The Bookshop on Autumn Lane (16 page)

I didn't want to ask. But I had to. “Have you by any chance spoken with the professor from England about all this?”

“His lordship? Oh, I've heard all about him from Marva O'Shea. But I can't say as I've had the pleasure. I head down to the Keys tomorrow. So I guess it will have to wait until next spring.”

I walked him back toward Main Street and wished him luck.

Then I returned to Books from Hell.

The appetite I had earlier was gone. I let Moby inside the bookstore, my attention caught by the stacks against the wall. Kit had been very thorough in his organizing. He had taken each book one by one, opened up the first few pages, and then stacked them in the correct pile. I had teased him once that he was going to get a crick in his neck from looking down so much.

I didn't know much about people who studied birds. But it seemed to me that most whatever-ologists spent more time looking up. Not down.

* * *

I burst through the side door of the garage. “Where is Richie?”

Doc greeted me. “Trudy! I was going to stop by the haunted house and talk to you about Lulu.”

I wasn't concerned about Lulu right now. I had passed her parked in the side lot. “Is Richie working today?”

Doc nodded toward the office. “Until noon. Then he's got practice. The team lost big last night. So they have extra workouts today.”

I was already at the office door. “Richie.”

Richie looked up from his phone with a guilty expression on his face.

Behind me, Doc bellowed, “Richie, what the hell am I paying you for? Get off your phone and get back to cleaning out the back room.”

Richie set down his phone. “I was just checking something.”

“Check on your own time.” His father walked away and I caught the way Richie's gaze followed his dad. I probably used that same expression dozens of times when my aunt was alive.

I pulled up the chair next to Richie and lowered my voice. “Can you just do one thing for me before you start the back room?”

He looked doubtful. “I don't know anything about cars, Ms. Brown. You must have figured that out already.”

“Yeah, but you know other things. You know how to look something up for me, right?”

He twisted his lips and lowered his brows. “Uh, yeah.”

“I don't have a smartphone. Can you look up someone?”

He pushed his phone toward me. “Feel free to do it yourself. I've gotta start on the back room before my dad fires me.”

“No. No. That will take too long for me. I have dyslexia.”

His mouth dropped open. “Really? Isn't that where you read backwards?”

“Not exactly. But it makes reading difficult.”

“Man! That sucks! And you own a bookstore.”

“Tell me about it!”

Richie was looking at me with a whole new fascination that owning Lulu had never done for me. “Hey, that's why people think you . . . um. . . have problems.”

“Exactly. That's why they think I'm dumb.” I pushed the phone back toward him. “Can you look someone up or not?”

He picked up the phone and lifted his thumbs over the screen. “Who?”

“Christopher Darlington.”

“The weeny English-lord guy? Sure.” He thumbed the name and watched as the screen popped up with information. “There are a few Christopher Darlingtons. This one was born, like, almost a hundred years ago. Can you narrow the search?”

“Try birds.”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Wait. That's wrong. He's a professor. Try Cambridge.”

His eyes lit up. “Hey, here's his lordship.” He turned the screen toward me so I could see the picture of Kit. It was a studio photo, the kind they use in yearbooks. He looked serious. And very professional.

“What does it say?”

“Let's see . . . Christopher Darlington. Cambridge University. Professor of North American Studies.”

I knew that part. “What else?”

“Here's an article in the
Cambridge News
. It's titled
Professor of American Studies Steps in Muck over American Author
.” He turned the screen toward me. I shook my head. Something burned in the pit of my stomach. “What does it say?”

He clicked on it so it appeared larger. “Let's see . . .
Christopher Darlington, professor in the Faculty of English, has made a bold statement that may land him in a quagmire in the literary community. His postulation that renowned American author Robin Hartchick wrote a second novel was enough to raise eyebrows on both sides of the pond. But his declaration that he will find the elusive treasure brought about scorn in the literary community—much of which came from his own father, Sir Charles Darlington, professor emeritus of British literature, Britain's own national treasure
.”

Kit wasn't here to research local culture, or birds, or anything about the region. He was in Truhart for one very specific purpose. And like a fool, I had invited him into the store and played right into his scheme.

I had become accustomed to people who made me feel inferior. I thought Kit was different. The sting of his deception was almost unbearable.

* * *

I stood inside the front door, watching Kit rifle through the pages of a book. His brows were furrowed and he was talking to himself. He shook his head and moved it to a pile beside him.

“Did you find it yet, Professor?”

“Find what?”

“Kirtland's warbler. Ring a bell at all?”

“Is that a children's book?” he said absently, moving a stack of books against the wall.

“It wasn't written by Robin Hartchick. I know that. But maybe another lost book of his showed up since yesterday?” Kit's hands froze on a stack of loose papers.

The stillness in the room was broken only by the sound of someone practicing a scream in the haunted house next door.

“Trudy—I wanted to tell you that first day.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“I was going to.”

“When? After we had sex again, or after you sold this nonexistent manuscript at Sotheby's?”

He carefully took his glasses from the top of a nearby stack. “I don't care about the money.”

“Or me?”

He stood up, setting down the books that he had been holding. “I didn't want that to happen. I felt terrible knowing that we had—had been together and you didn't know the truth. I was actually going to tell you tonight.”

“Bull!” I marched over to him.

“I completely understand how mad you feel right now. I would be too. I tried to explain, but so many things got in the way and you—”

He stopped mid-sentence, for a very good reason. I slapped him. A red mark bloomed on his cheek. “I threw myself at you? Is that what you were going to say? You must have had a great laugh, Dr. Darlington, American literature professor at Cambridge. Not only were you secretly searching for the elud—I mean eluser—” What the hell was that word in the article Richie read to me? I substituted, “
lost
manuscript, but you were screwing
a
Gertrude Brown under the same roof that Robin Hartchick did.”

“Trudy! It wasn't like that. I
wanted
to be with you.”

“Because I was the dumb-ass who couldn't figure out what was going on. Right? Were you laughing about it when you left this morning?”

“No!” He reached a hand toward my shoulder, but I twisted away.

“Don't touch me ever again!” I kicked a pile of books that he had just so carefully stacked. “You know what I'm going to do with all these books? I'm going to throw them in the garbage! I hate them! I hate this store! I hate you!”

Moby whined and curled up near the stairs.

“Get out,” I said in a low voice.

“Listen to me. I came here looking for the book. Yes. But I met you and everything was different. I wanted to help and I didn't want to fool you. If I found that lost manuscript, I planned on giving you the money anyway and nothing would be harmed. I would be proven correct to my skeptical colleagues and you would have enough money to travel for the rest of your life.”

“Everyone thinks you are a fool for believing it exists and stating it publicly. You're desperate because your career and reputation are on the line.”

“Yes, that's true.”

“Admit it.”

“I admit it freely.”

“This has nothing to do with anyone but you.”

“Well, at first it didn't. Then I met you.”

“I should have followed my instincts when I first saw you. You're a pompous ass, my lord. Now get out.”

“No. I can't leave you like this. I need to make you understand.” He straightened his glasses on his face. They stayed crooked and there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead despite the cool room around us. He didn't look handsome right now. He looked like a man who'd gambled everything and lost.

“Why weren't you honest from the start? Why didn't you just tell me you were looking for a lost book?”

“When I got here, you made it very clear you hated books and wanted to get rid of the store. You acted like you didn't care whether there was an important book here or not.”

“I would have let you search.”

“For two days maybe. Then you would throw everything in the trash.”

“That's right. I'd be gone by now if you hadn't talked me into cleaning out the store. You made me think it was for my benefit. You acted like you were helping me. I can't believe how I fell for it!”

“You have to under—”

“Leave,” I repeated. Just so he knew I was serious, I reached down and grabbed a large leather-bound book. He put his hands up to shield himself. My aim was off. The book hit the wall and landed at his feet.

He stepped toward the front door. “I know you're upset, but when you calm down, we're going to talk. Not now, but tomorrow. In a fortnight we'll be laughing about this. It's not what it seems.”

“Do you have any idea how you sound? You and your British words make me sick.”

He stepped over a pile of books. “I can't help that.”

“Yes you can. Just stop talking!”

He put a hand up to appease me. I lifted another book, winding up to throw it. “Okay, Trudy. I'll stop. But give me time. It's going to be all right.”

His outline blurred in front of me. I swallowed past the gunk that clogged my throat.

“Just give me a chance to prove the manuscript is here.”

I threw the book; it landed short. “Get out!”

He was at the door now. Just to make sure he kept going I picked up a larger hardcover book and lunged his way. Moby barked a warning—the traitor. Kit ducked out of the way, giving me a perfect view of a small group of females gathered on the sidewalk outside the store. My screaming must have even scared the loonies in the house of horrors.

“Do you know what you are, Dr. Darlington?” I yelled to his retreating back. I figured I might as well give them a show. “You are nothing but a lousy professor with a corny accent!”

He dodged my next missile and hurried down the street, leaving a sea of curious faces in his wake.

T
he setting sun tinted the end of a bad day to puce. I sat on the roof outside the second-story window and let the mist dampen my old jeans. The cold, hard aluminum siding cut into my back. The discomfort was nothing compared to my shame.

How could I have missed all the signs?

I played the clues like a rerun, over and over in my mind.

The first day Kit had visited, he seemed nervous. I thought it was because I was wrapped in a towel. But there was more. He said he was looking for books on the region for his research. He lied for weeks. The humiliation made me burn inside.

But I felt more than shame. I was mad. Really, really mad. Madder than any word in Kit's huge vocabulary.

The last time I felt even close to this kind of anger was when I saw Moby chained to a stake just a few months ago. But that was because I loved animals. I believed they were all sacred creatures on our earth.

But now, I was furious for my own sake. I hadn't sat on this roof shaking with anger since I had lived with Aunt Gertrude. In those days, I would seethe with fury for hours.

And here I was again. Looking out over Truhart and feeling like the dumbest person on earth. I guess my life had come full circle.

I hoped Kit had bruises from my book missiles. I hoped he realized he had lost all possibility of ever finding that damn manuscript.

Thank God for Kirtland's warbler. If that little bird hadn't popped up, I never would have figured out the scam. No professor with an interest in whatever-ology would have visited Truhart without caring about a rare native species that was found nowhere else in the world.

Richie had uncovered several articles about Kit's theory. Kit believed that Robin Hartchick had written a novel before his famous literary masterpiece,
Spring Solstice
. While he originally thought that the manuscript might be somewhere in Paris, where Hartchick drank his life away, he hit a dead end in France. Did Kit sleep with some dim-witted Parisian girl before coming to that conclusion? Was that what led him to Hartchick's earlier haunts? The town where one of Hartchick's earlier ex-lovers lived? To Aunt Gertrude's store?

Other professors had called his theory bunk. Even Robin Hartchick's aging friends denied that the manuscript existed. Evidently, Kit had even defended his views in a BBC documentary. The kicker was when the Lord of Knightsbridge, Kit's own father, a renowned British literary historian, was interviewed.
Deluded
and
imaginary
were two words Kit's father used to describe his own son's theory. Nice guy. Evidently, Kit took after his father in the sensitivity department.

It was ridiculous, of course. If Aunt Gertrude knew anything about the existence of a Hartchick manuscript, my inheritance might have included a mansion and a large trust. Kit's opinion was pure rubbish.

From the roof I could see the bench across the street. Kit had been watching me from there that first day. Calculating. The professor wanted to prove himself to the world of literary heavyweights. I let that sink in. I might have felt sorry for him. In his mind, I was the only thing that stood between success and failure. An illiterate woman who was easier to seduce than to reason with.

I thought about the way he had looked at me the first time we made love. The intensity had been mind-blowing. Now I realized he had just been concentrating hard on the task at hand.

The darkness had settled in. The smell of smoldering peat from someone burning damp leaves reached my nose and made my eyes water. Long after dark, I crawled back inside, closed the window, and collapsed into bed.

Later, a series of cars revved their engines as they passed. Someone was having a party at a house on Echo Lake. The occasional loud beat of a pop radio station and laughter floated my way. It was irritating to listen to people having a good time. I stared at the headlights on the ceiling and tried not to think about Kit and the fact that it was just twenty-four hours ago when he had made love to me in this very bed. I woke in the middle of the night with my nose buried in the pillow that still smelled of Kit's faint musk.

Native Americans used sage to wipe out the smell of dead people. I could at least use laundry soap tomorrow to wipe out a living person. I tore the sheets off the bed and tossed them out the back door.

I ended up in a huddled heap of blankets in the middle of the bare bed. Despite erasing Kit Darlington from my bed, I still had trouble sleeping. I smelled burning leaves, now. I reached up to wipe my eyes. I could fool myself into thinking I was over him. But deep down I knew it wasn't smoke that made my eyes water.

* * *

I placed a sign announcing a sale in the front door and propped it open with a dictionary. Then I waited for customers.

The house of horrors was quiet. It was a Sunday. The usual churchgoers were probably piling in their cars in their Sunday best instead of thinking up ways to terrify the town. The faint ringing of a bell erupted not far from Main Street. Moby had eaten his boring dog food, which made him amazingly happy anyway. He slept in the corner of the store on an old blanket. His old bones needed a cushion. He cracked his eyes open as I walked around the shelves. Then he shut them again, tired of watching me fidget.

There were still piles of papers, old magazines, and books in the front room. But they were stacked neatly along the floor against the walls. The shelves were full and organized by category. I had Kit to thank for that, of course. If I were someone who loved books and loved retail, I'd consider giving the whole place a go. See if I could make something of it. But I wasn't.

I could have been on a boat to Thailand by now. And it was Kit's fault I wasn't.

An hour later, I still waited for my first customer. Feeling restless, I grabbed my tool bag and took my bedsheets to the basement, leaving the front door unlocked. Who cared if someone stole a few books? That was the point, after all. For the next few hours I played with the old washing machine, taking it apart and repairing a damaged lid. Now the washing machine ran like a dream. I ran the test cycle, then stuffed the sheets inside and added extra laundry detergent for good measure.

On the way up the ladder, the stairway rail came off in my hand. I guess I needed to add one more item to my to-do list before I put the store on the market. Backing out of the cellar with the rail in my hand, I froze. A familiar pair of Ferragamo loafers appeared under my nose. I clutched the rail with both hands and remembered the way I ran my hands up those legs when he was in the electric chair. I slammed his toes with one end of the wooden railing.

“Ouch!”

“Get off my property.”

He hopped up and down and grabbed his foot. “You could have broken my toes.”

“I could have. But I didn't hit you that hard. Lucky you. Now go.”

He placed his foot back down on the ground and tested it. Then he leaned forward and peered down the ladder. “You got the washing machine to work?”

“Just in time. Now I can wash you out of my bed.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Trudy, we need to talk.” He extended a hand to help me with the long rail. I ignored his help and brandished it like a lance. He dodged out of my way.

I dropped the wood against the side of the building. Even that made Kit jump again. It gave me bitter delight.

With the addition of a very appealing shadow of stubble on his chin, Kit looked like he had stepped out of another menswear catalog. I, on the other hand, wore blue jeans and my brother Leo's XL gray wool sweater. I felt at a disadvantage. My disloyal senses were still going haywire from Kit's sex appeal and he was probably wondering how he had sunk so low with me.

I marched through the front door. “We never need to talk again. Get off my property or I'll call the sheriff.”

“It's open to the public.” Kit was right behind me, halting in front of the sign on the front door. He looked at it, and back at me.

“Why are you staring? Can't you read?” I walked over to the sign and pointed. It read,
Books for Sale
.
Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!
“I'm not picky about the price.”

He shook his head. “Nothing. It's just—”

“Hey, you got birds? The sign says
cheep cheep
.” The first customer walked through the door. I looked back at the sign and felt heat on my cheeks.

Kit pulled a pen out of his pocket and inked in three
A
s in place of the
E
s. When he finished, he raised the pen.

“Sorry. I spelled it wrong,” he explained. Saving me from embarrassment was not going to earn him brownie points with me. “Everything's cheap now.”

Several other customers wandered in. “Is there a limit?” someone asked.

I grabbed a grocery bag I'd saved from the Family Fare. “Feel free to fill this up.”

Kit lowered his voice and followed me through the store. “Don't you think you should at least hear my side of things?”

“Why should I care about someone who makes a habit of lying?”

“Because we shared something and you mean a lot to m—”

“Cut the crap! You just wanted to look for a book.”

“At first. Yes. I did. I put my reputation on the line for that book. My colleagues, my friends, my own father . . . Especially my father—they all think I'm insane.”

“Aww, poor little Lord Christopher. Not everyone thought you were special and smart? I can't begin to imagine the pain.”

“I know this sounds ridiculous, especially to you. But I made a public statement and I can't back down.”

“You have such
big
problems.”

“It would be a major find of historical significance.”

“Who cares about world hunger and the environment when there is a book to find, right?”

He stopped and put his shoulders back. His brows drew together and his eyes narrowed. Was that anger? “I would never compare my problems to those kind of issues.”

“Could have fooled me. Oh wait—you
did
fool me.”

I stood behind a shelf at the back of the store. Kit followed and placed a hand on the shelf near my head. “There are many horrible things in the world. I haven't lost my perspective so much that I would ever forget that. But even in the midst of horrible things, people need humanity. They need beauty.”

“I'm sure designer shoes and fancy novels make a big difference in a famine.”

“Don't underestimate the power of the written word to lift people up for even a short time, Trudy. Don't underestimate the power of something made from passion and love, or from the connection to it, whether it comes from words or from a touch.” His eyes burned into my own.

A book on a shelf was on its side. I spent longer than necessary straightening it so I didn't have to respond. I understood beauty. It overwhelmed me.

“Do you have any children's books? I'm always looking for reading material for my third-graders,” asked a balding man at the end of the aisle.

“The children's books are over here.” Kit led him to the section he had organized for young people. He even dug up several bags and boxes and helped him haul everything to his car. When he returned I was helping Joe O'Shea fill a bag for the local veterans organization.

“You aren't redeeming yourself by sticking around here. I want you to leave,” I hissed when Joe moved away.

Kit touched my hand. “I was getting ready to tell you everything. Believe me. But I had to earn your trust and friendship first. I thought that was the only way you were going to care about that book. And then—well, then . . .”

“You realized it was easier to lie? Just like the tea and the hot sauce on your Dinty Moore? You seem to have a problem with a little thing called the truth.”

A pretty dark-haired woman pulled out a piece of paper and interrupted us. “I was wondering. Do you have any books by Fern Michaels, Stephen King, Ken Follett, Kent Haruf?”

“Do I look like a crusty old librarian?” I knew I shouldn't be annoyed. But she was doing exactly what I feared people would do. Ask about books.

She put her hands on her hips and replied, “Crusty old librarian? What is that supposed to mean?” Then she stomped off. Joe, still filling a box with books in the corner, leaned in. “Uh, Trudy. Just so you know, she's a librarian in Gaylord.”

So much for my amazing customer skills. Kit raised his eyebrow. “Why don't I stay and help?”

“Or not.”

He ignored me and approached an older couple.

“Find any good books?” He used a chipper British accent that was becoming as irritating to me as sandpaper on a chalkboard. Even more grating was the way the man and woman smiled when they heard his accent and actually let him examine their books.

I raised my voice. “Glad to see you out after that bad bout of norovirus, Kit. I see the doctor cleared you from using a surgical mask.”

He shook his head and laughed, winking at the older man. “Isn't she a hoot? You keep those jokes coming, my lovebird.”

I stormed off to search for more bags. Ten minutes later I was pocketing several dollars from a customer, when I saw Kit leaning over the shoulder of a gray-haired woman. I called across the store, “You look much better in person than you do on the sex-offenders web site, Professor.” The lady clutched her purse to her chest and ran out.

Within a half hour a small crowd had gathered in the store. Mac and Joe were highly entertained by our banter. The usual Kit Darlington fan club thought it was some sort of game. Armed with the attention of the crowd, Kit had started his own counteroffensive. As people walked in, he asked them if they wouldn't mind signing a disclaimer on behalf of the public-safety department before entering. The county wasn't responsible for damages should the crazy lady inside insult anyone.