Final Masquerade (24 page)

Suddenly her tears were flowing. Chris had come for her. Found her somehow, and tried to protect her. Maybe even died for her. She plodded to her hotel and punched the elevator button. How much worse could things get?

Her steps sounded like cannon fire as she plodded down the hotel hallway. It took six tries before the little card would work the electronic lock. Inside finally, she dropped on the bed and wept.

Paige woke at three a.m. and moped to the bathroom. She took out her suitcase and set it on the bed. She took clothes from the dresser and laid them inside. Then she lifted them out and put them back in the drawer. She took them out again and crossed the room.

Indecision was like a plague. Stefano had found her. She should get the hell out of here. But Chris was here. If she ran again, he'd never be able to find her.

After a shower, she trudged to the bed, pulled down the comforter, and climbed in. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold the answer to her problems. How could she find Chris? She hadn't the slightest idea of his cell phone number or his dispatcher's name.

Paige dropped yesterday's clothes on the floor and lay on the bed crying—for the past, the present, and lack of a future—because during the mad dash around the city, she realized she'd fallen in real love for the first time in her life. This revelation didn't bring the feeling of elation the way it did for most people. It was just possible she was in love with someone who was an accessory to murder—hers.

She woke at ten in the morning feeling like she'd been run over by something very large. There was nothing about Chris on the news, nothing about shots being fired on Marquette. She sighed and raked a brush through her hair. Maybe on the streets of Minneapolis, shots were fired every day. No big deal.

Paige dragged herself from the bed and started to dress, but the exertion was just too much. She knew it was time to get on with her life. Forget about Chris.

But he'd come for her.

Paige nursed a cup of coffee and used the quilt as a diversion, sitting on the floor to set together the last of the calico squares. Of course, the diversion worked only for her hands; her mind was a blur of motion. On the nearby table, the telephone beeped gently. Her heart leapt. “Hello?” she said hopefully into the receiver. “Oh, Harry...” She took a breath and let the flutter of disappointment fade.

"I think I found an apartment for you. Can you meet me?"

"Sure. Hey, you'll never believe what happened—"

"Tell me downstairs in twenty minutes."

"Okay."

She waited in the lobby wearing a new wool coat. She stared out the tall windows watching crumpled leaves and colorful scraps of paper fly past. Quentin leaned on his elbows watching her. Although she could see him reflected clearly in the immaculate glass, she pretended not to notice.

When Harry pulled up out front, Paige hurried outside. He reached across and pushed open the door. “Nice threads."

"Thanks."

He steered the five-year-old Cougar through the Minneapolis streets. “So, what happened that got you so riled?"

"Chris is in town."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Harry's eyes turned slowly toward her, then back to the road. She related the previous evening's events, willing the tears to remain at bay.

"It's possible the truck was towed. It might be in one of the impound lots. I'll check for you.” He took a right on South 7th. “You're gonna love the place. It's a corner apartment on the twelfth floor with a view you wouldn't believe. On a clear day you can see across the Mississippi to St. Paul.” He swung the car into the underground garage. “Dan said we could use his parking space. They're out so we'll have plenty of time to explore. Everything stays. Just bring yourself."

The twelfth floor hallway was carpeted in a large flowered pattern. Wall sconces as far as she could see reminded her of the truck stop back in Gallup, New Mexico.

Harry sliced the security card through the slot and the door clicked open. The scent of French vanilla and a wall of windows greeted them, along with a long tailed calico cat that rubbed on Paige's shins. She bent down to scratch between its ears.

The drapes were open. A person would have to be blind to miss the spectacular view of the Minneapolis skyline. Paige looked out over the city. “Makes you feel on top of the world, doesn't it?"

"Don't you want to see the rest of the place?” Harry asked.

She turned around but they both knew she'd already decided. The furnishings were straight out of an Ethan Allen store. A pinstriped corner sofa was set to take full advantage of the view. A long narrow kitchen was separated from the living room by a tiled island counter.

As Paige moved about the apartment, the cat followed, hopping onto whatever was near so Paige could pat it. Finally, Paige picked up the cat and carried it down the hallway off the opposite end of the living area. The windowed hall led to a bathroom done in a gray/lavender marble with a hot tub and shower with four brass jets and etched glass doors.

At the end of the hall was the bedroom, which occupied the corner of the building. Its expanse of windows faced both the east and north skylines. Covered in a thick down comforter, the queen-sized bed, like the sofa, also faced the windows.

"When can I move in?"

LaVerne was not behind the counter when Paige arrived carrying a canvas satchel. She ran her hands through her hair and walked the length of the store, peering down each aisle of shelves.

Everything in this place was collectible in one way or another, although few were as pristine as her copy of
Carrie.
She found several interesting, realistically priced volumes.

"Well, good morning. I hoped you'd come. Awful weather yesterday, wasn't it?” LaVerne approached between the shelves of classic literature.

"Horrendous.” Paige handed the books to LaVerne.

"Nice choices. These should make fine additions to your collection. Did you bring
Carrie
?"

Paige held up the bag and wiggled it in the air.

"Come.” LaVerne's seemingly ever-present bracelets jangled as she led Paige to a tiny, brightly lit room behind the counter. She patted the Formica table. “Show me what you've brought."

Paige held in the smile that threatened. She'd bet money that LaVerne hadn't slept since hearing about this book. Paige decided to leave
Carrie
till last.

She drew out Lawrence Block's
The Girl With The Long Green Heart
. It was a
good
condition copy and LaVerne's sharp intake of breath was all Paige needed to assure her that for once, her shopping had paid dividends.

LaVerne tenderly opened the cover and riffled through the pages, looking for foxing, browning, nicks, or tears—and searching, Paige knew, for the slip identifying this as one of only six signed publisher's copies in existence.

LaVerne turned the volume over, inspecting it thoroughly before laying it on the counter and gazing intently at Paige. The next volume was another less than classic issue—a 1989 Wynwood Press copy of Grisham's
A Time to Kill
, valued on the retail market at around $4800. LaVerne gave it the same intense scrutiny she'd given Block's book. So far she hadn't uttered a word, but her face spoke volumes. Paige hoped the woman didn't play poker.

Paige's hands were sweating as she removed the last book from the bag.
Carrie
, enshrouded delicately in its paper confines, was unveiled slowly as if it were the ‘piece de resistance’ of a meal. She nearly said, “Ta da,” but ended up handing the novel into red lacquered fingertips.

LaVerne examined the book even more minutely than the others. Eventually, she laid it on the table. “Nice. Very nice. But I'm sure you already know that.” She stood and began to pace the pocket-sized room, fingers drumming methodically against her skirt as if they were working an abacus. “I'll give you $4200 for the three of them,” LaVerne finally said.

Paige rose from her chair, nearly bumping into LaVerne. “I'm disappointed. I thought we were going to do some business today.” She rewrapped
Carrie
and put it into the satchel.

LaVerne watched with the eyes of a starving tiger. “That's 30 percent of the fair market value."

"You mean that's
only
30 percent of the market value, Ms. Stern. You and I both know I can advertise these outright and get more than three times that—"

"All right, all right $5700, but that's as high as I can go."

Paige placed the new books in the bag along with the others and took out her wallet. She paid for them with Stefano's cash, the way Harry had instructed, then extended her hand to LaVerne. “It's been nice meeting you. You have a very nice shop."

Paige could've sworn she heard LaVerne sobbing as she let the door click shut.

All along Marquette, even though she'd decided she would never see Chris again, Paige barely took her eyes from the street.

She stood outside Max Baumgartner's shop, so aptly named BOOKS, breathing deeply the scents from the bakery next door, trying to assimilate them into her sinuses to counteract the smell of Max's whiskey and cigarettes.

Inside, nothing had changed. Max still reposed serenely on his stool, which was completely hidden beneath his bulk. She greeted him with a short wave, then headed for the loft, an attic style room, lit by a small bulb dangling from an unfinished ceiling and tiny four-paned windows at each end.

Paige's adrenaline was pumping like a geyser and, for the first time in weeks, the source wasn't fear or anguish. This adrenaline rush was pure excitement. Shamus had told her that finding a treasure such as Carrie was an uncommon occurrence, but that knowledge did nothing to dispel the rush. “After all,” he'd said. “If this business was easy, everyone would be doing it. But keep your eyes open. Don't look just for classics. There are values in every genre.” So she kept her eyes open, dragging one box after another near the front window, picking up a book, looking it over and putting it down, over and over. As she rejected each one, she laid it neatly in an empty box she found in a corner, until six neatly packed and stacked boxes lay nearby.

"Hey, lady,” came a bellow from below.

"Yes?"

"Closing time. You gotta leave now."

Paige glanced at her watch and sighed. She stood, stretching aching back and neck muscles, and left the unfinished box exactly where it lay. Downstairs, Max stood with his chubby hand on the doorknob.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. I lost track of time."

"You looking for something in particular?"

"No, I just love books. I lose myself whenever I get near them. By the way, my name's Angela. Angela Lawson. I'm new in town. From Providence. You're Max right? Max Baumgartner?"

"Humph,” he grunted as she squeezed past him to the alley, ignoring the aroma of perspiration, unwashed clothing and alcohol. The wind had picked up again. It blustered around them, tossing leaves and papers in a whirlpool in the back corner.

"What time do you open in the morning?” Paige asked.

"Ten, give or take,” Max said, slamming the door shut and slipping a padlock into place.

"I'll see you then."

He grunted once more.

The following morning, Paige sat on the bookstore's cement steps, drumming her fingers on her purse. She rose and went into the bakery. A tiny bell over the door announced her arrival. “Back again?” called the woman in the back, a cloud of flour hanging over her.

Paige glanced at her watch once more as a pair of gentlemen strode into the alley. “I need another cup of your wonderful coffee, please. Max still isn't here and it's downright chilly outside."

"Here you go, sweetie. No charge."

"Thanks.” She peeled back the small plastic triangle of lid and peered out the window. In tandem, the men tried the door, checked watches, shrugged shoulders and left, staring back every few steps as they left the alley.

"Happens like that all the time. Turns away several customers every day."

"I think he needs an assistant; someone who can open the place in the mornings. Let him sleep in."

The baker's cackling sounded through the flour cloud. “Old Max hire anybody? You have to be joking. That old coot wouldn't part with a cent for anything besides whiskey or tobacco."

"You think so?” Paige took a sip from her cup.

"I've owned this bakery for twenty-two years. It's been a long time, a very long time, since that man spent a cent on anything. I bet I didn't have to tell you that though, did I?"

Paige put a hand on the doorknob. “Well, we'll just see about that."

"Why would someone like you want to work for a codger like Max?"

Paige smiled. “I knew someone very much like him in another life."

"Didn't know there was anyone else like Max. I wish you luck, hon.” She sprinkled powdered sugar on some freshly baked donuts. A cloud rose up between them. “What's your name?"

"Angela."

"Polly."

"I predict we're going to be seeing a lot of each other. Could you give me two of those bear claws and a large cup of black coffee?"

Polly smiled. “The way to a man's heart..."

"It's not his heart I'm pining for. I just want to work in his shop."

"Why?"

"I like a challenge."

Polly handed the bag to Paige, who passed across the correct change. “Good luck."

"See you in the morning."

Max was just coming into the alley, a brown paper bag tucked under one arm.

Paige went to meet him. “Good morning."

He nodded and unlocked the door

Paige took a deep breath of fresh air before being assailed by the odors from inside. She handed him the coffee and pastries saying, “You had some customers. They left."

Max grunted.

"Don't you care?"

"They'll be back."

Paige rolled her eyes decisively around the store. “Doesn't look like people are beating down the doors to shop here. I was here all afternoon yesterday and I don't recall a single other customer."

"'S not that kinda place."