by Alexie Aaron
“Try to restrain yourself when you do see her,” Jones advised.
“I will, because now it would be premeditated instead of me just losing my nut.”
Dr. Mason turned around to hide his smile.
“Yes. So you think that this woman was killed by her bridesmaid because of ill treatment.”
“It’s my theory.”
“At the scene, it appeared that the bridesmaid bathed in her blood.”
“Now that’s sick,” Ms. Alvarez said.
“But not jamming the cake topper down her throat?”
“Justified.”
“The mummification?” Jones asked.
“I helped remove and tag her clothing. In my opinion, no woman dressed her. Her panties were on backward. Her clothes were garish and had cleaning tags still pinned inside. The boots were expensive. Why would she wear heels in the afterlife? I’m going barefoot up to the gates and high-fiving Saint Pete on my way in.”
“Why all the theater?” Jones asked. “Why lay her out like that?”
Both the doctor and the assistant just shrugged their shoulders.
“We have the well-nourished body of a thirty-year-old female. She appears to be covered head to toe in dried blood. There are indications that she may have been at one time submerged in the blood,” Dr. Alice Caldwell said. “Under the blood on the fingertips and palms of the hands appears to be a dark residue…”
Brenda was aware of Jones entering the room, and she slid over to make room for him. She whispered, “We started late. Dr. Caldwell is doing a cursory exam. Ms. Voorhees’s body hasn’t been washed yet.”
“I got here late,” Jones admitted. “I have an answer for the potpourri smell. I’ll tell you later.”
“Upper left arm shows bruises after removal of the phone cord. Three puncture marks besides the one the needle was extracted from.” Dr. Caldwell looked over at the police presence. “It looks like an inexperienced operation here.”
“Please explain,” Jones asked.
“I’ve seen a lot of decedents who have died of overdoses. There’s usually, not always, prior scarring from previous drug use. This looks like a first-timer. It will be interesting to see the tox report.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m going to have my assistant wash the body before I continue. I wanted to see the body in the found state first. Why don’t you take advantage of our new breakroom? I’ll send my assistant in to get you when we’re ready to continue.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Jones said. “Oh, before I go, did you or your assistants find anything odd in the way she was dressed?”
Dr. Caldwell looked over at her team and back at the detective. “In what way?”
“Did it look like she dressed herself?”
“I didn’t find anything that would tell me that she did not. As you’ll read in my report, Ms. Voorhees was dressed in comfortable clothing, including underwear. Most junkies don’t bother putting on an expensive set of Wacoal underthings over a blood-soaked body before shooting up. Her hair was combed, and it looked like she brushed her teeth. Why do all of this and not wash off the blood?”
“It’s another question that I’ll need to find the answer for,” Jones said.
Chapter Fifteen
“Excuse me,” Wendell said as Clara passed by him.
Clara stopped. She turned and looked at Wendell standing there in the shadow of the building, just down the street from Nash’s bookshop. “I’m sorry, Mr. Baumbach, I didn’t see you.”
“I hope I’m not making you late,” Wendell said.
“No. What can I help you with?” Clara asked.
Wendell seemed to be off script. He said awkwardly, “Funny meeting you here.”
“Funnier things have happened. Are you going to the bookshop? We could walk together.”
“No.”
Clara stopped, praying that the man wasn’t going to give her a black book to bring in.
“Mother… my mother, Catherine, would like me to invite you to dinner.”
“Me? Just me?” Clara asked.
“Yes. She would… I would… like to ask you to have dinner with me.”
“As in a date?” Clara asked.
“Yes.”
Clara didn’t want to hurt or anger this man, so she was very careful with her words. “Mr. Baumbach, I’m in a serious relationship. Otherwise, I would be honored to have a meal with you and your mother, Catherine.”
Wendell looked relieved. “Mother thought we’d have a lot in common. I’ll tell her you’re in a serious relationship.”
“Thank her also for the invitation,” Clara said. “I better run now.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you late for work. I expect your boss will be cross.”
Clara was only confused for a moment. Wendell must have assumed because she had been wearing the One More Time T-shirt the other day that she worked for Nash. “Wendell, I’m a chef. I was hanging out with Nash the day we met.”
“Oh dear. Nash is your serious relationship,” Wendell realized, turning red. “I meant no offense.”
“Mr. Baumbach, I repeat that I’m honored you asked me. Although, I think you should tell your mother that you’re a handsome, kind man who can find a date for himself.”
“It’s not as easy as you would think.”
“Dating?”
“No, telling my mother anything.”
Clara gave him a kind smile. “Mr. Baumbach, I really must go. Thank you again,” she said and walked away.
Wendell didn’t move. As much as he hated Nash right now, he couldn’t hold it against Clara. Maybe she would come to her senses and see what a pompous monster Nash was. Maybe then, he would ask her to join him, someplace his mother wouldn’t approve of.
Clara walked into the shop and waved at Nash who was busy ringing up a customer. She climbed the stairs where she found Kalaraja perched on the top step. “Spider-man.”
“Clara,” he said, not moving.
“Hello, books!” Clara said, stepping around Kalaraja. She heard a rustling of pages.
“Now you’ve done it,” Kalaraja complained. “I just got them settled down.”
“Anyone up here?” she asked.
“No.”
Clara moved up and down the stacks, picking up the books who presented themselves. She stacked them on the landing and said, “You’re officially off duty.”
Kalaraja watched as Clara opened the first book and began to read. He sat down, squeezing in beside her. She snapped the book shut and held it in her lap. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
“What did Wendell have to say?” he asked softly.
“How’d…” Clara said and then looked down through the shop and out the big plate glass window. From this vantage point, the corner where she had her conversation was in full view of the bookshop. “Wow, you couldn’t have had a clearer view if you were a gargoyle atop the building.”
“Vampire, Spider-man, and now gargoyle. I’m starting to feel cross with you.”
“I did not call you a gargoyle. I’m sorry about the vampire bit, Spider-man.”
Kalaraja couldn’t help chuckling. “Spider-man is just watching out for his friends.”
“Wendell Baumbach, on orders from his mother, asked me to have dinner at their home. Evidently, Catherine Baumbach thinks I would make a good match for her son.”
“He’s been standing there since four-thirty.”
“I think he assumed incorrectly that I work here.”
“Then he was waiting for you.”
“Yes. When I first saw him, I thought he was going to try and give me that evil book. But no, he asked me out.”
“And…”
“I declined graciously.”
“Good.”
Clara turned and looked at Kalaraja a moment. “You can’t seriously think I would two-time Nash, do you?”
“I don’t kno
w you, Clara.”
“Fair enough,” Clara said, frowning. “I don’t know you either.”
“And yet we sit here side-by-side watching over Nash.”
Clara grinned. “He’s so worth it.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Nash worries that I’m being enchanted by the shop.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Are all your buildings enchanted?” Clara asked.
“I have a few others that are special but not enchanted.”
“Are you married?”
“Not presently,” Kalaraja answered.
“Divorced?”
“Widower. My wife Aarunya died soon after we immigrated here. She lost a battle with cancer.”
“I’m sorry. How long have you been alone?”
“I’m not alone. I’m never alone.”
“Never?”
“The truth is, sometimes, I enjoy being a hermit.”
“What do you do when you’re a hermit?”
“Watch. I sit in my home in a comfy chair, and either I read or watch the city like a gargoyle.”
“Ah, that’s why my comment hit a nerve.”
“In my life, I seemed to have attracted many unpleasant names. My unusual looks give bullies fodder, not to mention my given name Kalaraja Gupta.”
“I looked up your name. Lord Death Protected, your parents must have been interesting people,” Clara commented.
“My father named me after I killed my mother by being born. Had I been a girl, he would have killed me too. But he needed an heir.”
“You and Nash share a heartache,” Clara said.
“I didn’t know about his birth until he was recovering from the heart transplant.”
“Seems we’re all orphans here,” Clara said.
“Johan protects you like a daughter.”
“And you watch over Nash. So many things in common for strangers. Why am I here, Kalaraja? Did you call for me?” Clara asked, afraid of the answer.
“No, Clara, you were a surprise.”
“Good. Who is Miss Natalie Boccasavia?” Clara asked.
“Who is she or who is she to Nash?”
“Nevermind.”
Kalaraja gently turned Clara’s face to his. “Listen, the place you hold in Nash’s life is most important. Don’t let your insecurities get in the way of loving him full out.”
Clara’s eyes watered.
The sound of the bells as the door opened and closed stopped their conversation. Nash walked over to the stairs and looked up at them.
Clara got up and walked down the steps and into Nash’s arms. “I’m yours until Saturday morning,” Clara said.
“Are you sure? I think Kalaraja is overreacting.”
“All day, I couldn’t wait to get back to you. I’m your bodyguard until Kalaraja says otherwise, and then I’ll return to being your adoring girlfriend.”
“So where I go, you go?”
“Well, I can give you some space,” Clara said. She mimed holding her hands out a few feet.
“As long as you’re in the same building,” Kalaraja said, walking down the stairs. “And it doesn’t have to be this building. Although, I think when your back is against the wall, it should be a wall of familiar books.”
“I don’t like being on defense,” Nash said, taking Clara’s hand. “Can’t we find this thing and destroy it?”
“Don’t go looking for it until I get more information. Already, there are too many searchers. Too many opportunities for the book to take another life if it hasn’t already. Call on and warn Miss Boccasavia. She may also be a target.”
“Why?” Nash asked quickly.
“Because if the book is after you, the Knight of the Pages, then it may also be hunting the Queen of Books.”
Clara felt Nash’s pulse quicken. Her eyes met Kalaraja’s, and he held her stare for a moment. His earlier remarks about her insecurities steadied her. “Maybe you should stay with Nash while I visit this Queen of Books. It wouldn’t do to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to her door, would it?”
Kalaraja smiled. “I could stay a little longer.”
“I do have some books to drop off and pick up. Clara, I hate to ask you to do this, but I do see the soundness of your plan. How can you take all this in so easily? Kalaraja and I must sound like fruitcakes with all this Knight of Pages and Queen of Books nonsense.”
“Maybe it’s the atmosphere of the shop. Maybe it’s that I’ve seen a ghost, and my eyes have been opened to see that the world isn’t just a nine-to-five existence, television at night, and museums on the weekend. If you follow your heart, it leads you to places that you only imagined existing between the covers of books. When I walked into this shop, I wasn’t looking for a man. I was looking for a book.”
“You tripped over a book. I thought I’d have a lawsuit on my hands,” Nash said.
“Instead you got a redhead,” Kalaraja said, pulling his long hair out of his hood.
“Had I not tripped…” Clara said, looking into Nash’s eyes.
“Had I not caught you…” Nash drew her closer.
“Kiss her, and let her go and meet the Queen of Books,” Kalaraja said, brushing by them. “Or let her go later. I’ll mind the shop.”
This seemed to break the spell. “Last time he minded the shop, the books rebelled.” Nash kissed Clara, but instead of taking her upstairs, he took her to his small workshop and presented her with a canvas tote full of books. “I’ve included a check,” he said, drawing out a watermarked, white woven envelope. “This should cover what I owe her and a deposit on this work.”
“All I need is the address,” Clara said, sliding the handle of the bag over her head and settling it on her shoulder.
“It’s a tricky place to find. I’ll draw you a map.”
Clara looked at the small workroom she hadn’t visited before. She had assumed incorrectly that it was a closet. The shop had windows that would catch the early morning light and large work lamps that would bring artificial daylight in for the rest of the day. The overfilled garbage can testified that this was a Nash only domain. Mary would never let more than two items of trash accumulate in the receptacle in the bookshop.
Nash turned to explain his map. He watched as Clara moved through the room. She didn’t touch anything. Her reverence for his things was a testament to her respect for his profession and him. She crouched and looked at the books that were in the process of being mended.
“They weren’t abused,” Nash told her. “They were read by many children. Some of the books were never reissued. It would be a crime if the stories contained in them disappeared forever.”
Clara stood up. “This is why you’re the Knight of Pages,” she said, nodding. She held out her hand, waiting for the map. “It’s time I met the Queen of Books.”
~
Jones waited for the expected call from Father Saul at his desk in the incident room. He had his computer file open, a large yellow pad of paper handy, and his phone set to record. The phone rang. He closed the door and picked up the call. “Detective Jones.”
“Detective, this is Father Saul.”
“Yes, thank you for calling. May I record this conversation?”
“As long as it’s only for the use of the Chicago Police Department,” Father Saul said clearly. “I have permission to share some very personal information with you and expect you to regard it as not for public knowledge.”
“I can agree to that,” Jones said. “I understand we have been speaking with the same people about a situation involving a book.”
“It appears so,” Father Saul said. “Where would you like me to begin?”
“How did you become involved?” Jones asked.
“Marianne Irving, a resident of Chicago, voluntarily checked herself into our facility two weeks ago last Tuesday. She was in distress. She was experiencing memory loss of more than a few hours. Mar
ianne, like most people these days, consulted the internet first and got herself worked up to believing she was either possessed or had a breakdown.”
“What were your observations?”
“She was agitated, concerned that she may have developed a mental illness that would have caused her to act out in a way that was not in keeping with her conscience. Marianne was also resigned that she did participate willingly in these encounters after listening to a recording on her phone.”
“Can you take me through her experience?”
“I can. But wouldn’t you rather speak to her yourself?”
“I would, but I understand she has been through an ordeal and do not wish to upset her further at this time.”
“I appreciate your concern. I’ll relate what I have presently in my notes, and perhaps you would like me to send you the recording?”
“How long is it?”
“Two hours and fifteen minutes. I’ve listened to it and made notes. I do insist that you listen to the first fifteen minutes. It’s very illuminating. The rest is disturbing but supports the situation Marianne found herself in when she woke from her nightmare.”
“How much does she remember?” Jones asked.
“Nothing between walking out the door of the book club meeting on Wednesday evening, where she was making a voice memo, until she woke in a pay-by-the-hour motel on Saturday. I have tried several techniques of memory recall, including hypnosis, but there isn’t anything in Marianne’s mind. I have counseled trauma patients, veterans returning with PTSD, and I have never been faced with a situation where I couldn’t at least recover part of a memory.”