by Alexie Aaron
She shook it off as the martini shaker was calling. Elma closed the door and headed for the kitchen.
~
“Elma Kis returning Wendell’s call,” Elma said when Catherine answered.
“Hold on.”
Elma refreshed her drink while she waited.
“Elma! I thought you had disappeared,” Wendell said, picking up the phone.
“I had a conference in Cleveland,” Elma informed him. “Tell me about our new recruits.”
“A married couple who saw the sign in One More Time. They are both professional people and university educated. I think they’ll fit right in.”
“Sounds good. Too bad you can’t convince Mr. Greene to join us.”
“He would not be a good fit,” Wendell said.
“So you say. Have you heard from our missing members?”
“According to Mother, who got this from a police detective, Monica Voorhees is dead.”
“I’m shocked,” Elma said. “Traffic accident?”
“Suicide.”
“No. That woman loved herself too much. I don’t believe she would take her own life.”
“I’m just repeating what Mother heard.”
“What about the others? Marianne, Marc, and Kabir?”
“I haven’t heard anything that would tell me one way or the other if they had permanently exited the group. I’ll keep their information.”
“People’s lives do get busy,” Elma commiserated. “But you would expect them to be courteous enough to give you a call.”
“Marianne did,” Wendell reminded Elma.
“Oh, that’s right.” Elma yawned. “Forgive me, Wendell, but I’m exhausted from my trip. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Goodbye.”
Wendell said goodbye, but it was to an empty line. He walked into the parlor.
“What did that prissy woman want?” Catherine asked.
“You never did like Elma, did you?”
“No, I found her so enchanted with her own voice that after a few minutes of her explanation of the plot, I fantasized about putting her in a plot, six feet under.”
“You still could hear her,” Wendell said.
Catherine looked at her son. “Still could hear who?”
“Elma. Six feet under, she would still be putting the stress on the wrong syllables.”
Catherine laughed. “Aren’t we being naughty.”
“How old is she anyway?”
“I don’t know. Her little trips out of town to supposed conferences are really trips to get this and that tacked up.”
“You’re telling me Elma Kis has plastic surgery?”
“Check behind her ears.”
“I’m not getting that close. I may lose a finger.”
Catherine roared with laughter. “It’s not that I have a problem with women looking their best, mind you, but don’t lie about it. Do you remember Marjorie Raymond?”
“Cute petite woman you used to play cards with?”
“Yes. She used a quarter of her pension to get new breasts.”
“Oh, Mother.”
“She said she was tired of waking up and tripping over the old breasts on the way to the bathroom.”
Wendell blushed.
Catherine laughed. “I think she did well for herself. Her last days were full of adventure.”
“Are you having fun, Mother?” Wendell asked.
“The stroke slows me down, but I’m enjoying life, dear.”
“I don’t want you to simply exist. I want you to be having fun.”
Catherine looked at her son with pride. “You’re a good son, Wendell.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
~
Elma slept on her back as instructed by her dermatologist - no scrunching up her new face on the pillowcases. Elma snored long and hard. Had she not been such a deep sleeper, she would have noticed the sounds coming from her front closet. Had she remembered the package in the pocket of the overnight bag, the bag would not have been rolling back and forth until it launched itself off the high shelf and tumbled down, taking two winter coats with it. It lay wedged on the floor of the closet between the boot rack and the door. The package slid out onto the floor and moved quickly through the space under the door. Unfortunately for said package, it buried itself under the hall runner.
Chapter Twenty
Clara stretched as she opened her eyes. Her hands met a warm body. She rolled her head to the side and took in Nash’s sleepy face.
“Sorry, go back to sleep,” she said in a soft voice.
He mumbled something in sleep talk and closed his eyes.
Clara slid from the bed and left the room on tiptoes. She took a moment to use the bathroom before she headed for the kitchen in search of a coffee pot. It wasn’t that Clara couldn’t think without a morning mug of coffee, it just made it easier. She was rewarded with a small four-cup maker tucked in the corner. The cupboard above it held filters and ground coffee. It also had a just expired pancake mix. “I could live dangerously,” she said to herself as she searched for syrup.
She found half a bottle in the refrigerator that she pried off the shelf to make sure the contents hadn’t crystalized. Satisfied she had a plan for breakfast when Nash woke up, she took her freshly brewed mug of coffee out to the back patio where she had spied a few lawn chairs last evening. The patio had a thorny twist of an old rose vine hugging the top of the wall. She set her cup down and deadheaded a few of the roses. She pinched them off with her strong fingernails, being careful not to stick herself with the long sharp thorns. Clara stepped back and surveyed the mighty thorny plant. “That may just keep Spider-Man out.”
“And yet here I am,” Kalaraja said, walking out from the dining room door.
Clara jumped and only just refrained from screeching. She turned her back on the intruder and quickly buttoned Nash’s shirt that she had pulled over her naked body before coming outside. “How?”
“I’ve got keys,” Kalaraja said.
Clara nodded. “I suppose you own this building.”
“No. I would love to, but right now my money is tied up in other things. I looked in on Nash after his surgery and never gave the keys back.”
Kalaraja handed Clara her mug of coffee. “Drink this before it gets cold.”
Clara sat down, barely minding the way the frayed webbing of the chair scratched the back of her thighs. She composed herself and sipped the coffee.
Kalaraja didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, would you like some coffee? My manners are deplorable,” Clara said as the caffeine started to work on her brain.
“No thank you. What are we having for breakfast?”
“Dodgy box pancakes.”
“Good thing I brought donuts.”
Clara glanced at him and smiled. “Thank you.”
Clara could tell he was pleased with himself. She studied him a moment. “You have beautiful skin. Do you burn easily?”
“I’m an albino without melanin, yes. Do you burn easily?”
“Yes. I freckle too.”
“You haven’t asked me why I am here?”
“No, I haven’t. I imagine it’s because we are here, and you have something we need to know about.”
“Yes. Also, I wanted to know about Nash’s interview with the police detectives.”
Clara related what she knew. “Anything that was said after I started babysitting Officer Molina, you’ll have to ask Nash.”
“Your quick thinking about a possible bird in the building was inspired.”
“I hope she couldn’t tell I was lying.”
“You don’t lie normally, do you?”
“To my brother frequently, but to the less demanding, no.”
“Tell me about your brother.”
“Craig is older than me by four years. This gave him a head start in my parents’ hearts. He was an early reader and played the piano before he was four. When th
e sports bug hit him, the piano was forgotten, and my parent’s energies went into ferrying him to and from whatever practice was going on. I was given his hand-me-downs, and aside from proper school clothes, I was basically dressed like Craig but with colorful patches on my knees and elbows.”
“Any other siblings?”
“No, my parents believed in zero population growth. They were second-generation hippies. There was never any money saved for college. They expected if we wanted an education, we would find our own way. Craig had sports scholarships, and I had odd jobs from middle school on. My father retired as soon as he paid off the house. A week later, he and my mother took a trip to California. They died on that trip. Craig was devastated. He gave up his prestigious job in software sales once he saw I was settled in a career. He runs a truck-parts store in Anchorage. But you know, I think he’s happy there.”
“How did you find your way here?”
“There are a few wonderful culinary schools in Chicago. I love the city. Whether it’s Lake Michigan or the people, but the energy is good here. Every city has its problems, but Chicago is more friendly than most.”
“Could you live in a small town?” Kalaraja asked.
“If it were with Nash, I could live in the middle of nowhere slinging hash at a truck-stop diner.”
“Good answer,” Nash said from behind them. He walked over and kissed Clara on the lips and took her coffee and smelled it. “I thought, maybe, by the tone of the conversation, you were indulging in a Clara special.”
“If you have bourbon here, you’ve hid it well.”
“Behind the Hemingway on the bookshelf.”
“Ah,” Clara said. “I imagine you’re wondering what I’m doing entertaining Spider-Man in naught but your shirt?”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Nash said, turning his gaze on Kalaraja.
“I let myself in.”
“He did bring donuts,” Clara said as if it excused the invasion. “I’ll let the two of you catch up. I’m headed to the shower.”
“Clean towels in the closet between the bedroom and bath.”
“Okay if I raid your clothes for something clean to wear?”
“Be my guest,” Nash said.
Clara left and Kalaraja was silent for a moment. “How are things going?”
“Be more specific,” Nash said.
“Between you and Clara.”
“I’m beating myself up for not making a move sooner. It’s so easy being with her. I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not. We do butt heads, but two alphas will. We have determined so far that I get to be boss in the bookshop, she in any kitchen, food, or dining situation. After all, she is a professional. I catch her looking at me with a goofy smile. She knows books, Kalaraja, and still thinks I’m smart.”
“You are smart.”
“I was afraid that once we were away from the shop, her attraction to me would cease. If anything, it’s stronger. Life would be damn near perfect if it weren’t for this black book situation.”
“About that, tell me about your interview, and I’ll tell you what Joon-ki has found out.”
Clara navigated the bachelor’s bathroom with care. She found a bag of disposable razors in the drawer and selected a new one for herself. Shaving with Barbasol was new. The cool menthol under her arms wasn’t unpleasant, just different. Nash’s showerhead was so high that she was certain the water was going to evaporate before it hit her. The best part was that Nash’s towels were soft. She loved soft towels. She cleaned up after herself and tugged on a pair of his knit boxers before she pulled on her jeans. She walked around in her bra for a while looking for something to put on. Clara decided she would just wear one of Nash’s undershirts with one of his larger vests over it. Trying to wear Nash’s socks was hilarious. The heel ended up halfway up her leg. “No one will know,” she said, tying her tennis shoes.
Nash and Kalaraja had moved into the living room by the time Clara walked out. They stared at her. Nash’s mouth gaped open.
“Damn, you can tell, can’t you?” She raised her pant leg, and the heel angled outwards like the fin of a large fish. Clara leaned down and played with it, laughing.
“What are you doing?” Nash asked, patting the couch next to him.
“Why were you two staring?”
“You’re beautiful. Stop fishing for compliments,” Kalaraja scolded.
“Spider-Man thinks I’m beautiful,” Clara bragged.
“He’s not alone. Clara, if I asked you to date Wendell Baumbach, what would you say?”
“It’s about time I dumped you to the curb. Wendell has so much to offer a girl,” she said, assuming Nash was teasing.
“Be serious,” Nash said.
“Hurt comes to mind. Fear and then loathing is neck and neck,” she answered honestly.
“Clara, Wendell is up to something. His mother is worried, and I fear that he may be our carrier of the black book,” Kalaraja said.
“So you want to sacrifice your pawn?” Clara asked, miffed.
“No. You’re aware of what is going on,” Kalaraja said quickly. “I think he likes you. After all, he did ask you out.”
“Yes,” Clara confirmed. “And I told him I was dating Nash. He wasn’t pleased. He could hurt me to get to Nash.” Even as Clara said those words, she didn’t believe them. The man who issued the invitation gave off a kind vibe.
“Wendell has an ego like all us men. If he thinks he can take you from Nash, he won’t suspect that you’re a plant.”
“What if I hurt him?” Clara asked.
Nash’s heart melted. He gathered her in his arms and held her. He looked over at Kalaraja and said, “It was a bad idea.”
“Whose idea was it?” Clara asked.
“Mine,” Nash admitted.
Clara pushed Nash away and got up. She walked out onto the front patio and slammed the door.
“Blessed Buddha, she’s upset,” Kalaraja said.
Nash got up. He turned. “You are sacrificing your knight. If something happens to her, I will not survive.”
“If the black book gets to you, you’re dead anyway.”
Clara heard Nash and Kalaraja. She sat on the floor of the balcony with her arms wrapped around her knees.
Nash walked out and almost tripped over her. He dropped down and said, “Come in and hear the full history of Horace Baumbach, and then make up your mind. I don’t want to lose you. Kalaraja feels you’re our best chance. The Queen of Books agrees.”
“Only because she’s hot to get in under your four layers of armor,” Clara said.
Nash blushed. “Oh, Clara, you are in trouble if you think I’m a prize.”
Clara smiled.
Nash stood up, and Clara took his hand. She stood and looked him in the eyes and said, “I’ll hear Spider-Man out.”
Kalaraja waited until Clara had settled next to Nash before he began. “Once upon a time, there were two very competitive book collectors. Catherine and Horace met at a book auction at Sotheby’s. They had been bidding for the same book. It was taken at the last minute by another dealer. The two, after breaking it to their clients, met for drinks. Catherine and Horace fell hard for each other, and soon they had joined forces and traveled the world looking for the most sought-after books. Catherine and Horace married in Madrid. She was the calming influence in their book-seeking business. When she became pregnant with Wendell, she had to curtail her excursions.
“During these times, Horace had to depend on his common sense to balance his greed. The greed won. Horace came in contact with an alchemist’s diary. Instead of selling it to the highest bidder, Horace kept the diary and practiced the art of text manipulation in secret.”
“Sounds like the start of a horror story,” Clara said.
“It was. He developed a book that would, upon reading it, cause the reader to give Horace all their money. He bankrupted millionaires and was responsible for two young African cou
ntries falling before the Order of Scrolls took notice. With much difficulty, he was caught and handed over to the Brotherhood of St. Michael. They imprisoned him before he could do more harm.”
“Natalie showed me the triptych. The Order of Scrolls didn’t seem to be a governing body as much as a group that saved manuscripts and books for humanity’s sake,” Clara pointed out.
“Sometimes they must step in for the sake of all books,” Nash said.
“Horace was taken away, and no one thought about him as a threat until Catherine’s old school was attacked with a life-snatching book. Ron Santiago, who the guild once thought would become a future knight or maybe a king, was killed.”
Clara looked at Nash.
“It wasn’t planned that Nash, a knight of the Order, would get his heart. It just happened.”
“Fate happened,” Clara said.
“Now the book is taking out Catherine’s old book club, the one that Horace’s son runs. A coincidence? No.”
“And Wendell?”
“He is either part of this or will become a victim of his father’s rage,” Kalaraja said.
“Why do you want to involve me?” Clara said.
“Wendell is interested in you. I feel you would make excellent…”
“Bait?” Clara asked.
“No. You’re an asset,” Nash said. “No one else could walk into that book club meeting tonight and charm the pants off, strike that, could make Wendell believe that he took you away from me.”
“I don’t have to sleep with him, do I?” Clara asked horrified.
“God in heaven! No!” Nash said.
“You’re not a Sparrow,” Kalaraja said. “Although, you’re so beautiful and smart that Wendell will fall in love. I’m sorry, you’ll have to reconcile the fact that he will end up hurt one way or the other.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Nash stressed.
“Although, it would help us to rule Wendell out as a threat,” Kalaraja said.