Wordless (Pink Sofa Secrets Book 1)

by Mel Sterling

  "I need you to prove me wrong."

  He stumbled back to the chair and sat down. Him, stealing? From a place that meant as much to him as Horace's Books? From Lexie? He stared at her, his mouth working speechlessly, coherent thought lost in the vastness of his astonishment. "I…I have nothing to say, except whatever's happening, I'm not the cause of it. I'm trying to stop it, whatever it is. I don't have a key to Horace's house, and I haven't taken books."

  He thought a moment, waiting for her to relax a little further, for the hard line of her mouth to soften. Willing her to believe him, but instead she outwaited him. He shifted focus. "Did you say you're mailing books to the same customer, but different places? Why would you do that?"

  She smacked her palm into her forehead and gave him a look that let him know he was the biggest idiot on the planet. "Someone buys a book from our internet store. We mail it wherever they'd like it mailed. House, store, office building, a hole in a riverbank. We mail it, the post office delivers it, the buyer reads it."

  He shook his head. "I get that. If I understand you, it looks like someone's stealing the books that a particular customer is buying. Right? On top of that, this customer has his books sent to different addresses?"

  "Right."

  He shrugged, commenting cautiously. "There are John Smiths everywhere. Maybe it's just coincidence."

  "Sure, John Smith. But not H. Barczak. Not twice. And not to different P. O. boxes in different states."

  That did sound weird. But for all her enthusiasm and good intentions, Lexie was new to bookselling. Without Horace to guide her, she'd make mistakes. Anyone would, including Jack. Most of the mistakes wouldn't be of the sort that would endanger her or the store. But something told him there was a lot more than even Horace had suspected. "There's something wrong with those books."

  "What's that supposed to mean? They're just…books. They weren't even particularly valuable, as books go."

  "Just…trust me on this one. My gut says something is really wrong."

  "Is your gut telling you that because you're a criminal?" She folded her arms again and Jack fought back a frustrated sigh. So much for progress.

  "Because I'm a journalist, and crime is something I've reported on. Buy enough beers for cops, they'll tell you a lot of interesting things. Including talk about how the infrastructure of commerce can be used for criminal purposes of all kinds. You might be laundering money or shipping drugs or sending coded messages for spies or racketeers and not even know it."

  Lexie's mouth fell open. "What? Are you saying we're mailing illegal materials—"

  "I'm not saying that. I'm saying it's weird that both the books you say are missing were bound for the same customer name in different places. More of those coincidences that probably aren't." This time, when he stood and pulled a second chair over to his little table, she didn't back away. She was too shocked. "Lexie, please. Sit down. Have some of this latte before I have to pour it down the sink. Let's start over at the beginning, work this through together. I want to help. I don't know how to prove to you that I'm not involved, but I'm not. I'm asking you to trust me."

  She sank into the chair, blue eyes wide and startled, but her brain was clearly spinning swiftly. "On television, someone saying 'you have to trust me' is a sure reason not to. Because the minute they do, that's when the bomb explodes or someone parachutes into the office building with an Uzi."

  Jack reached to touch her hand where it lay on the table—not the hand holding the phone. He didn't want her to think he was trying to separate her from her lifeline. She looked at his fingers, lightly touching hers, and allowed him to fold her hand into his grip. "I would never hurt you. Because if I hurt you, you'll never let me walk you home again. Never let me kiss you again. Never let me—"

  "Oh, God," she interrupted. Her cheeks flushed bright red. "Stop, Jack, before you say something I'll regret."

  She reached for the latte, but she did it with the hand that had held the phone, not the hand he was holding. That, she left where it was, even holding a little tighter. Jack felt his heart burst in something like triumph mixed with joy and dread. He was sinking fast.

  This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he decided he'd have to woo Lexie slowly, carefully, but perhaps it would work in its stead. He had personal experience of how swiftly relationships developed in times of stress or danger. At least this time nobody would lose a limb or have to kill an enemy to stay alive.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LEXIE SAT WITH JACK holding her hand, her mind whirling. She wasn't certain he'd told her everything he knew, but he had at least managed to convince her he wasn't entering her house and stealing packages. He'd been honestly surprised by that revelation. No, he wasn't the thief.

  The other thing derailing her this morning was his repeated assertion he was attracted to her. He was making it clear in word and deed, but it was all happening so quickly. She gazed at where their hands were linked on the small table, and wondered what the hell she was doing. She should call the cops immediately, and yet what she wanted to do was talk the whole thing through with Jack, maybe even with Gilly, to find more pieces of the puzzle. What would the police do about two missing packages she couldn't actually prove were missing, and a door she couldn't prove she'd locked?

  Jack's voice shook her from her musings. "You need to change the locks on your house right away, and probably also the locks here at the store. When does Ben come in today?"

  She looked up at him, blinking. It took a moment to remember the schedule. "Noon to three. There's another open microphone tonight, but he's not working the evening. I gave him overtime to work the last one and help me through my first event, but I think I can handle the open mics on my own now. There wasn't all that much to do."

  "I'll be here," Jack said firmly. "You book a locksmith for today when Ben can cover the store. I'm walking you home for certain tonight."

  Lexie's stomach gave a weird little flip. The idea of Jack walking her home yet again felt exciting and stressful at the same time. She still wasn't completely sure she could trust him, though she wanted to. She wanted to lean on someone, to know help was a word or a glance away instead of feeling she had to tackle everything on her own. She was overwhelmed. The newness of running a bookstore. Having an employee, dealing with insurance and inventory and customers and events and shipping books. On top of that the fear that came with knowing something criminal and potentially dangerous was happening, and on top of that, what felt like the start of something utterly new on her love-life horizon…. She bit her lip and closed her eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath.

  Jack rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand. "Please don't cry, Lexie."

  "I'm…not." She opened her eyes again and there he was, brown eyes soulful and attentive, mouth compressed slightly as if he were holding in his own emotions in reaction to hers. Her stomach flipped again. He was just an ordinary-looking man, except when she caught him off-guard, and discovered something more in his expression. In those moments, he became handsome and appealing. She was aware of her own vulnerability where he was concerned, and knew she had to work hard to keep it from coloring her perceptions.

  "It sure looks like it from where I'm sitting."

  "I do not cry at work."

  "Okay then. How about you finish this latte, then find a locksmith?"

  The bell over the door rang, and a customer came in. Lexie pulled her hand from Jack's, feeling his fingers closing tighter as hers pulled away. He met her gaze with a directness that froze her in place for a long moment. She swallowed hard and nodded, grabbed the phone and the butterscotch latte, and headed for the cash register counter.

  Business was slow enough that Lexie was able to spend time on the phone, booking a locksmith for early afternoon. She hurried home as soon as Ben arrived, deciding against telling him the reason she needed to take a long lunch. She wanted to think more about how to explain to him what was going on in the store. It wasn't that she thought Ben was inv
olved in criminal activity, but more that she wanted to be present in case of fallout from the discussion, and to choose a time when they would not be interrupted by customers. The talk might even have to wait a day.

  She parked in front of the house, where she sat behind the wheel and studied everything she could see in the yard and the neighboring lots. Nothing appeared out of place, but she hadn't paid close attention to the neighbors' houses until now. She'd had too much else on her mind, what with nursing Horace in his final days, attending to the funeral and his estate and now dealing with the bookstore.

  It was an ordinary enough street. Middle-sized lookalike houses with porches and small yards. Flower beds filled with late-blooming annuals, mature trees shedding glorious, glowing heaps of autumn leaves. A few early-bird neighbors had carved pumpkins and set them on porch steps in anticipation of Halloween. The lawns were still green. A bicycle leaned against a stop sign at the next corner. There was no traffic at noon on a weekday. Several blocks down the street she saw a pedestrian cross at a corner and vanish.

  Nothing seemed out of place, yet tension was fraying her self-possession and calm. The idea that she'd been unknowingly mailing books with contraband in them made her feel sick. A moment or two later the locksmith's van pulled up behind her, and she got out to meet him.

  As she ushered the man and his tool box through the house to the back door, she found herself looking suspiciously around the rooms. Nothing was out of place here, either. The sneak thief, whoever it was, was quiet, circumspect, and interested in only the one thing.

  The locksmith quickly changed the locks on the kitchen and basement doors, then returned with Lexie to the front door. She leaned against the porch railing, watching. Movement up the street from the direction of the bookstore caught her eye, and for a moment she wondered if Jack might have decided to join her, but the figure was too gaunt, and Jack didn't wear a hat. This person moved quickly but without Jack's lanky grace, yet seemed familiar.

  As he neared, she realized who it was. Q, the quirky poet from the open microphone. He came on, staring at the opposite side of the street, hands in the front pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched against the autumn air. He looked like he needed a jacket, but he was wearing a T-shirt beneath an open flannel shirt. His movements were as spidery and jittery as she remembered. His hat was the same dark blue beret he'd worn at the last open mic. He was a walking cliché, she thought, lips turning up in a wry smile.

  His head swung to the right and he saw her.

  "Hi," she said, striving for her friendly neighborhood bookseller smile coupled with a lifted hand. Patented, pleasant, professional. A woman who greets her customers in a small town. "It's…Q, right?"

  His eyes slid away to the sky, as if he saw things there no one else could. He nodded, once and sharply. "Hi." He jammed his hands tighter into his pockets.

  "Will you be at our open mic tonight?" Lexie asked, striving for some common ground.

  "Wouldn't miss it." Q's gaze passed over her, once and twitchily, taking in the locksmith kneeling at the door with his tools. "Gotta go. Later." He hurried past, glance averted.

  Lexie wondered what he thought about when he walked without watching where he was going, and whether or not he'd tripped over fire hydrants or walked into phone poles or signposts. Maybe he was composing a new, angst-filled gem to deliver at the mic tonight. She turned with him, looking into the sun, and his figure became nothing but a silhouette, tall and thin. He must live nearby. What job did he have, or was he out of work? That might explain why he'd eaten so many cookies at the last open mic, and why he was taking a leisurely stroll—at his quick, agitated pace—at midday in the middle of the week.

  Her thoughts dwelled on the open mic. It would be a late night at the store, and she'd be coming home to a house with new locks. She felt a little better, but she knew she'd have a tough time getting to sleep, starting awake at every sound, wondering if someone was trying to get in. She didn't need another sleepless night after last night's tossing and turning.

  She thought about Jack walking her home again. She had no doubt he'd insist on coming inside and checking the house for her, and this time she would not argue.

  You could ask Jack to stay the night, her traitorous mind offered. Then you wouldn't have to worry about any noises.

  She shook her head at herself, rousing from the reverie in time to notice the locksmith giving the front door locks a final test with the new keys. Sure, she could ask Jack to stay, and he'd probably oblige.

  Therein lay all the trouble in the world. All the trouble, and all the thrill.

  Lexie leaned her forehead against the porch railing post and sighed. The locksmith finished, so she paid him, watched him leave, then put her car in the garage. Jack couldn't very well walk her home if she was driving her car, could he?

  She laughed at her schoolgirl fancies, snugged her jacket around herself, and headed for the bookstore. Her strides were brisk, and as she neared the alley behind the store, she paused for one last glance around, because apparently paranoia was self-sustaining once it had a foothold. To the south was the town square, and a few children kicking through fallen leaves, watched by parents. To the west she saw someone walking a dog past the hardware store.

  In the alley, a figure leaned against the wall. Lexie's heart jumped and she drew back, shielding herself from view behind the dumpster, just as the prowler had the night before. A moment's careful scrutiny revealed only Gilly, on break from The Cup, out back to catch a breath of autumn air and escape the clamor of the espresso machines and coffee counter.

  As Lexie stood there, calming from her sudden start, Gilly straightened from the wall and turned toward the mouth of the alley. From the south came Q, pace languid and cocky, the strut of a man sure of his welcome.

  So that was what Q had been doing—killing time walking the neighborhood while he waited for Gilly's break. The gaunt poet turned into the alley. Gilly hurried to meet him. Lexie frowned. She didn't like Gilly's body language. The girl seemed nervous and anxious, almost obsequious, as if Q were about to speak harshly.

  "Quint!" Gilly exclaimed. "I didn't get the word in time! I only saw the text this morning. Were you able to—"

  "Hush," Q said, his resonant poet's voice damped to a raspy, husky hiss. "Now's not the time. But yeah. I got it."

  Gilly slumped, clearly relieved, and Q put his hands on her, catching hold of her upper arms and pushing her. Lexie straightened, about to intervene, when she saw Gilly melt back against the bricks with a bad-girl vamp that erased her nervous expression. Gilly hooked her thumbs in the belt loops at Q's hips and pulled him toward her. He pressed his hips against Gilly's, grinding a little. Gilly yanked off his beret with a grin and sailed it down the alley like a frisbee, before Q ducked his head and put his mouth on Gilly's neck.

  Lexie turned away from their intimacy, slipping past the dumpster and the mouth of the alley while the two were occupied with each other. Quint. Well, at least he came by the initial legitimately. It wasn't all pretension and self-aware posturing.

  Poor Ben, though. Lexie knew he was crushing hard on Gilly, but if the barista was enamored of Q, Ben would have to come across with something extra special to gain her notice. Book talk or buying a latte a few times a week didn't seem to be cutting it, not when compared to the angsty romantic appeal of Q.

  She opened the door to the familiar comfort of Horace's Books, Ben's welcoming wave, and a long look from Jack that made a pleasant shiver climb her spine as his smile slowly grew.

  "All settled?" Jack asked. Lexie nodded, headed for the back room to stash her bag. She was aware that Jack was following her, but there were other customers in the store—not to mention Ben, so she shook her head at him and closed the door behind her. There, she tucked her bag into the cupboard and went to check the alley door. It was firmly closed and locked. She sighed in relief, knowing she'd be checking it often for a long time to come.

  When she felt better able to face Jack wit
hout either wanting to babble her fears or stare like a lovesick sheep at the clean line of his jaw and throat, she took a deep breath, put on her bookstore game face and went to the cash register desk. It was nearly time for Ben to leave for his afternoon classes. She might as well gird her loins and get on with it, even though butterflies fluttered in her belly—paranoid butterflies, but also the kind that showed up when she had a crush on a man. There was the open mic to get ready for. She had plenty to keep herself busy.

  Jack was glad when Ben left for his afternoon classes at the college. It wasn't that he didn't like Ben, but he wanted a chance to talk with Lexie without someone overhearing.

  Lexie, however, didn't seem to share Jack's ideas. She flitted in and out of the shelves, putting books away, taking books down, moving stacks from here to there and back again.

  It looked suspiciously like busy-work to Jack.

  He supposed he couldn't blame her. He thrust his long legs out beneath the little cafe table holding his tablet and keyboard. She probably needed the sense of security everyday tasks could give her. He still wanted to take her into the back room, pull her into his arms, and hold her a while.

  All right, and kiss her a while too, he admitted to himself. As if kisses could make what had happened better. She wasn't a child, but Jack felt sure he could comfort her, and he damn sure knew he could protect her, if she'd only let him. Trouble was, she was prickly and independent and strong and determined. All traits he admired, traits that attracted him to her in new ways. He'd never met anyone quite like her.

  A message popped up in the corner of his tablet. Gard, getting in touch. Jack opened the chat window. Hey JT, getting on a plane in a day or two.

  Jack smiled and typed back. Stocking up on fresh coffee crystals just for you.

  Flying standby. Not sure when I'll get in. Leave a key somewhere?

  I'll come get you. Call when you get close.