A Novel Death

by Judi Culbertson

  Someone in the front called a warning to him to line up, and Marty moved swiftly into place. He was always first or second in line. The rumor was that he paid someone to wait in line for him overnight. It was a rumor I believed.

  But where was Margaret? If she didn't get here soon, she'd never get in! But maybe something had come up about Lily. Or maybe, when faced with driving here, she just hadn't felt up to it. Taking out my cell phone, I speed-dialed her house and got her answering machine. I hoped it meant she was on her way.

  "Delhi!"

  Now what? I turned back around. Jack wasn't finished with me. "What did Margaret find?"

  The words didn't compute. "Nothing. She's not even here."

  He blinked with impatience, reminding me that, of his "students," I was sailing steerage. "I don't mean today. According to Marty, she found something very important. Something rare. I thought if anyone would know, it would be you."

  "Well, I don't." I was about to say that Margaret didn't believe in great finds, when something dark red and hot, something that in my past had been linked with betrayal, crept up the back of my neck. Marty wouldn't be mistaken about something like that; he had been sure enough to pass it on to Jack. But Margaret had refused to tell me. She must think you're a complete amateur, my inner cynic jeered.

  "When did she find this?"

  "Dunno. I heard about it Thursday."

  And then the hacienda door swung open, killing all conversation. A woman stepped through the carved door and waved an arm at us. She was thin, blond, and fretful, with red-framed reading glasses on the edge of her bony nose. "Listen to the rules," she announced in a reedy New York voice. "The first fifteen get in. Work it out among yourselves. I'm not getting involved. Work it out like adults or no one gets in!"

  It had the effect of turning us into children. Eyes down, we formed a single straight line and shuffled along meekly as she counted us off. But we were the winners! The rest of the line would have to wait until we came out again. One out, one more in.

  Inside the marble-tiled hall, I resisted the temptation to follow Marty and his Finger-Spitzengefuhl-he had leaped over to a built-in bookcase in the living room and was yanking large art books off the shelves. Probably wonderful books too. But I ran up the wide staircase and, in the first room, a wonderful assortment was laid out on a bed. I snatched up From Edinburgh to India and Burmah, Arctic, and a beautifully illustrated original of Egyptian Mummies.

  In a smaller bedroom that had the mustiness of summers past, I came upon a collection of children's books, one of my specialties. After picking out Thornton Burgess, Clare Turley Newberry, and Noel Streatfeild, I saw that the shelf below held vintage mysteries. I was reaching for a Charlie Chan novel with a colorful dust jacket, my index finger pulling it toward me, when a larger hand snaked in below mine and gripped the spine. I held on and twisted around, outraged.

  It was Jack Hemingway, his white-bearded face smiling at me. He took advantage of my shock to yank the novel free. "Sorry, but this one's mine," he said firmly. "I saw it first" What was he talking about? I opened my mouth to protest when I saw he was rapidly emptying the other mysteries into his carton. Furiously, I started grabbing books at random too.

  When the shelf was bare, Jack disappeared. I dragged my vinyl bag back to the master bedroom to see what I had amassed. Charlie Chan had been the prize. Most of the other books had unfamiliar authors or were lacking dust jackets, their wartime-printed pages badly yellowed. I shoved the pile under the bed in case I came back to the sale later when they would be cheaper.

  But I couldn't forget what had happened. By the time I clumped down the stairs with my heavy boat bag, the Charlie Chan mystery had attained mythical proportions. A fireplace set caught my eye, and I fantasized about grabbing the poker and attacking Jack. I wouldn't kill himjust teach him not to steal books from me again.

  It wasn't until I started to unload my books onto the card table to pay for them that the image of an angry bookseller beating a Hemingway namesake to death made me laugh.

  But I jumped when Marty Campagna stepped forward. He must have been in the shadows watching, checking out everyone's buys. When the cashier put Arctic on top of my paid pile, he reached for it. Flipping the cover back and forth appraisingly, he asked, "Where'd you get this?"

  "Upstairs." But I felt my stomach tense. At one sale, Marty had accused another dealer of stealing his stash. There might have been a fight. But the other dealer had apologized, admitting he had found the books in a carton and didn't know they belonged to anyone.

  What would I say if Marty accused me?

  But he didn't, only looked skeptical, and then said, "What do you want for it? I have a guy who collects North Pole stuff."

  When I hesitated, he added, "I'll give you seventy-five."

  It would have almost paid for my other books, and I wanted to be his friend. I said, "I kind of like it myself. I'll get back to you."

  He gave an impatient shrug, indicating that keeping a book for yourself was an amateur failing. Or maybe it was just recognition that when I found out what Arctic was worth, I wouldn't sell it to him so cheaply.

  Before he could step away, I said, "You know what Jack did? He grabbed a book right out of my hand!"

  If I was expecting commiseration, I didn't get it. Marty cocked his head, and then grinned. "Well, he's da Man."

  Yours, maybe. On Long Island, despite women neurosurgeons and mayors, buying and selling books was still a boys' club. At many sales, I was the only woman in the first group in. There were bookstore owners like Margaret, of course, and a few women who were part of a couple, but I was an oddity at sales. They treated me as a novelty, but I was outside the circle.

  As I waited for my change, I stared through the empty living room out the picture window. The people who once lived here had had a perfect view. A handful of sailboats bobbed whitely against the jade water of Long Island Sound. Connecticut's far shore was a mistier green. Beautiful and appealing waters-and filled with sharks.

  Back at the van I tried calling The Old Frigate, but got the afterhours message.

  "Hi Margaret, it's Delhi," I said. "I'm just leaving Oyster Bay. It was a good sale, but not worth coming to now. Anyway, we have to talk." Those words always sound ominous when I hear them, but this time I didn't care. Despite the nice books I had collected, I felt upset. Angry with Jack for grabbing a book from me, annoyed at Marty for defending him and trying to steal a book from me another way. And furious with Margaret for lying to me-if Jack was telling the truth. I would give her a chance to explain before I embarrassed myself with accusations that weren't true.

  I tried her home number next, listened to that machine, then left the same message, giving her my cell phone number again. She probably had many things to do involving Lily. I was only surprised that she had not called me since she said she would.

  Next I wriggled out Amil's card from my depleted wallet, a stunning contrast to the way his had been.

  After four rings, just as I was mentally composing a message, an American male voice bawled, "What?"

  I jumped, startled. "Is Amil there?"

  The receiver crashed against my ear.

  Wrong number. I dialed again, this time very carefully.

  The call was answered on the first ring. A woman's voice, accented and lilting, said, "Yes, hello please?"

  Who was this? "Uh-is Amil there?" I realized I didn't even know his last name.

  "No, he's not here! He never came-" She faltered, as the disagreeable male voice from the first call yelled something in the background with "Shut up" and "Bitch" in it. It was louder at the end.

  This time I moved the phone away from my ear, so that I heard the crash rather than felt it. What did a boor like that have to do with a poetry graduate student with a cultivated British accent? Obviously they knew Amil. But I couldn't put anything else together.

  Still, I was not going to call again, at least not today. Instead I retrieved the messages from my home ph
one.

  The first was from my sister Patsy, reminding me that her beach party started at three this afternoon and not to bring anything.

  The other call was, mercifully, from someone who wanted to buy a book.

  I had no messages from my children, which meant that no one was having a crisis this morning.

  And nothing from Margaret.

  I drove home quickly, stashed my books, and decided to stop by The Old Frigate on my way to Patsy's party. Now I had the sense that Margaret was actively avoiding me. Maybe she was afraid I would ask why Amil really thought she had ruined his life. Maybe she was afraid that I had learned about her find at the book sale and would demand to know why she hadn't told me. Maybe she was afraid I would ask her questions about Lily and the suicide. There were actually a lot of reasons that she might not want to talk to me right now.

  After changing into my newest thrift shop outfit, a gauzy soft-gold blouse and an Indian skirt printed with llamas, I headed into the chaos that was Port Lewis on a summer weekend. When we first moved to the village years earlier, staying in the university house between Colin's digs and guest lectureships, the town had been financially challenged. There had been a supermarket with wooden floors, an oldfashioned hardware emporium, and a Salvation Army store. These have been replaced by an Irish gift shop and many cappuccino bars. Port Lewis now has two Tarot card readers, four art galleries, and a pet store, The Yuppie Puppy, for impulse poodle purchases.

  When I drove along High Street past the bookshop, the windows were lit up. So the shop was open. And Margaret hadn't bothered to return my calls. Still, if a parking place hadn't opened up just then I might have kept going. Dealing with my sister took a lot of energy, and I wasn't looking forward to weakening myself confronting Margaret. When I saw a Jeep pulling out, I slid the van in quickly and grabbed my woven bag. I would stay calm and nonjudgmental. And I wouldn't leave until I had some answers.

  One of the two front windows of The Old Frigate had a vacation theme, with colorful children's books and old sand toys. The other held a patriotic display for the Fourth of July-red, white, and blue bunting, presidential biographies, and campaign buttons. Stepping into the alcove between the windows, I pressed down on the door latch. To my surprise, nothing happened. I pressed harder. Locked. Had Margaret forgotten to unlock the door when she went in? Putting my hand up to shade my eyes, I looked in as I knocked on the glass. Nothing stirred. But in the distance I saw something odd on the floor.

  I pressed my face against the glass, straining to bring the white object into focus. It looked like the toe of a tennis shoe, lying in the aisle just inside the entrance to the second room of books. If it was a shoe, it was balanced on its side with the sole facing me. Soft canvas would have flopped over, so it had to be made of leather-or have a foot inside. I felt a chill in the humid summer afternoon. Margaret's? That would explain why I hadn't heard back from her. I had a sudden, terrible image of Amil returning before she had a chance to close the shop and gunning her down. It would explain why he hadn't returned home.

  But I shook the idea away. I had never seen her wearing sneakers. She would never put on a pair of sneakers, let alone white ones. Her shoes were always a soft, polished leather, black or chestnut brown, either with a bow or tiny covered button. I squeezed my eyes nearly shut to try and see the object more accurately, the way I tried to decipher a signature in an old book. But this object was twenty feet away, floating in the dimness like the taunt of a ghost. Kneeling down in the alcove, I pried open the brass mail slot in the lower half of the door and yelled, "Margaret?" At the same time I rattled the doorknob, as if it would yield in the face of my need. But it remained unmoved.

  I knew I had a key to the bookstore door at home, left over from the times I had helped out, but I wasn't sure where it was stashed. And I had no time to look for it; as it was, I would just make it to the Hamptons in time.

  Yet, as I started back to the van, I couldn't shake the idea that someone was lying on the bookshop floor. Maybe it was Amil. Maybe when he came back with a gun, Margaret had struck out at him in self-defense and was now lying low. Right. That was about as likely as Lily's ghost coming back for her sister and carrying her off into another dimension.

  Still, it wouldn't take that long to check. I turned and started back down the hill, dodging clumps of families eating ice cream. I almost knocked over a little girl covered in chocolate and sprinkles. But I knew I would find a constable in the "Residents Only" parking lot, punishing outsiders with a hundred-dollar fine. Because Port Lewis is a small seaport town with steep hills and only a few spaces in town, illegally parked vehicles are a main source of revenue.

  I found the older officer in the parking lot, zestfully writing out a summons, his foot up on the bumper of a red Saab from New Jersey. As I rushed up to him, he mistook me for a scofflaw and pinioned me with a stern look. The Lecture was about to begin.

  I shook my head. "No, no, I'm Delhi Laine. I live here. But I think there's a problem at the bookstore."

  "You mean Margaret's?" His blue eyes took me in alertly, though his white hair and drooping mustache reminded me of a Civil War portrait.

  "Yes! Someone's lying on the floor and the door's locked."

  I began to jog toward High Street as he lumbered along beside me.

  "Nice lady, Margaret," he puffed. "A real village idol."

  I guessed he meant icon, but did not correct him.

  When we reached The Old Frigate, he peered in, shading his eyes as I had, then turned to me. "The body's gone!"

  "What?" I jammed my face against the glass. The toe of the white shoe-if it was a shoe-was still in place. I pointed. "There. See that sneaker?"

  He looked in again, and then back at me doubtfully.

  My heart dropped, but I reminded myself that he didn't know the situation the way I did. "I haven't been able to reach Margaret all day. Maybe the back door's open," I added.

  "Where?"

  "Through there." I pointed to a narrow passageway separating the bookstore from the nautical arts gallery on the other side. I had never been through it. Now, looking at it closely, I doubted that anyone could fit.

  "Show me," he ordered.

  Obediently I turned sideways and slipped inside. But I began breathing hard. What if it narrowed even more in the middle and I found myself stuck? What if the constable got stuck just behind me and neither of us could move? This was as narrow as some of the passageways in the Sangre de Cristo mountains that I had explored with Colin; more than once we had had to back out. But he had always gone first. Here the ground sloped down precariously as well. Catching his toe on a jutting rock, the constable grabbed at my shoulder, scraping my chin against the brick wall. Never again. Finally, after too many heart-stopping minutes, I burst free onto the small concrete stoop, the constable's hand embedded in my back.

  I imagined making a funny story of it for Margaret-and then remembered why I was doing it.

  I shook out my arms as if they had gotten compressed in the passageway, and then turned the metal door knob. Locked. Great. I was not about to back out the way I had come. Shoulder to shoulder, the constable and I peered through the panes of glass. From this distance, we could see even less. And then, while I was wondering what to do, he knelt and picked up a chunk of discarded brick. With no hesitation, he crashed it through one of the lower window squares. The tinkle of glass hung in the air like a wind chime. What would Margaret say? If this were just my delusion, I would have to offer to have the glass replaced with money I didn't really have.

  "Don't get cut," I warned the constable, as he reached in boldly to turn the small button lock. But he managed to get the door safely open and we went inside.

  Moving ahead of him through the dusky light, I ran to where I had seen the white sneaker. It was a shoe, a men's Nike trainer-but it was empty. Yet that was worse-it was like seeing a severed foot.

  "Margaret?" And then I saw her. She was sprawled in the aisle to my right as if the shoe ha
d been pointing at her. She lay on her back, her feet twisted under the bottom rung of a rolling library ladder.

  "Margaret, it's me!" I dropped to my knees beside her head, conscious of the acrid odor of urine, mixed with a strange sweetness. Her face was an underbelly white, her lipstick and blusher like a separate artificial layer. Her mouth was open, as if she had been gasping for air, but her eyes were tightly shut. The Indiashaped coffee burn on her cheek glowed even more, but now she was wearing a deep gold silk blouse and beige linen slacks, dark at the crotch.

  I grasped her arm, shocked by its iciness. But the whole room was freezing, I realized, with the air conditioning running unchecked. Margaret, always worried about costs, would never have put it on this high.

  "How's she doing?" the constable asked, though he could see exactly what I could. "I'm calling 911." Behind me I heard the click of keys on a portable phone and his muffled voice.

  I kept my eyes on Margaret. The silky fabric seemed to be moving under my anxious palm, shifting just slightly, but it was impossible to be sure. "Margaret?" I whispered. "Don't give up; we're getting help!"

  Then I looked up at the library ladder, at the riser that had splintered halfway up the wooden steps. Evidently it had thrown her off balance and pitched her backward. I hated those vertical ladders and avoided them whenever I could. Now I added them to my list of things to avoid, along with dark basements, open heights, and running out of money.

  "Don't touch her!"

  I jumped with fright at the voice.

  As the cop knelt at Margaret's other side, I stared at his broad face and tight light brown curls. He had the bland look of a boxer outside the ring. And he was no more than twenty-four, my daughter Jane's age.

  "You see it happen?"

  "No. We found her like this. I tried to reach her by phone and couldn't and was afraid something had happened"