Barker watched him walk by and swiveled in his chair to face him. "So? Did you seal the deal?"
"Nah, she's still not interested," said Landry as he slumped into his uncomfortable office chair and loosened his tie.
"Not interested is not an option, my man," said Barker.
Landry furrowed his brow. "What am I supposed to do if she refuses to sign the papers?"
"You are supposed to use your creative powers of persuasion," said Barker. "And by creative, of course, I mean dirty." He cocked an eyebrow and hitched a greasy smile. "Clock's ticking on this deal. Our bonuses for closing the deal have been tripled."
"He doesn't care. He's all googly-eyed for that old lady running the store," said Percy. He snorted a laugh and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "He's getting his payday."
"You wouldn't want to be responsible for the rest of us not getting our bonuses, now would you?" asked Barker.
"Watch it. Don't you speak about her that way. She's a real nice lady, and we have a lot in common," said Landry. "Besides, she's not that much older than me."
"You've taken your eye off the prize, buddy," said the guy across from him.
"I'm beginning to think this is not the right job for me. I don't know how to go for the jugular like you guys." Landry slouched in his seat.
"You'd better shape up or you're going to be out on the street looking for another job. Your performance is being watched, you know," said Barker.
Landry smiled. "Yeah, right, by who?"
"That would be by whom, and the answer is by the boss. And believe me, I've heard stories about other deals and some of the extremes to get them done. If I didn't love the money, I'd be in a fast car out of town!"
Landry looked around the room. "What boss? I thought we were reporting to Corporate." He gestured to Barker. "You hired me. I thought you were the boss."
Barker leaned back in his seat. "Our boss. Hello? The owner."
Landry looked at him with a blank stare.
Barker's shoulders shook with laughter. "Are you telling me that you've been with this company all year and you don't know who owns Coltrane Realty?"
3
BY THE TIME I HAD TURNED OFF THE ALARMS AND TURNED ON ALL THE lights, I had expected the woman to be casually sitting at a table, but instead I found her by the counter gripping the laptop to her chest like a shield. I walked her across the sand-colored Italian quarry tile entrance and onto the hardwood floor of the bookstore.
I touched her shoulder. "What's your name, hon?"
She wheeled to face me, her eyes wide with fear. I jerked back my hand. Sheesh . . . I didn't think the gesture warranted her skittish response.
She backed into an overstuffed couch at the edge of the reading area. She steadied herself with one hand on the tapestry-covered arm and stared at the floor. "Barbara Nelson."
"Barbara, you look like you could use a strong cup of coffee."
The woman's shoulders relaxed. Her head rose and a timid smile flickered across her lips as her eagerness bubbled over. "I could make it for you. I know how. I watch you every day."
Whoa, instantaneous change. Let's not ask why the woman spends her time watching me. It's way too early in the morning to try to make sense of it. I gestured to the coffee bar at the back of the bookstore. "Okay then, have at it."
Barbara deposited her laptop on the closest table, sauntered behind the counter, and went about preparing the morning coffee. Well, that was weird. I thought she'd be clutching onto that laptop for dear life.
I did a tit for tat and now I watched her. She had on a rumpled sleeveless pink cotton blouse and equally wrinkled burgundy slacks. Her hair and clip seemed familiar. Yes, now I remember. Pencils usually stuck out of that clip, which presented a conundrum of an image since she worked at a laptop computer rather than with paper and pencil. And come to think of it, I never saw her so much as even gnaw on one of those pencils. Maybe she was using them as hair decorations . . . or weapons.
I lost interest in her appearance and moved behind the counter to the left of the front door, depositing the .38 Special in the drawer beneath the register. I paused, staring at the dark metal. What was I thinking carrying a gun? It was an act of providence the stupid thing hadn't gone off when I dropped it. I could have shot myself. Mom had been the sharpshooter type, while I was more like a disaster waiting to happen.
Resigned to my ineptness with a deadly weapon, I plopped onto my black leather chair, and spied the bag of white cheddar cheese puffs. Hey, they're made with real cheese. It's a food group. I'm hungry and it's better than eating a slice of Red Velvet cake at this hour of the morning, right? I removed the chip clip and dug in as I swiveled around to face the room. Crunch. I could pretend that this was a throne, and I was surveying my kingdom.
Truth be known, this four-story brownstone was the only home I'd known for most of my thirty-five years of life, other than when I was at school or during my short stint at being married. And therein lay my latest problem . . . neighborhood gentrification and urban renewal.
The silver bell above the door jingled.
Verlene Buford swept into the store like a Kansas City tornado on its way to Illinois. Verlene, at forty-nine, was the youngest of my mom's six sisters, and the only one living in New York. The smell of barbeque followed in her wake as she slid her oversized, wraparound sunglasses onto her head where her bun acted as a glasses stop. "Hi, Sloane honey. I need your help."
I love her dearly, but usually her need for help meant me tasting one of her new culinary creations that, in turn, had caused me to need help for heartburn or indigestion. She fancied herself as an Iron Chef. In reality, you needed a cast-iron stomach to partake of her disasters.
"Hey, Verlene. What's up?" The words stuck in my throat, or maybe it was a cheese puff. I sneezed, and the cheese puff flew out with the words. My hand flew up to cover my mouth, but it was too late.
Verlene pulled back and curled up her lip. "Are you getting sick?"
"Nah, just my sinuses. 'Tis the season."
Verlene moved to the counter and reached over to touch the stray locks of hair that had escaped my side barrette. "Child, I should be helping you. When's the last time you were at Bebe's to get your do done?"
I pulled my fingers through the hair framing both sides of my face and pushed the strays behind both ears. "I haven't had time to go. Besides, I found this new light golden brown from Textures and Tones, and I did it myself. I think I look pretty good." At least, I had until she started acting like she smelled something bad. Now I wasn't so sure.
"Child, Bebe's got a new stylist." She reached up and ran a hand along the smoothness of her hairdo. "I think he does excellent work."
"He?"
"Honey, hush. He's a Hungarian boy who thinks he's Mick Jagger."
"Hungarian? Mick Jagger? At Bebe's?" You have to understand the scope of multiethnicity at Bebe's consisted of Japanese and Brazilian hair straightening along with perms and braids, but men were not included as part of the process. "He must have a righteous game."
"Yeah, I can't even explain it. You gotta experience him."
"I'm thinking skinny, flashy, and loud."
She threw her hands up and laughed out loud. "He's all that and a bag o' chips!" She shook her head and put her hand up to smooth the side of her hair. "But he does rockin' do's."
Chips. I could use some of them too, but that was why I was wearing drawstring pants and loose tops this week. My jeans wouldn't button. I wanted to grimace at myself and grin at Verlene, all at the same time. Her hair was pulled back so slick it looked like it was spray painted on her head. I imagined if the glasses had not been intercepted by the bun, they would have slid around the back of her head and fallen to the floor.
"Verlene, that hairdo looks like it hurts. Your hair's got your face pulled up so tight, I swear I saw your belt buckle move when you raised your eyebrows."
She waved a hand. "This is how all chefs should style their hair. Neat and containe
d. But never you mind about my hair. I need you to ride home with me and help unload my groceries. And I've got a huge secret to share with you."
I cringed. Chef was the only word I heard. "Verlene, I can't leave the bookstore. I just opened."
Granted, business usually didn't start for another hour, but going to her house was always just weird. She was a wannabe chef with a penchant for buying every piece of equipment the kitchen connoisseurs recommended. Her kitchen looked like a torture chamber for runaway cooks. It creeped me right out.
"Child, I just came from Costco down on Third Avenue. My favorite new place! Love, love, love that store. I made friends with a new chef who got me in early with the rest of the professionals, before regular store hours, and I got a ton of food fixin's that need to get refrigerated before they spoil."
I almost said, "With your cooking that might be an improvement," but I bit down on my wayward tongue and slapped on a sweet smile worthy of Dora the Explorer. "I would love to help you, but I have no one to mind the store."
Talk about a saving grace. At this very moment, I loved the store like no other. I sniffed the air. The barbeque smell was stronger. I knew it wasn't coming from the Ethiopian restaurant across the street, but it sure was making me hungry for ribs.
"Well, what about her watching it?" Verlene did a hand flick in the direction of Barbara, who was standing behind the coffee counter.
"She doesn't work here." I set down the bag of cheese puffs, lifted myself from the comfortable chair, and moved to the opening in the counter, all set to give Auntie a hug and send her back to her double-parked car, which I could see through the front windows was about to get a ticket.
Red! All I saw was red. Spread across the floor, dripping off the bottom of Verlene's flower-print blouse, running down her moss green pant leg, all over her white Reebok sneakers. Red!
My heart jumped to my throat. I gagged a cry. "Verlene, oh dear goodness. You're bleeding! Honey, where are you hurt?"
She looked at me as if I were a cow with two heads. "Child, have you lost what little sense the good Lord gave you? What on earth are you caterwaulin' about?"
I pointed.
Verlene looked down at herself and started hopping around screaming and waving her arms. "Oh lawdy, I've been shot. I've been shot! I knew this neighborhood would be the death of me. They done kilt me. They done kilt me!"
I rushed to her side, slipped in the red mess, and with arms flailing, slid onto the tile entrance way. I managed to grab onto the counter and regain my balance.
The strange aroma. I leaned down and touched the red on her pants, rubbing the liquid between my fingers. Thick. Chunky even. I put the substance to my nose. The sharp vinegar and cayenne pepper smell assaulted my nose. Ugh! Barbeque sauce. "Verlene, you're covered in barbeque sauce! What happened?" I grimaced as I looked at the mess tracking from the front door to where she stood. "Barbara!" I yelled over my shoulder. "I need a roll of paper towels and a wet rag, please."
Verlene looked down at herself like it was the first time she had noticed she was basted and ready for the grill. "Don't that beat all. I knew I was smellin' it. It had to of been when I reached over to stop that big stick of pepperoni from sliding off the backseat. I leaned real hard on the plastic jug of Sugah's Special Sauce. I musta' popped the top."
Barbara scurried around the coffee counter with the towels and we proceeded to field strip Verlene of her tasty tenderizer. I glanced up from scrubbing the gooey mess from my oak floor as Felicia Tyler sauntered in.
With her unruly red hair bobbin' and groovin' to the tunes on her iPod headset, she looked like a Lucille Ball clone. Even though her head was all I could see from my position on the floor, I knew what she was wearing before she came around the counter. Her standard uniform was spiked high heels, a loud multicolored top, even louder-colored stretch Capri pants, and an arm full of gaudy bangles to match the large dangling earrings that pulled at the tiny openings in her ears. With my preferring baggy linen pants and tops, or jeans, espadrilles, and no jewelry, we were as opposite as ice cream and collard greens.
But books kept me and Fifi in the same orbit. Not that I loved books. I didn't hate them. I read for fun. But they were not my idea of business. My mom, Camille Beckham, had been a well-known figure for twenty years in the New York book trade and international antiquarian circles. Now that she was gone, the mantle of owning the bookstore had passed to me, whether I liked it or not, and Fifi had been Mom's store manager, so I inherited her with the store.
She planted her feet and slid her fists to her hips. "Good gravy, grandma! What happened here? It smells like a barbeque is fixin' to break out."
I jumped at the obvious chance. "Felicia, before you start work I thought you could drive over to the house with Aunt Verlene and help her unload her groceries."
"Well, bless your lil' pea-pickin' heart for thinking of me." Fifi glared at me.
I knew that look. She was going to pray things on me that Ajax wouldn't take off.
"But I got a bit of a problem this morning." She shifted her weight from one hip to the other. "By the way—y'all know I hate the name Felicia."
You'd never expect a Southern drawl from someone who looked so New York, but Fifi was a fifty-five-year-old Suwanee, Georgia, transplant who had been my mom's best friend and business manager for about thirty years.
"I'm sorry. I only say it to get your goat." Well, Sloane, you dummy, if you want her to spare you the torture chamber today, you'd better straighten up and fly right. I put on my sweetest butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth voice. "I'm so sorry, Fifi . Can you please help me out?"
Fifi leaned closer. The noisy bangles slid down her arm tinkling like broken glass. "I would, sugah, but I seem to have an intestinal dilemma today that's . . . how should I say it . . . workin' like grease through a goose."
"Grease through a . . . ohhhh. Ack! TMI." Too much information. I squeezed my eyes shut on the picture swirling through my head. The memory of her lack of intestinal fortitude would be with me for the rest of the day. That greasy goose trumped my torture chamber. I sighed. I was going to Verlene's.
Fifi strolled behind the counter sporting a smug expression. I don't know what irked me more . . . that I had to go, or that Fifi , who was much older, had outsmarted me with a faster excuse. I took one last swipe at the last bit of sauce and stood up.
"Oh . . . here sugah. This was in the store's mail at the post office." Fifi rummaged through the stack and handed me a manila envelope.
I studied the envelope. It was addressed to me from a law office in Manhattan. I pulled open the seal and removed the document. My hands gripped the papers. "Now I've heard everything!" My blood pressure pounded in my ears.
Fifi stared at me.
"The ex-Mr. Templeton wants half of Mom's estate saying that our divorce wasn't final until after she died. They want me to come into this lawyer's office to discuss a settlement before they decide to instigate legal action." My teeth gritted together and I envisioned planting him on an anthill. "How dare he? Has he lost the last brain cell that the good Lord gave him? No, no, no . . . not in this lifetime, buddy." I threw the papers on the floor.
"Sugah, just call your attorney. They're probably bluffing about suing you and are fishing around to see if you will take the bait and settle ahead of time. Besides . . . these papers aren't even a legal document. They sent them to the store's PO box. You could pretend that you didn't even get them." Fifi whacked at the computer keyboard. "Ugh! Stupid computer."
My spirits brightened. I couldn't leave now. I hurried behind the counter. "What's the matter? Something I can help with?" Computers were my thing. No. . . that was a lie. I wanted computers to be my thing. I was great at the investigation part, but frankly I was barely passable at the science. I think I felt more relief than fear when escaping from my ex-husband had required leaving a dream job on the cyber-forensics team of a covert government project at NYU. Most of the time, I had felt like I was in over my head. Luckily, I
had good and willing mentors around me to help.
"No, just nonsense spam mail. I deleted it."
My spirits sank. I envisioned having my clothes caught in Verlene's pasta maker. It reminded me of a paper shredder.
Fifi banged on the keys again and then redirected her ire to bang on the blinking message button on the answering machine. What was she upset about? I was the one who had to help Verlene. Messages started to play, and Fifi jotted phone numbers for book buyers.
"What's the matter?" If I hadn't known better, I would have thought I saw tears pooling in her eyes.
Fifi stopped writing and rolled a look up at the ceiling. "I was informed by certified mail yesterday that my apartment building is going co-op, and I either have to buy my apartment or move out. You know I don't have the kind of money it takes to buy a place." She replayed the last message and scratched the number on her pad.
I instantly felt guilty. Mom's apartment was sitting empty upstairs since her passing, but I couldn't bear to touch it yet. My glance darted from Fifi to the floor as my heart started to thump against my ribs.
She caught on. "Oh, sugah! No, no, I didn't mean . . . I wasn't hinting . . ." She patted my hand. "It will be all right. I'll find something. I'd never ask for Camille's apartment."
I let out the breath I had unconsciously grabbed. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. What was I going to say? That it was okay? "Sure, you can have it rather than be homeless." I didn't mean it. "Maybe you could ask Aunt Verlene to rent you a room. She's all alone—"
"Don't you even go there." She peered across the counter at Verlene who was still cleaning up sauce, then lowered her voice. "I'd rather live in a cardboard box than have to eat her food."
Fifi had a point. It did make cardboard look inviting, as either a shelter or a meal.
The third message caught both our attention. Dr. Carlton Mabry wanted to buy a book called Histoire de la Magie. And he was going to be here tomorrow to discuss it.
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 2
