Halos

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Steve glanced up. “Are they still here?”

  She nodded.

  “Think you can watch the store for a bit?”

  “What if they want to buy something?”

  “Not likely.” But he took the register keys from his wrist. “Here.”

  “You trust me with your money?”

  “I’d rather be robbed than acquired.”

  She heard movement from the front. He was already heading for the back room with a finger to his lips. This was certainly not what she’d expected. But she took matters in hand and rejoined the women in front. “Does this difficult friend of yours have a sense of humor?” At least she could distract them while he made his escape.

  Sue raised her eyes from the back cover she pretended to read. “Not an ounce.”

  “An inquiring mind?”

  “Not unless it’s someone else’s business.”

  “Does she cook?” Alessi had noted Martha Stewart’s holiday cookbook in the window.

  Sue tipped her head. “Yes, she does….”

  “What about this?” Alessi scooped the book from the window and displayed it. “Martha Stewart has such good ideas. Except, of course, on investing. But this is all cooking and entertaining.”

  Deirdre leaned over. “Wouldn’t hurt Noreen to realize there’s someone better in the kitchen than herself.”

  She and Sue locked glances. “Not that we all can’t grow in humility.”

  “And discretion.”

  “And generosity.”

  Alessi waited while they reminded each other of those valuable virtues. Generosity was her cue. “It’s a good deal. Twenty percent off hardbacks until Christmas.” Again the sign posted in the window. She was glad she’d stood outside debating whether to go in.

  Sue nodded slowly. “Maybe I will.” She gave Deirdre a sultry look. “I’ll pay for it now. You had your chance.” She started toward the back.

  Steve was gone, she was sure, but Alessi turned to Deirdre. “Maybe I can help you with something?”

  Deirdre was definitely peeved. “Well, maybe a mystery for my father.”

  Now, that was something Alessi knew. “Rare or new?”

  “What? Oh, new, I suppose. Just something in paperback.”

  Ah. A fast-food reader—at least the buyer was. “Time period?”

  “Excuse me.” Sue came forward with Martha Stewart plowing the air. “I thought you said Steve was back there.”

  “Did he step out?” Alessi glanced past her. “Well, I can help you.” She took the book and headed for the register on the elbow of Steve’s desk. She hoped it was similar to the ones she’d used before. She inserted the key and turned it. Simple enough. She rang up the sale and took Sue’s money.

  “When is he coming back?” One of Sue’s eyebrows had developed a distinct arch.

  “I don’t know. Sorry.”

  Sue took her bag and swung away from the counter. She murmured something as she passed Deirdre, still lingering in the front, then went out.

  Whew. Alessi went back up. “Okay. A paperback mystery … did you tell me what time period?” Ed had specialized in British turn of the century, but he’d carried everything.

  “I don’t know.” Deirdre wrung her hands.

  “American, British, or something exotic?”

  Deirdre opened her mouth but nothing came out. She shook her head.

  “Does he prefer a male author?”

  “Why don’t … you just pick something.” The second half of her phrase escaped with a rush of breath.

  “Good plan. If he doesn’t like it, you can blame it on me.” Alessi turned to the mystery shelf. Steve’s selection was a fraction of Ed’s, but these books weren’t his focus. She doubted he had much traffic in his focus, though. She selected the latest P. D. James title and handed it to Deirdre. “How about this one?”

  “Well … maybe I should think about it and come back later.”

  “Is your father a serious mystery reader? Does he write down the clues?”

  Deirdre’s features sharpened. “I have no idea.”

  “He’ll like this one.”

  “Fine.” Deirdre thrust it at her. “Ring it up.”

  Alessi took Dierdre’s payment and bagged the book. “Thanks. Let me know how he likes it.” Why did she say that? He wouldn’t get it until Christmas, and she’d be long gone by then.

  “Do you know …” Deirdre gripped the bag. “… what Steve’s doing for Christmas?”

  She didn’t know what he was doing at the moment. “No. Sorry.”

  Deirdre sighed. “I suppose I should have gone right back. But he can be … peevish.”

  Alessi nodded, secretly agreeing. “I’ll tell him you were looking for him.”

  “No … well, all right.” Deirdre took her bag and left.

  Alessi turned off the register and started around the desk, but Steve came toward her from the back room. She glanced quickly toward the front, but Deirdre had already cleared the windows. “That was close. They only just left.”

  “I know.” He held out his hand for the keys.

  Alessi handed them over. “Where were you?”

  “In the storeroom.”

  She pictured him huddled among the boxes. “I thought you’d actually gone somewhere.”

  “Good.”

  She pushed her hair behind her ear. “I sold the Martha Stewart cookbook. And a paperback mystery.”

  “I heard.” He tipped his head with a speculative expression that seemed to have puzzled him. Was it so unusual to make a sale? Then how did he stay in business?

  “While I was in the storeroom I had a thought,” he said.

  “Shelves and boxes can be stimulating.”

  He leaned on the desk with the nearest thing to a smile she’d seen yet. “If you need a place to stay tonight, you could use the cot and bathroom back there. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s better than nothing.”

  She drew herself up. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll run off with one of those seventeen-hundred-dollar books?”

  “You won’t get far on foot.”

  “No, I guess not,” she said. “If the sheriff hasn’t found my car by tonight …”

  “Alessi.” Steve fiddled with his keys. “Cooper Roehr is not going to get your car back.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I think it’s here somewhere. There was hardly anyone on the highway; no one got off the exit with me. And someone ‘passing through’ would have left their car to take mine. No, it has to be here in Charity.” She faced him directly. “How hard can it be to search a little place like this?”

  “It’s not that little. The village maybe, but the township is thirtysix square miles.”

  “And how many live in those square miles?”

  He frowned. “Why don’t you call your uncle?”

  “I can’t. My mother died of cancer before she’d ask them for help.”

  “But they took you in.”

  “The social worker guilted them into it.”

  “But they did it.” He closed the keys in his hand.

  “That wasn’t my fault.” Her voice rose in pitch. “I can’t tell them I lost the car.”

  He crossed one ankle over the other in a casual pose, then threw out another stinker. “What about grandparents?”

  “They refused to attend any family function if I was present.”

  He whistled. “What did your mother do that was so bad?”

  “Fell in love with the pool boy.”

  He eyed her. “You’re either the best liar …”

  “I know.” She raised a hand. “You’ve made up your mind.”

  “I thought I had.”

  She rounded the edge of the desk. “It doesn’t matter. The fact is, I can’t call my uncle and there’s no one else. My best friend had a stroke—”

  “More fantastic by the moment. You expect me to believe some girl—”

  “He was seventy-four. Owned the mystery bookstore whe
re I worked.”

  “And that was your best friend.”

  “Yep. You shouldn’t go making assumptions.”

  He jutted his chin. “I think it was reasonable to assume your best friend was a girl. Not many twenty-one-year-old women call a seventy-four-year-old man their best friend.”

  “They didn’t know Ed.” She looked at the floor-to-ceiling case beside the desk. Each book in it had a detailed account typed up beside it. Steve obviously got his meticulous sense of order from his father. The pieces of her story must sound like so much gibberish. She could put it all together for him, but why do that for a man who wouldn’t believe her anyway?

  A draft raised gooseflesh on her arms. It was the same at the front. The cold that had seemed magical and refreshing in the snow was just chilly inside. She could wear the jacket he’d lent her, but she would look like she was going out the door, and that might give him ideas.

  “Could I run over to Granny’s Trunk real fast?” She didn’t want to tell him his place had the atmosphere of an igloo, but a warmer shirt was required.

  “Granny’s Trunk?”

  She caught her elbows. “Get something to work in tomorrow?”

  “I’m not open Sunday.” He slipped the keys back onto his wrist, then noticed her shiver. “I guess you’ll need something for Monday, though.”

  “If I don’t have my car back. I have plenty of clothes in my car.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it, then glanced toward the front. “Well, the piranhas have gone for the moment.”

  Alessi fingered a Venetian-glass paperweight and studied its swirling pattern. “They’re worried about you for Christmas.”

  “They’re on the hunt.” He was growling again. “The whole pack of them.”

  “School, you mean.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a school of piranhas, not a pack.”

  He tucked his tongue into his cheek. “School, then. Either way they’ll eat the flesh off my bones.”

  “Why?”

  “A bereaved bachelor in Charity is fair game to every divorcée, widow, and single woman within a decade of my age. The holidays just rev them up.”

  It might have sounded vain, but she’d seen it for herself. “How long do you figure I’ve got before they circle back?”

  Now his mouth did jerk sideways. “Make it quick.”

  She pulled the two tens from her pocket. “You sure about this?”

  “Get going.”

  Seven

  THE COLD OUTSIDE SEEMED LESS SEVERE as she made her way back to Granny’s; the string of jingle bells almost cheery. If the woman she’d spoken with earlier was Granny, she held her age well. She’d been polite in her rejection. Definite, but polite. Alessi waved. “I’m back again.”

  The woman sent her a concerned glance. “I really don’t have any positions.”

  “I’m just going to find a new sweater.” Alessi passed the antique glassware, china, and dolls, a trunk of gloves, collars, and scarves, and wove between chairs, lamps, and farm implements. The rack of vintage clothing would be beyond her means, but there was a section marked nearly new and she headed there. “I need something nice and warm to work in.”

  “You found a job?” She probably didn’t mean to sound so incredulous.

  “Bennet’s Books,” Alessi said. “Just temporarily, until they find my car.”

  The woman didn’t ask what she meant. The car didn’t seem to be a subject people wanted to discuss. “You’re working for Steve?” Granny slipped on a pair of half lenses that added years to her face.

  Alessi circled the rack. “At least as long as it takes him to inventory his new stock.”

  Granny nodded at that. “Yes, I knew he went after an estate collection.”

  “Well, he got it. Lots of books. They’re heaped up in back.” She’d caught a glimpse when he made his escape.

  The woman must have decided to believe her because she said, “Do you want something seasonal?”

  Alessi studied the red-and-green sequined sweater the woman pulled from the rack. “It’s really pretty.” But considering the limitations of her wardrobe and the few weeks until Christmas, not practical. “I guess not, though.” She wished again for the ribboned cashmere. It had been such a find. The thrift stores up the coast were sporadic treasure troves.

  “Ah, this one.” The woman held out a long winter-white mohair. “This was Amanda Bier’s, special order from Saks. I’ll swear she only wore it once. She’s dreadful in white. But with your height and coloring …”

  Alessi gathered the sweater into her hands. Soft as the goats it came from. “Do you have a changing room?”

  The woman brought her to the back and flipped the light switch on in a tiny booth with a wavy mirror slanting to the left. Alessi closed the door and pulled off her shirt. This pearl-dotted white one rivaled her ribboned favorite. Probably even better quality, certainly less wear. She pulled the mohair over her head and let it fall.

  “How’s it looking?” Granny asked outside the door.

  “It’s really nice.” Amanda Bier might not look good in white, but she did. She flipped over the tag dangling from the sleeve and sighed. $39.99. She should have checked before she tried it.

  “Let’s have a look,” Granny said.

  Alessi opened the door.

  “Oh.” The woman clasped her hands. “It’s perfect.”

  “It’s really pretty. But I don’t have that much money.”

  “Amanda paid almost two hundred dollars for it new.”

  Alessi nodded. “I’m sure it’s worth your price, but I need something under ten dollars.” She’d part with half the windfall from Steve’s pocket, but not all. He hadn’t even said what he’d pay her for working the store. Maybe he didn’t mean to pay her at all—just let her stay there.

  Granny tapped her chin with a finger. She looked into Alessi’s face, then down at the tag. “Oh, it’s a green tag? That’s fifty percent off.”

  Alessi hadn’t seen anything about a green-tag sale, but that did make a difference. Unfortunately not enough. She groaned softly. All Steve’s money. Her whole windfall.

  Granny flicked a fleck of lint from the sleeve. “That’s only twenty dollars, a steal for that quality.”

  It was true, and she’d be tempted under other circumstances. She knew a good thing when she found one. She sighed. “I’d sure like to say yes. But my purse was stolen with my car, and I only have twenty dollars to my name. Do you have anything under ten?” Alessi absently petted the softness of the sleeve.

  Granny’s features shifted. “All right, you can have it for ten since you’re new in town. And Amanda doesn’t need the money.”

  Alessi wrapped herself in her arms. “Wow. That’s great. Are you sure?”

  The woman adjusted the shoulder. “It’s a very nice sweater. But Amanda’s things always linger.”

  Alessi could not imagine why, but she sure was glad.

  “I’m Stacie, by the way. Since we’re neighbors, by shops at least.” Alessi held out her hand. “Alessi Moore.”

  “Well, Alessi, you have the long waist to do that sweater justice. Do you want to wear it or sack it?”

  Again Alessi petted her arms. “I’ll just keep it on.” She ducked into the changing room and scooped up her old shirt and Steve’s jacket. She paid for the sweater and smiled hugely. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll bag that other for you.” Stacie tucked Alessi’s shirt into a sack. “Tell Steve hello.”

  Alessi noted the gold-and-diamond band on Stacie’s hand. “I’ll tell him.” She scooted back out to the snow falling in earnest. Stacie certainly had the Christmas spirit, and Alessi found a kindling of her own. She turned her face up, recapturing some of yesterday’s wonder, and nearly walked into a heavyset man with a paper bag. “Excuse me. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He said nothing, just scowled as he passed her by. Scrooge. “Are there no work-houses, no prisons,” she mouthed a
fter him. Then almost as if he’d heard her, he turned and mumbled, “Pardon me.”

  She gave him a wave and went back into the bookstore, took off the jacket, and set it behind Steve’s desk with the sack. She didn’t see him in the store. Was he hiding again? She went through the back doorway and found him taping half a dozen mailing boxes by the door.

  She leaned on the steel shelf along the wall. “I thought maybe you were hiding again.”

  He turned, focused his gaze on her sweater, then raised it to her face. “You got that for twenty bucks?”

  “Actually ten, for being new in town and green-tag day.”

  Steve turned back to the box and stretched the tape over the seam. “Stacie felt sorry for you.”

  That stung. “Must be the Pity Me sign on my forehead.”

  He straightened. “More likely she did it to spite Amanda.”

  “How do you know it was Amanda’s?”

  He didn’t answer, just said, “It looks nice on you.”

  “Thanks.” But she wasn’t going to leave it at that. “You must know her.”

  “Oh yeah.” He gripped an armful of books and stood up.

  “A piranha?”

  “The school marm.”

  Alessi laughed. “That was good. I wouldn’t have guessed you witty.”

  He stopped and cocked his head. “Just humbug Scrooge?”

  “More like Heathcliff. With a gripe against the world.”

  He studied her a moment. “I presume you mean Bronte’s Heathcliff, not the fat ugly cat.”

  She laughed again. “Yes, I meant Emily’s timeless character.”

  He stacked the boxes and pushed past her toward his desk.

  “Are those orders?” She motioned toward the boxes he’d left.

  “Yep.” He circled around to his computer.

  “Rare books?”

  “Moderately.” He sat.

  She looked around for something to do. “Are you getting lots of orders for Christmas?”

  “Yes. I still have quite a few to locate and process.”

  She leaned a hip on his desk. “How do you find them?”

  He glanced up. “I have a special database I’ve built up. Actually, my father started it and joined with people around the world with collections like ours.” His attention and his fingers went back to his work.