The Broken Spine

by Dorothy St. James

  He gave me a weird look, like he’d gotten a whiff of Aunt Sal’s egg salad. The poor woman overcooked everything. “You were limping. I was worried. I did what any decent person would do. Come on. The doctor wanted you to elevate that ankle.”

  Although I’d already seen it, the wreck inside the house still startled me. The broken side table. The overturned chairs. The slashed cushions on the sofa. The books scattered everywhere. The sight of it made my heart clench.

  “I’d never do this to my own home,” I said quietly.

  Jace picked up a book that had landed partially open on the hardwood floor. The pages were crumpled. The cover bent. He tried to smooth out the worst of the creases before closing the book with care. “Yes, I know you wouldn’t do this. Not to your books.”

  He helped make the living room appear semi-livable. Once we’d finished, he went to search for the ice packs in his Jeep that the urgent care center had given me. I unpacked the few library books left in my bike’s saddlebag. The last book I withdrew was Charlie’s copy of The Maltese Falcon. My hands shook as I held it and thought of poor Dewey.

  If Charlie had done something with that sweet little kitty, well, I didn’t know what I’d do. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this angry. Not even after Jace had stolen my essay. Not even after he’d acted as if I was no more important to him than a gnat at a church picnic. And, surprisingly, not even after Duggar had refused to listen to reason and had insisted the library get rid of all of its printed books. And the emotion directed toward Duggar had been an awful fury burning in my chest. But as strong as the anger was that I’d felt then, it paled in comparison to the tidal wave of rage surging through me now.

  Dewey was an innocent—is an innocent creature.

  I should have listened to my mother and found him a different home. If I had, he’d be safe right now, and I wouldn’t be feeling as if someone had violently ripped my heart from my chest.

  Sucking in a series of deep breaths helped keep the tears at bay. My head swam from the sudden influx of oxygen. The room tilted like a carnival ride.

  Unfortunately, those calming breaths did nothing to calm the storm churning in my heart.

  I shouldn’t have left Charlie’s shop. I should have stayed there until he told me where he’d put Dewey. Even if I had to beat him over the head with one of his valuable books, I would do it. As much as I loathed hurting books, Dewey’s safety was more important.

  I needed to get back to the bookstore. I’d grabbed my purse and car keys when Jace opened the screen door. “Look what I found!” He sounded far too cheerful for the situation. He had an ice pack in one hand and a goofy grin on his face.

  “This isn’t funny. Get out of my way. I’ve got to—”

  Dewey slunk into the living room. His tail held straight like a flagpole, he approached me with a cautious stride.

  “Dewey?” I whispered as the tears all those deep breaths had been keeping at bay rushed down my cheeks. “He’s okay. He’s okay.”

  I could barely believe it.

  Jace leaned his arm against my doorframe. “He walked into the yard like nothing had happened.”

  “Do you think Charlie got worried you might search his shop and returned Dewey?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know, Tru. My accompanying you to his shop might have spooked him. Or maybe he didn’t have anything to do with Dewey’s disappearance.”

  “He looks unharmed, don’t you think?” Ignoring my throbbing ankle, I crouched down and held out my hand. Dewey sniffed it.

  “What do you have there?” I asked my kitty. A dark blue bit of cloth was sticking out of the side of his mouth.

  I had to wrestle the little beast for it, which only underscored the unharmed state of his health. He didn’t want to let go of his prize.

  “My goodness,” I said, my lips curving into a smile.

  “What is it?” Jace crouched down next to me.

  “It looks like Charlie will need to replace one of those expensive suits thanks to his adventures with Dewey. I hope it was the custom-made one from Hong Kong.”

  One of Jace’s eyebrows rose. “Hong Kong?”

  I handed over the torn piece of wool. “You’ll have to ask Charlie about it when you arrest him. I hope Dewey left his legs with some good scratches too.”

  Dewey gave a startled mewl when Jace started to laugh. “This piece of wool isn’t exactly a smoking gun. Charlie could claim he ripped his pants when he visited last week and was climbing under your table to fix it.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll talk with him again. Maybe I’ll even get him to show me his leg so I can see if Dewey left some scratches. But short of a confession or any witnesses, it’s going to be difficult to find out who broke into your house and stole Dewey.” He rubbed my skinny kitty behind his ears. “I’m just glad he’s back home where he belongs.”

  Dewey took turns headbutting both me and Jace. He seemed to realize there was something wrong with my ankle and was careful to only rub against my uninjured leg as I stood up.

  Jace followed. “Well, I’ll leave you to rest.” He started for the door, but then swung abruptly back toward me. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me that secret of yours now? Hiding what you know has already caused you to hurt yourself”—he nodded toward my bandaged wrist—“and it’s putting those you love in danger too.” He nodded toward Dewey.

  The two of us had a short staring contest before I heaved a long, defeated breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective.”

  “Sure you don’t.” His jaw tightened. “Be careful, Tru,” he said before he headed out the door and back to his car. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything about who broke into your home.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I spent the rest of the afternoon resting in my dad’s old recliner with Dewey dozing, curled up on my chest, and an ice pack cooling my swollen ankle.

  Between cooing over Dewey and plotting ways to prove Charlie’s guilt, I thumbed through the copy of The Maltese Falcon, reading passages here and there. I’m not sure why I felt the need to obsess over the book. Had Charlie given it to me as a ruse? And what in the world was the bookseller doing at Duggar’s house? Why would a man like him feel the need to rob a dead man? Was he truly that obsessed with old books? I mean, even I wouldn’t steal books. And I considered myself completely obsessed with the printed word.

  “Knock, knock!” Mama sang through the screen door.

  “It’s unlocked,” I called, while remembering I hadn’t thanked Jace for getting those doors fixed. I set the book on the side table but didn’t bother to get up. How could I? I had a cat on my chest.

  “That Bailey boy called. He said you fell off your bike.” She tsked when she spotted me. “Did you land on your face?”

  “My face?” I touched my cheek. Now that she’d mentioned it, both my cheek and my brow felt sore. “I suppose I’ve been avoiding mirrors.”

  “Scratches everywhere. You’re going to need to wear a concealer with extra heavy-duty coverage tomorrow to work. Do you need me to bring you some?”

  “Um . . .” I rarely wore makeup to work. She knew that. She’d lectured me enough times about how women needed to armor themselves with makeup. “I think I have—”

  “I’ll bring you some.” My mother frowned as her gaze took in the clutter in the living room.

  “I haven’t had a chance to pick up everything, but the doctor said I need to keep my ankle elevated.”

  “The Bailey boy also told me about the break-in.” She picked up a stack of books and slid them on one of the empty shelves without any thought of organization.

  “You . . . you don’t have to do that. Seriously.” She was making more work for me.

  As usual, she didn’t give any indication she’d heard me. “That’s one of your father’s favorite books.”
She picked up the copy of The Maltese Falcon I’d been leafing through.

  “I wanted to show it to him. That’s why I was at his house when someone was tearing through my house. I wanted to see if he could tell me more about the book, but he wasn’t home.”

  “Out fishing, huh?”

  “He was,” I said.

  She shook her head and laughed bitterly. “That man is as predictable as the summer rain. You should have known he’d be out on the lake.”

  “I’m usually in church on Sunday.”

  “As you should have been today. You wouldn’t have fallen off your bike and hurt yourself if you’d been where you were supposed to be.”

  “You’re right.”

  My ready agreement seemed to trip her up. She straightened. Her perfectly coiffed hair trembled. “Um . . . well . . . of course I’m right. I’m your mother. What did you want to ask your father about this book?” She tapped the copy of The Maltese Falcon she was still holding. “He’s read all the classic mysteries, you know. He always had one around. I once found a copy of Murder on the Orient Express in his sock drawer and a copy of The Red-Headed League tucked behind the dresser.”

  “Really? Why would he do that?”

  “No clue. It was so irritating, like living with a squirrel. I’d find his books tucked away in the oddest places. And whenever I confronted him about one of them, he’d snatch the book I’d found out of my hands and refuse to talk about it. That’s your dad, impulsive and full of secrets.”

  “Sounds like pretty much everyone else in this town,” I muttered.

  “What’s that?” Mama asked without looking up from the book.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Your father would talk to himself as well.” She flipped to the front of the book and tapped one of the pages. “I hated that.”

  “Sorry. There’s . . . there’s just been so much going on lately.”

  “At least you don’t have to worry about who killed that poor town manager anymore.”

  “I suppose,” I said. “That’s a relief.”

  “You don’t sound relieved.” She closed the book with a snap. “Is this one of the old library books?”

  “No. The library has one just like it. But Charlie, the bookseller you met the other night, gave me this copy. Why do you ask?”

  She handed the book back to me. “It’s a first edition. You should consider giving it to your father. You do remember his birthday is coming up? He’d really like it.”

  “What?” I sat up so quickly that my foot slid off its perch and slammed down on the hardwood floor. Dewey jumped down with an irate meow. I groaned. “No, it’s not a first edition. I already checked.”

  “Sweetie, there’s a reason why I’m so hard on you girls in cotillion classes.” She lifted my foot and put it back on the recliner’s padded footrest. “Moving with purpose and grace isn’t just for looks. It’s also to save you from hurting yourself.”

  Once I’d settled and my ankle had stopped throbbing, I opened the book to the copyright page. Just as I’d already seen, there was no mention that it was a first printing or a first edition, just a copyright date of 1929 on the copyright page and 1930 on the cover page. Just like the copy I’d kept for the library, the book lacked the iconic yellow dust jacket that made first editions of this book so very valuable.

  “What makes you think it’s a first edition?” I asked.

  “The copyright date is both 1929 and 1930. Isn’t that when the book was first published? Anyhow, I think he once said something about how the first editions of The Maltese Falcon were odd like that. They had two different copyright dates.”

  “How would you remember that?” How would anyone remember anything like that?

  She shrugged. “When he wasn’t keeping secrets, your father would blab on and on about the history of his favorite books. I suppose some of it got stuck in my head.” She shuddered. “Call him tonight when he gets back from fishing. He knows more about these things.”

  “I will,” I said slowly.

  I’d been so focused on the story contained within the pages of The Maltese Falcon that I hadn’t spent enough time researching this specific printed book.

  I needed to think.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mama stayed for the rest of the afternoon, cleaning up the mess from the break-in and fussing over me. She fluffed the pillow under my ankle and fixed me a healthy—but tasty—vegetarian dish with yellow squash, eggplant, tomatoes, green peppers, and a creamy coconut sauce. It was so good, I started to lick the bowl.

  “I can get you more,” she offered with a warm smile.

  “I’d love more,” I said. “Thank you.”

  After she had refilled my bowl, she sat beside me with a surprise second helping of her own. She told me all about who was doing what in her women’s club and what their daughters were all up to. We laughed. We joked. It was one of the best afternoons I’d had with her in a long time.

  When we were done eating, she took the plates.

  “Just put them in the sink,” I called as she headed into the kitchen.

  A moment later, I could hear the water running and the clank of dishes. Clearly, she was washing them. Instead of feeling annoyed, I leaned my head back and enjoyed—just for a moment—having someone take care of me. Dewey jumped back up on my lap and batted at my arm until I started to pet him.

  “Tru! Are you decent?” Tori called a moment before the screen door swung open. Dewey gave a startled meow and dug his claws into my arm in his haste to skitter behind the chair.

  “What’s going on?” I said, sitting up. Why would Dewey run from my best friend?

  “I come bearing gifts.” She held up a greasy paper bag.

  “Victoria Kaitlyn Green, tell me you didn’t bring my daughter fried chicken.” Mama stood at the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. She wiped her hands on the dish towel she’d wrapped around her waist like an apron. “You know our family can’t eat fried food. It’s like poison to our systems.”

  “It’s not fried chicken, Mama Eddy,” Tori said, her smile unshaken. “It’s vegetables.”

  My mother scoffed. “Looks fried to me.”

  “It’s from the Grind. They deep-fry everything, even the sweet tea.” She held up a tall to-go cup that was dripping with condensation.

  “Oh! Gimme! Gimme!” I reached out for the cup. The Grind made the best sweet tea in Cypress, perhaps even the world. I didn’t know what they put in it. Some guessed the restaurant added fresh strawberries and lemons with the sugar syrup. Whatever magical ingredients they used, the tea tasted like summer.

  “Manners,” Mama scolded.

  “What in the—” It was the first time Tori had taken a look at me. She glanced over at my mom and cleared her throat. “What happened to you, Tru?”

  “Fell off my bike.” I reached out for the sweet tea again. “Can I have that?”

  “I’ll take the bag.” Mama marched off into the kitchen with the greasy bag. I winced when I heard the trash can lid slam. The loss of the fried goodies didn’t stop me from enjoying the tea.

  Tori flopped into the seat my mother had been using.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen.

  “You mean about Mama Eddy? Everyone in Cypress knows what she’s like. You should have texted me that she was here. I would have figured out a way to sneak food in here without her knowing . . . like we used to do in high school.”

  “My life shouldn’t involve us sneaking around like we’re still in high school.”

  “She loves you.”

  “She does. What was in the bag, anyhow?”

  “Fried okra.”

  I closed my eyes and cried a little. Even though I was stuffed to my ears from two servings of my mom’s vegetarian stew, my mouth watered at the mere tho
ught of the salty, slightly slimey flavor of fried okra. The Grind fries the okra with cornmeal, which adds sweet flavor notes to the already delicious treat.

  “Any luck with getting their recipe?” I asked. Ever since Tori opened Perks, she has waged a campaign to convince Jesse and Donovan, the owners of the Grind, to hand over their sweet tea recipe.

  “Donovan said today that the secret to their tea is that they brew it with swamp water.”

  “Ewww!” I laughed so hard, I almost spit out my tea. “He didn’t!”

  “I’ll let you two have some girl time,” Mama said when she came back into the living room. She’d removed her makeshift dishtowel apron and fluffed her hair. “I put the dishes away and you can find the leftover stew in the fridge. There’s enough for the two of you to make a light dinner from it. I’ll drop off the makeup you’ll need for that”—she waggled her fingers at my face—“later tonight.”

  “Thank you, Mama. I love you.”

  My mother raised her brows at my rare expression of the kind of gushy emotions she preferred to avoid. With an imperial sniff, she came over and brushed a kiss on my cheek. “Don’t let Tori talk you into . . . into, well, into anything,” she whispered in my ear.

  “I heard that!” Tori said with a laugh. “And I’ll have you know that it’s your daughter who is leading me astray.”

  “We all know that isn’t true,” Mama said. “It wasn’t true when you were in high school and it certainly isn’t now. I raised my Tru to be like me. Good. Honest. She’s a librarian, for goodness’ sake.”

  “That she is,” Tori agreed with a smirk.

  “What?” Mama demanded, her gaze narrowing. “What is going on here?”

  “Tori is teasing,” I said. “Aren’t you, Tori?”

  My friend shrugged. It didn’t look convincing, but my mom seemed to let it go. At least for now.

  “Goodbye, Mama.” I gave her a tight hug. “Thank you for the meal and the company. Both were truly wonderful.”

  Which wasn’t the most surprising part of her visit. My utterly proper mama may have helped solve a murder.