by Elaine Viets
Maybe she should have picked up that crowbar sooner.
Chapter 4
“Death, destruction, and murder.” That’s what Madame Muffy predicted, and now Helen saw it all around her.
There was death and destruction at the Coronado.
As for murder, the whole staff wanted to kill Page Turner III.
The next day, Page announced that the Palm Beach store was closing, effective immediately. Matt had warned them.
But the booksellers couldn’t have been more shocked if terrorists had blown up the place.
Brad kept wandering around saying, “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Matt said. He was Cassandra in a white T-shirt.
“It’s only temporary,” Albert insisted.
Helen said nothing. The Palm Beach store had opened with great fanfare less than a year ago. Why was Page closing it so quickly? It didn’t make sense.
Brad called a friend who worked there. “The Palm Beach staff is shell-shocked,” he reported. “They didn’t get any notice. They’re not getting any severance pay. They’re all out on the street.”
“What about the books?” Helen said.
“Our store will sell them. The Wilton Manors store won’t get any.”
“Then it will close, too,” Matt said. He was relentless.
“Do you know that or are you just talking?” Albert said.
“I believe,” Matt said firmly, “that Wilton Manors will close very soon.”
But we’re safe, Helen thought, and felt guilty for entertaining that hope.
Brad said it out loud. “We’ll survive because we have the Palm Beach books.”
“We’ll close before the last Palm Beach book is sold,” Matt predicted.
The other booksellers, except for loyal Albert, must have agreed. Within an hour, newspapers began missing their help-wanted sections. The copy machine ran constantly.
There were whispered phone conversations for suspected job interviews.
When Helen stopped in the café for her midmorning coffee, she saw the dread-locked Matt studying the paper. He looked up guiltily. He’d been reading the employment section. “It’s hopeless. Nothing here but jobs for telemarketers and debt collectors.”
“I’m not that desperate,” Helen said. “Most employers want too much work for too little money. Look at this ad:
‘Nanny, excellent English required, two lively boys, must love dogs.’ Eight lousy bucks an hour.”
“It says that in the ad?” Matt grinned.
“I added the last part. But you know what that means.
The dogs and the kids run wild. No, thanks. I’m going to keep looking.”
“Me, too,” Matt said.
“Why don’t you go back to school, Matt? You’re young and smart.”
“And broke,” he said. “I’m trying. But scholarships are getting cut back, too. Page Turner is cruel. He could have given the Palm Beach staff a few thousand dollars in severance. That’s pocket change for him. Instead, he strung them along, then dumped them. He’ll pay for that.”
“People like him never pay for anything,” Helen said.
The one bright spot was Helen’s beach vacation, but she bought it at a high price. She had to work three nights.
Helen was used to irregular hours at the bookstore, but she hated nights. The customers were bizarre. The store was dirty and disorganized after a busy day. And Page Turner was so cheap, he made the night booksellers clean the rest rooms.
Still, if it got her beach time, Helen would clean toilets at midnight.
She had to work two of the dreaded nights before her vacation.
Wednesday, there was Melanie.
Helen knew it would be a bad night when Page Turner III showed up at seven. He had the flushed face and hearty manner of a drunk about to turn mean. He was carrying a Bawls, bent straw dangling from the bottle.
Bawls was a high-caffeine drink with guarana, which was something exotic from the Amazon. He added a hefty jolt of something less exotic from the liquor store. Vodka, probably. Caffeine drinks laced with vodka were the current club scene rage.
He held up the bumpy blue glass bottle and yelled, “Who’s got Bawls?” The staff didn’t laugh. He didn’t notice.
An hour later, a slender young woman with masses of blond hair came up to Helen’s cash register. She gave the impression of being small and fragile, but she was almost as tall as Helen and well muscled. Maybe it was her girlish clothes. She wore a short, pale blue wraparound skirt, a low-cut ruffled top, and clear plastic high-heeled sandals that showed her toes. They made her look vulnerable and naive.
“I’m an author,” she said proudly. “Melanie Devereaux DuShayne. I have an appointment with Page Turner.”
“Another one for the harem,” Brad said, too loudly, and rolled his eyes. Helen glared at him. Most of the time Brad was funny. Tonight he was not.
“I’ll take you to his office,” Helen said. She felt like she was leading a lamb to the slaughter. Or a lamb to the wolf.
“Is your book published?” Helen asked Melanie as they passed the velvet rope barrier and walked up the stairs to Page’s office. Ninety-nine percent of the women who went into Page’s office were not published authors, and never would be, despite the promises made on his couch. Page said he knew New York agents and editors, which was true.
But he wouldn’t waste his precious contacts on a passing fling.
“Oh, yes, with UBookIt.” She opened a blue flowered purse and pulled out a trade paperback called Love and Murder—Forever: A Romantic Mystery or Mysterious Romance.
It was a print-on-demand book. Helen tried not to sigh.
Another gullible author.
Print-on-demand, or POD, meant the books were printed as ordered. There were no large advance press runs, as with conventional books. Some POD publishers, including Melanie’s, used this new technology for an old scam. They ran a vanity press. Poor Melanie paid a hundred and fifty dollars to get her book published, bypassing the usual process with an agent, an editor, and a publisher. UBookIt sold her paperback novels for an outrageous twenty-nine ninety-five. UBookIt’s advertising implied their authors became best-sellers reviewed in the New York Times.
Publishing virgins like Melanie fell for that line. Actually, she had a better chance of being crowned Miss Black America.
Helen felt sorry for POD authors like Melanie. They were so eager. So hopeful. So duped.
Most newspapers would not review POD books. Most bookstores would not sell them or give signings for them.
Certainly not snooty Page Turners.
Helen knocked on the door and Page opened it, wearing a smoking jacket like a roué from a forties movie. He put his massive arm around Melanie’s shoulders, and Helen saw his hand was slyly heading for her breast. Melanie was staring at his office, which took up the whole floor. The spectacular view of Fort Lauderdale was almost overpowered by his five thousand first editions.
“Look at all these books,” she said, wide-eyed. “Is that really Ray Bradbury’s Dark Carnival?”
“Signed,” Page said. “That’s an autographed Dorothy Sayers. There’s a signed first edition of John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. On this shelf is a Faulkner first edition.
My family knew him, naturally. I have Dashiell Hammett and ...”
They were all collected by his grandfather, Page Turner I, a man who knew and cultivated the greatest names in fiction. Page Turner III’s only additions to the collection were a signed set of Burt Plank novels. Helen wondered how Dorothy Sayers felt sitting next to him.
Page didn’t point out that the locked cabinet behind him contained nude videos of the women he dated—videos they must now regret. Brad said Page and Burt Plank watched them like stag films. He’d come in once to get the staff schedule and seen the two of them laughing like drunken frat boys.
The enormous leather couch seemed to squat there like a malevolent beast. Staff gossip said there was a hidden camera ov
er it. Helen did not want to see any more. She quietly shut the door.
An hour later, Melanie the POD author came down the stairs, flushed and pretty, blond hair gleaming.
“Mr. Turner is going to give me a signing,” she said, dancing in the aisle. “Imagine me at Page Turners! And he said he could get his good friend Mr. Burt Plank to give me a blurb. I’m so excited.”
Helen shuddered. She knew what Melanie would have to give the plump Plank for that blurb. I have a nasty mind, she thought. But then she noticed Melanie’s blue wraparound skirt was on inside out.
So did Gayle, the night manager. “I’m not letting him take advantage of another woman,” she said. “He lies. He lies to them all and gets away with it because he’s the great Page Turner.”
Melanie came tripping up to the cash register in her clear plastic heels. “I want to order two more copies of my book.”
“It will take two to five weeks,” Helen said. If she was lucky. UBookIt was as slow as it was crooked.
“My baby is worth waiting for,” Melanie said. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” Helen pointed over by the exit sign.
Melanie headed in that direction, fluffing her hair.
“I’m going to have a chat with her,” Gayle said. “Wait two minutes and follow me in.”
Helen did. The white-tiled bathroom stank of peppermint disinfectant and old diapers. Someone had left a half-empty latte on the sink and a Bride’s magazine by the toilet.
She heard Gayle saying, “Yes, he did. He was dating this woman while he was engaged to his current wife. She read about his engagement in the newspaper, came running in here, and threatened to kill him. He humiliated her. Ask anyone who’s worked here awhile. They’ll tell you. She wasn’t the first—or the last. You’re just one in a long line.”
“No!” Melanie said. “Mr. Turner said I had talent. He said he would give me a signing.”
“No, he said he would try. Next he’ll say he tried, but your books weren’t available from the distributor. And they won’t be, because they’re print-on-demand. Page Turners never has signings for POD authors.”
“But he said he’d get Mr. Plank to endorse my book,” Melanie said, and Helen heard her awful desperation.
“Yeah, you’ll get a blurb,” Gayle said. “If you get out your knee pads. You know what Burt Plank’s last blurb said? ‘Good is not the word for this book.’ You want that on your cover?”
“It’s not true. You’re just a jealous old dyke.”
Helen spoke up then. “It is true,” she said. “Ask Mr. Turner to set a date for your signing. I’ll bet my next paycheck that’s when he says your books are not available.”
“You’re lying. Both of you.” Melanie was almost sobbing now. “Mr. Turner is an honorable man. I’ll prove you wrong. I’m going up there right now and ask him.”
“While you’re in there, ask to see his videos,” Gayle said. “He keeps them in a locked cabinet by the couch. I bet you’ve already starred in one. He watches them with his buddy Burt Plank. That way Burt can preview the coming attraction.”
“Mr. Turner would never do that.”
“There’s a camera hidden in the vent over the couch,” Gayle said. “Check it out next time you’re on your back.”
That was nasty. Helen thought it was Gayle’s payback for the “jealous old dyke” remark.
Melanie flounced up the stairs to Page’s office. She was back down in ten minutes, cheeks flaming, blond hair flying every which way. She didn’t say anything to Helen or Gayle as she walked through the store, head high.
“There goes another fool,” Brad said when she passed his register. Melanie’s head snapped back as though she’d been lashed, and her cheeks grew redder. She’d heard him.
Helen wished Brad had not said that. But even more, she wished Page Turner had not taken advantage of Melanie.
“That son of a bitch,” Helen said.
“I wish Page Turner was dead,” Gayle said. Helen looked at Gayle, her face white with rage, and wondered how Page had hurt her.
At midnight the store closed and the staff chased out the last customers. Page Turners was a mess. Helen opened the women’s rest room and groaned. The stalls, mirror, and sink were draped in toilet paper. Even the waste can was decorated. More paper crisscrossed the floor. Worse, it was wet.
“What’s wrong?” Gayle said.
“We’ve been TP’d. Wet TP. I just hope they used water.”
“Oh, gross.”
It took the two women an hour to clean it up, and they still had to put the store in order. Stray books were piled everywhere. Sticky café cups and napkins were abandoned on shelves and floors.
“Screw it,” Gayle said. “Let’s leave. This store is going to close anyway.”
That’s when Helen knew Page Turners was dead.
Thursday brought more rumors that the entire bookstore chain was closing, and more whistling-in-the-dark denials.
“The Turner family can’t close our store,” Albert said, all starch and sanity. “We’re the flagship, started by Page’s grandfather.”
“They can do anything they want,” Matt said, the dread-locked rebel. “And they will.”
“How do you know?” Albert said, looking every day of his fifty-six years. “You’re what—twenty-two?”
“Twenty-four,” Matt said. “But I don’t have your handicap.”
“What’s that?” said Albert.
“I don’t believe white men. Especially rich ones.”
Albert flushed, but said nothing.
The strain showed in the store. Lively little Brad nearly burst into tears when a customer berated him. He argued that his beloved J.Lo should have stayed with Puff Daddy.
Helen took that as a sure sign he’d snapped.
Stuffy Albert was rude and peremptory. Matt disappeared for two hours at lunch, which made more work for everyone.
Only gentle Mr. Davies remained unchanged, sitting in his nook in the back, reading his beloved books. He presided over the store like some literary spirit. Thursday night, Helen found Mr. Davies asleep over his paperback when the store closed. She woke him up.
“Oh, dear, dear, I’m so sorry. Did I hold you up? I know you want to go home.” He gathered his book and sandwich wrappings and headed for the exit.
Helen was back at the store at nine the next morning. She didn’t care that she’d had six hours of sleep. Today was Friday. Her beach vacation started this evening. She couldn’t take another weird late night.
Instead, she had a bizarre day. The first man at her register had coal-black hair, eyes like twin pools of tar, and a copy of How to Cast Out Devils.
“I want to return this book,” he said.
Helen was afraid to ask why. She didn’t know which scared her more: if the book worked—or if it didn’t.
She gave him his money back without comment.
“Is this a full moon?” Helen asked Brad. Like most people in retail, she believed the full moon brought out the crazies. “We’re going to have fun today at the registers.”
“Not me,” Brad said. “I’ve got slush duty.”
“Poor you,” Helen said. She meant it. “Slush” was the staff word for the books people left all over the store. Art books heavy as paving stones were abandoned in the Children’s section. Mutilated children’s books were dumped like slashed corpses in Mysteries. Bodice-ripping romances turned up in Sports. Copies of the Kama Sutra wound up in the Pregnancy section.
The living room attracted the most slush. Old Mr. Turner had created “book nooks” for his customers. Brown leather wing chairs with comfortable reading lamps were scattered all over the store. In the center, sheltered by mahogany bookcases, he designed a living room with a beautifully worn Persian carpet, comfortable leather couches, and armchairs. Here, the slush gathered in three-foot heaps, until it was retrieved and reshelved by tired, footsore booksellers.
Brad, skinny and agile as a monkey, could carry an amazing number of books. He
returned from the slush run with tomes stacked to his chin, and a wild look in his eyes.
He dropped the books on the shelving cart and said, “Do you have anything I can use to clean the coffee table?
Someone knocked over a caramel latte and covered it with a stack of Harry Potter books.”
“Are they ruined?”
“Four totaled, and the finish is coming off the coffee table.”
Helen rummaged under the register for paper towels, spray cleaner, and furniture polish and put them on the counter. She heard Brad say, “Thanks,” and stood up to face the sublime smells of hot grease and pepperoni. A delivery man was at the counter with a fragrant pizza box.
“Pizza delivery for Clemmons,” he said.
“We don’t have a Clemmons on the staff,” Helen said.
“It’s not for the staff. It’s for a customer. Large pepperoni and mushroom. He called on his cell phone. Said he’d be in the living room.”
Helen paged him. Clemmons turned out to be a much-pierced young man in a black T-shirt. Helen was used to people treating Page Turners like their home. They put their feet on the sofas, spilled coffee on the carpet, and left books everywhere. But ordering a pizza went too far.
“Sir, we have a café where you can buy food,” she said.
“Too expensive,” Clemmons said, taking his pizza to the living room.
Helen tried to keep above the chaos by thinking of her beach vacation. Rich was meeting her tonight at the motel.
They had three days together on the romantic ocean, their first long weekend together.
These rosy dreams departed when Page Turner lurched in carrying a Bawls-and-vodka. He was not flushed and jolly this afternoon. He was plain drunk. He walked around the bookstore, annoying customers with his vulgar question.
He even went back to Mr. Davies’ nook, held up his blue bottle, and said, “You got Bawls, buddy?” The old gentleman seemed embarrassed for Page. Helen was relieved when he finally stumbled off to his office.
Page’s wife, Astrid, called and said, “Can I speak with the son of a bitch?”
“Which one?” Helen said.
“The one who owns the store.”