I often thought Kantor would have made a great Baptist evangelist.
As both my mother and my father had been restaurant people-watchers, making up tales about overheard snatches of conversation, I appreciated Kantor’s affirmation of this idiosyncrasy.
Kantor was retiring, he told me over that first luncheon. He had purchased a plot of land in the Hill Country years ago, and with every trip south from Dallas where he lived, he would stop by and gaze at his land. He must have been nearly sixty when he decided looking wasn’t enough. Now he lives in a prefab cabin overlooking a small pond. He dresses every day in one of his colorful, trademark vests complete with white shirt and tie and sits on his deck in a rocker, reading all the books he never had time for when he was on the road.
I drop by from time to time. Without his careful tutelage of the rules of the road, I would never have made it. My parents had died a few years before I had finished at Tarrant County Junior College. Of all the introductions to life I have received, I think I appreciated Kantor’s the most. He never talked down to me. Never assumed I knew something I didn’t. Never teased me.
Kantor loved his customers, knew everyone by first name, and would even take over the store if they called him. “Independent booksellers are the real heroes of the literary world,” he would confide to me as we stopped at another client’s store. “They don’t make any money. They often have to borrow from the bank to pay the distributors. They are often eccentric, quarrelsome, and opinionated, but, ahhh, they love books. They know their authors, and they know their customers.
“They are happy to see book reps arrive like a postman on his appointed rounds. These mavericks of bookselling, abhorrers of chain bookstores, pore over the new catalogs like a child opening up the JCPenney Christmas catalog. They make their purchases very carefully, with an eye to the dollar amount. Profit before pleasure. Three of this one. Ten of that. Just one of the new author.
“We do a dance, these buyers and I. I show. I preen. I showcase. I demur.” He sighed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Miss Honey,” he admonished, “be a virtuoso of the road. Know your stock. Know your people. Never, ever let a Dairy Queen or Burger King sack sully your floorboards or back window. Oh, my dear, I’m leaving you a legacy of well-tended shops; treat each as if they were Harrods. Breathe deeply each time you enter the stores. Words, thoughts, ideas, and passions. That’s what you smell in bookstores.”
“Tell me again why you are leaving this utopia?” I wondered aloud.
“Computers,” he had whispered in a hissing voice that often signaled the arrival of a villain on stage. “Computers will kill us all.”
A bit dramatic, I’ll admit. But that was Kantor.
And right on target.
For the first few years after I took over from Kantor—learned his route and charmed his customers—I could still do it the old way. I whipped out catalogs and sold profits and dreams. I encouraged limited owners to expand their stock, assuring them there was life after best-sellers, and I discouraged those who tended to overbuy. I became a virtuoso.
Finally, the computer revolution caught up to me. That was why I had asked Bondesky’s help with setting me up a system. So I could help my clients. This was the proposal I had sold Constant Books. It’s amazing how brave you can be if you have money to back up your pitch. I would no longer just be on the road. I would be the systems adjuster for Constant, helping independents set up inventories on computers.
All I had to do was learn how to do it myself first.
After hanging up the telephone call from Steven Hyatt, I looked around my war room/office. In one corner, the shrouded hangers of my well-organized travel wardrobe hung expectantly. The file cabinets still exuded the confidence and professionalism I had worked so hard to achieve.
But at the corner near the window, the new queen reigned. The Dell special I had named Miss McGillicudy. And so entered chaos. On the floor, beside the missed target of the trash basket, lay no less than three identifiable sacks. Burger King. Taco Bell. Jack-in-the-Box. I am happy to say that McDonald’s made it all the way to the bottom of the can.
My eyes hurt. My back was beyond straightening. My arm was numb. My legs were dead. I was well on my way to becoming a computer nerd?
I pulled down my beloved Day-Timer. Its soft leather binding gave me a touch of reality. Tomorrow, my first computer assignment. In Jacksboro.
I paused. Jacksboro. Out where Clover had her real ranch.
Computer nerd. Private investigator?
I laughed as I turned to the page that held Clover Medlock’s phone number.
TWENTY
I was so tired when I pulled into Clover’s driveway the next night that I thought I was going to die. It’s strange to me that, now that I have all the money in the world, I am working harder than I ever have. “What’s wrong with this picture?” I asked myself as I limped up the walk to the front door. There seemed to be a severed nerve between my back and my left leg. Right leg?
“Whoa, Bailey. I’m glad to see you, too. Just not so enthusiastic, please,” I said as a hundred pounds of blond lab greeted me at Clover’s open door.
“He missed you,” she said as she pulled the dog off me.
“So I gather. Was he good?”
Clover had insisted that I bring Bailey by her ranch early in the morning before I hightailed it on to Jacksboro. I asked if she knew of a good kennel that would keep him for the day, but she said if I was coming back for supper, it would be no problem for her to take him on the ranch for the day.
I was surprised at Bailey’s affection. We actually don’t know each other that well, but I guess with Harry gone, I was the one familiar smell in his life. I guess. I don’t know much about dogs. Mother had been allergic to them and I’d never had a pet, so I treat Bailey as I would a guest. As if I’d had very many of those, either.
It had not been that difficult to find Clover’s ranch. Her directions had been clear and easy, even for a dysfunctional direction finder. It has always amazed me that two points on a map can actually be connected if one only has the right path. I hadn’t driven far out of Fort Worth before I became aware of a flat vista of fences and scrub bushes interspersed with clusters of trailer parks, local beauty shops, and body garages. Body garages. Boy, what an image that stirred. I started singing, “Have a leg, have an arm, have a head” to the tune of “Have an Eggroll, Mr. Goldstone” from Gypsy.
By the time I’d reached the first oil wells pumping away amid a few scattered cacti, the sun was beginning to rise, its first rays catching the night’s dew in a sparkling array. The July sun would dry the drops quickly, competing with the thirsty ground for the sparse moisture. It hadn’t rained since early spring. The clear blue sky indicated that today would be no different.
As Clover had stated, I had no problem recognizing her spread. The rest of the acreage might have been bone dry and brown, but the entrance to her ranch was an oasis of old green pecan and oak trees that wound past the stucco archway for several miles to the ranch house. Gnarled mesquite trees protected the perimeter of the taller trees before giving way to the scrub beyond. It was a well-planned progression of trees that tapered off into the beginnings of the harsh plains of a west Texas landscape.
The main ranch house was surrounded by the twisted mesquites with several weeping willows added to give an illusion of cool laziness. The house was actually a Mexican villa, complete with a tiled fountain spurting water into a dry air that would absorb most of it before it had a chance to splash back into the basin. A red-tiled overhang held baskets of impatiens and fiesta bright portulacas, and earthen pots of more impatiens and a few cacti surrounded the front doorway. I knew it had taken big bucks to create the casual, colorful entrance. Guess there was money in them there Branguses.
When we settled Bailey down, I followed Clover through the house and out into another courtyard, landscaped as the entrance was, creating the illusion of a cool summer evening. I sighed as Clover thrust an
icy margarita in my hand. Tan wicker fans revolved above me, hanging from the slanting roof of the overhead and creating an additional illusion of a breeze.
“This is exactly how I would live if I were a rancher,” I said approvingly.
“Thanks,” Clover replied as she sat in an accompanying wicker chair, a margarita in her hand also. With the boots she had worn this morning replaced by woven huaraches, I could see her wriggling her toes, which encouraged me to slip out of my sandals and slide my own feet across the cool brick of the patio floor. My toes played with the thick mat of closed portulacas that crept between the bricks.
All my friends seem to be old. Of course, it’s no wonder I get along with older people. Look at my upbringing. But somewhere along the way, I should have acquired a contemporary girlfriend or two. The woman I worked with today qualified for the age bracket, but I wasn’t sure where the relationship was going.
I told Clover about my day after she politely asked.
“Juliana has a tough job ahead of her,” I shared. “She knows less about the book business than I know about computers. Together, we had fun,” I admitted. “She inherited the bookstore from her aunt. Papyrus is a good little store, but Jacksboro is just not that big. Sorta like my friend Janie owning Pages in West. If either of them really needed the income from sales, they’d be starving.”
“Well, it’s the only bookstore I know around here,” said Clover. “New books, I mean. McMurtry’s place over in Archer City carries used books—every book ever printed, I think.” She smiled. “Ever been there?”
“No, but it’s on my list of places to visit. Up to now, south Texas has been my territory. I’m just learning about west Texas.”
“How do you go about setting up a computer inventory?” Clover asked as if she were really interested.
Good question. “The program is self-explanatory. Plug it into the computer and fill in the blanks. After that, it’s a matter of constant maintenance of sales and receivables. But the getting there is something else.” I took a sip of my sweet/sour drink. “I heartily recommended to Juliana that she call in all her friends and family for an inventory party. A week-long party.” I grinned.
“With you helping out?”
“Oh, yes. That’s the plan. Constant wants me to be a part of the process. It doesn’t cost them much in the way of my services and will eventually boost sales. Or so they say.” All in all, I hadn’t embarrassed myself too badly. Ms. Potter was a good teacher. I made a mental note to call and thank her as well as ask about some questions that had come up during the day.
We sat that way, talking about books and munching on chips and salsa, letting the day fade and the night take over. When the stars began to fill the skies, an older woman came out and replaced the chips with hot plates of homemade Mexican food. To taste real refried beans and onions cannot be described. Nor the spicy beef enchiladas. Clover seemed as hungry as I was, although I had eaten two hamburgers for lunch at Herd’s in Jacksboro. It’s a third-generation hamburger shack, and each burger is individually made to order. How could I not eat two? Someday, I figure, all this pigging out will catch up to me.
Instead of coffee, we enjoyed frosty glasses of mint iced tea after our meal. I couldn’t move. Could not move if my life depended on it.
So, Clover had me at a disadvantage when she finally got down to the questions she wanted to ask me.
“I understand from Steven that you think Twyman was murdered. May I ask you why you think so?” she asked after the help had cleared the table.
She seemed older tonight. More wrinkled. Not as strong.
I didn’t want to tell her about Twyman asking me about someone trying to murder him, but I did. Homemade tortillas go a long way in loosening my tongue.
Clover laughed. “Are you sure he didn’t say, trying to do him in? Or do a number on him?”
“Why, no,” I said in surprise. “He definitely said kill.”
Clover snorted with no ladylike reservations. “Shoot, Honey, if anyone was in any danger of being killed, it was me.”
“You?”
“Yep. Do you recollect that I told you he came out here with that ring? That one you tried to give me? Asking me to marry him for the third time?” She slapped her blue-jeaned thigh in laughter.
“Yes,” I replied cautiously.
“Yep,” she said again. “See, he had found out. Can’t imagine how. But he had. That I was writing this book. This memoir.” She snorted again. You’ve really got to admire that habit. With Clover it was a real art form.
“A book about him?”
She nodded. “Scared the pee out of him, it did.”
“You write?”
“Do I write? Oh, my yes, honeychile, I write.” This snort surpassed the others, almost choking Clover in the process.
“Oh. I didn’t know that. Are you published?” Anyone can write, I have discovered. Published is another affair.
This question all but sent her to the floor of the brick patio.
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, the tiredness I previously noticed seemed wiped away also. The subject of Twyman and the book seemed to revitalize her. “Oh, my, yes. In a manner of speaking, I am published.”
“Would I have read you? What book? Or is it books?” I searched my internal computer list for a Medlock title.
Clover gave me a sly look. “You’ll have to wait and find out.”
“Wait for the memoir, you mean?”
She gave me a close-lipped, sprightly grin in answer.
“Would he really have killed you to keep his past quiet? I don’t understand. Everyone knows about his marriages. His life is an open book. No pun intended,” I apologized.
“You think?”
The stars were shining brightly overhead. I felt a real breeze begin somewhere beyond where the trickling water of a fountain waterfall played a lulling tune. The warm air, the drinks, and the food had left me in a stupor. I yawned. And apologized.
The last thing I remember was the older Mexican woman leading me into a side door from the patio, Bailey following behind. The narrow wooden bed with its serape cover was as inviting to him as it was to me. We fought over the pillow, and I lost.
TWENTY–ONE
Because I had enjoyed an unintentional sleepover at Clover Medlock’s ranch, the next day was thrown off-kilter. I thought about throwing my Day-Timer out the window and just living one day at a time, but old habits die hard, so I spent a few minutes rearranging the lists I had prepared for the day. I still went back to Jacksboro, in a T-shirt that proclaimed Brangus Reigns, but Juliana was so happy to see me that she never noticed. I do try to look a little more professional than I did.
I showed her how to enter ISBN numbers in the computer, marking each book entered with a Post-it note and reshelving them. She looked at the crammed shelves and asked, “And I have to do that to all of them?”
“Yes, and put in the author’s name, the title, and cost.”
“Honey,” she wailed, “that’s a lifetime job.”
“I’m going to ask Constant to send you a bar code reader. That should speed up the process. In the meantime, it will be good for you to know the routine.” God, I sounded so self-righteous. Imagine me, telling someone else how to live her life.
The big variant of the day had been a stop for dinner at Café 1187, where I met with Clover and Bailey. She had been so gracious to keep him another day.
We left him in my van while we had shepherd’s pie and iced tea. The owner and chef brought us lemon chess pie for dessert without my having to order it. She knew it was my favorite.
I had met Michelle just as I meet most people on the road. I had stopped to ask for directions and found myself another favorite on-the-road restaurant worthy of Kantor. There’s a stable next door, the Currah Riding Stable, and Clover soon was talking horses with the Irish owners. Only the right dining room was open, and it was crowded with horsey people and locals as well as one couple who had driven out from F
ort Worth for dinner. I was glad to see the customers. I don’t know why I worry about the success of local restaurants just as much as I do independent bookstores. Guess I have a fear of the popular edging out the individuality of the world.
Bailey collected and Clover paid back for her hospitality, I headed on into Fort Worth. I meant to stay on 377 but wound up turning off on 1-20 East, so it was almost dark when I arrived home. Dark came late on July nights, so it was still light enough for me to see a car parked in front of my house.
I recognized it as Janie’s, and, sure enough, she was sitting in my front porch swing, her short legs barely grazing the wooden porch floor.
“Did I miss something?” I said in greeting. I didn’t remember scheduling her for a visit tonight, but I knew my Day-Timer was screwed up. I bit my tongue and added, “Janie, I’m glad to see you.”
She was as unmannerly as I had been. “You’re late, and I’m hungry.”
Confused, I asked, “Were we supposed to have supper together?”
“No. I just took a chance … and when you weren’t home …” She burst into tears. “Oh, Honey, I’ve done it. I’ve left him. I’ve run away from home.”
Now I guess I don’t ever have to find out his first name.
I patted the woman in the swing as I have learned to do to Bailey. It calmed her as it does him. I guided her inside and fixed a supper of bacon and eggs. She told me as much as she ever was going to. It was about what I had thought. A relationship that had pretty much petered out. After her first burst of emotions—and with a full stomach—Janie forgot to be dramatic about her seemingly impulsive but actually long-thought-out decision and was more eager to know about my visit with Clover.
I helped her unload the luggage she had brought with her. That she would stay was an unspoken given. “Janie, I really like Clover. I’m dying to read her memoir. She says that’s what got Twyman so agitated. Why he accepted the Arlington Library’s invitation to speak. And why he was muttering about murder.”
“Do we still think he was murdered?” she asked.
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