A Novel Death (2 page)

I couldn't imagine my life without The Old Frigate.

Amil looked up and smiled. Wearing a peach-toned knit shirt and khakis, he might have been an exotic model, an Indian playboy who toned his body playing polo and sailing yachts. I admired his breathtaking white smile and artistic features, though once in a while I noticed that his full lips took on a spoiled-or perhaps it was discontented-pout when he was lost in thought. Of course he wasn't a wealthy playboy, just a young man studying British poets at the university and working in a bookshop.

When we were almost out the door, he called, "Bring me a triple latte?"

And Margaret answered. "No, Amil. Double or nothing!"

It had the sound of a private joke-but wasn't today an odd time for it?

"Whatever" His voice mocked the word's use.

Margaret and I stepped into the July morning, into the scent of caramelized nuts from the red cart on the corner and the general sweetness of summer on Long Island. Later on, when it was August and nothing moved in the heat except the sweat on people's foreheads, the smells would seem stale, even rancid. But that was not yet.

"Have a lot of people been calling?"

"Delhi, you have no idea. A few people really do care, but so many just want the gory details! People I haven't heard from since last Christmas" Her refined lips quivered as if she might either laugh or cry. In the end, she just gave her head a shake, dismissing them all.

Then she opened the door of The Whaler's Arms, and we moved into a cloud of fried clams and spilled beer. It wasn't my favorite place-it seemed dreary in broad daylight-but we always came here instead of one of the new outdoor cafes along the harbor. Margaret and the owner, Derek, did many favors for each other and he never let us pay for our coffee. Margaret didn't even bother to bring her purse with her.

Ignoring the red vinyl booths with their nautical paper place mats already set out for lunch, we perched on stools at one of the tiny bar tables. Derek began fussing behind the counter, and after a minute brought us identical cappuccinos. He chatted with Margaret about a proposal to require shop owners to pay for flower planters along the curb. Evidently he was one of the few people in Port Lewis who had not yet heard about Lily.

When he was gone, I expected Margaret to finally break down. She lifted the cup to her lips, and then changed her mind and set it down. "Find any books this morning?"

I blinked, and then remembered all the wakes I'd been to where the bereaved had talked and even laughed, seeming to ignore the body that lay just a few feet away. I had assumed that a kind of shock coated and denied the horror of their grief. Perhaps this was happening here.

"A total waste of time," I sighed. "But I did get an interesting phone call."

I described my conversation with the mysterious seller. Then something occurred to me. "Did he ever call you?"

"Actually, if it's the same one, he stopped by. He wanted an assessment of what he had found."

I came alive. "Did you buy anything?"

"No Hemingway firsts"

"But what?" As Colin reminded me before he moved out, I had no pride. "Did he give you a phone number?"

"He might have. I'll have to look." Then, seeing that her evasiveness was annoying me, she tossed back her hair. "You know, Delhi, these so-called `finds' are just a bookselling myth."

"But they do happen." She made me feel like a child hoping a visitor would bring me a wonderful toy. "Look at all the things found at garage sales! Great paintings hidden under other ones because some yokel thought he was better than Rembrandt."

"But who knows at the time who's going to be remembered? I knew a lot of good artists when I painted."

"You painted?"

She tried to brush it off. "Delhi, at my age I've done everything! Lily always says that if ..." But that stopped her, would not let her pretend any more that this was an ordinary Friday. Putting her hands over her face, elbows on the table, she gave deep gasping sobs. "How could she do something like that?" she moaned.

I reached over and stroked her sleeve over and over, the way I did when my children had been upset. "People-life is hard," I whispered, excusing Lily for not standing up to it.

I was afraid Derek would see us and come over.

Margaret lifted her head and wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't."

"If only the shop hadn't been open late last night! We would have had dinner together and everything would have been fine."

"But if she was depressed..."I prayed that I did not sound like the people on the phone.

Margaret traced the compass in the center of our table. "You have to understand that Lily was never completely happy. Even on the wonderful vacations we took, places that people only dream about, there was always something-the hotel, the bad weather, a museum that was closed-that ruined her day. We still had fun, of course, but... Being a perfectionist was great for her work, but people aren't statues."

Which people? At their last Christmas party, Lily had seemed more edgy than usual, her green eyes constantly darting to the doorway, as if she were expecting somebody who never came. By the end of the party she had even been short-tempered with Margaret.

"But why now?"

Wrong question. Margaret's face completely shut down.

"Why don't you just go home?" I pleaded. "I can keep the shop open."

"And do what? The police won't let me do anything. They wouldn't even show me the note in her purse."

"But you're her sister!"

"Tell them that."

"But who would they show it to? Her husband? Ex-husband, I mean."

Margaret's hand suddenly knocked against her cup, her rings clattering sharply. She was the only person I knew who could wear several rings and look as refined as Princess Grace. "What are you talking about?"

"But I thought-Lily had a different last name. I thought she must have been married, since you hadn't."

Margaret sighed. "No, we were both young and foolish once. But I took my own name back, and she kept his. He was an actor, if you can imagine that. But I have no idea where he is. And I wouldn't tell him anyway."

I didn't say anything. I was too surprised that Margaret had never told me she had been married. She was my mentor, true. But we did talk about other things besides books. The vagaries of my life with Colin, my shock when he moved out. Wouldn't it have been natural to share her own unhappy experiences? "How long ago was it?"

"Years. I can't even remember." She sounded sorry she had mentioned it. "And I have to get back to the shop." Her feet hit the linoleum.

I slid down from my stool too. I still didn't know when Lily had been found or what the police had told Margaret, but I knew I couldn't ask. Instead I said, "Do you need me to fill in this afternoon? If you have things you have to do, I'll be glad to help out."

"Well, you can check with Amil. See if he needs any help. Anddamn! I forgot his latte." She stepped back from the door with its small porthole opening and into the restaurant again, leaving me to go next door by myself.

When I opened the door of The Old Frigate, I was surprised to find the shop empty. No customers, but no Amil either. I called his name, but there was no answer.

Why would he leave the shop unattended? If there had been an emergency, he knew Margaret was right next door. He shouldn't have been in the back room, out of earshot of customers anyway.

And then there was the click of a knob and Amil stepped out of the small side office. His cheeks were an odd sunburned red and his dark eyes hard as glass. "Where is she?" he hissed.

"Margaret? Getting your latte. Why?"

He muttered something I could not understand, and then said more clearly, "You want to know something about your friend?"

"What?"

"You know what she-" But then he stopped, and I saw that he was looking past me out the window. With my back to the door, I could not tell whom he was seeing.

"Let me write down the name of that book for you." His voice was deliberately loud, meant to be heard. He patted the countertop for scrap paper, found only Margaret's neat lists of new arrivals, and then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a square leather wallet. It was so choked with bills that it could barely close. Had I interrupted him cleaning out the safe? Had he been going to tell me that Margaret owed him money? But he worked out a dog-eared white card and scribbled on the back with Margaret's pricing pencil.

Then the bell over the front door chimed and I dropped the card into my woven bag.

But it was only Margaret, holding a paper cup aloft Miss-Liberty style. "Better lat-te than never, boy-o!" Her voice was hollow, a brave attempt to mask her terrible sadness. When she saw me her smile faded completely. "What are you two plotting?"

Did we look guilty? Amil was just about to tell me something terrible about you. "We were talking about Colin. Amil likes his poetry."

Though I use my own last name, Laine, I hoped that Amil as a graduate student had at least heard of Colin Fitzhugh.

Margaret's expression cleared as I knew it would, and the corners of her mouth turned up. "Voices We Don't Want to Hear?" She quoted the title of Colin's prize-winning book mockingly. "What's the new one? Earthworks?"

"Earthworks," I confirmed. Colin actually taught archaeology at the university, and many of his poems referenced that.

Without saying anything, Amil moved deftly around me and approached Margaret. I saw her hold out the cup to him. But instead of taking it, he shoved it back into her chest. His force popped the white lid off and sent hot coffee spewing across her face and onto her white blouse.

Margaret gasped as the coffee reached her eyes and dropped the cup. It hit the oak floor noiselessly, sending tan streams everywhere.

Amil jerked the door open. "You've ruined my life!"

Then he was gone.

"Margaret, are you okay?"

"Paper towels. In the bathroom."

I doused several in cold water, and handed the wad to her. Instead of pressing it to her face as I expected, she sank to her knees, frantically mopping up the spill. "Get more and help me," she cried. "This floor will warp!"

What about your face? I decided she was in shock and ran for another wet towel. Then I knelt down on the floor and twisted her face toward me. Her left cheek and the side of her chin glowed with the cherry-red shape of a continent. "How are your eyes?"

"Delhi, I'm okay!"

But I pressed the towel against the burn gently.

"I'm really okay. It wasn't as hot as you think."

"But he assaulted you! We've got to call the police."

"No police! Delhi, he was upset; he bumped my arm. That's all. It was my fault as much as his."

This was too much. "But why was he so upset? He wasn't before."

She didn't look at me. "I told him I might have to let him go. For personal reasons"

And then the bell over the door dinged and we both froze. My mind raced with images of angry employees and guns. I would die too, just for being in the wrong place.

It was a smiling young couple looking for travel books about Australia.

"Domestic accident," Margaret said, pointing to her face and blouse with a rueful laugh. The tan streaks were beginning to dry, but the silk still clung to her breasts.

"You go change," I said, "I'll stay here"

"You don't have to. I'm closing up anyway. I've had it!" Plucking her blouse away from her body, she added, "Maybe I'll see you at the sale tomorrow."

"You're going to Oyster Bay?" I was surprised. Margaret didn't often make the rounds with the rest of us. When you had a brick-andmortar shop, people usually brought books to you. You didn't have to line up hours early at estate sales and fight with other dealers. Still, the Oyster Bay sale, located on Long Island's Gold Coast, was supposed to be exceptional. The furniture from the estate had been sold separately last weekend, clearing the way for books and collectibles.

"I'll get a number for you," I promised. I was one of the ones who arrived hours before the sales began so I could be in the first group of people to go inside.

"Leave your phone on. I'll call if I'm not coming."

We said good-bye again, once more with delicate hugs, and I hoped she'd be all right.