by Elaine Viets
Helen had the awful feeling door number three was the correct answer, and she didn’t want to go there.
She tapped on the bookstore door at eight-fifty the morning after her Triple D encounter. Gayle unlocked it and said, “Helen, how are you feeling?”
Helen had almost forgotten she’d called in sick to go to her aborted job interview.
“Uh, fine,” she managed. She stood there, waiting for Gayle to tell her to clean out her locker.
“I brought doughnuts,” Gayle said. “They’re in the break room. Help yourself, then I’ll open your cash drawer.”
Wasn’t Gayle going to say anything about their Palm Beach encounter? Like, “How’s your collar after I dragged you out of the car?” Or, “Do your knees hurt from when you landed on the ground?”
Gayle acted as if it had never happened. Helen found that unnerving. But she kept her own silence. She did not tell her colleagues about Gayle’s affair with Astrid. That was no one’s business but theirs.
She got more silence from Brad. He didn’t talk to Helen for a full day. Then the little bookseller forgave Helen those nosy questions, and told her the latest news about J.Lo.
Albert wasn’t just silent—he wasn’t there. He called in sick three days in a row. Helen hoped he was on job interviews.
Denny was quiet as death. He did not joke or do his Sting imitations when he cleaned the café. Mr. Davies’ death weighed heavily on the young bookseller. He came to work on time. He had no choice if he didn’t want to wind up in a juvenile facility. But murder was more reality than Denny wanted.
Mr. Davies’ death was ruled a homicide. Detective Gil Gilbert told them the store’s oldest inhabitant had been smothered. Helen thought the hazel-eyed detective looked rather like Gary Cooper in High Noon.
“With our couch pillows?” she said.
“Afraid so, ma’am,” Gilbert said. Now he sounded like him, too. “His DNA was found on one.”
“How’d it get there?” Brad asked.
“Er, fluids from his mouth and nose,” Gilbert said tactfully.
“Gross, man. Snot and slobber,” Denny said tactlessly.
That creeped Helen out. She could not look at the comfortable old couch without a shudder. It had held a murder weapon.
Poor Page Turners. The store had been designed as a book lover’s delight, but now its cozy nooks and crannies were haunted by pedophiles and murderers, liars and rioters.
“Did he suffer?” she asked the detective.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “He was a frail eighty-three, and he may have been asleep at the time he was attacked.”
Helen tried to take comfort in that.
Detective Gilbert questioned the bookstore staff again. By the time he finished with her, Helen did not see any further resemblance to Gary Cooper. She thought he looked like the IRS agent who’d audited her and Rob in 1988.
Helen had a question for him: “Why isn’t Detective Jax here? Mr. Davies was murdered because he knew something about Page Turner’s death.”
“The Page Turner case is closed. The killer has been arrested.”
“Do you really believe that?” Helen said.
“Can you remember any other customers who were in the store between ten a.m. and eleven-thirty p.m.?”
“You’ve asked me that a dozen times. I’ve given you every name I can think of. I want to help, but I didn’t see anyone back there.” And you didn’t answer my question.
Helen was grateful the old book lover’s murder did not make the media. The store would be swamped with curious crowds. Fortunately, in South Florida the death of an old person was not news.
She wanted to go to his funeral, but Mr. Davies’ body was being shipped home to New Jersey. There was no local memorial service. His death left Helen feeling empty and restless. She’d find herself standing where his chair used to be, staring out the window overlooking the parking lot, wondering what he saw that fatal night.
Helen had to face another death. Page Turners was definitely closing. She heard it first. “I guess we need new couch pillows,” Helen said, after Gilbert left. “I don’t think the police will be returning ours anytime soon.”
“No, we don’t,” Gayle said. “The store is closing. I’m making the announcement today, then putting up the ‘Going Out of Business Sale’ sign. We’ll stay open until the stock is sold. That should be two weeks at the most.”
Helen didn’t think it would take that long. The shelves at Page Turners were almost bare. Even displaying the books face-out would not cover all the holes anymore. She was ashamed to sell the survivors. They were a dog-eared lot: last year’s almanacs, picture books with chocolate thumbprints, sci-fi books coated with alien slime. The cookbooks were by chefs who couldn’t get cable TV shows. The children’s books were gnawed. The magazines were too old for a doctor’s office.
Yet people bought them. When that sale sign went up, the bargain hunters charged—and paid cash, and tried to get bigger discounts on the battered stock.
A mother came up to Helen’s register with a stack of shopworn children’s books. “These are half off,” she said. “But this book has a bite out of it.”
“That’s the part that’s half off,” Helen said.
“We’ll give you an additional ten percent,” Gayle said. She muttered to Helen, “No jokes. We have to move this stock.”
The mother looked pleased. “You can have two Barbie books,” she said to her daughter.
“Two! Two!” The little girl did a twirling dance. “I get two. I’m double good!” She was a downy little blonde with a ruffled pink dress and a pretend princess crown.
“Don’t you look pretty,” Helen said.
“Yes,” the little girl said. “It’s my birthday. I’m five whole years old and Mom said I could have any book I wanted, and I get to wear my Cinderella shoes. See?”
She held out her small foot. She was wearing clear plastic high heels. “These are my glass slippers, except they’re not, because Mom says even Cinderella didn’t have real glass ’cause it’s not safe. The prince wouldn’t want her to get hurt.”
“I see,” said Helen. And she did. She saw what Mr. Davies meant. She’d seen shoes like that before, on grown-up feet.
Helen put the little girl’s two books in her own special bag, which sent her into another twirling dance in her Cinderella shoes, then bagged her mother’s purchase.
“You didn’t have to do that. Thank you,” said her mother.
“Oh, no,” Helen said. “Thank you. And I do mean that.”
The golden girl who looked like Cinderella.
Melanie, the print-on-demand author, wore clear plastic high heels. But she didn’t get a prince. Instead she had a humiliating encounter with that toad, Page Turner.
Helen didn’t know if Melanie drove a silver car. But kindly old Mr. Davies had transformed her tacky see-through plastic heels into Cinderella slippers.
Helen could see the shoes now. But she couldn’t see Melanie as a murderer. Could she really kill Page Turner and Mr. Davies?
Ridiculous. Melanie wasn’t a double killer. She was a double victim. She’d been screwed twice, once by her greedy publisher and again by Page Turner.
She could just see telling Detective Gilbert that fluffy little woman was a killer. OK, she wasn’t that little. But with her blond hair and ruffles, she was fluffy as Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail.
Mr. Davies must have meant something else. Or someone else. Maybe he saw Astrid dressed up for her society event.
She should forget all about Melanie.
Except she could not. Melanie had been badly used by Page Turner. The man had led her on, promising a signing at his prestigious store and a blurb from his best-selling writer friend, the fatheaded Burt Plank. Naive little Melanie with her Cinderella shoes and fairy-tale dreams believed those promises. Until Gayle opened her eyes.
Gayle again. The woman kept wandering through this story. Gayle told Melanie the truth about Page Turne
r. What was her connection? Were they in it together?
Where was Melanie the night of Page Turner’s murder?
Helen knew she was in the store the day Mr. Davies was killed. She’d come in right after Madame Muffy, the preppy psychic. She’d wanted to pick up her books. Except she couldn’t afford both of them. So Helen had stashed one away for her. What was Melanie’s last name? Something frilly: Devereaux DuShayne. That was it.
Maybe Helen should have a friendly talk with her. Helen tried directory assistance, but there was no one listed with that name.
She checked the store’s author files in the computer, but there was no mention of Melanie, more proof that Page Turner never considered giving her a signing.
The key to Page Turner was in the bookstore, Gayle had said. And the key to the author? In her book. That’s one of the last things Mr. Davies told Helen. “Authors always write about themselves. The good ones are better at disguising it.”
If Helen wanted to find out anything about Melanie, she would have to read her book.
Where did she hide it?
Behind the other D’s on the hold shelf. Helen moved a pile of books. There it was: Love and Murder—Forever: A Romantic Mystery or Mysterious Romance, by Melanie Devereaux DuShayne.
The lurid cover showed a half-clad woman on a bed in the embrace of a Fabio look-alike. A bloody knife was plunged into their pillow.
Helen read the first sentence:
Jillian’s gaze rested on Lance’s broad chest and gentle touch.
How does your gaze rest on a gentle touch? Helen couldn’t figure that out, but she kept reading.
Her heart told her this was the only man she would ever love. Jillian felt a stirring that left her moist, yielding. Lance’s eyes slid down her dress.
Helen started giggling. She saw two eyes sliding down a dress, leaving a bloody trail. She closed the book. Enough.
On the back cover was a photo of Melanie holding a fat surly cat. Her biography said, When she’s not writing romantic mysteries, Melanie Devereaux DuShayne is a dental assistant at the Mr. Goodtooth Clinic in Sunnysea Beach, Florida, where she lives with her Siamese cat, Samson.
She lives at the clinic with her cat?
No, that had to be more of Melanie’s tangled syntax. But now Helen knew where Melanie worked. The Mr. Goodtooth Clinic was in the phone book. Maybe they could have that chat after all. There must be some way to casually ask Melanie where she was the night of the murder. Everything Helen thought of sounded lame. But then, Melanie didn’t seem to be the brightest bulb in the chandelier.
Helen called the clinic. The receptionist said, “Melanie is with a patient. Can she call you back?”
“Uh, no,” Helen said. “I can’t take calls here. Could you put me on hold?”
Helen listened to a Muzak version of “Strawberry Fields” that went on forever, before Melanie answered the phone.
“Melanie, this is Helen at Page Turners bookstore,” she said, and immediately wished she had been smart enough to use a different name. “We’re trying to locate Mr. Turner’s briefcase because it had some important business papers in it. I understand you picked him up at the store the night he ...”
He what? Croaked? Died? Went to his reward?
Melanie’s voice turned cold enough to frost the orange crop. “I was nowhere near the bookstore the night Mr. Turner died.”
“Really? We have a witness who says you picked up Mr. Turner.”
“Was it that old man? Because he was asleep when I . . . He always slept in that chair. You’re trying to find out if I have an alibi! I can’t believe this. Your store has always persecuted me, and now this!” Melanie slammed down the phone.
When she what? When she picked up Page? Put the pillow over Mr. Davies’ face?
And why was Melanie talking about Mr. Davies in the past tense, as if he were dead? His death wasn’t in the papers or on TV.
Helen needed to know more about Melanie. All she had was a hunch, a slip of the tongue, and a dead witness. There was only one way to learn more. It would be horrible, but she would do it for Peggy.
Helen would read Melanie’s book.
Chapter 27
Helen fixed some coffee and sat in her turquoise Barcalounger, determined to read Melanie’s book. Last time, she’d gotten as far as Lance’s eyes sliding down Jillian’s dress.
She knew Lance loved her. Lance, with his strong, sensitive hands, his sage-colored eyes, his devotion to dental science. He was her knight, the lord of her throbbing love. But Jillian was bound by law, if not by love, to the heartless Simon de Quincy, who was as rich as he was evil. Her spun-gold hair, bluebell eyes and lush, feminine body were subject to the rough, insolent caresses of another man, a man who never flossed. Jillian had toiled as a dental assistant when she first met Simon.
A dental assistant? That was Melanie’s job. Mr. Davies was right. Melanie put autobiographical details in her novel. She was the heroine in this romance novel, with spun-gold hair (courtesy of Miss Clairol) and bluebell eyes (contacts). Her heaving bosom was clad in discount ruffles and laces. Her glass slippers were clear plastic.
Yet Melanie’s job was ruthlessly practical. She stuck her fingers in strangers’ mouths and patiently scraped the gunk off their dirty teeth. Nothing was less romantic.
Was her book a way to inject some romance into her life? Were these questions a delaying tactic on Helen’s part to avoid reading this book? And what was a rich guy named Simon de Quincy doing married to a dental assistant?
Simon was a patient who needed his diseased gums lasered. Alas, after she married him, she realized her new husband also had a diseased soul. If Jillian ever left him, Simon would make sure she never gazed upon her darling baby Jarrod again. The corrupt de Quincys were so powerful, they could do anything, even tear a mother from her child. Night after night, Jillian endured Simon’s embraces while she thought only of her true love, Lance.
Helen read about Simon de Quincy’s countless cruelties and inadequate dental hygiene until her gaze glazed and she fell asleep. She woke again at three-thirty. No woman could endure this on her own. It would take another pot of coffee. She made it extra strong. Then she resumed reading. She was 190 pages into the book. Jillian and Lance had gazed at each other sixty-seven times.
What was it about romances and gazing? Helen figured that’s why it took the couple so long to get into the sack. When gazes rarely went below the neck, it took time to get down to business.
I have no romance, she thought.
Helen got up, stretched, then poured her eighth cup of the night. The caffeine buzz would keep her awake until next week. Come on, she told herself. You have work to do. She resumed the painful task of reading.
The vile Simon de Quincy was snoring on the white satin chaise longue, still wearing his muddy riding boots. The dreaded riding crop, the source of so much humiliation, was gripped in one hairy hand. A black silk tunic clutched his broad chest, just as she had once desired to clutch him in wifely lust, before he had crushed her spirit and her love. A bottle of priceless Napoleon brandy was beside him. It had fallen over. Its precious liquid spilled out on a mahogany table that had graced the de Quincy mansion for four generations.
That was another problem Helen had with romances. Why didn’t the guy wear normal clothes? You could be a villain in jeans and deck shoes. Well, a Florida villain, anyway.
De Quincy’s filthy snores grew louder. Jillian knew the utter degradation she would face when he awoke. Simon would beat her and force her to . . . she would feel his thrusting . . . he would fondle her . . . no, she could not endure that again. She was sickened at the very thought. Last night, she had forced herself to keep quiet as his hands slid over her tender camellia-white body, knowing her precious Jarrod was in the next room. But she swore it would not happen again. She felt as if an angel was leading her to their unhallowed marital bed, the scene of many despairing pairings. She picked up a lace pillow that had been embroidered by a de Quincy maiden
two hundred years ago, and put it over Simon’s face. He hardly struggled. When the riding crop fell from his wretched hand, she knew the man who defiled her was dead.
“Oh, Lance, Lance, I did it for you,” Jillian cried in an agony of triumph. And then she heard the boudoir door creak.
After slogging through mountains of rocky prose, Helen had hit pay dirt. The drunken Simon had been smothered. Just like the drunken Page Turner and poor Mr. Davies. Maybe it wouldn’t convince Detective Gilbert, but Melanie’s favorite method of murder definitely had Helen’s attention.
She set the coffee cup down and read. There was no chance she’d fall asleep now.
Jillian got away with Simon’s murder, thanks to those bluebell eyes, which she batted shamelessly, and a devil-may-care police investigation.
But that did not free Jillian. After Simon’s death, she was blackmailed by the de Quincy family retainer, the oppressive housekeeper, Mrs. Hermione Buncaster. Mrs. B. had photographed Jillian as she put the fatal pillow over Simon’s face. She had the photos under lock and key. It took months of frantic searching to discover their hiding place. Of course, the resourceful Jillian had a way to save herself.
Little did Mrs. Buncaster know that Jillian had befriended a small-time burglar named Melvin Larkey. He, too, was a patient at the dental clinic. Jillian taught him to floss nightly, and saved his teeth from dreadful plaque buildup. “You showed me how to pick me teeth proper, little missy,” said Mel. “In gratitude, I’ll show you how to pick a lock.”
Jillian vowed to use her new lock-picking powers only for good. Thanks to Mel, she could save herself and her innocent son.
Jillian was a lock picker? Now that was interesting. Helen bet this was another autobiographical detail. It took skill and patience to wield teeth-cleaning tools. It was a small step to picking locks. And locks didn’t squirm and yell, “Ouch.”
With nimble fingers, Jillian unlocked the door to the housekeeper’s room. Mel would have been so proud. A Tandy DE345 lock looks difficult, but it always gives way after a few tries. The locked drawer, which had an old-fashioned Peerless lock, could have been opened with a hairpin. Jillian’s expert fingers knew its sordid secret in seconds. She took one last sweeping gaze around the room of her tormentor, then set fire to the photos and the negatives in the metal wastebasket. She gazed exultantly at the rising flames, and knew she was finally free.
