Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012)

by Bonnie S. Calhoun

  "Yes. That would be Dr. Lucius Barlow."

  My chest tightened. That was the name of the other person who called yesterday. "How can I get in touch with you? I'm going to have to think about this for a while."

  Mabry pulled a business card from his breast pocket and slid it across the table as he stood. "Please do not hesitate too long. Time is of the essence."

  I reached for the card, and the old familiar prickle ran up my nose. I sneezed into the crook of my arm. So much for being in control.

  "You should see a doctor for that cold." He turned and hurried from the store.

  "It's . . . not . . . a cold." Sigh. I fingered the edge of the card. How would Mom handle this? The other guy had asked to buy the book also, so technically both men were on an even playing field. Maybe they could just have a bidding war. But Mabry talked about there being danger surrounding the book.

  Great. Just what I needed. More drama, danger, and apparently allergy tablets. Ugh . . . I hate pills.

  13

  I SLID THE BUSINESS CARD INTO MY SHIRT POCKET AND DECIDED TO LOOK this guy up on the Internet for a better sense of his qualifications and status. I happened to glance around the room at the table terminals. None of the computers were booted.

  Moving to the table to my left, I flicked the monitor switch. Nothing happened. "Fifi," I flicked it again. "There's nothing happening here."

  Fifi looked up from the desk behind the counter. "Oops! Sorry kiddo." She reached beside the desk and flipped the switch. "I was engrossed in unpacking the new shipment and forgot to turn them on."

  The dozen monitors all blinked on at the same time.

  I'M WATCHING YOU!! flashed across the screens simultaneously in large white letters on a stark black background.

  A shiver radiated down my arms and out my fingers, but I shook it offand laughed out loud. "Cute, Fifi , and I'm watching you too."

  "What?" Fifi turned with a stack of books in her hand.

  "The monitors. . . . Cute."

  Fifi peered out into the room. The expression on her face turned from amusement to concern. "Umm . . . I didn't do that."

  "I thought you had one of these college kids spoof me."

  "I wouldn't even know what to tell them to do."

  She plopped the books on the counter and turned to the main computer on my desk.

  "Hold up. Let me look at it before you change anything." I slid onto the leather chair. I tapped several commands as screens flipped.

  "I set it so Chat Central opens first." To Mom's chagrin, books were not in my blood. But I had used my limited computer skills to bring Beckham's into the twenty-first century with an ever-expanding online bookstore.

  "So are you saying someone sent that message from here?"

  Other than teaching her to use Twitter once in a while, I couldn't get the woman to understand the Internet, so Fifi's attention amused me.

  "Yes . . ." I typed in a few more codes. ". . .and no. It looks like someone hacked into the system to put that up there."

  Fifi's forehead wrinkled. "Why would anyone do that?"

  A twinge of adrenaline stabbed my chest. The same question crossed my mind. I shook it off. Trey came to mind but his computer skills didn't rise to comprehending the use of a Wii.

  "It could be one of the college kids who come in here, trying to be smart." I tapped the keys a few more times, changing screens again. "But I think I'm at least better than they are." I smiled and wagged my head back and forth like a bobble-head. "And that route of entry has just closed."

  I whacked the enter key, and the monitors in the room rebooted to the colorful and tastefully decorated Welcome to Beckham's Books & Brew screen.

  "So we're good?" Fifi looked around the room at the screens. "I don't understand all this computer stuff, but are we safe? I mean the online bookstore and all?

  "Yes. I had just never set up a password because I didn't think we needed it. But now people who want to use our system will have to create an account and log in with a username and password."

  Fifi squinted.

  "That's why you're the boss, sugah." Fifi crossed her eyes in mock confusion. "Listen, while you're sitting there, Goober or whatever you do to find out what you can about that professor guy."

  I bit down on my lip. "Fifi , the word is Google."

  "Well, that too." She tapped a finger on the desk. Her armful of bangles created a racket. "I'm curious about him and the other guy who came lookin' for the same book."

  I fished the business card out of my pocket and set it on the keyboard. "How much information do you want?"

  "Whatever you can get. We should know what kind of money range these guys are working in before we set an asking price."

  I knitted my brow.

  "Child, don't look at me like that." Fifi tapped me on the arm with the back of her hand. "I spent a lot of years learning from your ma how this rare book business works."

  "So did you and Mom ever have any discussions about this book?"

  Fifi shook her head. "No, unfortunately I was goofing on her about the trip to Europe, so we didn't have a real conversation about it. The only note I found in her records indicated twenty thousand dollars. I guess that's what she calculated as a selling price at the time."

  "You can just make the price anything you want?"

  "If there's going to be an auction. We set a base price and let them haggle from there. It might get up to thirty thousand with vigorous bidding." Fifi rubbed her hands together.

  The more I rolled the idea around in my head, the more I wanted to know if this guy had enough sanity to know what "danger" could mean. I opened one of my own search programs, set the parameters, and put in the two men's names. This personal data program would even show any public interactions between the two subjects.

  The program started its search. I glanced up as Barbara Nelson entered the store and scurried back to her regular seat. I hadn't even noticed her leaving.

  "This could take a couple minutes. Watch the screen for me." I turned from Fifi and walked toward the woman.

  "Hello, Barbara. How are you feeling today?" I approached the table slowly in case the woman was still jittery like yesterday.

  Barbara looked up as she opened the laptop and smiled broadly. "Hi, Sloane. I'm fabulous. And you should just call me T . . ." Her eyes glazed over for a second. She shook her head. "Barbara, just call me Barbara."

  I frowned but quickly recovered. "Okay . . . uh, er, Barbara. I'm glad you're feeling better today."

  The familiar prickle ran up my nose. I turned my face into the crook of my arm and sneezed. "Excuse me . . . sinuses."

  Barbara looked at me like I'd said I had bubonic plague. "Seriously, it's just sinuses. They'll last as long as the pollen count is up, and then they'll subside."

  Barbara beamed from ear to ear. "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade."

  "Uh, okay . . . I guess." What a difference a minute makes.

  "Have I told you about my latest writing project? I'm writing suspense for women's fiction. And I have an editor waiting to see my proposal, but I can't stop actually writing the story to do the proposal. I'm already halfway done." She gestured at her laptop screen.

  I tried not to grin. This was a 180-degree turn from her mood yesterday. "I'm glad it's coming along so well." I sidestepped to keep moving back to the front of the store. "Good for you."

  I made a face after I passed the table. Whoa! That woman needs to lay off the high-test and go to decaf!

  "Hey, sugah!" Fifi motioned me to the front with a stage whisper. "Wait till you see this!"

  I scooted around the counter. "What?"

  Fifi held up the business card. "This guy is world class. He's not only wildly rich, but he's a premiere archaeologist in the Who's Who in Science."

  "Ah, that kind of doctor." I stared at the records on the screen.

  The bell tinkled as the front door opened. Fifi vacated her seat to greet the customer. I slid into her place to get a clos
er look at the doctor's list of accomplishments.

  I whistled under my breath. He was the leading United States expert in Egyptology. "Uh-oh . . ." At the bottom of the academic biography it gave a list of his prior associations. Dr. Lucius Barlow had been his archaeological partner for fifteen years. A hotlink to one of what looked to be numerous conspiracy sites said that the two of them had come to actual blows over an archaeological dig in the Sinai desert last summer. And several worker deaths at the dig had not been explained to the government's satisfaction.

  I shook my head as I clicked a couple more of the news links. "Maybe that idea of danger isn't so far-fetched."

  Fifi turned away from the counter as her customer navigated his way across the store to the fiction section. "What? What danger? Are you talking about those two professors?"

  I put my elbow on the desk and my chin in my upturned palm. The other hand continued to click through the news sites. "Those two guys are learned professionals, and by all accounts, have a propensity to act like a pair of Trey's street thugs."

  Fifi chuckled. "But he looked like a sweet little professor . . . not."

  A scream pierced the air.

  Startled, Fifi and I spun to face the store.

  "Help me! No . . . this can't happen!" Barbara pounded on the keyboard of her laptop.

  Fifi and I scrambled from behind the counter and hurried across the room, approaching Barbara's table just as one of the keys flew off her keyboard and bounced across the table and onto the floor.

  "No, no . . . let me in!"

  "What's the matter, Barbara?" I surveyed the situation and waved off Fifi , who shrugged and returned to the counter.

  Tears rolled down Barbara's cheeks. "I can't get onto the Internet. I'm locked out. I was on it last night, and now I can't get in. I'm locked out. I need to check my e-mail!"

  I looked at the screen. "Barbara, it's okay. See . . . we just put up a log-in screen." I fingered the mouse pad on the laptop, and clicked the Enter link. "Just make a user name and password, and it will be okay." Sheesh. How important could her e-mail be?

  I slid onto the seat opposite Barbara and watched her type. Barbara's fingers trembled, uncontrolled. She clenched and unclenched her fists and then wrung her hands together before continuing to type.

  I reached out and touched her hand. "Honey, what's the problem?"

  Barbara looked up and burst out crying again. An uncontrolled stream of glistening tears trailed down her cheeks and onto her keyboard. "I can't take it anymore. My husband locked me out of our house." Her hands flew up to cover her face, as her shoulders heaved with sobs. "He threw me out, so he could move his girlfriend into our home."

  This was not what I expected. Saying "I'm sorry" seemed hollow. A thought stabbed me. The pit of my stomach hollowed out. I tipped my head to the side and studied Barbara's face. "Barbara, . . ." I slid my hand onto the woman's shoulder, "Is that why I found you in your car? Have you been sleeping out there?"

  Barbara looked up through tear-filled eyes and nodded.

  I had an immediate rush of fear and loathing for a man who would treat his wife like this. My heart absorbed the pain wracking Barbara's spirit. But for the grace of God, there go I. Tears welled in my eyes. How could a man be so cruel? That was a stupid question.

  I wrapped my arm around Barbara's shoulder. I had also been the subject of a man's venom more times than I cared to remember.

  I had to do something to help.

  14

  SLOANE! CAN I SEE YOU, PLEASE?"

  I slid my arm from Barbara's shoulder and turned to Fifi . "Hang on. I'll be there in a minute."

  "Uh, now, sugah. . . . Can I please see you now?" Fifi displayed a pasted-on smile, and a pair of wide eyes.

  I shifted my position so that Barbara couldn't see my face and mouthed to Fifi , "Knock it off."

  Fifi grinned even wider. "I need you, now." Her smile, coupled with the wide-eyed stare, struck me as slightly maniacal. Mom often had that look and it always meant I had trouble coming, right on the other side of the horizon. I wasn't sure I wanted to go over there.

  "Go. I'll be all right," sobbed Barbara as she wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her hands. She sucked in and exhaled a big breath, appearing to regain control.

  I huffed out air, and looked back and forth between them. I laid my hand gently on Barbara's shoulder. "Okay . . . but we need to have a talk." I offered her a sympathetic smile.

  Barbara nodded and I hurried toward the counter.

  "What is your problem?" I hissed between clenched teeth, as I came around the counter.

  "You are my problem. Your ma told me to keep an eye on you, and there you go again." She motioned toward Barbara. "Picking up another stray? Child, when are you going to learn?"

  Fifi put her hands on her hips.

  I snickered. I knew Fifi's posture was feigned indignation. "She's in trouble and needs my help. Her husband threw her out."

  Fifi wagged a finger. "That's why they have the Department of Social Services."

  "But she . . ." I extended an arm in Barbara's direction. What? I swiveled around searching the store. Again, Barbara was gone and this time, so was her laptop. My shoulders slumped. Barbara must have assumed that I didn't care.

  "She hightailed it out of here as soon as your back was turned." Fifi grinned. "She'll be back. They always come back." She pointed a finger with a flick of her wrist. "This is what I wanted to talk to you about." She held up Mom's .38 from the drawer. "What in the world are you doing with your ma's gun?"

  My mouth flew open then twisted into a grimace. With a careful touch, I extricated the gun from Fifi's fingers, and placed it back in the drawer like fragile crystal. "Sheesh. Don't be waving that thing around in here."

  "I repeat. What are you doing with your momma's gun?"

  "You know I've got a permit." Actually, I think I'm keeping it because it was Mom's and she handled it. I feel like I am holding her hand when I grip it, despite the fact that I don't like guns.

  "Yes, you have a permit, but you hate guns. So what are you doing with it in your immediate area? Here's a new-style nylon pocket holster for it. You shouldn't be just laying it around unprotected." She held out the small, black sleeve.

  "For protection." It was the only reasonable thing I could think of to say, but in reality I had a nagging feeling about my safety around Trey.

  Fifi reared back. "Protection? Protection from what? Or should I say who?" Her expression bordered on fierce. "If that no-account Trey is—"

  "No, no, Trey isn't bothering me." Okay, so I just lied, but I didn't need her going ballistic. "I just felt the need to have it. But after yesterday morning, I'm not so sure."

  Fifi crossed her arms, and set her jaw. "What else happened yesterday? You didn't mention a single word about anything with a gun."

  "I almost shot myself." I remembered with all too much clarity how I had nearly ended my own life by being careless. I would never learn to like guns, but, at the moment, it looked like a necessary evil. Lord, help me.

  Fifi uncrossed her arms and grabbed me by the arm. "Oh, sugah, are ya all right?"

  My face warmed with the glow of embarrassment. "Yes, I'm fine. It caught on my pocket and I dropped it. The Lord must have been watching over me that it didn't go off."

  Fifi covered her mouth to stifle a giggle that sounded in harmony with the tinkling of the bangles slipping down her arm. "Is that all? It wouldn't have gone off."

  I trained my gaze on Fifi . "And how would you know that?"

  "Because, my dear child . . ." She reached into her cavernous red leather purse. "I own the sister to that little beauty."

  Fifi grinned as she held up a hot pink–handled gun that looked almost identical to Mom's.

  I recoiled. "What is wrong with you people? I thought my mom was the only nut job around here."

  Fifi puffed up with obvious pride as she rattled off the statistics. "Six-hot, breech-loading, swing-out cylinder with a
hand-actuated extractor for easy loading."

  "Like I said . . . What is wrong with you people?"

  "There's nothing wrong with us, honey. Your mama and I are . . . were . . . card-carrying members of the Fort Greene Rod and Gun Club. Besides," Fifi directed her stare at me, "you went and got a permit to carry your momma's gun. So I know she had to take you to the gun club and register you. Should I ask you what's wrong with you?"

  I bristled. "You're just like my mom, answering a question with a question. I only joined that smelly club because it was necessary to get the permit, and Mom made me shoot with her a couple times."

  "Okay, so maybe we should have told you."

  "Told me what?"

  Fifi shrugged and looked at the floor, mumbling under her breath.

  I turned my right ear in Fifi's direction. "Come again? I didn't hear you."

  "I said . . . it was because we were robbed twice last year."

  My mouth flew open. "What? Why didn't I know this? Did Mom call the police?"

  "Please, child! In this neighborhood?" Fifi waved the hand still holding the gun. "The cops were the ones who told us to get weapons."

  I wrinkled up my forehead and plopped onto the leather swivel chair at the desk. "So you and Mom are members of a shooting club?" I shook my head. "Now, I've heard everything."

  "Sheesh. Where've you been, girl! A whole lot of us shop owners are packin'."

  "Yeah, right. These little old people around here can barely walk let alone shoot guns."

  "Sugah, do you actually think the Granny Oakleys are a book club?"

  I stared at her. My brain vapor locked. Please tell me I'm not hearing this. "Are you saying that those oldsters are all packin' heat?"

  "That would be exactly what I'm saying."

  "But this is New York. They need permits. Who would give permits to someone wearing Coke bottle glasses?" I tried to imagine Kyoko Takahashi sighting anything smaller than the Chrysler Building.

  "Someone who deals with pillars of the community who are continually being robbed and has been paid a lot of money." Fifi crossed her arms.

  "Is that legal?" Just what I needed. Octogenarian Bad News Bandits.