Fanatics

through it.”

“Ow!” Raphaella smirked, hands over her ears.

“What’s the matter?”

“The loud clang from the hint you just dropped.”

“It might be fun, you and I working together.”

“Hmm.”

“And we could take breaks, go for a swim, smooch.”

“Hmm.”

“But I guess, with MOO and all… And your mother will want you to work in the store as much as you can.”

Mrs. Skye owned and operated the Demeter Natural Food and Medicinal Herbs Shop on Peter Street. She didn’t like me.

“Don’t lay the guilt on too thick,” Raphaella said. “How many books did you say?”

“Four thousand, minimum. Maybe five.”

“And how many are to be fully catalogued?”

“Fewer than a quarter, I’d guess.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s your third ‘Hmm.’ ”

“It might be interesting.”

“That isn’t the first word that springs to mind,” I admitted.

“Working with you, I mean.”

“Oh. Well, definitely.”

I had been careful to describe the mansion, the eccentric Mrs. Stoppini, and what little I had learned about the tragically dead Professor Corbizzi in a way that I hoped would intrigue Raphaella. But I hadn’t mentioned the uncomfortable, oppressive atmosphere of the library or how the prof had died.

“I’ll talk it over with Mother,” Raphaella said. “Maybe I can work away at the books in my spare time.”

“As soon as she hears you’ll be with me she’ll object,” I said, turning on the gas under the wok.

Raphaella’s mother had never accepted me. She wanted Raphaella to lead a life without males in it. When Raphaella was a little girl her father had humiliated her mother by having affairs and eventually being charged with sexual exploitation of a woman in his firm. Mrs. Skye had learned to dislike and distrust men in general. But in my bumbling manner, without really knowing how I had done it, I had won Raphaella’s heart and ruined Mrs. Skye’s plans. She wasn’t grateful.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think she’s warming up to you. Give her a few years.”

“So you’ll help?”

“How could I turn you down?”

“You’re an angel,” I said with relief.

“But there’s one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You have to tell me what’s bothering you about the Corbizzi place.”

Raphaella’s ability to tune in to my feelings used to catch me by surprise, but not anymore. She had what her late grandmother had called “the gift,” although Raphaella sometimes complained it was more like a curse. She could sense things-emotions and even past happenings. I’d seen her walk into a building or a churchyard and know that something horrible had occurred there because she felt the presence of the people who had suffered. Raphaella once told me it was as if she was a string on a musical instrument and vibrated in sympathy with her surroundings. But her powers, her spiritualism, were a secret only she, her mother, and I knew.

“That library is creepy,” I replied. “I can’t put it into words. It’s more than the fact that the professor died there. It’s as if the room has… an attitude-a negative attitude. It doesn’t want strangers.”

Raphaella nodded as if everything I said made perfect sense to her. “I see. And that makes you uneasy-and a little scared.”

“Yeah.”

I poured a dollop of peanut oil into the wok and flipped on the range hood fan. “Hold your breath,” I warned. “This may make you cough a little.”

Raphaella got up and opened the window that looked out on Mom’s flower beds between the house and garage. I dumped the spices into the hot oil. Instantly, the sharp savoury aroma of sizzling chili, garlic, and ginger filled the kitchen. Coughing, I added the shrimp and tossed them with a metal spatula. As soon as the shrimp had turned pink on both sides I scooped them onto a plate and set it aside. Next, in went the vegetables. I stir-fried them for a few minutes, then poured in some chicken broth, sending a cloud of steam into the air, and clapped the wooden lid on the wok.

While the veggies cooked, I drained the noodles. “Okay, here we go,” I announced. “The moment of truth.”

I removed the lid from the wok, dumped in the shrimp and then the noodles, blending the ingredients quickly, adding fish sauce at the last minute before turning off the stove. Raphaella scooped steamed rice into a bowl. While she set it on the table I poured the stir-fry onto a huge platter, then set it down next to the rice.

“Ready!” I yelled, pulling the strings of my apron.

Mom and Dad came into the kitchen, each with half a glass of red wine, Mom with the bottle. “Smells wonderful,” she commented.

Dad waved at the air, wrinkling his nose and pretending to be offended by the spicy aroma. “The fire extinguisher’s under the sink,” he remarked, grinning at Raphaella. Then he pulled out a chair. “Come on, Annie. No shilly-shallying. Let’s strap on the old feed bag.”

“Shilly-shallying?” Raphaella said.

As we ate, Raphaella told us about MOO. The cast had had its first run-though and the rehearsal schedule was set. Raphaella would be busy most nights. The dramatic and music directors were married-to each other.

“I hope the rehearsals won’t all be like our first meeting,” Raphaella said, popping a shrimp into her mouth. “The directors bickered over every point. And the guy playing Josh Smith thinks he knows more than both of them put together. If by some miracle we can pull the production together and do a good job, there’s a chance we’ll be invited to perform at a conference opening at Geneva Park on the same weekend. And,” she added, giving my father her most winning smile, “the musical ensemble is short one flute player.”

Dad shook his head. “Don’t even try,” he said. “I can’t perform in front of people. My mouth gets all dry and I can’t pucker.”

“But you teach flute,” Raphaella argued. “Garnet says you’re a great player.”

Dad looked at me. “You said that?”

“I may have been exaggerating.”

Mom got into the mix. “No, you weren’t, Garnet. Gareth is a fabulous flautist,” she said to Raphaella.

Dad beamed and blushed at the same time. “Well-”

“But he’s chicken,” Mom said.

II

NEXT MORNING, I paced back and forth in my room, mentally rehearsing what I wanted to say. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to make the deal. A three-year lease at no cost! The biggest expenses in starting up a business, Dad had advised me more than once, were equipment and plant-the rental or ownership of the workplace. Mrs. Stoppini was offering the second for free, a huge boost to my plans.

But I didn’t want to sound too eager, because I had a condition of my own.

Okay, I told myself, it’s showtime. I keyed Mrs. Stoppini’s number into my cell, took a deep breath, and pushed the Talk button.

She answered with a coldly formal “Good morning. Corbizzi residence.”

“Hello, Mrs. Stoppini. It’s Garnet Havelock.”