Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012)

by Bonnie S. Calhoun

  "Good. You keep at it. Maybe it will be your novel I'm unpacking someday."

  Using that as an exit cue, I marched back to the dull life of a bookseller. How much did I hate thee, let me count the ways. I could have had more fun poking myself in the eye with a sharp stick. This was Mom's gig, not mine.

  I gently traced the worn spot on the counter where Mom rested her arms when she greeted customers. I gulped back the lump forming in my throat and lifted my face, rolling the tears to the outside corners of my eyes.

  "Why, Lord?" I whispered so Barbara wouldn't hear me. I didn't want to be comforted.

  There was always some trial in my life to overcome. I escape my ex-husband, only to fall in love with Trey, who turned out to be another nightmare. I broke free of him. Then nightmare three descended with Mom's sudden death. I still struggled with nightmare four: being stuck with a bookstore when I really wanted to be back working in computer forensics.

  The old song came to mind, "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. Gloom, despair, and agony on me." At least it felt that bad, anyway. My saving grace? Andreas.

  The only thing nagging me was his job. He was a psychiatrist for women. Only women. All needy women. Did he see me as a true love, or as a patient whom he needed to heal? I shook my head to get rid of the thought. He loves me. Really loves me. I can tell. Thinking about him made me long for his arms to hold me and make me feel safe. What was he doing right now?

  I'm thinking of him.

  Is he thinking of me?

  6

  ANDREAS COMINO STARED AT THE FRAMED PICTURE OF HIM AND SLOANE sitting on the corner of his desk, as he opened a container and popped a Tic Tac in his mouth to get rid of the onion breath from lunch. He rose from his desk and moved into the hall. Lifting the chart from the holder outside the examination room, he tucked it under his arm, then opened the door.

  "Hello, how are you today?"

  The woman slouched on the chair, one arm slung over the back, legs splayed, acting disinterested. She cocked her head to look out through disheveled hair, then scowled. "What's it to you?"

  Andreas sat opposite the unkempt woman. "Because I care how you feel. What's your name?"

  The woman jumped to her feet knocking her chair over backward. "Whad'ya need to know my name for?" She jabbed both index fingers at him. "I know who you are. The government sent you. You want to spy on me."

  Andreas remained calm, writing notes on the chart in front of him. "What is your name?"

  Suddenly she began to march around the room with the exaggerated high-step of a toy soldier. "What is your name? What is your name? Tammy Lane, and if you ask me again I'll tell you the same."

  Andreas ignored the antics and the rhyme.

  She stopped, thrust her chin in the air, and rocked her hips like a bobble hula doll. Then she turned away. Her voice turned singsongy.

  "I am drifting in an azure sea that is floating toward the stars." Her fingers flickered as though she was creating wings.

  Andreas noted on his chart that her pupils were enlarged.

  She suddenly backed into the corner and clutched at the wall. A whimper escaped her lips.

  Andreas slid a jigsaw puzzle from the drawer on his side of the table.

  "Come, Tammy. Help me put this back in order." He said as he spread the dozen simple child-crafted pieces on the surface.

  Tammy timidly approached the table. A smile creased her lips and she set about restoring the puzzle to its picture frame.

  "So, tell me Tammy, why are you here today?"

  "Because I—" She swatted at the air to her right. "Stop that!" She backed up a step, pointing a finger in the same direction. "I'm telling him if you don't be nice to me." She swung back around, frowned, then drew her eyebrows together.

  "Tammy," Andreas said evenly. "Have you brought a friend with you today?"

  The woman cocked her head to the right. "Of course! He always comes with me." She planted her hands on her hips again. "But Zippy 22 wants to bite you today. He's being a bad rat."

  Andreas's facial expression remained neutral as he scribbled notes on her chart. "Why is he a bad rat today?"

  Tammy huffed, then grabbed the chair. She pulled it to the table then plopped onto the seat and leaned across the table. "Because he's eating me out of house and home. He's fat, fat, fat and he's trying to make me fat, fat, fat." She slammed her fist on the table and stared at Dr. Comino.

  Andreas displayed calm indifference. On the chart, he wrote dissociative identity disorder. Reaching into the lower pocket of his lab coat, he retrieved a vial. He smiled softly through closed lips as he glanced over the top of his reading glasses. "Tammy, we've got some new medication that will keep you from getting fat like your rat. Will that make you happy?"

  Tammy twitched her eyes while chewing on a twirl of her hair. "I don't know. I don't know." Her eyes darted to each corner of the room. "Rat might get mad."

  Andreas held out the amber vial. "One pill a day will keep the rat far away."

  Tammy grinned broadly, then released the soaked tendril of hair. "I like that." She nodded her head in long exaggerated sweeps. Her hand reached for the bottle. She turned it sideways and stared at it. "There's only three pills."

  "That's right." Andreas jotted several lines of notes. "You come back in three days. We'll see if you need more. Remember . . . only one pill a day. Now let's discuss your schedule."

  7

  I SPENT MOST OF THE AFTERNOON SHELVING NEW BOOKS AND AMUSING myself by watching the Granny Oakleys. Now, I was back to drinking coffee and eating cheese puffs, and my waist was thanking me for the drawstring pants. I needed to stop eating snacks with all this salt or I was going to retain enough water to be considered a self-contained beached whale.

  Fifi sashayed through the curtains of the stockroom.

  "Hey, Sloane, honey, I meant to tell you this morning when you came back. Your new computer system keeps giving me fits."

  I set my empty mug on the counter. Nine cups worked out to way more than enough coffee for one day. I looked around at the table terminals. Everything seemed in order. "What's the problem?"

  "There were wacky messages in the terminals when I booted them up."

  I walked over to my desk and opened the interface for the in-house system. Fifi followed behind me. She was a total disaster with computers—just like Mom. "What did it do?" I peered at the screen, scrolling through logs. Still, nothing looked out of place.

  "A stupid skull and crossbones laughed at me in a strange voice." She looked aghast.

  "Maybe it's some kids getting an early start on Halloween." I ducked my head down fast. I couldn't hold a straight face at her reaction to the obvious prank. I just knew she'd whack me in the head for laughing. "Where did you see it?"

  "On the store's WiFi home page. It came up in the middle of the screen."

  I logged into our website and looked around. Again, nothing seemed out of place. We had numerous advertising widgets on the page, but they were all reputable sites that had contracted with Beckham's. "Are you sure it wasn't just a pop-up? I told you about surfing the net. Are you scoping out hinky places again?"

  Fifi lowered her head. I think her cheeks were about the color of her hair. "I didn't go to any place bad. What's a pop-up?"

  "A box that opens in the middle of the screen."

  She was doing the hand-wringing thing. Always a good sign that Fifi had actually done just the very opposite of what she was saying. I decided to let it go. I would run the antivirus software later to catch anything she may have picked up. I logged out of the website and closed the browser. Windows Mail downloaded several incoming messages. Another READ NOW!!! message.

  I put my mouse on top of the message in the incoming box. It opened a preview in the parallel pane. You really need to stop ignoring the obvious. I pushed the mouse up to the delete red-X icon, but my finger paused above the button. Who was sending this stuff? The header said it was from "Concerned Friend." Like that
was helpful. I clicked the File tab and opened the properties, then the details. It came from a dot-com site with numbers and digits as an address, all in no logical order. Spam! I clicked Delete.

  "I don't have a good feeling about that stuff." Fifi looked at me and tipped her head.

  "It's just junk. Don't let it bother you."

  Fifi just stared. So what's the problem? Was something caught in my teeth? She reached out and touched the straggling hair that had escaped my barrette again. "Honey lamb, you need to do something with your hair."

  "What is this, a conspiracy between you and Verlene?" Okay, just dig at me today. I ran my fingers through the sides of my hair to pull it all back and grabbed a rubber band from the desk drawer. "There. How's that?" The rubber caught some stray hairs and yanked them from my scalp. I winced. Probably Mom's spirit pulling my hair for being a smart mouth.

  "Well, all right, child, there's no need to get your lil' knickers all in a bunch. I was just sayin'." She raised her hands in surrender and walked away to talk to the customer who approached the counter.

  I sat there, watching her. Verlene had said essentially the same thing. Maybe they were right. It'd been a while since I'd had style of any kind. I had even succumbed to drawstring pants and loose tops to accommodate the fact that my jeans wouldn't button, and when they did, it was as though I would die of suffocation. But it was too hot and humid to look cute. Maybe I could get micro-braids and some extensions to my shoulder-length hair.

  My elbow rested on the desk and my chin was propped in my upturned palm as I contemplated flowing lion locks. I envisioned myself as a darker version of Bo Derek in 10, frolicking down the beach, beaded braids flowing in the wind. Who was I kidding? I wasn't even born that thin. I probably had a thigh the size of her waist. I mean get a grip. I had legs by Steinway. I glanced at the cheese puffs and pushed the bag to the back of the desk.

  The incoming mail dinged to announce new messages in my Inbox. Without thinking, I clicked on the first message. "YOU NEED TO LISTEN!" popped up. I sat back and stared at the screen. Something inside of me tightened. What's going on? Listen to what? If this was an advertising prank, it was riding my last nerve. It was no longer cute . . . or catchy.

  The phone rang. I reached for it while still staring at the message.

  "Hello, Beckham's Books and Brew. Sloane speaking. How may I help you?"

  "Hello, this is Dr. Lucius Barlow of the Beviard Institute. I would like to purchase a book that you presently own."

  "And what book would that be, Doctor?"

  "Histoire de la Magie. I am willing to pay—"

  "Excuse me, sir, but I must advise you that someone has already inquired about that book. You will have to come in and submit to the bidding process."

  "You need to listen—"

  My head swiveled to the computer monitor. My concentration on his voice drifted. I stared at the same message on the screen. The pit of my stomach had become a vat of churning, bubbling acid.

  "Are you listening to me?"

  I snapped back to the one-sided conversation. "Um, I'm sorry. I was just checking the process for the book." Okay, so I'd lied, but I was trying to wrap my mind around this coincidence. Or was it?

  ". . .day after tomorrow." The phone disconnected.

  My head snapped up straight. "Excuse me?" I gritted my teeth. Auh breeze. I hadn't been paying attention. What did he say? What was happening the day after tomorrow? I needed to check out this book everybody's so excited about. "Fifi , where do we keep this book the two doctors want to buy?"

  Fifi finished ringing up a customer's purchases and handed her the bag. "That book is in the vault down at the bank. They have proper temperatures and secure storage."

  Hello! She had my full attention now. "Doesn't that cost us a chunk o' change?"

  "Yeah, I guess so. I never questioned your ma's book decisions. She was the expert."

  "Umm . . . shouldn't we find out what it's worth? I just thought it was some old musty volume, sitting on one of the back shelves. I didn't expect it was being secured like the Hope Diamond."

  "All right, I'll get on it first thing in the morning. It can't be too much or I'd have known about it." Fifi looked at her watch. "Umm, uh, Sloane honey lamb . . . I was sorta thinkin' that you . . ."

  Uh oh . . . she won't look at me. This is bad. The only time she ever gets that expression on her face like she needs to expel gas is when she hooks me up with a blind date. Help me saints. The last one had so much hair growing out of his ears, he needed a weed whacker.

  I lowered my head, raised my eyes, and put on my best Darth Vader voice. "What have you done?"

  She nervously glanced at her watch again. The front door opened, she looked up and disappeared like Godiva chocolates in the hands of a menopausal woman. She darted through the curtains to the storeroom and I turned to face the man coming in the door. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, and my first impression screamed accountant.

  Yikes! Oh please, mother of Mary and all that is holy! Let him not be for me. Let him not be for me.

  "Hello I'm looking for Sloane Templeton. My name is Harold Lammato." He held out his hand.

  Ack . . . he was for me. Oh no, she didn't. Fifi , you shall die shortly but slowly. The man's head looked like the pointy end of an egg, bald as a cue ball and with baseball mitt ears.

  "What can I do for you?" I scrunched my eyes shut for a moment. A tic had developed in the top of my cheek below my right eye. I hope he didn't think I was winking at him. I reached out to take his hand.

  He pulled his hand back, sneezed into it, and nonchalantly held it back out for me to shake. "Sorry, I have allergies this time of the year."

  Gag. I lowered my hand, not wanting to entertain the germ culture he had just populated. "I completely understand. I have them too."

  "Miss Tyler said you might . . ." He stopped midsentence and opened his mouth as though he was going to sneeze again.

  I felt the urge to dive for cover. He pulled a white, stained handkerchief from his back pocket and sneezed into it. Then he blew his nose into it and shoved it back in his pocket.

  "Excuse me. Miss Tyler said you might be available for lunch someday."

  Fifi would die even more slowly than before. Water boarding and ripping out fingernails did not seem inappropriate at the moment.

  Not wanting to seem ungrateful, or hurt his feelings, I racked my brain. I know! "I'm very busy for the next few years . . . uh weeks, but how about if we step to the coffee bar and have a donut and a cup of coffee together. That's the best I can manage for this late in the afternoon."

  Come on five o'clock. I had to go help Verlene. For the second time today, I loved her.

  He pulled round-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and slid them onto his Jimmy Durante–like nose. Saints preserve us. The glasses changed him from egghead to Mr. Potato Head without the mustache! Good googa-mooga.

  I guided him to the coffee bar, scooted behind the counter to pour us each a cup of coffee, and then lifted the lid on the donut tray. "Help yourself."

  He reached for a powdered sugar donut, placed it on the napkin that he pulled from the holder. And then he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his hands.

  Gag. I'm going to hurl right on Fifi for this one. I gulped down the hot coffee, scalded the inside of my mouth and throat, and looked up at the wall clock. "Gosh, look at the time! Listen, I'm sorry Mr. Potato, er, uh, Lammato. I really can't sit and chat. I promised to help my aunt take casseroles to the Seniors Center and she will be here any minute."

  I hurried away before he attempted to shake my hand again. I moved behind the front counter and pretended to be busy at my desk.

  Suddenly, it occurred to me that Fifi didn't think Andreas and I were having a serious relationship. Hadn't I made myself clear or was she just not feeling it?

  8

  I GLANCED AT MY WATCH. COME ON, VERLENE. IT'S ALMOST FIVE O'CLOCK. I just know he's going to come over here and try to start a conver
sation again. I dropped my head to the desk. "Why me, Lord?"

  "What did you say?"

  I lurched up straight. Verlene stood on the other side of the counter. Hallelujah! I grabbed my cell phone, yelled to Fifi that I was leaving, and followed Verlene outside.

  She had double-parked in front again. One of these days, it wouldn't surprise me to come out and find her car gone. I swung open the passenger-side door. A wall of steam and that heavy pasta aroma hit me in the face.

  "Whew, girl, we need to roll these windows down or my hair's going to kink up right before I faint from the heat." For July and late afternoon in the concrete city, it was actually hotter inside the car than it was outside.

  "I didn't want to leave them down while I came inside. You never know when some miscreant is going to be enticed by the smell of my delicious cuisine and decide stealing it could be worth the jail time."

  That'd be one time where the crime became the punishment.

  Verlene pushed the button on the door console and rolled down the windows as she put the car in gear, and merged into eastbound traffic. "And for glory's sake, go get your hair done. That nothing-do will never get you a man."

  "Yeah, yeah, I'll go in the morning. Does she take walkins?"

  "Child, I will call her right now and get you slid in." She attempted to wrestle her cell phone from her purse, meanwhile weaving into oncoming traffic.

  My heart lurched. "No, not now! Do it later when you have both hands free."

  "I'll call when we get to the center. I just know you can get in, and I'll even get you set up with Gabi Fabian. He does fabulous braids. I just may come in for a manicure."

  Oh joy. The Hungarian Mick Jagger is going to braid my hair.

  I looked in the back at our cargo.

  Verlene had organized thin boards between the layers of steaming casseroles lined up on the backseat. There had to be least a dozen of the triple-sized pans back there. I sure hoped the seniors at this dinner were praying people.

  It only took a couple minutes to drive down the road to the Seniors Center in the nine hundred block of Fulton between Grand and Saint James. As soon as we carried the first trays inside, we were swamped with help. Stavros Andropolis, my favorite little shuffling Granny Oakley, hurried out to help us.