Shop Talk

by Carolyn Haines

  “Come by tomorrow at noon,” Bo said, walking to the front door and pulling the key from his pocket.

  “I really can’t make it up here until six o’clock.”

  “But it will be dark by then.” Bo looked back at the gaping skylight.

  “I know,” Driskell said. His smile was soft. “I know.”

  Chapter Three

  “Lick your lips. That’s it, moist, slick, ready. That’s the look.” The short, slender man held the Nikon camera to his eye as he backed away from the tall blond who stood at the counter. She held a spring-form pan, her hands encased in paisley oven mitts. Her thin arms trembled, but her smile was radiant. She wore an aqua net apron and matching stiletto heels–and little else.

  “Now prop your leg up on the counter. Good, point the toe. Great! That’s it! Tilt the pan toward the camera. Good! Lick your lips and give me that pouty look. Think peaches, Coco. Think of the juice brimming up in your mouth and getting ready to explode all down your chest. That’s it!” Lamar Kitchens snapped the shot, lowered his camera, and flopped down on the arm of Coco’s overstuffed sofa.

  Coco Frappé lifted her foot off the high counter top. “Did you get a good shot of the cheesecake?” She looked at the photographer, who was winded and pale. Sickly. She wasn’t at all sure Walden was going to live through the shooting of the photos for her cookbook. If a little bit of punching a camera button could get him in such a state of huffing and puffing, the man was seriously out of shape.

  “Don’t change your name to Walden,” Coco said as she sprang the sides of the pan to reveal a solid, dense yellow cake, the top just slightly split. “I think Lamar Kitchens is a perfectly nice name. It was the reason I picked you out of the phone book. You know, there are about a hundred photographers listed, and it was impossible to make a decision. Since I’m doing a cookbook, I thought Kitchens was the perfect name to have on the cover.”

  Coco stood at the open utensil drawer staring down into it as she talked. She was completely unaware of her elegant beauty–or the object she’d opened the drawer to retrieve.

  “Do you take your coffee black?” she asked, blinking.

  “Sugar. No milk.”

  She put the pig-shaped sugar bowl on the counter.

  “I was telling you about my book cover. You know, I can see the cover now. There’ll be something very simple, like a cherry surrounded by a few squiggles of chocolate. All on a worn cutting board, pink background, of course.” Coco reached up into the air in front of her as if she were drawing the elements of the fantasy from thin air. “Can’t you see it? De-Lush-ous! That’s my title. By Coco Frappé, that would be in smaller type, of course, but something feminine and very pretty. Illustrations by Kitchens. That’s much better than Walden, which sounds like a big, dumb animal with ugly teeth.”

  Coffee was perking in an old fashioned, red coffeepot with the paint nicked off the side in several places. He loved the sound, the smell, the combination of light from the kitchen window, and Coco moving across the hardwood floor.

  “Where’s Elsie?” he asked, wondering about the roommate she constantly talked about.

  Coco looked up, dark eyes full and round and afraid. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just hope she doesn’t come home until we finish.”

  “She must be a real bitch.” Walden stood up. They’d been trying to arrange the kitchen photograph for a week, but Coco’s roommate had put up all kinds of hurdles. “I didn’t think she’d let us shoot here in your place.”

  “I didn’t think she would either.” Coco cast a worried look at the door as she put two big slices of cheesecake on saucers along with two cups of coffee. She picked up her fork and waited.

  Walden pulled the pig sugar bowl toward him. It was odious. The pig had an expression as if it were taking a dump, but it had long, black eyelashes and bright, red lips, emphasizing the strained look of the mouth below the pink snout. “Geez.” The word slipped before he could stop it.

  “I know. It’s Elsie’s. She insists that we use it.” Coco shrugged and handed him a paper towel to use for a napkin. “When I’m published, I’m going to have my own place with beautiful china and crystal. Everything is going to match.”

  Walden plunged his fork into the cheesecake and managed to insert the wedge into his mouth. “Great,” he said, chewing. He took a big swallow of coffee.

  Cocoa watched the half-chewed cake move down his throat. There was something sad about him. Needy. He was like a dog that had never been fed good a single time in his entire life. She pushed her untouched plate of cheesecake toward him. “Go ahead. I never eat … the stuff.”

  “It’s really good.” Walden had no shyness when it came to food. Since he’d never been overweight, he was unaware of the taboos. He glanced at Coco, who was twirling her spoon in her coffee. She was one skinny broad, but she photographed well. Extremely well. And he loved her sense of kitchen costuming. The net apron was like something from a wedding and a whore house. The glitter shoes, a pale aqua gel embedded with tiny flakes of sparkling gold, and the ribbons in her blond hair were the final bit of perfection. It was almost a miracle that Coco could cook. Maybe the book would stand a chance of getting published. A ‘cheesecake’ cookbook wasn’t a bad idea at all.

  “Would you like another?” Coco held a piece in the air. When Walden pushed the plate at her, she dropped it with a solid slap. “I think we need to do the pecan pictures next. The leaves are just coming out so green and beautiful. I could get a bag of nuts and prop them against a tree trunk. I think a burlap apron is in order. Sort of thematic.”

  “Maybe you could dangle a few squirrel tails …”

  “I don’t think so!” Coco gave him a stern look. “That wouldn’t be very nice to the squirrels. I don’t wear fur and you shouldn’t either.”

  Walden smiled. “You got an orchard in mind?”

  Coco paused, her coffee cup forgotten halfway to her lips. “You pick the place, Walden. I’m just no good at making decisions.”

  “River Road. Let’s make it six o’clock. Just as the sun peeks over the horizon.”

  Coco nodded. “The light will be perfect.” She glanced at her wall clock. “Oh, my goodness. I was supposed to meet my friend, Dallas, at the mall before dinner.” She clumped her coffee cup on the counter and stood. “I have to change. I can’t be late for WOMB.”

  “Miss, miss, is this the only book you have featuring talking dinosaurs?”

  Jazz Dixon grasped the top shelf as the woman below her shook the ladder she was standing on.

  “My little boy wants the one where the dinosaur shoots smoke and fire when he talks.” The woman shook the ladder harder, her voice petulant.

  Jazz clung to the shelf for dear life but forced herself to show no fear. “Move away from the ladder,” she said in a low, deadly voice. “Move away from the ladder now.” She’d heard police officers use that same tone on TV. It was very effective. The chubby woman in the bright-pink spandex running pants and dirty white aerobic shoes moved back two feet. She clutched her snot-nosed kid by the hand. They both looked up at her with awe, and fear. Jazz felt a rush of satisfaction.

  “Librarians aren’t supposed to be mean,” the woman said, a note of accusation creeping into her voice.

  “Are you aware that there’s a literacy requirement at this library?” Jazz arched her carefully penciled eyebrows in a manner that she knew was intimidating. She’d learned it from her ex-husband, the cheap bastard. She felt a flush of anger climb her fair skin at the thought of him. He’d taken so much from her. Everything. Even her dreams. She slammed the book she was holding onto the shelf and started down the ladder with a speed that made the chubby woman gasp as she pulled her child in front of her, a human shield.

  “You want talking dinosaurs, go to the movies.” Jazz jumped the last two steps and landed on the floor beside the woman. She narrowed her brown eyes. “You want entertainment, park your rump in front of the television. This is a library. This is a place where yo
u come to appreciate language, to learn, to whisper!” She hissed the last word. “Now get out before I permanently revoke your library card!”

  The woman backed away, holding her little boy by the shoulders. “I’m going to report you. I’m going right over and tell your boss.”

  Jazz paced toward her with long, sliding steps. “I am the boss, you stupid twit. Report me to me? That’s an excellent idea. I think I’ll give myself a pay raise.”

  The woman turned and fled, running down the maze of neatly shelved books. Jazz watched her go with satisfaction. In all probability that was the only time those ugly, dirty shoes had actually been worn for running. What gave people the idea that they had a right to come into a library and heap abuse on librarians?

  She looked up at the top shelf where the old, dusty book on the clans of Scotland remained. Why had she even thought about looking at it? All of that was behind her. Gone. No, not gone. Stolen. Stolen by her ex. All of her notes, her genealogy work, the painstaking piecing together of his family tree, his past, his history. All of that work she’d done as she’d begun to weave the strands of fact and fiction, past and present, into the greatest Scottish novel ever written! A book grown out of her love for a man who could lay claim to a burnished coat of arms and a family past that was both savage and glorious. Somewhere in the recitation of his family genetic traits, Mac MacKissock had forgotten to mention lying, cheating, boozing, and stealing—the majority of his personal habits.

  Damn Mac MacKissock. He’d stolen her heart, her car, her savings, and the manuscript of her nearly finished historical. He’d trampled her emotions and her dreams beneath his shipyard boots. Damn his blue-eyed soul to the deepest pits of sulfur-belching hell.

  “Mrs. Dixon?”

  Jazz looked up to see the young assistant librarian standing awkwardly at the edge of the aisle. “There’s a police officer to see you. He’s outside.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She straightened her back and marched through the library and out into the hot pink and bruised mauve April evening where the woman stood, one fat hip cocked obscenely, as she complained to the police officer.

  “That’s her! That’s her!” The woman pointed at Jazz. “She threatened me and my baby, and all because we wanted more books with talking dinosaurs.”

  The cop eyed Jazz, taking in her upswept beehive. He hadn’t seen a do like that since he was a junior in high school, and the woman was too young to have been part of the original bee-hive movement. The yellow sheath dress followed the lines of her figure. Nice. The matching daisy earbobs were kind of classy.

  Jazz looked through her eyelashes at the policeman. “Officer, this woman clearly has a problem with authority.”

  The woman’s mouth opened, slack. She looked at her little boy, who looked up at her.

  “You’d better beat it, lady.” The cop lowered his jaw to his chest and looked her dead in the eyes. “I can see who the trouble maker is here. Move along, or I’ll take you to jail.”

  The woman snatched up her boy’s hand and turned, dragging him behind her without a word.

  “Thank you, officer,” Jazz said. Her smile was cool, professional. “You wouldn’t believe the types that come into the library these days. No respect for books. None for language. It’s depressing.”

  “Well give her a free bed in the Biloxi ladies’ wing if she gives you any more trouble, Ms …”

  “Dixon.” She liked the sound of her new name. It was a writer’s name. Perfect for her new book and her new life. Not a musty old historical name like Helen MacKissock–a shiny new name to go with a book that exposed the brutality of men and the suffering of the women who bravely loved them. “Jazz Dixon.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had dinner with a librarian with a musical name. Would you like to go out tonight? I was thinking of some sautéed soft-shell crabs, a few cold beers.” He smiled.

  Jazz liked his teeth. They weren’t perfect, a little crooked and yellow. A real man’s teeth. And there was the hint of a beard at his jawline. Her eyes slid to his chest to see if she could detect body hair. She hated a man without body hair. The slick, nubile chest of some fair-skinned men made her feel as if she were doing something illegal.

  “Say about seven o’clock. I could pick you up?” He waited for her answer.

  Jazz looked at her wristwatch. It was nearly six o’clock. Wednesday was the evening the library stayed open late, and the sun was just beginning to set. The soft dusk of Mississippi spring was giving the entire street a fading, pinkish-gold glow. There was time—hell’s bells, it was Wednesday night. Writers of Mississippi Books met at six-thirty, sharp.

  “I’m sorry, officer, I have a meeting tonight.”

  “Yeah, my ex-wife used to go to those AA meetings.” He nodded knowingly.

  “Not AA, W-O-M-B.”

  “Womb?” His gaze dropped to her belly.

  “Womb,” Jazz repeated, a tad impatiently. “It’s a perfectly legitimate word. It means …”

  “Maybe another time.” The officer tipped his hat. “I’d better get back on my beat.”

  “Another time,” Jazz called as he walked away. Once inside, she jotted down the officer’s last name, O’Neill. It had been right on the nametag on his uniform. She wasn’t a trained observer for nothing. He might call again and ask her out, and she wanted to be able to use his name.

  “Wrap it, please. It’s a present, from me to me.”

  The sales clerk smiled as she took the swan-shaped bottle of perfume and returned it to the box. The accumulated purchases of the woman standing before her would result in a hefty commission, and the day was still young. Dallas Dior had plastic to burn. “It’s exquisite, Ms. Dior. Shall I put it on your account?”

  “Mmmm.” Dallas had already turned her attention to a vivid shade of dark brick lipstick. “May I see that, please?”

  “In the gold or blue case?” The clerk was reaching for the gold before she even finished asking the question. The woman who stood before her always bought the best of everything, from the lace-topped French hose to her hair spray. Only the best, always the best. Dallas was a shopping legend all over the Gulf Coast. Her husband, Robert Beaudreaux, was a doctor, but not the kind who saw patients. Whatever he did for the flyboys out at Keesler Air Force Base, it was enough to provide his eccentric wife with a plush lifestyle and uncountable discretionary funds.

  “I’ll take the lipstick, and while I’m here, I might as well look at those cute gold earrings. The moon and stars. Those will look fine with the new dress I bought at La Belle Petites.”

  The clerk glanced at Dallas. Size four. Shoe size six, narrow. Waist, twenty-two inches. And long, dark, curly hair down to her ass. She was some little coonass package of dynamite, thought the clerk, handing over the requested earrings.

  “I suppose that will be all.” Dallas glanced at her watch, her perfect face momentarily marred by a frown. Coco, as usual, was very late.

  “Dallas! Dallas! I’m coming.” Coco skidded up to the counter. “I’m late. I know. I should have been on time, it’s just that—” She saw the stack of packages. “I thought you said Robert told you to chill out with the credit cards.”

  “I know how to handle Robert.” Dallas shrugged. “It’s the oldest form of bartering in the world.”

  “What all did you buy?” Coco’s voice held no envy, only curiosity. She lifted the smallest bag and smelled it. “Yum, that isn’t chocolate, but it smells great.”

  “Perfume.” Dallas lifted a shiny black bag and handed it to Coco. “The chocolate’s in there. How was your shoot?”

  “I like Walden. He’s a little sickly. Asthma.”

  “What about his work?” Dallas pressed.

  “We shot the pictures today.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re so impatient. You’re going to turn out to be just like Mona.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I could use one of her whips on Robert. When he tries to sneak into the house.”

  Coco was shaking the can
dy bag, sniffing it. She stopped. “You mean you haven’t let him back in the house yet? He’s still living in the garage? It’s been six months, Dallas.”

  “Shush!” Dallas grabbed Coco’s arm and hustled her away from the counter. “It’s perfect. No more dirt tracked in the kitchen. No more dishes appearing in the sink in the middle of the night. No more snoring to wake me up when I’m asleep. No more whining and begging when I’m not in the mood. Robert doesn’t fit in with the new decor. Robert requires a … high tech atmosphere. He doesn’t fit in with Ming vases and fine carpets. LingLing, my Shar Pei, has more respect for fine furnishings.” At the look of shock on Coco’s face, Dallas went on. “Besides, I let him in some. When he’s really good, or when he’s brought me a present.” The corners of her almond-shaped eyes turned up. “Sometimes I even give him a reward.”

  Coco sighed. “I don’t know, Dallas, you treat that man awful.”

  “I do not.” Dallas’ tone was distracted as she herded Coco to Chez Artistique. “They’re having a sale on hats,” she explained as she pushed open the door.

  “No one wears hats anymore.”

  “I intend to revive them.” Dallas smiled knowingly. “In my book, Cassandra creates her own hats, and they’re so unique and mysterious that she single-handedly brings hats back into vogue. I think I need to wear a few hats so I could get the feel of what it might be like to peek out from under a brim, or observe someone through a veil.”

  “Research.” Coco nodded as she fell into step.

  Andromeda Ripley stood in the living room doorway and stared at the recliner. Her mother’s gray head, tilted to the right in sleep, was perfectly framed in the blue glow from the television. The sleeping pill she’d dissolved in Natalie’s bourbon and coke had been just the ticket. Andromeda took a long, deep breath. It was going to be easier to escape than she’d dared hope.

  She flexed her hands in their black leather gloves. It wasn’t fair that she had to go to such extreme measures for a few hours to call her own–for a chance to function as the science fiction screenwriter that she knew herself to be. Only the members of WOMB truly understood her ambitions, and her abilities.