Bookman Dead Style Read online

  The few seconds I’d taken were enough for a slew of customers to come in from the cold. A group of four, two couples, and a woman who remained on the perimeter of the shop as the two couples perused and then decided on some paper and envelopes. I eyed the single woman as she walked around. She feigned an interest in the carved doors over the shelves that ran down the middle of the side walls of the shop. The carvings were mountainous landscape scenes and had garnered plenty of attention over the years, particularly when Chester entertained interested customers with stories he made up about each one. He enjoyed making up the stories almost as much as the customers enjoyed listening to and believing them.

  But it was obvious that the woman in the black coat with the black scarf wound around her head wasn’t truly interested in the doors. She faced them, but I could see the slight angle of her neck as if she wasn’t really looking at them, but listening to the other customers’ conversations instead.

  She waited a polite two beats after the other customers left before she turned, looked toward the front door, and then toward me as she unfurled the scarf.

  Her smile was big, white, and genuine.

  “Hi,” she said as she walked toward the counter.

  She was even more stunning in person than she was on television and in movies. She wasn’t young, but she didn’t look her age, which I thought was probably close to fifty. Her features didn’t seem to have been altered with surgery though; there were pleasant laugh lines around her eyes, and I couldn’t help but wonder about the brand of moisturizer she used.

  “Hi,” I said breathlessly. We had another movie star in the shop. And, coincidentally, she knew Matt Bane. For an instant, it was all a bit too much to process, but she gave me a second to recover. She was probably used to her ability to knock people momentarily speechless. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

  “Thanks. It’s great to be here. Star City is quite the place.” She was friendly and looked me in the eye.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Nell Sterling wouldn’t have been considered a serious actress. She’d been on a television sitcom for its full eight-season run. She’d transitioned into romantic comedies on the big screen, but I hadn’t seen much from her lately. I had a fuzzy memory of reading about her frustration with the roles she’d been given over the years. She’d always wanted meaty, but had only been able to acquire fluffy.

  However, her biggest claim to fame was that she’d dated Matt Bane. Though I despised the word, Nell had been Hollywood’s most popular “cougar” for about seven months—a short time in most everyone’s lives, but almost an eternity in Hollywood tabloid news. “Reporters” had managed to stretch the story about her and Matt, together and apart, for those long months. Eventually, their on-and-off relationship faded from the entertainment news and I hadn’t heard much about her for some time.

  She was tall, blond, and built (there might have been some plastic surgery done below the neck, but I didn’t want to stare) with a big, toothy smile that I was sure had just twinkled at me.

  “I have a book,” she said when she realized I was ready to move on. “It’s a valuable book, but I don’t want to sell it. I want to see if you can fix it.”

  She reached into the large, black leather bag over her shoulder and pulled out a manila envelope that bulged with a booklike bump. With another smile in my direction, she reached into the envelope and then pulled out the book.

  “When I decided to come to the festival this year, I knew I had to see if you could help me. I’d heard about your shop and I could barely wait to come in. This was my father’s book and I’d love to have it back in pristine condition.”

  It was a first edition—I confirmed by quickly lifting the cover to check the copyright page—of Charles Dickens’s Barnaby Rudge. It was without a dust jacket, but the green cloth binding was in pretty good shape.

  “I wish my grandfather was in the shop,” I said. “He loves Dickens, tells everyone he was a childhood friend of the famous author.”

  Nell blinked. “That wouldn’t even be possible, would it? Dickens lived in the eighteen hundreds, didn’t he?”

  I smiled. “See, he’d like you right away because you knew that. You’d be surprised how many people don’t.”

  Of course, even my grandfather wouldn’t be immune to Nell Sterling’s beauty, even if she hadn’t known that Dickens was a nineteenth-century author.

  “Ah, I see,” she said. “I’ll have to come back when he’s in. Do you think you can fix the book?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Chocolate. Pages forty-eight, forty-nine, and fifty.”

  The edges of the pages were worn with time, but I’d seen much worse. I used my knuckles so I wouldn’t add any oil to the paper as I made my way to forty-eight. There weren’t just a few chocolate fingerprints but lots of them, so many that one paragraph was almost illegible. The same thing had occurred on the other two mentioned pages.

  “What happened?”

  “My niece, a few years ago when she was little, really liked chocolate, and I hadn’t childproofed my library. She still likes chocolate, but is old enough now to be mortified when I tell the story of how she thought it would be fun to add her own touches to the book.”

  “It’s a great book,” I said. “Are you going to try to sell it?”

  I’d never read the book, but I’d heard Chester discuss it with customers. Originally published in serial form, it was Dickens’s first attempt at writing a historical novel. It was about a decades-old murder and those who covered up the crime. The clearest memory I had of one of Chester’s discussions was a vibrant back-and-forth about the meaning of the birthmark on the character Barnaby’s wrist. Chester had been fairly friendly with the customer, but after he left, Chester said, “That man needs to learn how to read a book, not just skim it.”

  “No. It’s mine forever, or my niece’s someday,” Nell said. “Children don’t look to be in my future.” There was no sadness in her voice, or in her eyes. I looked closely because I knew that was one of the reasons the tabloids claimed had caused the breakup with Matt. She hadn’t wanted to try to have kids at her age and he wanted a family.

  “Do you know about the raven?” I asked.

  “The talking raven in the story?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about him?”

  Now I really wished Chester were in the shop to tell her all about Grip. My grandfather collected stories about authors, and this was one of his favorites. It wasn’t a long story, but he could tell it with much more appropriate drama than I could.

  “The raven in the story was inspired by Dickens’s own raven, Grip.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Grip was a beloved pet. And there’s more.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Two other interesting facts. One, it is said that Edgar Allan Poe reviewed Barnaby Rudge and thought Dickens should have given the raven a bigger part. Some say . . .”

  “That Dickens’s raven inspired Poe’s?” Nell jumped in.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She smiled dreamily like I’d seen others do when Chester told the story. It was always interesting to think about the juxtaposition of the two authors and how the same bird might have inspired their work. Maybe I hadn’t been so boring in the telling after all.

  “And the bird is on display in Philadelphia, just in case you have any desire to see an old stuffed bird,” I said.

  She laughed. “No kidding? You know, I just might have to do that someday. Thanks for the story. I love that I know that now.”

  “My pleasure. Anyway, when it comes to your book, I might be able to clean it up a little bit, but I’d like for you to really think about if you want me to do too much. Clearly, you adore your niece, and the chocolate fingerprints make a good story. You don’t want to sell the book—
even if you did, I might advise against cleaning it up completely. Sometimes ‘as is’ is better than anything that’s been worked on. Are you in town through the festival?”

  “I am.”

  “Think about it a day or so. Do you really want to get rid of those fingerprints? If you do, bring it back in. If not, just come by sometime and give my grandfather a thrill. He’s not much into movie stuff, but he’d know who you are, and if he had false teeth, I’m sure they’d fall right out when you came into the shop.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The front door opened again. Both Nell and I looked toward it.

  “Uh-oh,” I heard her say under her breath. I thought the same thing.

  We’d gone from zero to three in our movie star count. And, oddly, they were all connected.

  Adele White took up much more space than it seemed her tiny frame should allow. She was petite, and looked fierce, with all black clothing that included an oversized black leather jacket, Goth makeup, and short black hair. She was striking. She was pretty one moment, not so pretty the next. I thought her chameleon ability might be a good skill for an actress to have.

  She was also, at least according to what I knew, Matt Bane’s current girlfriend.

  Before I smiled and welcomed her in, I wondered briefly if we were all being filmed for some silly festival candid-camera stunt.

  I glanced back and forth between the actresses, as different as they could be. They looked at each other, away, and then back at each other again. Neither of them seemed happy to see the other one.

  “Uh-oh” was right.

  4

  Nell sent me a friendly but quick smile and a thank-you before she said she’d be in touch about the chocolate stains. With her chin perhaps tilted a bit too high, she walked confidently down the middle of the store, past Adele, and then out the front door. They didn’t really look at each other as they both muttered things I couldn’t quite catch.

  Once Nell was out of the shop, Adele seemed to become suddenly more comfortable in her skin. She smiled warily, shyly maybe, as she walked toward me. It was impossible to know if she had been uncomfortable about Nell or just uncomfortable. Maybe it was just her way.

  Earlier last year Adele had been the star of a torturous movie about a teenage girl dying from cancer. For weeks, I’d observed people leaving our small Star City Main Street Theater in tears and wondered why anyone would want to see such horror. I’d heard Adele’s portrayal of the girl would put her in contention for the big movie awards. It hadn’t, though. She’d been overlooked, or ignored, or whatever it was that happened. Some said it was because of her relationship with Matt Bane, who was at the time known more for wearing a cape and saving the world than for portraying anything as gritty or serious as a serial killer. If Matt hadn’t been arrested for murder and if his new movie did well at the festival, he might have been able to change not only his career but the careers of the people closest to him. Hollywood was a weird world.

  “Welcome, can I help you with anything?” I said.

  She was almost to the counter, and then she stopped. She cocked her head and bit her bottom lip. She looked around, at the shelves, at the counter, then slowly along the counter, and finally at me. “Was Matt Bane in here earlier?”

  “Yes, he was,” I said while my brain did a quick sift of the facts as I knew them to be. Matt and Adele were a couple, or maybe they were just a rumored couple. Either way, her asking the question wasn’t quite like the typical starstruck fan asking it, so I’d answered honestly and hopefully without even a tinge of suspicion to my voice. When she didn’t say anything more I continued, though I had no way to be certain she knew he’d been arrested. “I’m, uh, sorry about Matt.”

  “I know. Me too. It’s so sad and scary. I can’t believe it’s real.”

  I nodded. “Did you come by to pick up his note cards?”

  “Yes. Note cards. I’m a bit distracted, worried. I apologize.”

  “No problem. I understand. The note cards are ready.” I grabbed them from the end of the counter and handed them to her. She took them and nodded, but didn’t say anything as she slipped them into her jacket pocket.

  “Hitting the slopes this year?” I said.

  “I don’t like winter. I really don’t like snow. Skiing and snowboarding aren’t things I’m interested in at all. I miss Los Angeles.”

  Though my experience in conversing with movie stars was limited, I felt uneasy about not being able to figure out what more to say to Adele. I was sure that Marion would have done just fine, but all I could think of were more comments about the normal stuff—slopes and snow—so I just smiled.

  “Oh, what do I owe you?” she said another second later.

  The transaction was completed quickly, and she sent me one last obligatory and almost sheepish smile before she looked around the shop again and then left. “Slunk away” came to my mind as I watched her go.

  Suddenly, all became quiet in the shop. The silence radiated a feeling I knew, something I recognized after living in Star City and working at The Rescued Word for so long. The quiet changed inside the shop when a storm was on the way; it became heavier and closer, though explaining that to outsiders was difficult. Chester recognized it, and Marion was beginning to get it. We’d decided it was something about the history and the architecture of the old brick mining-office building—it pulled itself in a little tighter when bad weather was on the way.

  Baskerville, a less-than-friendly calico cat, recognized it too. Though he spent most of his days resting on top of the high shelves, picking the best side depending upon which high window the sun was shining in, he decided it was time to join me, one of the mere humans, below. He felt the stormy silence too.

  “We’ve been popular today,” I said as I gathered him into my arms. He let me hold him, but he didn’t snuggle. Baskerville wasn’t a snuggler. The offspring of the greatest cat ever and our first shop cat, Arial, Baskerville would be loved and cared for forever, even if he wasn’t nearly as friendly as his mother.

  I carried him up to the front, where we looked out the window together. I was much more interested in the large crowd inside the diner across the street than he was. But when some big, fat snowflakes began to fall, his eyes watched them carefully, suspiciously. Like Adele, Baskerville did not like winter weather. But I loved it. So did Chester and Marion; even Seth liked it and was seemingly intrigued by Marion’s offer to teach him to snowboard. Cold noses and cheeks, blazing fireplaces, knit hats and scarves, and hot chocolate. I loved winter, and Star City did winter right.

  The tranquil Bygone Alley snow globe scene was interrupted by the blaring of sirens and the blaze of bright lights. I jumped in my skin as Baskerville’s eyes got wide and he dug a claw into my arm. I winced but held tight as a police car pulled up to the curb in front of the shop.

  For a moment I was worried about what might happen next. But then Jodie got out of the car and waved. She was dressed in civilian clothing and had a big smile on her face.

  I’d forgotten about our date—dinner and one of the less popular festival films she’d managed to get tickets to.

  I hoped she hadn’t caught my momentary confusion and then the clarity that had set in when I realized she wasn’t here on official business. I waved back.

  “Guess I’d better brush my hair,” I said to Baskerville.

  He meowed disagreeably.

  5

  I hurried back out to the front of the store after having dashed up to Chester’s apartment for a quick freshening up. My phone had been on Marion’s low work desk behind the shop’s counter the whole time. I’d happened to see it out of the corner of my eye only when I was rushing to rejoin Jodie by the front door. The ringer had been turned off and I had no recollection of leaving it there. I must have been more shaken by the day’s events than I’d though
t.

  When I reached her, Jodie’s smile had been replaced with a marked frown.

  “What?”

  “I have to run back to the station first. Creighton needs some paperwork I didn’t finish. His promotion will be the death of me.” She glanced at the giant-faced watch on her wrist. “After that, we’ll have to make dinner a fast one to get to the movie on time.”

  “No problem. I’ll come with you down the hill so you don’t have to make the detour here again,” I said.

  “Deal.”

  I bid the cat good night and left a note for Chester before I switched off the lights and locked the front door. Baskerville would join Chester up in his apartment later, where he would knead Chester’s leg as he tried to read in his old chair. The cat would curl up next to Chester’s face when he went to bed. It was a routine that neither of them would admit to enjoying, but one they both relished.

  “A little early to be closing?” Jodie said.

  “You’re probably right about our needing some help. However, I think Chester will be back soon and we don’t typically have too many customers this late. I have no idea if Marion will come back in or not. And it’s beginning to snow. It’s okay to close a little early.”

  In fact, the snow did little to deter our business, but it was close to dinnertime.

  “Told you,” Jodie said over the top of her police car as she opened her door.

  “You did,” I conceded. I hid the smile that pulled at the corner of my mouth. Jodie loved to be right. Sometimes I just liked to give her the opportunity. She did the same for me sometimes too.

  Most of the time I thought Jodie abused her police power with her siren and lights, but during the festival I always appreciated the convenience; it was about the only way to get anywhere in a timely manner.

  The flashing lights and one loud nasal honk were enough to get the crowds out of our way as we rolled back down the hill and toward the police station.

  “So,” I began as Jodie dodged two young festivalgoers who were taking their lives into their hands by crossing in front of us.