A Novel Death

by Judi Culbertson

  "Hey, Mom. I'm calling because the cappuccino maker at our rental broke? And I know you have one you never use? Our ferry leaves from Sayville for Fire Island around five thirty and if you could meet us there with it, I'd appreciate it."

  It was not what I wanted to hear. How like Jane to expect me to drive an hour round trip to deliver a coffeemaker! I glanced up at the schoolhouse clock. Thankfully, it was after six. How did she know I never used it, anyway?

  But I had been a mother too long not to hear the marching band of guilt, its drumbeats in the distance. Jane never begs you for money the way Jason and Hannah do. She's entitled to a favor once in a while. And shouldn't you be happy to see your own child, even if it's only to hand off an appliance? Think of all those young professionals who will be caffeine-deprived in the morning.

  The voice was relentless, even as I yanked out the bottle of Chardonnay. You can spend a whole day doing a favor for a friend and not even spare an hour for your child? Even if her sense of entitlement does remind you of your sister Patsy?

  Would Jane still be waiting on the pier, looking the way she used to when I was late to pick her up from Brownies?

  The final message told me. "Hey, Mom, I guess you're not home. So don't come! We won't be here. We have Lance's car, and we'll come over sometime to pick it up."

  Her cheerful acceptance intensified my guilt, but I managed to pour a glass of wine and carry it out to the backyard chaise. I lay there drinking in the mellow summer night. Stella d'Oro lilies bloomed all around me and the hostas were sprouting antennae. As I watched the goldfish in the small pond to my left, I caught sight of a delicate creature, a tadpole, pressing up through the tiny green circles of duckweed. His brave new legs were stretched out behind him. The enchantment of the start of new life gave me the energy to make dinner.

  When I finished eating, I called University Hospital again and insisted on being connected with the Intensive Care Unit. The floor nurse told me that Margaret was still unresponsive, but her condition had been downgraded to "Serious."

  I supposed that was something to be thankful for.

  I went out to the barn to catalog books, but couldn't concentrate. An annoying tape starring Howard Riggs began an endless loop. Why had I let him order me out of The Old Frigate? Margaret trusted me to work in the shop when she wasn't there; why hadn't I stood up to him? Marty would have backed me up. But instead we'd slunk off like two cats who had peed on the rug-leaving Howard to search the shop.

  I jerked awake. It wasn't just Howard who could search the shop. All anyone needed to do was reach through the broken back door window and turn the lock. The outside passageway was so narrow that no sane person would use it. But sane people did not include book dealers. I had thought about getting the glass replaced, had even located the Yellow Pages in the office, but as the day got busier, I had forgotten it. But I could at least cover the window with cardboard temporarily and call the glass company in the morning. Maybe I would have to check what was in the climate-controlled book closet too, to make sure no one had gotten in.

  In my line of work, cardboard and masking tape are easy to come by. I dropped a utility knife into my woven bag as well, and minutes later was behind the wheel of the van, fueled by my fury at Howard Riggs. Not only had he made off with Margaret's find, he had probably helped himself to the money in the till as well.

  At the top of the hill, the sight of Port Lewis calmed me momentarily. It was a fairyland. Paper lanterns had been hung around the harbor and reflected soft colors in the water. Music floated into the street. Even the teenagers that were crouched at the base of the Unknown Lobsterman looked more wholesome than usual. Rolling down my window, I breathed in the sweetness of cotton candy, the salt tang of seawater, the pungency of fried shrimp.

  Yet High Street, two blocks away, was as dark as any basement. I parked the van in front of The Old Frigate with no trouble. I wondered why The Whaler's Arms was deserted at this hour, and then remembered that it was closed on Monday. For a moment, I sat looking at the darkened windows along the street. Then I found the key to the shop's door on my ring and was starting to climb out of the van, when a flash of light shone from the fireplace area in the store. The next gleam was closer to the counter, and then the light disappeared.

  I felt unable to move. Someone was in the shop now. I waited for another flash of light, but next there was a more diffuse glow that seemed to be coming from the middle room. Two different flashlights? Immediately I thought of the Hoovers. Paul and Susie's last name was actually Pevney, but people called them the Hoovers because of their habit of arriving at the end of sales when prices had dropped, and vacuuming up everything that was left.

  I had talked to Susie two weeks ago after a sale, as she was leaning against their ancient station wagon that was already crammed with books. Paul was bringing out the last of the cartons.

  "Looks like you did okay," I said.

  "This morning? Not." She brushed dusty hands against a blue and orange Mets shirt that was starting to unravel at the bottom, her brown eyes sardonic behind round glasses. "All we can afford to do now is buy on the cheap. Paul thinks books are this wonderful investment. I'm the one who has to list them all on eBay."

  "How's that going?" To have to describe each book and upload a photograph had to be tedious.

  "It would be fine if I could do it twenty-four/seven. No, make that forty-eight/seven. Paul does the packing, and he's good about that. But we can't even pay the mortgage! Do you want our books if we end up on the street?"

  "If you need some money..

  But what was I saying? I had exactly three months before Colin made a final decision. If he decided to stop paying rent on the house, even a small reserve inherited from my parents would not get me a place for all my books. I could probably move into the barn, but not if I started lending people money. It was the kind of offer my father would have made back in the days when he had very little himself.

  "No. But thanks. All we need is one good find. Something that's been overlooked by everyone else. It happens to other people-why not us?" She had been near tears.

  I thought about Susie now, fortified by huge bags of M&Ms, working way past midnight to upload book descriptions. Why did we torture ourselves this way? Why not just get a job at Walmart or buy lottery tickets? The truth was, we were addicts. Addicted to the heft of a book under our fingers, the wonderful mystery of where it had been. And we were addicted to the hope that one of these days a book, a scrap of paper, a tattered pamphlet, would pay back our devotion by being worth more than we could have imagined.

  I prayed that it wasn't the Hoovers inside, looking for a windfall to save them. But other booksellers had secrets too, stresses I did not know about. Howard Riggs couldn't be making a living in that barracks of a shop. Marty had a craving for important books that was close to an illness. His good friend Roger Morris, known professionally as The Bookie, was a dealer in black Americana. Who knew what he had to do to survive in a cutthroat world?

  I commanded myself to calm down. None of the dealers I knew would steal books from an injured colleague. No, my cynic countered, but they might search the shop for the find that everyone else knows about. Wake up, Goldilocks, the bears are here.

  Even though the July air was still muggy, I felt chilled. If people were in the front of the shop, I could not risk unlocking the door and stepping inside. Not with Margaret's head injury that seemed to have been caused by more than a simple fall. Much as I dreaded it, I would have to use the alleyway again and go in the back door.

  Slipping the cardboard and tape into my woven bag, I climbed down, and then looked right and left on High Street. No one. Unfortunately.

  The passageway between the bookstore and the gallery looked even narrower than before. Who would leave an opening between buildings only two feet wide? Reminding myself that at least this time I would not be pushed down by a nervous constable, I turned sideways and started through the tunnel, feeling rather than seeing the rou
gh brick. Once, I stumbled where the ground sloped more steeply than I remembered, and caught myself, scraping my arm against the wall.

  Reminding myself to breathe, I kept going.

  When I burst onto the patio, I realized I had been picturing a small overhead light beside the door. But this area was nearly as dark as the alley. To my right, the ground dropped to a public parking area far below, planted in between with dense evergreens. In the brief headlights of a car that was leaving, I saw that the back door was partly open, the broken-out window like a missing eye.

  I was infuriated. Who would have the gall to not even hide what they were doing? Moving across the cement apron, I pushed the door open all the way, stepped just over the threshold, and stopped. I strained to hear a sound, any noise at all, as my fingers skimmed the wall beside me. Where was that light switch? I remembered lighting the room from the opposite wall when I opened the shop yesterday, but I assumed there would be a switch by the back door as well. My fingers scrabbled nervously across the plaster.

  It felt like the darkness was filled with people listening. Then, from the middle room there was a creaking sound: a shoe on a wooden plank.

  "Hello," I called out. "Who's there?"

  For a moment there was absolute silence. Then I heard feet again and the unmistakable tinkle of the bell above Margaret's front door.

  They were getting away! Still, if I ran through the shop quickly enough, I might get a look at the car driving away. I started to run and had nearly reached the middle room when an arm snaked around my waist and a forearm crushed my throat. The arms held me fast, dragging me back toward the basement.

  Years of terror made me fight back, twisting and kicking like a furious delinquent. The utility knife in my bag glowed in my mind like an icon, but my arms were pinned tightly to my sides. We danced toward the basement door and toward the reality of my hurtling headfirst down the stairs. Would it break my neck? Out of habit, my left hand was still inside my woven shoulder bag, grasping my keys; I let go of them and felt around for the textured handle of the knife.

  I sensed that my attacker was trying to get a hand free to turn the doorknob, but could not risk letting go of my neck or my arms. By then I had found the utility knife with its sharp narrow point. But there was no way I could pull it out of my bag. Desperately I clenched the handle, and then shoved the blade through the woven cloth into his thigh.

  It was little more than a pinprick, probably did not even break the skin, but he grunted with surprise. He loosened his hold just long enough for me to pull away from him. But then he gripped my shoulders and pushed. I tripped over the leg he extended and went sprawling between two bookcases. He gave me a kick in the ankle, out of pure meanness, and was gone.

  Dazed and shaken, I could not even move for a minute or two. Then I pushed painfully up from the bare wood floor and gingerly balanced on my knees. Everything ached, but I knew I was not seriously hurt. I wondered if he was still in the bookstore, lying in wait. Yet he could have killed me if he had wanted to when I was lying facedown on the floor. Perhaps the attack had been more of a sense of pique at a plan foiled than murderous rage.

  Using the bookshelf to my right, I pulled myself slowly to my feet, and rubbed my throat, checking for any damage. My cheek was friction-burned from sliding against the floor. But I would live to fight over books another day.

  Limping from my kicked ankle, I switched on the lights in each room, ending up at the front counter. One of the doors of the glass cases was standing open; the lock had been forced. But what was missing? The Tin Man of Oz was still there, as was Poems of a Long Island Farmer by Cutter Bloodgood, a traveler on whom Mark Twain had based a character in Innocents Abroad. The two volumes of The Apples of New York, with their beautiful color plates, still stood together with a copy of The Razor's Edge that I hadn't even noticed before. There were no gaps and I couldn't honestly see that any books were gone. While these were all books you would not want to have stolen, books for which, on the right day and with the right buyer, you might get up to several hundred dollars, they were not exactly firsts of The Catcher in the Rye or The Great Gatsby.

  I stared at the cash register, unwilling to open it. I could not bear to see that it had been emptied, that all my work on Margaret's behalf had been wiped out-as well as the money left in there from Friday. But when I rang up the NO SALE sign, the drawer bounced open. All of yesterday's cash was still in place, singles, fives, tens, and twenties, curling up neatly from under metal prongs.

  So: whoever it was who had been in here had been after the book.

  Time to call Alex Kazazian. I moved toward the phone, and then realized that his card was still in the book barn. Hanging around here was not a good idea anyway. Without bothering to tape up the back window or even turn out the lights in the other rooms, I opened the front door, locked it, and got into my van.

  Alex Kazazian didn't call me back until 7:40 the next morning. I was already up and at work in the book barn, wrapping orders.

  As soon as he identified himself, I said, "There was a break-in at the bookstore last night. The Old Frigate."

  "What did they take?"

  "I'm not sure. But they attacked me! One held me from behind and was trying to push me down the basement steps."

  "Big guy?"

  "Bigger than me!"

  "Anything special about him? He smell like anything? Could you feel what he was wearing?"

  "I think just a T-shirt. Maybe jeans. It happened so fast."

  "You go to the emergency room?"

  "No. I mean, I wasn't really hurt. I'm just stiff today."

  "Get it checked out anyway. Go to the ER. Look, my tour starts at four. I'll stop by the shop and take a statement from you."

  "You want me to go to the shop?"

  "I thought you worked there."

  "Can't you come any earlier?"

  "I'll see what I can do."

  My next call was to Port Glass and Mirror; they promised to get to The Old Frigate before noon to replace the window. I guessed I could stay there that long.

  When I got to High Street, it was hard to recall last night's terror. Galvanized pails of Gerber daisies stood outside Love in Blooms; just beyond the flower shop the antiques' dealer was sweeping his sidewalk clean as a waitress sponged off outdoor tables at Wrap Wrap! It really was a charming street. Before unlocking The Old Frigate, I went next door to The Whaler's Arms to pick up coffee.

  Derek, the silver-haired owner, handed me the Styrofoam cup. "How's Margaret?"

  "Hanging on."

  "A damn shame," he pronounced. "Especially after all she's put into that shop. They say a boat's a hole in the ocean you pour money into, but retail's just as bad." He glanced around ironically at his nautical restaurant.

  "It can get expensive," I agreed.

  "When she took that balloon loan, I couldn't believe what she was spending. New wood floors, the fireplace in, new everything. Gorgeous"

  "It is." I tried to remember what the shop had looked like before the renovations, but in those days we were on the road a lot.

  "You gotta keep your interest in something fresh, you know? You lose interest, customers can tell. Anyway, give her my best"

  "I will."

  Walking the short distance between shops I wondered if Margaret had also bought new ladders during the renovation. A five-year-old library ladder step should not break.

  The first person through the door was Susie Pevney, aka Hoover, cheerful in denim shorts and a black SUBWAY SERIES T-shirt. She was as interested in baseball as in books.

  "Hey Delhi! Margaret's not back?"

  "Not yet"

  "How is she?"

  "She's still in the hospital." I could have told her more. But after last night I was no longer sure who I could trust. Why was Susie here now?

  She made a commiserating face about Margaret, and then added, "I thought that other guy would be here"

  Perhaps because with Amil, less knowledgeable, she could have
continued her search?

  "Amil? No."

  "Is something wrong, Delhi?" Her brown eyes blinked earnestly behind her glasses. "Did I do anything?"

  I leaned forward on the stool behind the counter. "I'm just upset. Did you know that Margaret found something important?"

  "No. What?"

  "I don't know. Jack Hemingway told me. I thought you might have heard"

  Susie made a disbelieving face. "You're kidding, right? You think anyone tells us anything? We're the pariahs, didn't you know? You're the only friendly one. And Margaret's okay." But then she laughed. "But Paul's always reminding me that it's a business-not my mom's book club."

  "How's he doing?" I asked. Paul Pevney, tall and very thin, with granny glasses and untidy colorless curls, was one of the gentlest men I knew. Absurd to even imagine him attacking me.

  "Oh, he's fine. He's started working at Home Depot now-six nights a week. We decided it's the only way for us to get out of the hole. But he's on the four-to-midnight shift, so that it doesn't interfere with book buying." Her lips tilted with irony and sweetness. "I'm not so sure that's a good thing. His night off is even Friday, so he can get to bed early for weekend sales!"

  "But he likes it?"

  She considered that solemnly. "Actually, he does. Paul's very handy with tools, how they work and all. He can explain to people what they need to do"

  "Great." Of course it hadn't been the Hoovers last night. "So can I interest you in a signed first of To Kill a Mockingbird?"

  "I wish! Actually I came to sell Margaret some stuff. Good enough books, you know, but the kind that do better in stores."

  "You could try Howard Riggs."

  "Oh, right. Do I look like I need to be beat up?"

  At that moment the glass man arrived, a baby-faced teenager with a continuous smile. He grinned at me, smiled again when he saw the broken-out window, and beamed as he extracted a metal tape measure from his pocket.