“Oh, honey, don’t cry now. It’s all right. You’re much too wonderful for a snake like Donnie Branscombe. Thank God you’re rid of him. Now you can find somebody who really appreciates you. Everything will work out, you’ll see.”
Docia smelled her mother’s Shalimar and relaxed into her cushioned embrace, the one place she’d always felt safest.
“Tell you what.” Mama’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “Why don’t I have Lourdes fry us up a couple of toasted cheese sandwiches. Lots of butter. Fresh bread. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Docia opened her eyes to see her mother’s concerned blue gaze. She smiled. “I’d like it a bunch.”
Cal had dinner at Brenner’s again, wishing Docia was sitting across from him. He’d never much liked eating alone unless he was home with a book.
A small, dark-haired woman with laughing eyes stopped at the table as he was finishing his salad. “Hi, Dr. Toleffson, I’m Janie Dupree, Docia’s assistant.”
Cal waved a hand at the chair across from him. “Call me Cal. Would you care to join me? I just got started.”
Janie shook her head. “No, thanks, I’ve already eaten. I just wanted you to know I’m looking after Nico at my place tonight. In case you were going to stop by Docia’s.”
Cal blinked at her. He hadn’t realized other people in town knew he was making house calls. “That’s okay. You can call me if he has any problems. He was doing fine the last time I looked.”
“He still is. Well—” Janie shrugged, “—he’s pissed at me for moving him. But Nico’s always pissed at somebody, so I guess that’s normal.” She grinned again, then headed for the door.
After dinner, with nothing else to do, Cal found himself wandering toward the bookshop, as if he really had intended to check on Nico. The upstairs looked dark and empty, and Cal suddenly realized how much he’d hoped it might not be.
This is bad, Idaho, you need to get a grip.
He’d only just met the woman, only kissed her a couple of times. It was way too early to be getting obsessed.
Light. Keep it light.
He heard a car door slam and turned to see the object of his obsession trudging toward her apartment door. “Docia?”
She stopped, squinting in his direction. “Cal? Is that you?”
“I didn’t think you were due back tonight.” Great. Now she’d probably assume he was a stalker hanging around outside her door. Cal just hoped she wasn’t right.
“I wasn’t. I decided to drive back after all.” Docia stepped into the light and Cal stared. Her eyes were tired, her hair trailed around her face, her shirt was half untucked. She looked glorious.
Oh, shit, Idaho, you are in deep, deep doo-doo.
He cleared his throat. “Have you had any dinner?” Jesus, he sounded like his mother.
“Yeah, I had sandwiches with Mama.” Docia laid her fingers on his arm, lightly. “You look tired.”
Cal kept his hands at his sides. If he touched her, he figured he’d have her on her back in about twenty seconds. “I found out about Liddy Brenner, and the street dance.”
The corners of her mouth edged up in a slow smile. “Still want to risk it?”
“Oh, yeah.” He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the warm trail of her fingers along his sleeve, then opened them again to watch those green eyes. So much to see, so little time. “I want to see your Liddy outfit.”
Docia shook her head. “I don’t go as Liddy. I’ve got my own favorite mythological character.”
“And that would be?”
“That, Dr. Toleffson, would be a secret. See you tomorrow.” She dropped her hand, giving him another slow smile, then turned and unlocked her apartment door.
Cal took a breath, watching the door close behind her. He’d only just met her. For all he knew, she could have a dozen skeletons tap-dancing in her closets. Demons could be walking right beneath the surface of her smile.
And he didn’t give a good goddamn.
Chapter Seven
Friday began the long weekend, when the tourists started descending in earnest from Austin and Houston and even a trickle from Dallas. Usually, Docia opened the bookstore at ten o’clock, like most of the businesses on Main. But today a crush of red hats and purple dresses filled the sidewalks outside, signaling the arrival of the first tour buses, and she’d opened at nine-thirty. By ten-fifteen, she was knee-deep in bling-draped, red-hat-wearing women.
She’d just rung up the purchases for a woman with rhinestone earrings that brushed her shoulders when Chief Brody stepped up to the counter. “Ms. Kent,” he rumbled, “could I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.” Docia kept the feeling of unease out of her voice, motioning Janie to the cash register. “We can talk in the back.”
In the storeroom, the chief glanced up at the cracked window. “Need to get that fixed, Ms. Kent. Letting your air conditioning out. Good to see you got a new lock on the window, though.”
Docia nodded. “I put it in yesterday. They’re supposed to fix the window next week. Homer Rathburn’s waiting to get the glass from Houston. What can I do for you, Chief?”
The chief pulled his notebook out of the pocket of his crisply pressed khakis. “Dub Tyler. Seen him lately?”
“Dub?” Docia narrowed her eyes, trying to remember. “Last time was a few days ago, I think. Why?”
The chief was very carefully keeping his gaze on his notebook. Tension began to knot the muscles across Docia’s shoulders.
“He mention anything about going out of town?” Brody finally raised his gaze to hers, but his cool gray eyes gave nothing away.
Docia shrugged. “No, but we’re not exactly close.”
The chief put his pencil down, lowering his notebook slightly. “Clete told me he saw Dub in here last week. Was that the last time you saw him?”
“No.” Docia frowned. “He came by the shop a couple of times last week. What’s this about?”
And why should Clete Morris keep tabs on me?
“Dub’s gone missing.” The chief’s face was still carefully blank, his eyes flat and dark.
Docia felt a trickle of ice down her back. “Missing? Since when?”
“His next-door neighbor saw his front door was open last night. Looked like someone had tossed the place. Dub was gone.”
Brody’s voice sounded remarkably calm, given that he’d just dropped a small bombshell in the storeroom. The tension spread up from Docia’s shoulders to her neck. “Was there anything…did it look like he’d been hurt?”
The chief’s lips thinned slightly. “No, ma’am. No blood. No signs of a struggle. Somebody just went through his stuff. Mind telling me what the two of you talked about the last time you saw him?”
“The whole thing was pretty vague.” Docia remembered Dub’s smug smile. “He wanted me to hold onto something for him, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was or why he needed me to hold it for him or how long I’d need to keep it.”
Brody frowned. “And you didn’t do it?”
“No, I’m not that trusting. Damn it, I told that old so-and-so to get himself a security system. He could have afforded it.”
“Why did he need one?”
Docia leaned back against the utility table, pushing a coffee mug away from her rear. “Dub’s a rare book dealer. He specializes in Texana,
real
Texana, not the rinky-dink stuff I sell here. A lot of his stuff is worth big money.”
Brody’s eyes narrowed. “How big?”
“Hard to say. Several thousand, anyway. He does most of his buying and selling in direct contact with the customers. He doesn’t advertise. Even people in the business usually don’t know what he’s got or what he’s sold until it’s over. And even then, it’s all rumors. Dub’s never told me exactly what he made on a sale.”
Brody lowered the notebook again. “So how do you know about the way he does business?”
“This isn’t the first time Dub’s asked me to do something for him. He’s tried to get me to sell things once or twice before. That is, he wanted me to serve as the middle man between him and a buyer.”
Brody raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And I didn’t do it. I don’t know enough about rare books to do it honestly.” Docia gathered her hair back from her face, fastening it with a banana clip from her pocket. Still early, and she already felt damp and sticky.
“And you don’t think Dub was?” Brody’s voice rumbled low, his slate-colored eyes hooded.
“I don’t think he always was, no.” Docia shrugged, feeling slightly guilty even though she knew Dub could be a pain in the rear. “He was a dealer. I don’t think he’d take anything he knew was stolen, but I don’t think he always asked a lot of questions about the provenance of a book or a document. If he needed to, Dub could always talk his way out of trouble.”
“Provenance?”
“Pedigree, sort of. Who owned a book when and who sold it to whom. Most rare books come with a list.” Docia folded her arms again. “Dub could be kind of cagey about that sometimes.”
“Well, let’s hope he hasn’t gotten himself into something he couldn’t talk his way out of this time.” Brody closed his notebook, sliding it back into his pocket, then nodded at Docia. “Thanks for your time, Ms. Kent.”
The bookstore was still full of lookers when Docia came out of the storeroom. She noticed a little girl holding her waffle cone perilously close to the coffee-table books, ignoring the sign about leaving food outside. Docia started toward her and then stopped.
To the child’s left, a man was standing in front of the Business and Economics section, his broad shoulders blocking the aisle. His khaki slacks weren’t quite as crisp as Brody’s, but she’d bet they cost a lot more, as had his dark blue knit shirt, judging from the discreet embroidered logo. His graying red hair was clipped short, hugging the outlines of his smooth, tanned face. He turned his head and looked at her, one corner of his mouth sliding up in a sardonic grin. “Hi there, darlin’.”
Docia sighed. It had only been a matter of time, after all. “Hi, Daddy, welcome to Konigsburg.”
Horace Rankin made a quick scan of the waiting room in his animal hospital. Most of the chairs were filled, as usual, and the parking lot was jammed. He needed to get back with Hobie about the bid on that lot next door. Horace’s lips spread in a slightly predatory grin hidden by his moustache. He purely loved negotiating.
The pet owners sitting in the waiting room today were still about ninety percent women, even though Toleffson had left for lunch. Horace shook his head. Most of their pets were more or less healthy, but at least they’d get their shots on time for once. And some of the owners might remember to get the animals’ teeth cleaned.
As long as it wasn’t Margaret Hastings and her Chihuahua. Horace shuddered briefly at the memory of the Teeth Cleaning From Hell. As if he’d deliberately conjured her up, Margaret walked in the front door, carrying her wharf rat dog in its wicker basket.
She gave him one of those creepy smiles of hers where she didn’t show her canines. “Good morning, Dr. Rankin. How are you today?”
“Tolerable, Margaret. How’s the dog?” Horace couldn’t bring himself to look at the poor thing. What kind of dog had to be carried around in a basket, for God’s sake? It went against nature!
“Oh, he’s doing very well. Very well. Wonderful care you give here.” Margaret’s gaze darted around the waiting room, her brow furrowing slightly as she noted the number of women already waiting. “Is Dr. Toleffson in this morning?” Her lips stretched in another of those smiles. They made Horace’s skin crawl.
“Out to lunch,” Horace harrumphed. “Gone to Allie Maldonado’s place most likely.” Let Toleffson deal with her. No reason Horace had to put up with problem pups like that Chihuahua when they were clearly Cal’s problem. Wasn’t that why he’d taken on a partner to begin with?
Margaret blinked. Then smiled again. “Well, thank you so much. We’ll go find him there. Won’t we, Precious?”
Horace made the mistake of looking at the dog, catching the full brunt of those anguished eyes.
Help me help me help me.
Well, horse crap! Not his business, drat it.
We just fix ’em, we don’t save ’em
.
“Tell Toleffson I said hello,” he snarled.
Her father favored Docia with one of his patented, buy-a-tract-of-land-from-this-man smiles. “Was that an officer of the law I just saw leaving your back room there, missy?”
“Yes sir, it was. The chief of police, actually.” Docia concentrated on flexing her hands, which had unaccountably balled themselves into fists at her sides. She was suddenly aware that her hair was caught up haphazardly in a banana clip. She could feel strands floating around her face.
Terrific.
“And what would the chief of police be doing in your back room?” Her father raised an eyebrow. “You had any more trouble?”
He was still smiling, sort of, but his eyes snapped. Did his eyes ever seem warm anymore? Docia wasn’t sure she’d seen it lately, at least not when he looked at her. “Not me, no. A man’s disappeared and the chief wanted to know if I’d seen him.”
“A man?” Her father frowned. “What man? Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly. A rare book dealer named Dub Tyler.”