The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies

by Connie Spittler

  “Someone else wanted to buy it?”

  “Yeah, a woman came in the other day.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Don’t know, but she planned to see if Ms. McFae wanted to sell it. The van came to us from the next county. On the vehicle history, it says it was previously owned by someone tried for burglary named Minnesota Fiddler. When she was convicted for road rage, the county confiscated it and used it as a bookmobile. Then, their new bookvan arrived and they hired us to auction off the old one.”

  Jamison examined the pages. “This is important. Did Ms. McFae know its history?”

  “We don’t get too historical around here. We disclose the background of the last owner, if asked, but that rarely happens. In the ad, it was described as a county bookmobile.”

  “Please give me a copy of this information. And what do you remember about the other woman who wanted to buy it?”

  “Middle aged. Dressed casual. Oh yeah, she limped.”

  Back in his office, Jamison researched Ms. Fiddler. She had a limp. She’d been suspected of coin theft, but the coins were never found. She served a six months sentence on a driving conviction, had been recently released, but was no longer at her last address. He couldn’t find any connection between McFae and Fiddler.

  On his way home for an early lunch, Fred stocked up on his favorite groceries. Spam. Limburger cheese. Sardines. Salami. Crackers. A couple six packs of beer. The clerk put the items in paper bags and Fred loaded them into the bed of the pickup. The twenty pound bag of Jaxon’s dog food ended up on top of Jeremy’s plastic bag. Since Piper wasn’t home, Fred took the groceries in and left unloading the rest until later. He sprawled on the sofa and chug-a-lugged a beer. Across the room, he saw the spider-web knit sweater she’d thrown over the back of an arm chair. She might be acting weird at the moment, and she might have taken to sleeping in the room down the hall, but she sure left fond frilly memories around the place. He closed his eyes and thought about the pretty girl in the see-through nightie who used to sleep next to him. Whose blond hair and pink streak made him happy and whose fair skin begged to be stroked.

  Aggie got out of the pickup and trudged through the faint drizzle with one bottle of milk for Used Stuff. She waved at Sax trotting around the store removing sale tags, while Maxine, precise as a bank teller, sat at the register counting bills and stacking coins.

  “Sorry I didn’t get this order to you yesterday.” Aggie held up the bottle.

  “No problem. Put the milk upstairs today, will you?” Max glanced up, but kept flipping through the receipts. She called over to her brother. “I’m almost finished and things look good. Sales up. Stock down.”

  “In the retail round robin, that just means we start all over again,” Sax said, “buying more second hand stuff.”

  Boris tumbled in, shaking off a few raindrops. “Hello, Morton family. I’ve been away on some buying trips. Don’t know if you noticed.”

  Sax threw the sales tags in a wastebasket. “Don’t think anyone was worried. You’re the kind of guy who keeps moving.”

  Maxine smiled. “Now that our big sale’s over, I’m ready to get out of town myself. If I could count on Sax to run the store while I was gone, I’d take a real vacation.”

  “I’d try to live up to your expectations, but I make no promises.” Sax turned to Boris and grimaced. “You know, we did close up for a few days after I moved out. Trying to get things sorted out and guess what? No catastrophes occurred.”

  “Closing up is not so easy to do.” Maxine shrugged. “And not good business.”

  Boris moved around the store. “Depends on how serious you are about a regular routine. Thought I’d stop in to see if Sax wanted anything from my storage area.”

  “No, whenever I come to throw the knives, I bring or take anything I need, but my favorite gear’s at the motel. It’s working out.”

  “Do you happen to know if anyone visited the Emporium while I was gone?”

  “How would we know?” Maxine said.

  Boris ran his hand over the top of a Victorian sideboard. “This one might really be worth something.”

  Sax glanced at the buffet. “I think Maxine had it appraised. Or did you?” He glared at her.

  “Of course I did, dummy.”

  Boris grinned. “You two always sound so annoyed with each other. What’s your problem? Is it about who does the most work? Or which one makes the most sales?”

  Sax shook his head. “No quarrel on that one. The honor goes to Maxine. She sold every single book during our sale. In one shot. How about that?”

  “With a few exceptions. Griffo bought a book the other day.” She looked up to see Aggie coming down the stairs. “And you bought one too, huh?”

  “I did, indeed.” Aggie came over to the register.

  “The craziest thing was Piper and Lily McFae stopped in and scooped up every book left for their explicit erotica reading club.”

  “I’ll have you know, I’m in that club.” Aggie’s chin went up.

  Boris laughed. “Oh, you gotta admit it, this town’s full of oddballs. Well, I’m off to pitch some daggers at the wall. Care to join me?” He pointed at Aggie. “Did you know she’s a ringer?”

  Maxine grabbed her purse and beckoned to Sax. “Come on. It’s okay to take a short break once in a great while.”

  “I’m heading home.” Aggie pointed outside at the weather. “I’ll take a rain check.”

  Fog bathed the goat farm garden. Threaded through the original plants, Lily’s herbs stretched their roots underground, tops catching up with their neighbors. She pulled weeds with abandon and the pile at her knees grew higher. It seemed like a familiar place with its design of beds splayed out from a central point. A tumbler in her brain snapped into place as she stared at the sunburst design of seven. Then she knew, it duplicated the one described in the library volume, Unexplained Ancient Mysteries.

  Aggie pulled up the drive and parked. “Come into the house. My elbows say there’s rain on the way.”

  Lily gathered the pile of weeds, let them fall in place on the compost pile, and headed for the kitchen door. She washed her hands and sat down. “Aggie, do you know your planting beds resemble a classic garden described in a very old, very special book?”

  “Strange you say that.” Aggie filled the kettle for tea. “My garden comes from a drawing in my very old and special family book.”

  “I meant the Book of Cures. It’s a manuscript from Alsace, written a long time ago.”

  “My stars, you’re a fortune teller. I have a book with that name too, though Cim never used it when he made my garden.”

  Lily shook her head. “That’s impossible, Aggie. That old book is an ancient masterpiece. Maybe you have a reproduction. Where did you get it?”

  “Used Stuff. Just the other day.”

  “I don’t know about copies, but oddly enough, the original rare book is missing. May I see yours?”

  “That was my surprise. I planned to bring it to book club, but Griffo took off wearing Cim’s cape and I went all wonky. Running through town. Searching for him. The book went completely out of my head. Guess I left it in the goat milk carrier.”

  “Aggie, please, let me see it.”

  A fine drizzle fell as goats waited in clumps by the closed shed door. Aggie propped it open so the animals could come in from the damp, then fussed around the table that held the carrier.

  Lily rubbed her hands together and shivered. “I don’t see it.”

  “Because it’s not here. I must have left the book at the Hopper. I took it out, so I wouldn’t wrinkle it when I gave the milk jugs to Jeremy. Then he told me about Griffo, and I set off to find him. Don’t worry. The book is wrapped up safe in newspaper. Soon as I get it back, I’ll show you.”

  “The original was stolen while on tour. It’s priceless.”

  “Not the same then, since mine cost two quarters. Used Stuff doesn’t carry anything worth much by way of dollars.”

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nbsp; “Probably not the one then, unless by some wild fluke, the incredible happened.” Lily paced around the goats. “The volume is rumored to contain medicinal secrets. I’ll explain later. Right now, my brain is getting scrambled just thinking about it.”

  “Let’s go back to the house and warm up.”

  The two hurried through the drizzle to the kitchen.

  Aggie put the kettle on and brought out cups. “You lie down in your room, and I’ll bring you ginger tea, with honey, lemon, and cayenne.”

  “Oh thanks, maybe later. Right now, a walk into town to see your garden book might clear my head. If I stop by the bar, can I tell Jeremy Judd it’s okay for me to look at it?”

  “Tell him to give it to you.” Thunderous bass notes rumbled. “But I don’t think you should go out with bad weather coming.”

  “I can’t rest until I know for sure.”

  “If I can’t talk you out of it, wear my raincoat and here’s my bumbershoot to hold over your head. Be safe.”

  As the storm came clamoring down, Lily stood under Aggie’s umbrella in front of the locked door of the Hopper. Taped to the window was a sign, “Out of town, funeral.” She ran for the bookmobile to escape the downpour.

  Her head ached from the possible nearness of the Jardin book. For the first time, she wanted to be alone instead of dealing with customers, but once open, she rented to a steady flow of book lovers, each with special requests.

  A farmer chose Zane Grey. “When I can’t work in the fields, I like to read.”

  “A great day for mysteries,” said the feed store operator, “by Agatha.”

  “Nothing like putting the kids down for a nap and picking up a romance novel.” The homemaker took two selections.

  The coffee shop owner pored through the bookmobile’s philosophy selections, and mused, “What’s more satisfying than reading with rain drumming at the window?”

  For the insurance salesman who shyly whispered his request, Lily quickly opened the closet door and checked out a book for him that described escapades with leather whips and studded collars.

  “Can I help you?” Lily stopped to ask a woman in a gray windbreaker, hovering near the back.

  “No, just browsing. You have this bus long?”

  Lily shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Are you interested in selling it?”

  “No, I just purchased it.”

  The woman pointed to the closet. “What book did you get from in there for that guy?”

  Lily glanced at her. “Just other reading material. Are you interested in something special?”

  “Not today.” The woman turned and left.

  As Lily watched her limp through the square and disappear behind the pines, a queasy feeling in her stomach made her sit down. I’m getting paranoid, she thought, and not used to personal questions from people I don’t know.

  The crowd in the bookmobile thinned and eventually, she submitted to the demands of her aching head and closed up. When she tried to back the bookmobile from its parking spot, the tires dug into the muck, spinning in deeper and deeper. She surrendered and battled the weather on foot holding tight to Aggie’s droopy umbrella.

  Plodding down the country road, the obsession of the Jardin family book tightened its hold. Suppose it was real and she recovered it. Must she give it to the authorities immediately? Or could she keep it hidden, at least for a while? She struggled with her conscience over the temptation.

  The farmhouse loomed dark, but she stopped by the kitchen and left a note.

  Aggie, I plan to walk into town early tomorrow to see if Jeremy Judd is back from the funeral. It’s important for me to see your book. Lily.

  The man in black stood alone inside Used Stuff. He looked around. The store was empty and dark as he headed toward the back. He gazed at the old storage unit used for castaways and flashed his light across the mildewed books and rusty bolts, cracked glasses and ragged ties. He knelt and looked underneath, then drew in a quick breath. He slapped his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. Reaching far underneath the unit, his arm swiped the floor back and forth. He looked around and plowed through the old magazines, then sifted through the sheet music on the coffee table. Wiping away the sweat along his hairline, he took another look under the bottom shelf and rummaged through the magazines again. He nudged the bookcase away from the wall and found only mounds of dust. Collapsing on a nearby stool, he held back soft moans. He took off his baseball cap and pulled at his hair.

  As his frenzy increased, he staggered toward the front, bumping into furniture. He pushed past a wobbly dinette set and almost fell, but caught his balance on the arm of a frayed velour chair. His silent intense anger made him dizzy as he struggled with the front door knob. Leaning against the frame, he almost fell out into the darkness. “Damn it,” he muttered to the night sky. “Rat crap! Rat crap! Rat crap!”

  That night, the weather cleared and the scent of lavender drifted in from the fields as books opened behind drawn shades in several Nolan houses. A western, a mystery, romance, philosophy, and whips-and-chains. The pages turned, whisking readers off to imagined lands.

  The woman tugged at her gray windbreaker, then paused before the Motel 5 register. She signed in, writing down the name that matched her fake driver’s license, Minnow Watson. Limping to her rental car, she drove to the spot in front of her room.

  Time. Time. Time. It finally subdued the man’s torment. He wrote names in a black notebook, people who might have stolen the Book of Cures, those who’d recently browsed or bought books at Used Stuff. He heaved a great sigh when he realized the suspects on his list weren’t exactly sophisticated crooks with safes and bank vaults.

  CHAPTER 23

  The church bell chimed three a.m. in Nolan. The man stood at the door of the bookmobile, wearing a dark janitor’s coverall and baseball cap. The first job would be the easiest one, he thought, with bookshelves arranged in Dewey Decimal order. With luck, the situation might be over.

  The tip of his sharp instrument poked and scratched through the key opening. In a fluid movement, the man entered the rear door of the book van. His flashlight swept up and down the shelves before he started. From the top of each shelf to the bottom, he worked his way through the rows, examining every book before throwing it to the floor. Color and size eliminated several volumes, but each one was upended and tossed. He was excited when he found old books in the closet and took more time checking each one. When he finished examining all the books, his anger erupted and he hit the door with his fists, pounding until it hurt. Ripping a page from George Sand’s Lelia, he threw it on top of a heap of books. Then, he scuttled out the door holding the book by Sand tight in his hand. He needed to take something away for his trouble.

  The moon called to Aggie, a crescent carved from a pale apple. She inhaled the chilled lavender night and shuddered. The black cape was gone, no longer near to warm her bones. Still, she had the dust of her love close by. She unlocked the closet, pulled out the Mason jar from its storage place in the samovar and set it on the bed. Throwing a hand-woven shawl around her shoulders, she read haiku by the light of the bedside candle. Like Lily said, “few words,” and tonight, Aggie found comfort in Basho.

  Plum petals falling

  I look up… the sky,

  A clear crisp moon.

  The haiku sent its message. She thought of Camlo and the dying plum tree and how a writer in Japan, so many years ago, had sensed the pain of someone alone. Throwing off her shawl, she grabbed her tambourine and danced, circling the room in triple time rhythms, until she was exhausted. Then, she lay on the bed, clutching the jar of ashes.

  The next morning, she found Lily’s note and nodded. How well she knew the way the mind worked at problems of fixation or grief or worry, clutching you, never letting go. She watched the wind send pieces of monarda whirling, spinning, falling to the ground, making a blanket of red petals. She left the kitchen to pick bouquets of deep red flowers from blooming plants still intact. She c
arried vases, pots and glasses into the garage and made stacks of Griffo’s books. With a big yank at the rusty hinges of the rear doors of the building, she created a drive-through. Once both openings were free, morning breezes floated through on the fragrance of monarda. Bunches of burgundy petals now topped each pile of books and a sweep of color exploded from front to back of the garage. She sighed in relief and returned to the house.

  The Mason jar holding her husband’s ashes was heavy in her hands as she returned to the garage and set it on the tall book stack in the center. She wore his fedora, but took it off, placing it on the makeshift altar next to the jar. Her slow steps moved around the book stacks.

  “I’m sorry, dear heart, that this tribute is so late. Sorry I could not pay for a ground burial and turned your body into ashes. Alone, I lit candles, so you’d find your way and burned most of your things the gypsy way. But not your cape and hat.” She stopped next to the jar of ashes. “Forgive me, I tried, but I could not set those two possessions afire. If the vardo and cape were here, they’d rise up in flames. I promise to deal with your hat when it is the right time to feed a bonfire.”

  Her feet dragged as she went to the kitchen. There she gathered ingredients for soup and pudding before she changed clothes and headed to town in a scarlet skirt and matching vest.

  Early the next morning, Lily walked into town and found the sign still hanging in place. As she turned toward the bookmobile, she saw the gaping door. She raced to enter. “Dear God.” Inside, her shriek reverberated against the empty shelves. Someone had desecrated her library, shoved the contents of every shelf to the floor. The mean carelessness toward the printed page, the ignorance of fragile bindings and roughness to thin paper, pulled her down next to the pitched words. She crumpled in a heap. Tears of frustration from a life refusing to go right spilled into her hands. She grabbed one of the scarves decorating the seating arrangement to wipe her face.

  Surrounded by Dewey Decimal numbers gone astray, the librarian rocked back and forth, aching with shock from seeing her damaged books. Fiction and science and poetry and biography and reference, everything mixed into a sacrilegious literary muddle. The ripped out page of Lelia lay wrinkled on the carpet.