offered no help. I had the last bit of a jug of milk, half a flat two-liter of cola, and some bottled water in the fridge, when what I needed was Gatorade, preferably red. I also required Tylenol, a can of beef stew, and a honey bun. (Don’t judge, that recipe got me through college.) Just the right combination of painkillers, sugar, rehydration, and hearty, salty food. And, of course, I currently had none of those items.
Grumpily, I brushed my teeth, looked in the mirror and decided things weren’t going to get much better with a shower or possibly even two hours in a stylists’ chair, and I slipped on my shoes and a bra, slung my bag over my shoulder, and went out the backdoor.
The little home in which I lived wasn’t much to look at, but it was cozy and isolated, set on a small parcel of land developers didn’t quite know what to do with way back when, so they tucked a house there, behind the larger dwellings in the neighborhood, semi-concealed by trees. I loved it for it’s solitude and taste of nature.
Behind me was a chunk of forest, and I’d spotted a whole host of woodland creatures in my modest backyard, from all sorts of birds to raccoons, deer and rabbits. The wild turkeys who passed through from time to time made Scott almost pee himself with laughter when I had him over for Thanksgiving this past November. They’d shown up in mid-afternoon, just as I pulled my own turkey from the oven. Came right up by my backdoor, gobbling away as if they were quite perturbed.
Through my backyard, across a stream, and a winding half mile hike through the trees was the convenience store that supplied way too many of my meals and household goods. Call the higher prices a laziness tax, or, appropriately, a convenience tax. Rather than drive out of my neighborhood and sit at the interminable and seemingly always red traffic light at the top of the small hill, and then fight to make the left turn back out after I’d shopped, when weather permitted, I walked. My body thanked me for the rare bit of exercise and fresh air, anyway.
I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, red (Yay!), some generic acetaminophen, the last can of Dinty Moore, and two honey buns, since they were buy one, get one free.
Messenger bag filled with my bounty, I set out for home, wincing as the headache hammered at my temples from the inside. I noticed that the woods were quiet, and eerily silent. Usually birds announced or protested my presence noisily, and they had when I’d walked through on my way to the store. On my return trip, however, they’d disappeared. The entire forest seemed still. It was unsettling, and I felt an odd surge of panic in what was a place I’d come to view as a sanctuary, a place of peace where I came to de-stress.
I spotted a figure through the trees, a man, off to my right, and I quickened my pace. The only people I’d ever bumped into in these woods were children, or adults accompanied by their children, so the presence of a man alone scared me. I moved rapidly down the path and looked back over my shoulder to see that the man was pacing me, almost stalking me, and steadily closing the distance.
I reached the creek and rather than carefully stepping on rocks to cross, my feet splashed their way through. I stopped short when I reached the tree line – two men stood by my backdoo
r, one working to pick the lock and the other serving as a lookout. When he spotted me, his accomplice abandoned the lock and the two men started toward me.
I wanted to scream, but my voice came out as a squeak. My feet seemed to have grown roots, and as I turned my head, I saw that the man pursuing me through the woods was just scant feet away.
Suddenly, a sound like a horse galloping, or more like a dozen horses, filled the air and shook the ground. The two men crossing my backyard stopped and turned just in time to be sent flying through the air. An impact like a freight train smashed into the pair with bone-crushing force. Their bodies flew and landed grotesquely, arms and legs twisting as they crashed back to the Earth some thirty feet from the initial impact.
Standing where the intruders had been, snorting through flared nostrils and pawing at the ground as if preparing another charge, stood an enormous creature – a bison, standing nearly seven feet tall at the shoulder and looking like more than a ton of solid muscle. And standing in my backyard, having just evidently saved me from being ambushed.
I thought I might faint. I tore my eyes from the animal to look behind me, but the third man had vanished. Unsteadily, I advanced past the trees, staring into the dark eyes of the bison as it stood snorting and shifting its immense weight.
Though I should have been terrified, the creature set me at ease. There was something familiar in those eyes, and despite horns that looked like they could punch through concrete, I approached and extended a hand, touching the bison on the side of its massive head.
“Shhh. Easy. It’s okay,” I whispered. I looked to where the men had landed, but they were gone. Of course they were.
Just how much wine did I drink last night?
The bison leaned in, nuzzling against me, and I felt compelled to return the affection, and I opened my arms wide and hugged the animal as best I was able.
I just hugged a buffalo.
The moment was broken by as menacing a sound as I had ever heard. A hissing snarl approached from behind, and before I could even turn, the attack began.
A slashing flash of claws and teeth flew past my head, landing on the bison just behind its horns, latching onto the shoulder and digging in.
I stumbled back, jaw hanging slack, watching a violent, primal confrontation. Behind my blissfully suburban Summerville, South Carolina home, in the 21st century, a mountain lion and a bison waged a life-and-death battle.
The cougar tore at the bison’s flesh, and the wounded beast bellowed and rose up briefly on its hind legs in a futile effort to dislodge the big cat.
The mountain lion was in a biting, slashing frenzy, and I fumbled in my bag for my phone, not knowing who I’d call or what to do, but desperate to end my nightmare. I dug past my just-purchased breakfast, shoved aside a dog-eared Sue Grafton paperback, and clutched for my phone, pulling out Dr. Baleen’s business card with it, which I let fall back into the bowels of my bag.
The bison lurched and lunged, rushing headlong into the low brick wall that ran along the back of the property in front of mine. The collision with the wall sent the cat flying headlong into the neighboring yard, from where it leapt back over and behind the stunned, bleeding bison. The mountain lion turned its attention toward me, getting low to the ground in a stalking pose and almost slithering in my direction.
The 911 operator answered, and I screamed into my phone that I needed help as I slowly retreated.
As the lion gathered itself to pounce, it was drenched by a torrent of water coming from the woods, pinning it to the ground.
The bison spun back toward the lion, having regained its senses, but then turned toward the source of the water, as I had. Rather, however, than seeing a cadre of firemen directing a hose, a lone figure stood on the path exiting the woods, pointing a crystal-tipped walking stick toward the soaked cat – Doctor Horace Baleen, in all his finery.
“Begone, Vincent, lest I drown you!” Dr. Baleen commanded, thrusting his cane to punctuate his point, the force of the water blowing the cougar halfway across the yard.
With a final snarl, the mountain lion vaulted from the ground directly onto the roof of my house, then disappeared into the side yard without a backward glance.
“Are you unharmed, Violet?” Dr. Baleen asked, crossing the yard toward me with concern etched on his face.
Near the damaged wall, the bison paced from side to side, placing as little of its mammoth weight as possible on the leg extending from the injured right shoulder.
“I’m…I feel like I’m in shock,” I said, fighting back tears. The most surreal two minutes of my life had left me breathless and trembling. In the distance, sirens wailed.
The doctor wrapped an arm around me and I collapsed against his chest.
“There, there. You’re safe now. That pussy cat won’t bother you again anytime soon.”
“That was a mountain lion. A mountain. Lion.” I looked up at him hopefully, expecting some sort of explanation for anything that had just happened.
“Indeed,” came his one-word reply. “Oh, dear. Let me save a few of them while I still can.”
I watched as Dr. Baleen disengaged himself from our hug and waved his walking stick in the air. Water gathered from puddles where the cannon effect had left it, and it swirled through the wet grass. It took me a moment to understand, but I watched in amazement as small flopping fish were pulled along and back toward the creek.
“I’m afraid we lost a few, but it was for a good cause, no?” he asked, with a gleam in his eye.
It occurred to me that we were alone in the backyard. Somehow, just as the two men by my backdoor had vanished, the enormous buffalo had also vanished without a sound.
I turned to ask Dr. Baleen about it, but caught just a final glimpse of him as he reached the trees.
He turned back and bowed, with a flourish. “Lady Violet, I’m certain you have questions. But so do they,” he pointed with his cane toward the side of my house, where I heard radios and voices, the police, I assumed. “Yours, I’d be delighted to answer. Theirs, not so much. We’ll chat soon!” The last words sounded faraway, and he was gone.
“Hands! Show me hands, now!” A police officer commanded from the side of my house. I complied immediately and turned slowly to find two officers with their guns drawn.
“Identify yourself!”
“Vi-Violet Duncan, officer. I’m the one who called 9-1-1.”
After giving a statement and filling out reports, I realized I must sound like a crazy person. I didn’t mention Dr. Baleen, but I told the responding officers about the men at my backdoor and the one chasing me through the woods. Every mention of the cougar and bison was met with snickering.
I took offense at being asked if I’d had anything to drink or was under the influence of any illicit substances, but I couldn’t blame them for asking.
A team from the burglary unit came out, dusted the backdoor for fingerprints, took photographs, and canvassed the neighborhood for any odd animal sightings or witnesses to the alleged burglars.
In the end, the only evidence that anything was amiss was the cinderblock wall separating my property from my neighbor’s yard. Fortunately, the Millers weren’t home. I hoped the HOA might be convinced to pay for the repairs, as my budget didn’t include a new wall.
My hangover headache was worse than ever, and I really didn’t feel like opening the store, so I called and asked Scott if he could handle it, and that I’d come in later in the afternoon. He grumbled, but agreed, and I decided a long, hot bath might help to make things right in my world and allow me to reboot my day.
I ate a honey bun and drank half the Gatorade while the tub filled, but just as it was getting near to full and the steam began to fog the mirror, I heard a knock on my front door.
An unmarked, nondescript police car sat in my driveway, and I peered through the curtains to find a man on my front porch. When he noticed I was nearby, he flashed a detective’s badge.
“Just a minute!” I called to him, an
d turned off my bath. I hoped I could conduct whatever police business I had to before my bathwater got too cold.
After shutting off the bath, I rushed back to the door and opened it. A stocky, athletic-looking black man stood there in a charcoal suit, sporting closely-cropped hair and a neatly-trimmed goatee. He introduced himself and disarmed me with a mesmerizing smile. His eyes were almost an iridescent greenish color. They sparkled like emeralds. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach and I found myself feeling giggly and flirty before we’d even introduced ourselves.
“Violet Duncan?” he asked, extending a hand.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Not the shrinking kind of Violet, I can see,” he joked. “You’ve got quite a grip.” He balled and relaxed his fist as if in pain, like I’d hurt him with my handshake. There was his thousand-watt smile again.
“I’m Detective Scratch. From the Dorchester County Sheriff’s Office. Silas Scratch. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Can I ask you a few questions about what happened here this morning?”
“Yes, sure, would you like to come in?”
“Thank you, I would.”
We sat down at my kitchen table and he produced one of those stereotypical little spiral notebooks detectives carry in the movies.
His questions concerned the bison and the mountain lion more than the attempted burglary, and they were mostly rehashing things I’d already discussed with the officers earlier. Detective Scratch, however, seemed to take me much more seriously; none of the snickering or eye-rolling.
After almost thirty minutes, he thanked me for my time and got up to leave. At the door, he turned and offered me his card, in case I thought of anything else that might be useful, no matter how insignificant it might seem.
I watched him walk back toward his car, an easy, gliding gait. He stopped short just as I went to shut the door. “Ms. Duncan? I’m sorry to have interrupted your bath. Don’t worry, it’ll still be nice and hot for you.”
Southern Charmed (Hell's Belles Trilogy Book 2) Page 13
