Murder Between the Covers

Chapter 13

Helen picked up the knife carefully. Her wrist hurt from where Dr. Rich had grabbed her. She wore a bracelet of bruises and a long-sleeved blouse to cover them. No man had ever treated her like that, not even her ex, Rob. She seethed with anger.

Crack! A peanut-butter cracker crumbled into pieces. She imagined it was Rich’s bones. She should have hit him. She should have killed him. She picked up the plastic knife and plunged it into the heart of the peanut-butter jar. It snapped off. So far she’d broken two knives and six crackers. She had a pile of peanut-butter-smeared pieces, but nothing she could eat.

Helen was alone in the Bawls-less break room with her anger and her lunch, a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a box of crackers. She was still furious after that humiliating scene with Rich yesterday. He hadn’t called her since. She almost wished he would, so she could tell him what she’d thought of him. She’d carried his roses home and thrown them in the Dumpster. Her only revenge was her date with Gabriel. Well, she couldn’t call it a date exactly. It was coffee at the Page Turners café, under the watchful eye of Gayle.

“That’s your lunch?” Gayle said, opening the break room door. She’d brought back a lovely little salad Nicoise from a nearby French restaurant. She brushed cracker crumbs off the table and sat down in the second least wobbly chair.

Gayle was wearing black, as usual. Her metal belt buckle looked like it belonged on a blast furnace.

“It’s one of the few things I can cook,” Helen said.

“You call that cooking?”

“I opened the jar myself.”

“Look out, Emeril. Doesn’t the break room look better since we got rid of all those cases of Bawls?”

“It’s bigger, anyway,” Helen said, looking around the dingy room. It still smelled like Taco Bell takeout. “Did Astrid tell you anything about Page’s funeral?”

“It was short and sweet,” Gayle said. “They had him underground in record time.”

“Any of his old girlfriends show up?”

“Not a one. That’s why Astrid kept the funeral service private. She didn’t want his weeping bimbos there.”

Helen wondered if the other women in Page’s videos would weep for him. Peggy was just one of many in that locked cabinet. Maybe one wanted him dead. Maybe they all did. She imagined a scene like something from Murder on the Orient Express: A dozen flossy-haired beauties held a pillow over Page’s face while he struggled helplessly.

“Did you know any of the women who starred in his videos?” she asked Gayle.

“You mean besides the one who was arrested? Because I have to tell you, Peggy was here more than the rest combined.”

Helen winced. Gayle didn’t notice. She was picking the tuna off her salad.

“I knew most of them. They usually came into the store when I was on nights. Let’s see... there were Cheree and Maree, two skinny blondes with long straight hair. Very striking, those two. They looked like twins, although I don’t think they were. They always showed up together.

They wore identical black dresses and black studded dog collars. I expected Page to walk them on a leash. I think they were pros.

“Then there was Liza. She was a sweet little thing, curly brown hair, big brown eyes. She moved back home to Pittsburgh and married a dentist. You see any pepper over there?”

Helen dug in the pile of leftover ketchup, mustard, and sugar until she found a pepper packet. Gayle ate her peppered salad methodically. First all the tuna. Then the tomatoes. She was working on the string beans when she said, “Jamie was a sad case. She OD’d on heroin last year.

“Shelly was the smart one. She left Page for another man. Her new boyfriend got them a great gig on a yacht.

She cooks, he crews. Last I heard they were headed for Brazil.

“I’m sure there were more, one-night stands or women who showed up after hours, but those are the ones I knew about.”

Five women, a typical South Florida sampling: Two thrived on the corruption here, one ran back home, one ran away to sea, and one died. Cheree and Maree wouldn’t care about sex videos. They’d consider them good advertising.

Jamie was dead, and couldn’t be hurt any more. Shelly had left the country. That left one candidate for blackmail. How would the Pittsburgh dentist feel about a wife who starred in Page’s private porn library?

“Liza, the one who went back home, are you in contact with her?”

“I get a card from her at Christmas,” Gayle said, intent on spearing an escaped string bean.

“Could you find out if she heard from Page recently?”

“Why?” Gayle stabbed and subdued the slippery green bean and began working on the potatoes.

“Because I think Page may have been blackmailing those women.”

Gayle waved a forkful of potato as if it were a pointer.

“Page Turner was a lot of things, most of them bad. But he wasn’t a blackmailer. Why bother? He didn’t need the money.”

“Rich people never have enough money,” Helen said.

“He certainly wouldn’t get it from the women in those videos. None of them had two nickels to rub together.

Astrid was the only woman he dated with money. I think that’s why he married her.”

“Then he did it because he could,” Helen said. “He liked the power.”

“I never thought I’d hear myself defending Page Turner,” Gayle said, “but I’ll say it again: He’s not a blackmailer. I’ll call Liza for you, but I’m not sure she’ll tell me anything.

We weren’t close. I knew Peggy better.”

Gayle put her fork down and looked at Helen. “She’s your friend, isn’t she? That’s why you’re asking these questions.”

“Yes,” Helen said. There was no point in hiding it. “Page was blackmailing her. I think he may have been blackmailing the others, too, if not for money, then for pure meanness.”

“Page was always motivated by money. Always. How would he get money from Peggy? I don’t think Page’s sex videos are any big deal. The cops will watch them and snicker, but that’s all. Peggy is lucky there’s no video of the day she stormed into the bookstore in her nightgown. That was your blackmail material. I never saw anyone, man or woman, so angry. If she’d had a knife instead of a newspaper, she’d have stabbed him on the spot.” Gayle ran her fork savagely through the last potato.

“But that was two years ago,” Helen said.

“You don’t get over a hurt like that right away. Maybe not ever. He made a fool of a smart woman.”

Gayle threw away her salad things and wiped the crumby tabletop with her napkin. “I’ll call Liza in Pittsburgh. But don’t expect anything.”

That should have been the motto for the whole afternoon.

A badly used blonde with a big chest wobbled up to Helen’s cash register with a stack of coin-collector folders.

Either the blonde was wearing bourbon cologne, or she was trashed. She tried to pay with two rolls of quarters. Helen groaned. She’d have to count all the coins.

“Hey!” the woman said, and slapped Helen with a wave of bourbon. “Why yuh taking ’em out of the wrappers? I already counted ’em for you.”

“Because half these quarters are Canadian,” Helen said, and slid them back across the counter. The bourbonized blonde was hanging on to the counter and swaying. Helen felt seasick.

“Oh, yeah.” She looked sheepish and shrugged her shoulders, a bad move. Her right breast nearly slid out of her halter top. She stuffed it back in, and the other breast almost escaped.

“Shit,” said the drunken numismatist.

“Can I help?” said the man in line behind her. Helen eyed his wedding ring and glared at him. “Er, maybe not.”

He took a step back.

The blonde was trying to subdue her slippery breasts.

Helen spotted a star-and-dagger tattoo during the struggle, which threw off her quarter count. The line kept getting longer. She paged Brad for backup. The little bookseller eyed the pile of coins and whispered, “How exactly do you think she earned all those quarters?”

“Who cares?” Helen snapped, her patience strained.

“Now start ringing.”

She finally determined that the woman had $17.25 in U.S. quarters. “You’re a dollar twenty-three short.”

The tipsy numismatist produced a roll of dimes from a large, limp leather purse. The count started again, but this time it went quicker. Helen found twelve U.S. dimes in the welter of Canadian coins. To heck with the three cents. The woman belched delicately, let go of the counter, and lurched out the door.

The next customer was a round-faced, smiling teacher who looked like a Chaucer goodwife. She had a two-foot stack of bargain books. Even with her teacher’s discount card, her purchases came to $99.81. She handed Helen a hundred-dollar bill. Helen gave her back a pathetic nineteen cents.

The teacher threw up her hands and said, “Thank God!

Now I can have the operation.”

Helen was still laughing when the woman bustled out.

“Glad something’s made you happy,” Gayle said. The line had vanished, and they could talk again. “I found Liza.

It wasn’t too difficult. She’s pregnant and the doctor’s ordered bed rest until the baby comes. There’s no way she was being blackmailed. She didn’t even know Page was dead. She sounded completely surprised.”

“Maybe Liza’s a good actor,” Helen said.

“Liza was always a bad liar. She’s telling the truth. Look, I did what you asked. Now maybe you need to ask yourself:

If Page really was a blackmailer, why only Peggy? And why now?”

Good questions. Helen tried to come up with answers all afternoon. She also asked herself why Peggy was holding back information. None of it made sense. Her brain raced like a gerbil on a treadmill, going round and round, getting nowhere, while she rang up books and watched the clock.

At six-thirty she clocked out. It was time to meet Gabriel in the store’s café. She would even buy her own coffee, thank you. She wasn’t starting this relationship off on the wrong foot.

Denny was working the café tonight, baking chocolate-chip cookies between latte orders. The heat from the oven made his auburn hair curlier and flushed his skin. There was something about a man working in a kitchen that was irresistible. Helen stood in line behind a painfully thin woman with red hair and tight Moschino jeans.

“Black coffee and a bagel. Can you scoop out the bagel?” Ms. Moschino asked.

“No,” Denny said, “but you can.” He handed her the bagel and a spoon, and she gutted the center, leaving behind a thick rope of bread.

“Why did she do that?” Helen asked when Ms. Moschino left.

“She’s on a diet.”

“Why not just eat half a bagel and take the other half home?”

“Beats me,” Denny said. “We got people in here who get mad because they don’t want cheese on their sandwiches. I tell them I can’t take off the cheese, they have to do it. It’s health-department regulations. They yell at me, saying, ‘I’m paying all this money for a sandwich and I have to take off my own cheese?’ Yes, sir. I can’t move the cheese, I can’t scoop the bagel, and I can’t figure any of them out.”

“Ah, Denny, you sound as unhappy as the rest of us.

Welcome to the wonderful world of retail.”

“Thanks. What do you want?”

“A double latte and a chocolate biscotti.”

“Whipped cream on that latte?”

She looked at the too-thin woman picking at her gutted bagel. “Absolutely.”

Helen was sitting at a table by the window when Gabe walked in. Heads turned, male and female. The skinny redhead stopped in mid–bagel bite. Gabe, with his blond hair and massive muscles, drew all eyes. But Helen looked first for his imperfections, her guarantee of a good relationship.

When he smiled at her, she saw his teeth were still crooked.

He ordered a cappuccino and a slab of double chocolate cake. Good. That would maintain the slight paunch. Nothing would stop the natural hair erosion. She smiled when he sauntered over with his coffee and cake. He seemed so easygoing compared to Dr. Rich.

They talked books, then South Florida theater. “Most people don’t realize it, but South Florida is overrun with Shakespearean actors,” he said. “Want to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Shakespeare in the Park Festival in Hollywood?”

It was a real date. Helen wasn’t sure she wanted to say yes. She warily studied Gabe’s strong hands for signs of a wedding ring, but saw no tan line. “Are you in a relationship right now?”

“Not really,” Gabe said.

Helen had made three major mistakes with men since she’d moved down here. Before that, there was her ex-husband Rob, one giant step backward for mankind. If she had to interview Gabe like a prospective employer, she would.

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Nothing, really,” he said with a charming shrug that sent muscles rippling across his shoulders. “We just drifted apart.”

Drifted apart. That sounded nice and neutral. Not, “I followed her to work and called her fifty times a day.” They drifted apart, two ships in the night. A gentle ending.

Gabe’s cell phone rang. He checked the number and turned it off, scoring more points.

“Sorry,” he said. “I hate these things, but I need it for business.”

Helen continued to probe. She’d been burned by Rich.

No, bruised. She flexed her battered wrist. “I guess you make lots of phone calls when you’re going out with someone.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Gabe looked endearingly puzzled, like a golden retriever who’d lost his toy under the couch.

“A cell phone is a good way to keep track of someone you’re dating.”

“You mean like constant phone calls? I’ve got better things to do and so does she. At least I hope she does. I don’t believe in hog-tying a woman with a phone cord. You either have her or you don’t.”

He’s got me, Helen thought.

“I’d love to see the play,” she said, as her last fears were put to bed.