Dead Between the Lines (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

I
t had taken all my schmoozing skills to persuade Jake and Noah to leave without me. In the end, I’d had to promise to go out with each guy alone. Jake had insisted on Saturday night, and Noah had settled for Sunday afternoon. To be honest, I was curious as to why they’d both turned up at the dime store within minutes of each other, since I hadn’t had a date with either one of them, and I figured it would be easier to get the truth if I talked to them separately.

Now, as I greeted the members of the Stepping Out Book Club, I put my man problems aside and concentrated on charming the attendees. They were all commenting on how nice the weather was for early May, and I agreed, subtly pointing out my gardening display as they passed.

This was the first time they had met in my store, and I hoped the group would decide to use my place on a regular basis. When Xylia had approached me about having their meeting at the dime store, I was a little hesitant. I loved hosting the various craft groups, but most of them met during the day, and I didn’t want another evening commitment that would mean spending more time away from Gran. I couldn’t afford to hire extra help, so if the store was open, I had to be there.

However, after Xylia had outlined the arguments in favor of her proposition, I’d had to admit it was a good deal. The club had agreed to order this month’s selection from me, which meant eighteen copies—one member already owned the book—of
Ode to a Small Midwestern Town
at twenty-five bucks a pop, which gave me a profit of a hundred and eighty dollars. I had also insisted that they had to clean up afterward and pay me to provide the refreshments.

I was charging the members fifteen clams each for the wine, cheese, and crackers that had cost me less than a C note and taken only half an hour to set up. This little shindig would net me nearly four Benjamins for two hours of my time. It was as close to the salary I’d been making as an investment consultant as I’d gotten since buying the store.

A familiar voice snapped me out of my greedy reverie. “Devereaux!”

“Yes, ma’am.” I involuntarily straightened my spine, then pasted a smile over my startled expression. Mrs. Ziegler, the book club president, was standing on the threshold of the dime store’s open door, her face twisted into an impatient frown. Evidently, I was blocking her path, and judging from the tapping of her impeccably shined black pumps, I had been doing so for quite some time.

She had been the principal of the high school for as long as I could remember, and although everyone called her Mrs. Ziegler, no one could recall a Mr. Ziegler. Not that anyone had the nerve to question her about him.

I stepped out of her way and she swept past me, stopping near the glass-front candy case. For a nanosecond, I thought she wanted to purchase a delectable piece of vanilla-caramel-praline fudge or the candy of the month, a lavender lemonade truffle. Instead, she smiled and said, “Thank you for allowing us to meet in your store.”

“You’re very welcome.” I admired Mrs. Zeigler, but in a scared, she-might-humiliate-me kind of way. She was always immaculately dressed, usually in a well-tailored skirt and pristine blouse. And neither heat nor rain seemed to affect her perfectly smooth black chignon. When I’d been in school, I’d half believed she was a robot or some other nonhuman life form.

“But . . .” Mrs. Zeigler waved her index finger back and forth in front of my nose. “Fifteen dollars for refreshments is outrageous. If we come back here, the cost will have to be much, much lower. Understood?”

“While I’m honored you chose my store . . .” I automatically started to refuse to negotiate, since spending more hours away from Gran would only be worthwhile if I could make a huge profit. But I stuttered to a stop when I realized that ticking off one of Shadow Bend’s most influential citizens would not be a good idea.

“Yes?” Mrs. Zeigler crossed her arms. “So you’ll lower the price?”

Thinking fast, I said, “I could do that if I served pastry and coffee.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Zeigler pursed her mouth. “No. That won’t do at all. I doubt many of our members would be happy without their alcohol.”

“My only other option would be to serve less expensive wine and cheeses.” There was no way I was making less on the arrangement, so something else had to give. “I could do a jug red and white, with grocery store cheddar, Colby, and pepper jack for ten dollars per person.”

“It’s a deal.” Mrs. Zeigler adjusted her purse strap to sit more securely on her shoulder. “By the way.” She pointed to my worktable where I, thankfully, had gathered the retro-themed materials for Mr. Anders’s retirement party basket and not the sexy paraphernalia for the country club’s Girls Night Out raffle. “Good job on those Easter baskets you made for the Athletic Booster Club’s fund-raiser.”

“Thank you.” I glanced discreetly at the vintage Ingraham schoolhouse regulator hanging on the wall behind the cash register. It was already a few minutes after seven. If I didn’t get this show on the road, I’d be here all night. “I heard the boosters made enough to buy new uniforms for all the teams and the cheer squad.”

“Yes, they did.” Mrs. Zeigler pressed her lips together, creating a parenthesis of wrinkles around her mouth and a deep valley between her dark eyebrows. “But the latter had to be returned. The cheerleading coach’s judgment left much to be desired.”

“What a shame.” The clock was ticking and Gran was expecting me no later than nine thirty. If I didn’t move things along, she’d give my share of the pizza to her cat. “We’ve got chairs and tables set up in the craft corner.” I gestured toward the rear of the store. “I believe everyone but your speaker is here, and I’ll bring him to you as soon as he arrives.”

“Very good.” Mrs. Zeigler nodded and headed toward the alcove.

Phew!
I slumped against the wall. I always felt as if I was standing up for my master’s degree’s final oral exam when I spoke with Mrs. Zeigler.

“Devereaux!”

I snapped to attention. Mrs. Zeigler had turned back toward me and was tapping her foot again.

My shoulders tense and expecting the worst, I said cautiously, “Yes?”

“After everyone leaves tonight, please remind me that I want to place a basket order,” she instructed. “I don’t want to forget.”

“Okay.” I stretched out the word, wondering why she didn’t just call or come into the store during my regular business hours.

“At the end of this month, my spouse and I will have been together for thirty years.” She winked at me. “We’re going away for the weekend and I want to bring one of your ‘special’ creations with us as an anniversary surprise.”

I inhaled so abruptly that I choked. When my eyes stopped watering, Mrs. Zeigler was gone. Had the school principal, the Terror of Shadow Bend High, really just told me she wanted to order an erotic basket? More to the point, could I make her one she’d like?

Nearly half an hour later, while I was still contemplating the fact that Mrs. Zeigler did indeed have a husband, and apparently a love life, the guest of honor finally showed up. There hadn’t been much information about him on his Web site, and what was there hadn’t been all that flattering, making him seem supercilious and elitist. It always amazed me that on the Internet, where people could be anything they wanted to be, they so often chose to be stupid.

I’d been surprised that there hadn’t been an author photo anywhere online or even in his book, a collection of poetry from a small press, but Lance Quistgaard was exactly as I had imagined. Actually, he was perhaps a tad better-looking.

He was tall and lean, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and black silk turtleneck. His dark hair was brushed straight back to reveal a dramatic widow’s peak, and on his cheeks was a day’s worth of stubble that stood out starkly against his pale skin. He looked like an idealized Hollywood version of a poet. Or possibly a vampire. Maybe that’s why he was so late. The sun had set only a few minutes ago, so maybe he’d just risen from his coffin.

Laughing at my wild imagination, I stepped forward and said, “Mr. Quistgaard, I presume?” When he inclined his head, I held out my hand. “Welcome. I’m Devereaux Sinclair, the owner of the dime store.”

He stared silently at me for a long moment. His eyes were so black that I couldn’t make out a pupil. At last, he said, “With your less than slim figure, you should never wear a sweatshirt. It adds pounds to your frame. Actually, women should always dress in fitted apparel with appropriate foundation garments. Most men do not want to see jiggling flesh.”

“I didn’t realize you were a fashion expert as well as a writer.” It took almost all of my willpower to keep from smacking the arrogant jerk, and the rest of my self-control to stop myself from tugging at the offending article of clothing. “Now let me show you to where the people who care about your opinion are gathered.”

“No need to get testy.” He raised a brow. “All women need a little discipline.”

Oh. My. God!
I would so have to “accidently” spill red wine on this pervert. Too bad I didn’t have any hot coffee to pour on his crotch. Biting my tongue, I led him to the crafting alcove, introduced him to Mrs. Zeigler, and retreated before I gave in to the impulse to beat the crap out of him. Some people really ask for a high five. With a fist. To the chin.

I would definitely not be carrying Quistgaard’s hardcover in my store or ever use it as the one perfect book that I placed in the center of all my baskets as my trademark. Speaking of which, after making sure the front door was locked, I headed toward the old kitchen table I used as a workbench to continue assembling the retirement basket I had begun that afternoon.

The basket part of my business was much more profitable than the dime store. I was selling my creativity more than the actual bits and pieces, so the markup was terrific. Because of that, I squeezed working on them into any spare moment I had, and the book-club meeting was an ideal time to fill several orders.

I set the alert app on my cell phone for forty-five minutes and let my muse fly free. I was humming Alicia Keys’s “Girl on Fire” when the alarm sounded and I came crashing out of my fantasy world. Pleased with my productivity—two finished baskets and a good start on a third one—I cleaned up my workbench and went into the storeroom to get the refreshments.

The wine and glasses were already arranged on a cart. I retrieved the cheese platter from the mini fridge and took the plastic wrap from the tray of crackers, then wheeled the food and drink into the craft area. As soon as I stepped into the alcove, I noticed that Quistgaard was backed up nearly all the way to the wall, and it was clear that he wasn’t happy with the way the Q and A was going.

While I placed the refreshments on the table in the rear, I looked over his audience. The club members appeared to be an eclectic group that was fairly evenly divided in gender, age, and socioeconomic standing. I knew at least half of the attendees by name and recognized the others from having seen them around town. Many were active in other organizations that I hosted, and it was interesting to see the expressions on their faces as Quistgaard spoke.

Only one or two of the younger members seemed captivated by the poet. The rest of the participants were frowning at Quistgaard’s answers to their queries. I wondered if his offensive attitude toward women had been apparent in his poetry or if there was another reason for the attendees’ animosity. I hadn’t read his book, and, after meeting him, I didn’t intend to.

I was filling the last of the wineglasses when the local pawnshop owner, Addison Campbell, raised a beefy arm. Addie was a massive guy with multiple tattoos—some of which were rumored to be in places most guys would never allow a needle. When he had joined the knitting group that met in my store, I had been astonished to see a man with tats, earrings, and a shaved head drive up on his Harley. He’d shocked me again when I’d seen his name on the book-club membership list.

Someday I would have to quit prejudging people, but I didn’t see that happening anytime soon. Even though I knew it was wrong, I wasn’t evolved enough to make myself stop doing it. As Poppy Kincaid, one of my best friends, would say, she and I are works in progress, and, unfortunately, we aren’t making much headway.

When Quistgaard acknowledged Addie, my attention returned to the drama unfolding in front of me and I listened closely as the pawnshop owner’s gravelly voice rumbled from his barrel-shaped chest. “It seems to me that many of your poems dis small-town life. I thought you were local. Are you originally from the city?”

“My private life isn’t up for discussion.” Quistgaard attempted to turn away from Addie, but the brawny merchant shot to his feet.

“I’m not asking about your private life.” Addie’s acne-scarred face was furrowed in a menacing glare. “My question was, Do you have any personal experience to back up your contempt?”

“And I said, I’m not answering it.” Quistgaard folded his arms. “It’s obvious that a Neanderthal like you would never understand my life or my poetry. Why are you even here?”

Addie growled, then closed his eyes, and his lips moved silently. I wondered if he was counting to ten or maybe reciting the serenity prayer. He’d told me he was seeing a counselor for anger-management issues, but other than taking up knitting, I didn’t know how the life coach had advised Addie to handle his rage.

I was relieved when Addie, still breathing heavily, stomped out of the craft alcove, muttering that mosquitoes have lots of buzz until you smack them. Better the pawnshop owner leave early than beat Quistgaard to a bloody pulp—even if the man deserved it.

Quistgaard smiled in triumph, then nodded to Kiara Howard, the event coordinator for the country club, and asked, “Do you have a question, little lady?”

The striking African-American woman hadn’t raised her hand, but she didn’t hesitate. “My name is Ms. Howard, not little lady, and, actually, I’d like to hear what you have to say about Addie’s observation that your writing appears to disdain rural communities. Your poems seem to totally disparage our values and beliefs.”

Quistgaard narrowed his eyes and snapped, “You are correct.” He folded in half the sheaf of papers he held and stuffed them into the pocket of his suit jacket. “Small towns are full of hypocrites who claim to have high moral standards, but when no one is looking, they act differently.”