Shop Talk (11 page)

Lucille hugged the pages to her chest and stared up at the ceiling, willing herself to sleep. Cars passing on the highway outside her bedroom window cast light through the open blinds and created a starburst of glinting gold on the tinsel specks that had been blown into her ceiling. The tinkle of her wind chimes, the cool April night, even the ceiling seemed gilded in magic. Lucille felt as if fairy dust had been unexpectedly sprinkled over her life.

The members of WOMB had liked her book,
Forbidden Words.
Lightning bursts of pleasure tapped across her entire body and made her tighten her arms around the thin stack of manuscript pages. This was better than any fantasy she’d ever had. Better than anything she’d ever experienced as an adult. Five writers had accepted her talent. It was a first little step.

No one had ever liked something she’d written. Except Driskell LaMont.

A twitch of disappointment made her shift in the cool cotton sheets. She’d hoped Driskell would show up at the shop before she left. Obviously, he had better things to do. It was silly to think he’d just … appear, like some happenstance in one of the poorly written books she read.

Poorly written.

In all of her dreams and ambitions, she’d never admitted that any published book could be written less than well. Certainly, she had her favorite writers, but never, never had she even considered
judging
the quality of another writer’s words. Until now. Now that she was a member of WOMB and a professional writer, it was her duty to begin to distinguish the wheat from the chaff. Now her tastes mattered.

She twisted to her side and stared at the wall. She wanted to go to sleep, a reward to Bo for letting her use the shop. She’d promised to go to work on time, and that meant going to sleep. But it was hard to just drift off. She felt as if every inch of her skin had been polished and buffed until it glowed with satisfaction. She wanted to turn on her computer and write. She wanted to make Slade Rivers sing and dance and eat and flirt with Clara.

She flipped to her other side. Except Clara wasn’t being very cooperative. Clara was leaning over tables in her low-cut red dress so that her breasts almost fell out in the faces of leering cowboys. She was singing in a low, throaty voice that was not musical but was something else. Clara was behaving in a fashion that Slade was finding harder and harder to overlook. And Lucille was finding it harder and harder to justify her heroine’s actions. Pretty soon, Slade was just going to give up and ride off into the sunset. And then where would Clara be?

Lucille sat up in the bed. The Big Ben wind-up alarm showed two-thirty in the morning. She’d never make it to work on time if she didn’t get a few hours sleep. Or if she did make it in, she’d doze off in the warmth of the April sun that poured through the drive-up window. Once Lucille had drifted into a light sleep and awoke only when she’d drooled all over her own knees.

“Sleep!” She threw herself backward into the pillows and squinched her eyes tight. It had been a wonderful evening. Perfect, except for Dallas Dior’s distraction over her missing husband. Lucille reminded herself to check the
National Enquirer
for details of Christian Dior’s disappearance. Funny, but she’d never heard that the famous fashion designer had a house on the Mississippi Coast.

Wiggling deeper under the sheets, she allowed herself to remember the other members of WOMB. She let the view pull back until she could see the entire table, a round table because it made all of the members equal, and herself sitting between Andromeda and Jazz. Even Iris had been nice, making those wonderful crackers and the chips and dip. The writers had fallen on them like starved deerhounds. All except Coco, who had watched everyone else eat as she’d swallowed a virtual river of saliva.

“Okay, now sleep,” Lucille commanded. She forced out the image of WOMB and replaced it with winged books flying over a stone fence. “First publication, second, third-fourth-fifth-sixth edition, New York Times bestseller list, seven, eight, nine, ten, trade paper, eleven, twelve, mass paper, paperback reissue …” She sighed and felt her spine begin to relax. This was the beginning of all her dreams, and they were going to come true. They were. Just like her daddy had always told her. If she wasn’t afraid to dream, she could have anything she really wanted.

Sleep finally took her. She fell deeper and deeper down a black tunnel, until she heard a loud noise coming from the bottom. Instead of being afraid, as she normally was of the dark, she was excited. Her feet touched lightly on the concrete floor and she hurried toward the noise and the strange bright lights that seemed to illuminate an enormous metal monster.

Her excitement built as she ran. There was a tall, slender figure on top of the metal monster. He was threading something through the machine, his wiry back bent. Piling up at the end of the machine were small, solid objects. Lucille ran toward them, too eager to notice that her legs cramped, that the machine might be dangerous. She picked up one of the objects. Even as her fingers closed around it, before she could hold it up to a light, she knew what it was and her heart nearly burst.

Forbidden Words
was written in beautifully ornate gold type on a deep purple cover. There, staring down at a melting Clara, was Slade Rivers. Wind curled his chestnut hair and his blue, blue eyes held electric life. Clara, on her knees and clinging to his bare chest, was suitably submissive at last. Lucille finally allowed her gaze to drift to the bottom of the book. In smaller type but the same beautiful script was the name RoxAnne Flambeau.

All around her the press churned out books. They fell at her feet and were soon knee, then waist high. Her gaze traveled up the huge and wonderful press and met the dark gaze of Driskell LaMont as he threaded another role of paper into the press.

“They want a half million copies, tonight,” he said above the roar of the press.

Lucille sat straight up in bed. Sweat poured down her body and she was panting. There wasn’t enough air in the room. The roar of the dream press still in her head, she climbed out of the damp sheets and pressed her bare feet to the hardwood floor.

She went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. Deep in the drawer where she kept her clean dishcloths was a package of Marlboro Lights and a lighter. She didn’t smoke often, but now was definitely the time for a cigarette. She couldn’t decide if the dream was positive or negative. The book cover had been beautiful. She’d never consciously allowed herself to even imagine it, but deep in her subconscious it had been growing and taking shape. It was the most beautiful book cover she’d ever seen, and the feel of it was still in her hand.

Other elements of the dream were more disturbing. The press itself was monstrous. And Driskell’s presence was unsettling. He had looked down at her with such … tenderness. Yet the deep black tunnel where the press was stored had been vaguely hellish. In the background had there been the drip of water?

Lucille took out a cigarette and found her hands were shaking just enough to make it hard to flick the Bic. She’d been asleep less than an hour. Unlit cigarette in her mouth, she went out the front door. The tiny porch was surrounded by tall holly bushes. She could sit on the steps and smoke while she calmed herself with the gentle lap of the water on the other side of the road. The Marina Apartments were on a small bayou in a nice neighborhood of Biloxi. Many of the residents were boat owners and had been there for years. Lucille hated boats, but she liked the view of the tanned young men as they worked on them. She liked the white teeth smiling, open shirts flapping tropical colors in the wind, as they motored down the bayou toward Biloxi Bay and the Mississippi Sound.

She took a deep breath and held it as long as she could. When she exhaled, she was calmer. She drew in the comforting smoke.

The coughing came upon her so viciously that she bolted upright, forgetting that she was in her gown. She half-stumbled from the seclusion of the holly bushes and into the yard.

Right beside the apartment was the clatter of a heavy tool on cement and a muffled curse.

Lucille froze. Someone was over by her car. The need to cough swept over her with an urgency that she could suppress for only a few seconds. Pressing her lips tight, the cough came out as a bark, sharp and repetitive. Her eyes watered and she leaned over, hand to her mouth.

The man burst up from beside her car and ran toward her.

Lucille managed a strangled plea for help before he pushed her flat to the ground. He kept going, disappearing around the corner of the building before she could even get enough breath to scream again. When she finally filled her lungs, she cut forth with a screech loud and long, and then set up a continual wail until the apartments around her flared with light and several men rushed outside to her assistance.

Bo returned the telephone to its cradle and sat with his bare feet on the thick rug beside the bed. His elbows on his knees, he leaned his face into his hands.

“Is she okay?” Iris was sitting up in bed. This was one of the times when touching him wouldn’t help. It was four o’clock in the morning and they’d been awakened by a police officer’s call with a hysterical Lucille in the background.

“She’s fine.” Bo spoke into his hands. “She thinks someone was trying to steal her book.”

“Je-sus.” Iris leaned back against her pillows. “Was there really someone there?”

“The cop said he was trying to break into Lucille’s car. Probably trying to steal it.”

“I can’t say much for his taste in cars. Who would want that rag heap? She’s got a landfill in the backseat.”

“I’ll go over there and take a look.”

“In the morning.” It wasn’t a question.

“Right. In the morning.”

“Is Lucille going to be okay?”

“She’s making a pot of coffee for the policeman. It seems he’s met one of the writers down at the library.” Bo rubbed his face. “He said he’d stay and talk with her until she calms down. He doesn’t think the guy will be back.”

“If hell let us know when he’s coming, we can lock Lucille in the trunk.”

Bo couldn’t help the smile that touched the corners of his mouth. “You got a way with words, baby.”

As soon as Bo was back under the covers, Iris snuggled against him. “My parents had twin beds in their bedroom.”

Bo waited in the dark without speaking.

“They saw it on the
Dick van Dyke Show.
Remember when they’d show Mary and Dick in the bedroom. They both wore pajamas and slept in twin beds. Mama and Daddy thought if Dick and Mary did it, then it was a model for them. Mama even bought some of those black capri pants and took tap dancing lessons. That was bad, but the twin beds were worse.”

Bo ran his fingers through Iris’ long, thick hair. It smelled of rain and he let it trace across his face.

“I’m glad we aren’t so influenced by television.” She lifted her head, dragging her hair off him and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Bo.” She snuggled back across his chest.

“I love you, too, Iris.” Bo’s voice was a deep, calm rumble, but his eyes were open wide.

Jazz was deep in the detailed descriptions of devices of torture used by medieval English overlords when she felt the ripple of trouble. Blinking her eyes shut, she thought it was a visceral reaction to the gruesomely graphic image of the hot tongs, but as she lifted her gaze from the pages of the musty old book, she clearly heard the man’s clipped voice, arrogance laced tightly around an order.

Her mind still on beefy shoulders glistening with sweat as they worked the bellows to fire the hot coals, it took Jazz a moment to place the voice. She recognized it as the voice of the old fart who’d wanted her to keep the library open late so he could finish his research. She put her finger on the place she had been reading and gave the scene her full attention.

“The books were restacked last night, Mr …” Celia, her assistant, was saying.

“Where is the person responsible for stacking them?”

“If anything had been found, it would be at the desk.”

Celia held firm, and Jazz nodded her approval. One of the most important lessons a librarian had to learn was never to let a patron assume the upper hand. The librarian was the figure of authority. She ordered the books. She lent them out. She replaced them. She maintained quiet and decorum at all times. Not even Celia’s staunch erectness could dissuade the man, though.

“I left it on that table, right over there.”

Jazz could imagine him pointing like Moses commanding the Red Sea to part.

“If it isn’t on the table, and it isn’t here at the desk, then it must have been thrown out. Or maybe you didn’t leave it here after all.”

While Celia worked to keep the impatience out of her voice, Jazz silently applauded her. Turn the tables when a patron becomes demanding and unreasonable.

“I want to see the person who shelved the books.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Young woman, don’t you dare turn away from me.”

Jazz stood up. The hair on the back of her neck tried to raise into hackles, but the hairspray kept it firmly in place. The result was a crawling sensation. How dare the old codger come into the library and behave in such a fashion. She’d been about to go to her purse and get the map he was looking for, but she’d be damned if she’d give it to him now. She started down the long, narrow row between shelves of books that reached to the ceiling. This section gave some people a sense of claustrophobia. Jazz loved it. To be surrounded by books, by ideas and thoughts and images all published and bound, was her idea of heaven. And now this creep was violating a sacred place.

As she rounded the corner, her sharp hip bones leading the way, she stopped. Celia was backed against the far wall of the check-out desk. The old geezer was leaning forward, glaring at her.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Jazz said.

“I want my map.”

He turned pale blue eyes on her, and Jazz felt as if a blade had been inserted through her navel. She clamped down with all of her womanly muscles and ignored the sensation of being gored. “You have no right to come in here and bully my employees. Leave now or I’ll call the police.”

The blue eyes hardened even more and he pointed a fìnger at her. “You’re the one who was in here last night.”

“So I was.” She lifted her own finger. “And you’re the one who’s going out of here today. Celia, call the police.”

“I left a map in one of the books.” He lifted his cane at her as if it were issuing a challenge. “Give me my map and I’ll go peacefully.”

“I re-shelved your books. There was no map.” Staring into the fury of his gaze, Jazz felt a moment of apprehension at her bald-faced lie. Never in her entire library career had she lied to a patron. Never. It wasn’t that she wanted the map. It was his attitude. He was exactly like that scum-bag Mac. She’d learned the hard way that if she relented a millimeter, Mac would be all over her. Because she had allowed Mac to see her softer side, he was now leaving gnawed-up boots and, most recently, ten pages of her Scottish manuscript that he’d stolen at her trailer. Looking into the blue-eyed stare of the bully pointing his cane, she knew he was just like Mac.

“I remember leaving it.” He lowered the cane and leaned heavily on it.

“You must be mistaken. I’ll look around and if I find it, I’ll notify you.” Jazz nodded to Celia to put down the telephone receiver she clutched in white and trembling hands.

The old man took her measure. “There’s a reward.”

Jazz resisted the urge to smile. He was beaten now. “It was a map of what, Mr …?”

“Of an island. It was drawn by a friend of mine.” Marvin bored into her, trying to read something in her dead calm expression. “Sentimental value, you know.”

“If the map is here, a reward is unnecessary. We’re not in the habit of holding our patrons’ possessions hostage.”

“An interesting choice of words.” Marvin had regained control of his temper and his wits. The woman was formidable. With her helmet of hair and her salmon colored shift and matching seahorse ear bobs, she thought she was invincible.

“There are a billion interesting words in this library, Mr …” Jazz waited.

“Lovelace,” he said, his voice suddenly smooth. He smiled at Jazz and one side of his mouth twitched.

Jazz had the distinct impression one of his canines was itching and he was scratching it with his lip. What she saw in his ice-blue eyes was not humor but a cold desire. For what she couldn’t say, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be fun for her.

Marvin reached into his pocket and extracted a business card. He had several different ones handy, cards with aliases. “Lovelace,” he said. “Marvin Lovelace.” There was no reason not to use his real name. There was no record of his existence, and he wouldn’t be in Biloxi long enough to leave a trail. “I’m working on a history of this area.”

“How interesting.” Normally, historians were Jazz’s favorite writers, but Marvin Lovelace was an unsettling presence. “How far back are you going?”

“World War II.” Marvin grinned.

“Keesler was very active then, but nothing to draw a great deal of interest. Lots of northern boys trained down here and came back to retire.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Marvin’s grin widened, revealing incisors that were rather long and yellow. Card extended, he stepped toward her.

Jazz felt her mouth go dry. He was looking at her as if she were something that needed to be swallowed with a minimal amount of chewing. She took the card and resisted the impulse to turn tail and run. Celia was watching her with mouth slightly agape, button brown eyes shining with fear.

“Well, Mr. Lovelace, your business here is concluded. If we find a map of Horn Island, we’ll certainly send it to you.”

Marvin nodded. “Thank you, my dear.” He stared at her, eyes narrowing. He lifted his hand in a mock salute before he turned and walked out of the library.

“Wonder what he did to his knuckles?” Celia asked. “Probably punched a little old lady in the grocery store who came between him and his prune juice.”

“His knuckles?” Jazz felt as if the pit of her stomach contained live snakes. The last time he’d looked at her, it was as if he knew she were lying to him. As if he knew it–and liked it that she’d taken the map.

“They were scraped and bleeding.” Celia came out of her corner. “Jazz, are you okay?”

“Sure.” She tried to blink away the panic. “He reminded me of Mac.”

“Oh.” Celia flipped up a section of the desk and walked through. She put her arm around Jazz’s shoulder. “Mac was always pushing you around. That guy had the same attitude. As if we’d take his stupid old map.”

“As if,” Jazz whispered. She allowed Celia to move her over to one of the study tables where she could sit down for a moment. “I wonder what it was about that map that was so important?”

“He said a friend drew it, but I doubt a man like him would have any friends.”

“Celia, would you mind running over to the Electric Maid and getting us some coffee and petit fours?”

“Petit fours? Jazz, it’s only fifteen minutes after nine. They won’t have anything except do-nuts and cookies.”

“Get some of yesterday’s petit fours. Something with pink rose buds and green leaves on them. Nothing yellow.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t leave you.” Celia eyed her employer. Jazz was normally all starch and tendon. Celia had never seen her so … unfocused. Except when she had been deep in the throes of her Scottish historical. “Are you writing another book?” The question was charged with hopefulness.

“Yes.” Jazz looked up at her. Gone was the desire to revisit merry old Scotland, or even to continue her foray into the world of drugs, dresses and domestic sex. She had another idea, and it had come fully blown into her mind, with the assistance of one Marvin Lovelace. “Yes.” Jazz stood up, a flush turning the delicate skin of her neck and chest a bright red. “Yes!” She turned to stare at Celia and leaned slightly forward as she spoke in a harsh whisper. “A thriller! A big commercial thriller. A million dollar book!”

“A thriller?” Celia was taken aback. Jazz had never shown a whit of interest in the thick Tom Clancy or John Grisham books that came in. She even begrudged them shelf space in the library.

“A spy thriller.” Jazz began to pace in the small area between the newest fiction books and the latest paperback originals. “Run along, Celia. I need sugar if I’m going to plot.”

“Okay.” Celia looked doubtful. Jazz was in the clutches of some internal passion. What if someone came into the library? Would she be able to wait on them?

“Go, go, go.” Jazz shooed her with her hands. “Bring me at least half a dozen of the little delicacies.” She went to her purse and pulled out a twenty. “I need two large coffees, and get whatever you want for yourself.”

Celia took the money and headed down the steps into the new green of budding pecan trees. She stopped at the sound of Jazz’s voice, raised in question.

“Celia, did you detect anything odd about Mr. Lovelace?”

“He’s a bully, like your ex.” Celia shrugged.

Jazz nodded slowly. “More than a bully, he’s evil.” She lifted her eyebrows until they disappeared in the hard swoop of blond hair that looped over her forehead. “Evil incarnate. An excellent villain.”

Celia nodded slowly. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Go, go, go.” Jazz waved her along, forcing a smile until the door closed and Celia’s jaunty walk carried her around the corner.

When Jazz was certain she’d gone, she went to the front door and locked it tight. After flipping the sign to CLOSED, she hurried back to the counter and rummaged through her purse. The map was in the pocket, just where she’d put it. What was it about the map that had flipped Marvin Lovelace’s wig? The drawing was interesting, but even she could see it wasn’t a work of art. Sentimental value? She was halted in mid-step by an electric image of Mac taking the tiny silver spoons she’d collected for years and tossing them into the fireplace in their home. He’d told her the spoons were gee-gaws that only a moron would want, something else to dust, which she wasn’t very good at anyway. Sentimental value indeed. Monsters didn’t practice sentiment.

Jazz went back to the table where Marvin had sat for at least two hours the night before. Making a carry-all out of her arms, she held them in front of her, empty, and began to retrace her steps from the night before. What books had he been studying? She went down the rows, filling her arms with books, using some deep inner sense of placement, until she had a full stack of them. Weighted down, she struggled to a table and dropped them. There were histories of the Gulf Coast area, just as he’d said. Dry histories without an element of character. No one would read those books for pleasure.

Tapping the top of the stack with a sensible nail, she was pretty sure she’d been able to select the same books Marvin Lovelace had been so interested in perusing. If not every single one, then she had a good start. She had twenty minutes to scan through them before Celia returned, then she’d have to finish the day acting as normal as possible.

She needed help. That was the ticket. Help. From the members of WOMB. Without a second thought she went to the telephone and dialed Andromeda Ripley’s number.

“Whaddaya want?” Andromeda’s mother’s sounded like a fistful of rocks thrown into a blender.

Jazz almost cringed. “I’d like to speak with And … Angela,” she said sweetly.

“You another of her putrid friends? The girl can’t make normal friends. All weirdoes and head cases.”

Jazz sighed. “This is the head librarian in Biloxi.” She assumed her most authoritative tone.

Natalie snorted. “If she’s run up another overdue book, you’ll have to take it out of her hide.”

The telephone clattered to the counter. “Angela, Angela, get your ass to the phone. You’re in trouble again, you ingrate.”

Jazz hunkered down, hiding her face at the raspy cry. The Harpies could not have sounded more fearsome. Andromeda’s true circumstances were known to no one else in the group. And as far as Jazz was concerned, they never would be.

“Hello.”

At first Jazz didn’t recognize her voice. “Andromeda?” “What?” Life snapped back into the telephone.

“Meet me at the library. It’s urgent. I’ve come up with the best idea, and I need your help. We can do a book and a screen play simultaneously.”

There was a hesitation.

“Give the old bitch another sleeping pill. It hasn’t killed her yet, and believe me, there’s not much chance it will this time.”

“Give me half an hour.” Andromeda hung up the phone.