A Novel Death (10 page)

Years of terror made me fight back, twisting and kicking like a furious delinquent. The utility knife in my bag glowed in my mind like an icon, but my arms were pinned tightly to my sides. We danced toward the basement door and toward the reality of my hurtling headfirst down the stairs. Would it break my neck? Out of habit, my left hand was still inside my woven shoulder bag, grasping my keys; I let go of them and felt around for the textured handle of the knife.

I sensed that my attacker was trying to get a hand free to turn the doorknob, but could not risk letting go of my neck or my arms. By then I had found the utility knife with its sharp narrow point. But there was no way I could pull it out of my bag. Desperately I clenched the handle, and then shoved the blade through the woven cloth into his thigh.

It was little more than a pinprick, probably did not even break the skin, but he grunted with surprise. He loosened his hold just long enough for me to pull away from him. But then he gripped my shoulders and pushed. I tripped over the leg he extended and went sprawling between two bookcases. He gave me a kick in the ankle, out of pure meanness, and was gone.

Dazed and shaken, I could not even move for a minute or two. Then I pushed painfully up from the bare wood floor and gingerly balanced on my knees. Everything ached, but I knew I was not seriously hurt. I wondered if he was still in the bookstore, lying in wait. Yet he could have killed me if he had wanted to when I was lying facedown on the floor. Perhaps the attack had been more of a sense of pique at a plan foiled than murderous rage.

Using the bookshelf to my right, I pulled myself slowly to my feet, and rubbed my throat, checking for any damage. My cheek was friction-burned from sliding against the floor. But I would live to fight over books another day.

Limping from my kicked ankle, I switched on the lights in each room, ending up at the front counter. One of the doors of the glass cases was standing open; the lock had been forced. But what was missing? The Tin Man of Oz was still there, as was Poems of a Long Island Farmer by Cutter Bloodgood, a traveler on whom Mark Twain had based a character in Innocents Abroad. The two volumes of The Apples of New York, with their beautiful color plates, still stood together with a copy of The Razor's Edge that I hadn't even noticed before. There were no gaps and I couldn't honestly see that any books were gone. While these were all books you would not want to have stolen, books for which, on the right day and with the right buyer, you might get up to several hundred dollars, they were not exactly firsts of The Catcher in the Rye or The Great Gatsby.

I stared at the cash register, unwilling to open it. I could not bear to see that it had been emptied, that all my work on Margaret's behalf had been wiped out-as well as the money left in there from Friday. But when I rang up the NO SALE sign, the drawer bounced open. All of yesterday's cash was still in place, singles, fives, tens, and twenties, curling up neatly from under metal prongs.

So: whoever it was who had been in here had been after the book.

Time to call Alex Kazazian. I moved toward the phone, and then realized that his card was still in the book barn. Hanging around here was not a good idea anyway. Without bothering to tape up the back window or even turn out the lights in the other rooms, I opened the front door, locked it, and got into my van.

Alex Kazazian didn't call me back until 7:40 the next morning. I was already up and at work in the book barn, wrapping orders.

As soon as he identified himself, I said, "There was a break-in at the bookstore last night. The Old Frigate."

"What did they take?"

"I'm not sure. But they attacked me! One held me from behind and was trying to push me down the basement steps."

"Big guy?"

"Bigger than me!"

"Anything special about him? He smell like anything? Could you feel what he was wearing?"

"I think just a T-shirt. Maybe jeans. It happened so fast."

"You go to the emergency room?"

"No. I mean, I wasn't really hurt. I'm just stiff today."

"Get it checked out anyway. Go to the ER. Look, my tour starts at four. I'll stop by the shop and take a statement from you."

"You want me to go to the shop?"

"I thought you worked there."

"Can't you come any earlier?"

"I'll see what I can do."

My next call was to Port Glass and Mirror; they promised to get to The Old Frigate before noon to replace the window. I guessed I could stay there that long.

When I got to High Street, it was hard to recall last night's terror. Galvanized pails of Gerber daisies stood outside Love in Blooms; just beyond the flower shop the antiques' dealer was sweeping his sidewalk clean as a waitress sponged off outdoor tables at Wrap Wrap! It really was a charming street. Before unlocking The Old Frigate, I went next door to The Whaler's Arms to pick up coffee.

Derek, the silver-haired owner, handed me the Styrofoam cup. "How's Margaret?"

"Hanging on."

"A damn shame," he pronounced. "Especially after all she's put into that shop. They say a boat's a hole in the ocean you pour money into, but retail's just as bad." He glanced around ironically at his nautical restaurant.

"It can get expensive," I agreed.

"When she took that balloon loan, I couldn't believe what she was spending. New wood floors, the fireplace in, new everything. Gorgeous"

"It is." I tried to remember what the shop had looked like before the renovations, but in those days we were on the road a lot.

"You gotta keep your interest in something fresh, you know? You lose interest, customers can tell. Anyway, give her my best"

"I will."

Walking the short distance between shops I wondered if Margaret had also bought new ladders during the renovation. A five-year-old library ladder step should not break.

The first person through the door was Susie Pevney, aka Hoover, cheerful in denim shorts and a black SUBWAY SERIES T-shirt. She was as interested in baseball as in books.

"Hey Delhi! Margaret's not back?"

"Not yet"

"How is she?"

"She's still in the hospital." I could have told her more. But after last night I was no longer sure who I could trust. Why was Susie here now?

She made a commiserating face about Margaret, and then added, "I thought that other guy would be here"

Perhaps because with Amil, less knowledgeable, she could have continued her search?

"Amil? No."

"Is something wrong, Delhi?" Her brown eyes blinked earnestly behind her glasses. "Did I do anything?"

I leaned forward on the stool behind the counter. "I'm just upset. Did you know that Margaret found something important?"

"No. What?"

"I don't know. Jack Hemingway told me. I thought you might have heard"

Susie made a disbelieving face. "You're kidding, right? You think anyone tells us anything? We're the pariahs, didn't you know? You're the only friendly one. And Margaret's okay." But then she laughed. "But Paul's always reminding me that it's a business-not my mom's book club."

"How's he doing?" I asked. Paul Pevney, tall and very thin, with granny glasses and untidy colorless curls, was one of the gentlest men I knew. Absurd to even imagine him attacking me.

"Oh, he's fine. He's started working at Home Depot now-six nights a week. We decided it's the only way for us to get out of the hole. But he's on the four-to-midnight shift, so that it doesn't interfere with book buying." Her lips tilted with irony and sweetness. "I'm not so sure that's a good thing. His night off is even Friday, so he can get to bed early for weekend sales!"

"But he likes it?"

She considered that solemnly. "Actually, he does. Paul's very handy with tools, how they work and all. He can explain to people what they need to do"

"Great." Of course it hadn't been the Hoovers last night. "So can I interest you in a signed first of To Kill a Mockingbird?"

"I wish! Actually I came to sell Margaret some stuff. Good enough books, you know, but the kind that do better in stores."

"You could try Howard Riggs."

"Oh, right. Do I look like I need to be beat up?"

At that moment the glass man arrived, a baby-faced teenager with a continuous smile. He grinned at me, smiled again when he saw the broken-out window, and beamed as he extracted a metal tape measure from his pocket.

Whatever he was on, I wanted some.

I left him to his work and, as I entered the second room, looked more closely at the ladder.

The broken rung was halfway up, probably the highest step you'd stand on to shelve a book at the top. But wasn't it higher than Margaret would need? Tentatively, I climbed to the step just below it and stretched out my arm. I could reach the books on the top shelf easily, and she was taller than I was. On my way down, I also saw that although the ladder of thick blond wood looked new, the top of the broken step had splintered unevenly as it cracked.

Back on the floor, I pushed the step into place. But as soon as I took my hand away, it flopped down. Something was wrong. Shouldn't the splinters catch? I tried again, watching as the wood dropped, then knelt down and looked up from beneath. Someone had sawed the rung almost all the way through, so that the surface of the step would have broken naturally from the weight.

I looked for sawdust on the floor but saw none, and then ran my finger lightly over the grooved step below it. Several tiny beige flakes clung to my skin and I quickly rubbed my thumb against my finger to return the specks. I was handling evidence.

Yet it made no sense. No one could have gotten into the shop and pulled out a saw without Margaret knowing. Except, possibly, Amil, when we were next door having coffee. Had he been replacing the saw in the office Friday when I came in and surprised him? He knew Margaret would be the only one to climb that ladder. There were signs at the top of each warning FOR STAFF USE ONLY! PLEASE REQUEST HELP.

Now I had something to show Alex Kazazian, though I still wasn't sure what it meant. Where was he, anyway? I paid the smiling glazier, and rang up a steady stream of sales. With people always in the shop, I felt safe. And I was collecting a nice amount of money for Margaret.

At half past two, just when I thought things were slowing down enough to think about lunch, my daughter Jane walked through the door, accompanied by her new friend. He had short fair hair and a squared-off jaw with a deep cleft. His face had angles like a comic book hero and his shoulders were boxy in the same way.

After Jane and I hugged, she announced, "This is Lance! He's pre-med at NYU, plays tennis, and scuba dives." She pushed him forward as if showing off a Prada bag. But pre-med meant he was still an undergraduate, several years younger than Jane. This was a recent development. Throughout college, she had dated much older men, as if trying to copy me. But since starting her career in finance in Manhattan, she seemed more interested in finding a playmate.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fitzhugh," he said heartily, thrusting out a tanned arm. He was as pleasant as a Boy Scout, and I did not bother to explain that I used my maiden name.

They made an attractive couple. Jane had dark blond hair the color of mine, but wore it short; that day she had it clipped with colored barrettes, creating several odd but attractive waterspouts. Her outfit was the unattractive style of the sophisticated young-baggy khaki travel shorts and a crisp white camp shirt.

"How did you know I was here?"

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Janie was just showing me the town and spotted your van. She said you wouldn't be anywhere but the bookstore."

"Mom, that van's a mess! All those McDonald's wrappers. You never let us eat fast food."

"And see how beautifully you turned out."

"Why are you behind the counter? Where's Margaret?"

"Long story"

"And what's that smell?" Jane crinkled her perfect nose. "How can you stand it?"

I considered. The faint aftershave odor I associated with thrift shop books had gotten stronger in the last hour, and taken on a meaty undertone. I had noticed it more since the back window glass had been replaced.

"Tell her, Lance," she commanded.

He gave me an apologetic smile. "It is kind of ripe."

"Mom, it's like when Jason's guinea pig got inside the wall and died? And we could smell him, but we couldn't find him?"

I was sorry she had said that. Looking over at a very tall man who was sitting in the tan wing chair, a mound of books in his lap, I called, "We have to close now. I'm sorry."

He sighed. "You mean I have to decide?" He shuffled through the pile, and then brought over two Eyewitness Guides, one for France and one for Italy. I looked at them longingly. I wished I were back in Sorrento. Or Nice. Or even on my chaise lounge by the fish pond with a cup of espresso.

As soon as the man was out the door, I said to Lance, "Snap that lock, will you?"

Jane gave me a wary look.

"We have to find out what it is," I said.

"Lance and I can wait outside."

Oh, no you don't. "C'mon, Jane. You've got the best nose."

"Mom!"

"It's true."

When she was growing up, Jane drove Colin crazy by sniffing out milk that was just beginning to think about turning and refusing to drink it; she knew instantly where a cat had done something naughty. "You know I get sick," she warned. "I don't have a cast-iron stomach like you."

"Lead on, McJane."

Now I can't remember why I had insisted, why I thought it was up to us to find whatever it was.

Taking Lance's hand, Jane stepped cautiously into the next room of books, and into the next. Then we were in the last room. For a moment I hoped we were smelling something from outside, a dead raccoon or a possum that had collapsed on the patio. But Jane was turning toward the closed basement door. The odor was now a presence.

"What's down there?" she asked me nervously, waving her scarlettipped hand at the door.

"Just the basement." Every cell in my body was on alert, ready to stop me.

Slowly I reached in front of her, turned the knob, and snapped on the light. "I think Margaret keeps books down here."