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Authors: Judi Culbertson
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Even if Patsy had sounded as compassionate as Florence Nightingale, I didn't feel equal to a conversation with my sister. Instead I poured a glass of Chardonnay, ate my pizza, and read the rest of the Sunday Times.
The phone woke me at 4:25 A.M.
After four or five rings, when I realized it was not the dismissal bell for the exam I was failing, I pawed at the bed table frantically. In my panic, I grasped the receiver by the wrong end and had to twist it around. "Hello?"
"Hello?" The voice was soft and male. "I have something you might be interested in."
Wonderful. An obscene phone call. I was about to slam down the receiver when the enticing voice continued. "A signed copy of Emily Dickinson poems?"
Was this the mystery bookseller? I struggled into confused consciousness. "But-Emily, she never published any books, did she? Just a few poems in a local newspaper. So what did she-"
The answer was the smash of his receiver in my ear, jangling me awake.
I lay back in the fading darkness, breathing as hard as if I had just finished a 1OK race. Raj, my aging Siamese, gave a little mew and I stroked him. It actually hadn't sounded like the yokel who had called me Friday morning. This voice, though disguised, was more cultured. Could it have been Amil? Maybe it was a joke, that he had hoped I would recognize his voice and let him explain what had happened to Margaret. If Margaret's find was a lost book of Dickinson poems, printed privately during her lifetime, what a treasure that would be!
Moving my face to the cooler side of the pillow, I pictured the block-long lines of bibliophiles, Emily Dickinson fans, and university curators who would batter down the doors of The Old Frigate.
But damn! For the second time in a week, a potential treasure had slipped from my grasp. Then I remembered Jack Hemingway grabbing Charlie Chan. Make that three.
I was too agitated, my thoughts too wild, to get back to sleep. At five A.M. I went downstairs, made coffee, and started the day.
At 8:10, I dialed the precinct.
Second ring. "Alexander Kazazian here."
I had a quick, mean image of him checking his name bar before answering.
"Hi, this is Delhi Laine. We met at the bookstore Saturday?"
"Roger."
"Did you get the information I left you about Amil Singh?"
"Yeah, thanks. I'll get a statement from him. But there was nothing in her office records about him. You're sure he worked there?"
I wanted to laugh. "He worked there. Do you know how she is?"
"Nah. Domestic accidents, we don't follow up:):'
I took a breath. "Would it be a problem if I kept the shop open for her?"
"The shop?"
Maybe he hadn't had his coffee yet, I thought charitably. Or his daily brain transplant.
"The bookstore. Margaret will need the income." But as soon as I said that, I wondered if it were true. Although she was always complaining about money and how much everything cost, Margaret never looked as if she wanted for anything. She and Lily owned one of the most beautiful houses in Port Lewis and both drove silver Volvos.
"It's not like it's a crime scene or anything," he pointed out. "We don't condemn houses when people fall off ladders."
Good point. "Well, I just wanted to make sure it was okay. I have the key," I added. I had finally unearthed it at the bottom of a kitchen drawer, under packets of soy sauce and used birthday candles. This time I made sure to put it on my key ring.
"Okay. Just let me know if that Indian guy shows up. And stay off those ladders!"
"Hah"
Next I called the hospital and found that Margaret was still in intensive care, her condition critical.
By 9:50 I was standing inside The Old Frigate, fantasizing that the beautiful store belonged to me. At Christmas I would preside over a wassail bowl by the fireplace. Tom Wolfe and Toni Morrison would exchange witticisms, and Colin and Patsy would stop by to apologize for ever doubting my success.
Quickly I walked through the shop, switching on the lights in each of the three
Even if Patsy had sounded as compassionate as Florence Nightingale, I didn't feel equal to a conversation with my sister. Instead I poured a glass of Chardonnay, ate my pizza, and read the rest of the Sunday Times.
The phone woke me at 4:25 A.M.
After four or five rings, when I realized it was not the dismissal bell for the exam I was failing, I pawed at the bed table frantically. In my panic, I grasped the receiver by the wrong end and had to twist it around. "Hello?"
"Hello?" The voice was soft and male. "I have something you might be interested in."
Wonderful. An obscene phone call. I was about to slam down the receiver when the enticing voice continued. "A signed copy of Emily Dickinson poems?"
Was this the mystery bookseller? I struggled into confused consciousness. "But-Emily, she never published any books, did she? Just a few poems in a local newspaper. So what did she-"
The answer was the smash of his receiver in my ear, jangling me awake.
I lay back in the fading darkness, breathing as hard as if I had just finished a 1OK race. Raj, my aging Siamese, gave a little mew and I stroked him. It actually hadn't sounded like the yokel who had called me Friday morning. This voice, though disguised, was more cultured. Could it have been Amil? Maybe it was a joke, that he had hoped I would recognize his voice and let him explain what had happened to Margaret. If Margaret's find was a lost book of Dickinson poems, printed privately during her lifetime, what a treasure that would be!
Moving my face to the cooler side of the pillow, I pictured the block-long lines of bibliophiles, Emily Dickinson fans, and university curators who would batter down the doors of The Old Frigate.
But damn! For the second time in a week, a potential treasure had slipped from my grasp. Then I remembered Jack Hemingway grabbing Charlie Chan. Make that three.
I was too agitated, my thoughts too wild, to get back to sleep. At five A.M. I went downstairs, made coffee, and started the day.
At 8:10, I dialed the precinct.
Second ring. "Alexander Kazazian here."
I had a quick, mean image of him checking his name bar before answering.
"Hi, this is Delhi Laine. We met at the bookstore Saturday?"
"Roger."
"Did you get the information I left you about Amil Singh?"
"Yeah, thanks. I'll get a statement from him. But there was nothing in her office records about him. You're sure he worked there?"
I wanted to laugh. "He worked there. Do you know how she is?"
"Nah. Domestic accidents, we don't follow up:):'
I took a breath. "Would it be a problem if I kept the shop open for her?"
"The shop?"
Maybe he hadn't had his coffee yet, I thought charitably. Or his daily brain transplant.
"The bookstore. Margaret will need the income." But as soon as I said that, I wondered if it were true. Although she was always complaining about money and how much everything cost, Margaret never looked as if she wanted for anything. She and Lily owned one of the most beautiful houses in Port Lewis and both drove silver Volvos.
"It's not like it's a crime scene or anything," he pointed out. "We don't condemn houses when people fall off ladders."
Good point. "Well, I just wanted to make sure it was okay. I have the key," I added. I had finally unearthed it at the bottom of a kitchen drawer, under packets of soy sauce and used birthday candles. This time I made sure to put it on my key ring.
"Okay. Just let me know if that Indian guy shows up. And stay off those ladders!"
"Hah"
Next I called the hospital and found that Margaret was still in intensive care, her condition critical.
By 9:50 I was standing inside The Old Frigate, fantasizing that the beautiful store belonged to me. At Christmas I would preside over a wassail bowl by the fireplace. Tom Wolfe and Toni Morrison would exchange witticisms, and Colin and Patsy would stop by to apologize for ever doubting my success.
Quickly I walked through the shop, switching on the lights in each of the three
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