A Novel Death (15 page)

"I didn't plan to die in here," I whispered.

"Not you, me. This is how people get heart attacks! When you didn't answer, I thought you'd gone out the front."

"How did you know I was in here? No one is supposed to be in here. But I thought I had left my cell phone here."

He gave me a penetrating look.

"Really. I've been keeping the shop open for Margaret. I'm not here to take anything." That was almost true.

He nodded slowly.

"Let's get out," I begged. "The police are in the basement."

Instead of moving, he gave the glass cases a longing look.

"Roger, there's nothing in there! Believe me. I know exactly what books are there. I'll tell you. Let's just get out of here-then we can talk."

We could talk about why he was so far out of his territory, for one thing. Roger was one of my favorite book people, but he was an enigma. He lived in Brooklyn, but spent a lot of time scouting books on the Island. He was West Indian, but his pink-tinted prescription glasses and sculpted dark curls gave him the look of a dandy. From his professional name, The Bookie, you might assume he was some poor schlep peddling books out of the trunk of his Toyota, when he wasn't running bets on the side. But if you assumed that, you would be wrong. Roger had a lucrative business selling black literature and Americana to a sophisticated Manhattan clientele.

As we moved rapidly around the counter to the front door, another flash of yellow caught my attention. The police had draped crime scene tape around the fireplace area. I remembered the streak of brown I had seen on the hearth, and then forgotten. Had Amil been killed there? My stomach flipped over again. Opening the door and making a rapid check of the street, I led Roger out, ducking, then holding the yellow tape up for him. By now I was sure no one was guarding the shop. Whoever was working in the basement probably thought they had heard their colleagues walking around upstairs. They counted on the crime scene tape to deter people from entering and stealing a bunch of used books. Normally it would.

But book people are a little crazy. Or a lot crazy. At a book sale, if someone yelled, "Fire!" the dealers would have to be dragged out. Even as they were being pulled toward the exit, they would be grabbing at any good book they passed.

I started to take Roger into The Whaler's Arms. But it held Derek and too many other memories. Instead I turned us in the opposite direction. There was yet another new espresso bar near the harbor, with outdoor tables on the deck, and I bought cappuccinos for both of us. We sat under a blue-and-white-striped umbrella, facing the water, watching the gently bobbing boats.

"That was wild, you coming in right after I did," I said.

He gave a soft chuckle, playing with his spoon. "Not so wild. I'd been watching the shop from those benches for a while. Then I saw you go in."

"I didn't see you."

"I didn't want to be seen."

I sluiced a mouthful of foam. "But what are you doing way out here?"

"Oh, who knows. It was a long shot. I saw Marty in Wantagh yesterday, and he told me that Margaret had something of black interest. Something important. So I thought I could make her an offer."

Black interest? Marty had told me Americana, but said nothing about black interest. Maybe he was feeding everyone misinformation. "He didn't tell you about her accident?"

"Sure. But he thought she might be back."

That wouldn't convince anyone. "He didn't say anything about Amil?"

"Amil? Who's Amil? Another buyer? It figures. I'm always too late." It was his standard line of self-deprecation, and totally untrue.

"He was Margaret's assistant." I gestured in the direction of the shop. "But he was killed. It must have been in Newsday."

"Who reads newspapers?"

"The yellow crime tape?"

"Jeez! I knew there had been a robbery, but I thought it was only Margaret."

"Wait. Who told you there was a robbery?"

I thought that's what Marty said."

More misinformation? "What did he tell you about this book of Margaret's?"

He shook his head, but the curls didn't even move. "Not much. Just a book, something unique. Black Americana. But when I saw the crime tape, I knew it wouldn't still be there"

Then why were you hanging around?

"Unless the robbery was only about money," he continued hopefully.

"Except that used bookstores aren't known for tons of cash. You'd be better off robbing a nail salon." Then something struck me and I laughed. Too much nervous laughter these days.

"What?"

"There were probably so many book dealers in the shop Monday night that someone should have given out numbers"

He looked gloomy. And then happier. "But if it's black Americana, they might overlook it."

"Marty wouldn't."

"No. Marty sure wouldn't!"

We both laughed at that.

He sighed. "Why wasn't I here Monday night?"

"Because Marty didn't tell you. And he lied to me. How obsessed is that?"

Roger held up his hand as if considering numbers. "On a scale of one to ten? At least a fifteen. But so is that pompous ass up the street, Howard Riggs." He laughed. "And a few other people I could name"

I hoped he didn't mean me.

He gestured at my cup. "Want another one?"

"No. I've got stuff to do."

He stood up. "Let me know if you come across the book, okay? Or hear anything."

"I will."

Back at my van, as I started to climb in, he reached out and held my arm gently. Gently, but I would not have been able to pull away. His face was so close to mine, I could see myself reflected in his rosy glasses. "What's going on, Delhi?"

"Nothing! I mean, you know as much as I do"

"But you'll keep me posted?"

"Uh-huh."

He moved in then and kissed me on the mouth. I kissed him back, and we clutched each other as if we were lovers about to be separated by war. Finally he let me go. Was it only a kiss to seal a promise? We searched each other's faces for the meaning of what had happened. I felt shaken, the backs of my hands prickling. Had it been that long?

He studied me. "Want to hang out sometime?"

Hang out? I laughed. "I think I'm too old for you"

"Not"

"Roger? If you go back in the shop, be careful!"

"I'm always careful. We darkies have learned something."

But had he learned enough? I watched with concern as he ambled toward the benches at the end of the parking lot again. Despite what I had told him, I knew he would wait and search the shop thoroughly when he felt it was safe. Part of him would not be able to shake the belief that, like pulling the sword out of the stone, only he would be able to identify the treasure.

Driving away, I thought of something that troubled me more. Although Roger pretended to arrive places late, after everyone else had come and gone, that wasn't true. He liked to say things like, "I got there late, as usual" or "I waited for three hours and the sale never opened" He accused books of leaping off the shelves into my bag instead of his. But most of the time, he was ahead of me in line at sales. There was no reason to believe that he had not been here Monday night with the others. Or even last Friday night, for that matter.

I drove home. I could not think of anywhere else to go with Margaret's key and had to wrap books and list others for sale. But I worked steadily and, finally, with a stack of bubble-wrapped packages in addressed boxes ready to go, I could spend a few minutes on the part of bookselling I liked best. I reached for the stack of children's books at my feet. There were some treasures inside: Mousekin and Freddy the Pig, several Noel Streatfeild Shoes books, a first edition of A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Classics that were hard not to reread on the spot.

I was opening the flaps of the carton when the phone rang. I jumped, still shaky from the bookshop experience, but it was only Colin.

He wasted no time. "Are you okay? Jane just called me. She was very upset."

"You mean about the fight at her rental?" Of course I knew he didn't mean that. But I could not talk yet about finding Amil.

Still, it threw him off. "What fight?"

I told him.

"No, it wasn't that. They didn't even go back to Fire Island; she was too spooked to stay out here after what happened in that bookshop." Then the parent-to-parent reproof. "She may seem mature on the surface, Delhi, but she's still very impressionable. She was frantic about you; she wants me to come over and stand guard."

"That's silly. It had nothing to do with me."

"She said the stench was overpowering."

"Well, you know Jane. She's got a great nose."

"Delhi, she's not a hunting dog!"

He said it reproachfully, but in a moment we were both laughing. Then he moved on to what was really bothering him. Not my safety. Not Jane's sensitive nerves. "You went out to dinner. I'm supposed to be involved whenever the children are out here."

"It wasn't dinner. Lance was the only one who ate anything. You would have been holding my head while I was throwing up."

"I'll come over if you want."

I hesitated. Did that mean he wanted to come home? Or was he just trying to placate Jane?

"Nobody's about to murder me," I told him honestly. "Butthanks."

"By the way," he said, "I ran into Loretta Hawn yesterday on campus. She's still running the university day care center."

"That's good. How's Loretta?" Asking after her was on a par with wondering if we were getting enough rain. Humorless Loretta wore Birkenstocks with white socks and printed smocks. When she talked about "fantasy builders," she did not mean Victoria's Secret.

"Oh, she's fine. But she's short a helper again. So I told her you might be interested."

"What?"

"Come on, Delhi, it's good respectable work. The pay's not great, but there are a lot of benefits. It's even part of the retirement system now.,,

"Colin, what makes you think I'm looking for a new job? And with little kids?" I had a nightmarish image of myself spending eight hours a day singing "I'm a Little Teapot" and mopping up "accidents." Why not just kill myself right now? "Why do you keep coming up with these menial jobs for me? Last month they needed someone to pass out samples at Trader Joe's. It's not like you're encouraging me to go to medical school. Anyway, I love bookselling!"

"And that's not menial?"

I was squeezing the receiver in a death grip. "No. It's fascinating. And it's all mine."

"That's for sure. You have no pension, no social security, no guarantees for the future. You'll have to make some decisions in October."

October. What if he wanted me out of the house? Could he? If he wanted to live here by himself, I could still move into the barn. As long as I could do what I wanted.

"What should I tell Loretta?"

I slammed down the phone.

Then I turned to my new books to console me. Some of them were very collectible and could bring an infusion of cash. People were always looking for Mousekin's Golden House by Edna Miller with its adorable illustrations of the white-tailed little rodent. I had Movie Shoes and Family Shoes in dust jackets. The quirky illustrations in M. Sasek's This Is Venice always made it desirable. There were other favorites in the box too, a Nurse Nancy Golden Book, a Freddy the Pig first edition, and Big Susan.

Yet as I price-checked the books with those listed by other dealers, I was alarmed to see that, although some of the prices had held since the last time I sold these books, others had dipped. Marcel Sasek had taken a beating because his books were being reprinted. A bad omen. Books should be getting more rare, more expensive as they aged, not less. Colin's predictions trembled on the edge of my consciousness like cobwebs high in the corners of the barn.

If I had to give up books, I would die. No, scratch that. Lily and Amil had died; I would survive. Then, remembering Margaret, I made my daily call to the Intensive Care Unit. To my surprise, the desk nurse with whom I had become almost friendly told me that Margaret was about to be transferred to a regular ward. I would actually be able to see her tomorrow after ten A.M. She warned me, however, that my friend was still comatose.

Around seven, I did what any bookseller who had slept too little the night before and had had a frustrating day, what any bookseller with low standards and no self-discipline would do. After locking the barn, I drove to the take-out window of my favorite fast food restaurant, ordered dark meat chicken original style, with mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and gravy. Then I raced home before my dinner could get cold, skimping on two stop signs. I poured a large glass of Chardonnay, pulled my signed first edition of Breakfast at Tiffany's out of the bookshelf and settled on the den couch. All comforts in place, I abandoned myself to the enchanted world of 1950s New York.

At eighteen, I had discovered the movie, a blueprint of freedom for an earlier generation of young women. Trying to live an authentic life and be as true to myself as Holly, I met Colin my sophomore year at Douglass College and dreamed of a life of adventure. Colin married me quickly, as easily as claiming a book from the stacks. It was a whirlwind courtship, as they say. By the time my head cleared, I had four cranky babies and one self-absorbed poet, and I wasn't humming "Moon River" anymore.