She wondered how much damage Denny had done to the teacher, and what those medical bills were for. Was Denny dangerous? She hoped not. He was so beautiful, she tried not to stare. And he worked hard. He even volunteered to go on a slush run. Maybe he just wanted to get away from starchy old Albert, who came back from lunch in a snit.
“Who threw away those cases of Bawls?” Albert said.
“Do you have any idea what they cost? I would have taken them.”
There was no way to explain their Bawls-busting frenzy.
“The family wanted it that way,” Helen lied. That shut Albert up. He still worshiped the Turner family.
A businessman in a dark gray suit and rep tie reverently placed
Denny came back with a stack of slush books and said, “Red alert. Wild children are tearing up the kids’ department.”
Helen paged Gayle, who said, “I’m tied up in receiving.
Will you check it out?”
The Children’s section looked like a small tornado had sucked all the books off the shelves. The little tornado was industriously tearing the pages out of a Harry Potter pop-up book.
A slightly older boy let out an earsplitting shriek, then leaped over a kiddie chair. His chubby foot caught in the chair back and he fell into a Dr. Seuss display. He burst into startled sobs. Helen helped the boy up and checked him out. Angry tears ran down his cheeks, but he appeared unhurt.
The children’s mother was sitting in the midst of the chaos, reading an Oprah book and ignoring both children.
She was heavily pregnant.
“Ma’am,” Helen said, “I’m afraid your little boy might have hurt himself. And your little girl is tearing up a very nice book.”
The mother finally looked up. She said indignantly, “Come along, Gabrielle and Justin. It’s obvious they don’t like children here.”
Not when they destroy the store, Helen thought. She was still picking up the pieces when Gayle appeared, a dark angel in Doc Martens. “Can you believe that?” Helen said.
“The mother sat there and let the little bastards rip up the books.”
A mother in flowery Laura Ashley heard Helen and pulled her child closer.
Gayle smothered a smile. “Maybe I’d better have you collect slush in Fiction. I’ll finish here. The murder mysteries need work, too.”
“Speaking of murder, do you remember the night Page Turner died?” Helen asked.
“Do I ever,” Gayle said. “It was a full moon and the customers were nuts.”
“I remember that. I saw him leave, too, although I didn’t know it was for the last time. He was drunk,” Helen said.
“Did he have anything with him? Did he drive away in his car or did someone pick him up?”
Was she asking Gayle too many questions? Apparently not. “Let me think.” Gayle closed her eyes, as if she was seeing Page’s final exit in her mind. “He walked out carrying his briefcase, which the cops never found. He left his car here. The police impounded it. They think someone picked him up.”
“Did you see who?”
“No. It was too crazy.”
Great interrogation technique, Helen thought. That got a lot of useful information. At this rate, Peggy will be in jail until she’s ninety. (If she’s lucky, a mean little voice whispered.) Helen tried to hush it by working harder.
Fiction was chaos. Since the staff hours were cut back, no one had time to check the shelves. Jane Austen had been shoved next to James Patterson. Skin magazines were piled on top of Mark Twain. Danielle Steel rubbed shoulders with William Faulkner. Helen straightened the long rows of shelves. She saw Mr. Davies sitting in the book nook by the back window, the favorite reading spot for the store’s oldest inhabitant. He had a pleasant view of a palm garden—and Page’s private parking spot. He might know who picked up Page Turner.
“Mr. Davies, do you remember Page Turner’s last day?”
“Oh, my, yes,” the small, squirrel-like man said. His bright eyes gleamed. He was enjoying the attention.
“Very sad when a young man dies. Very sad. I knew his grandfather since the 1960s. He was nothing like his grandson, nothing. A great lover of books, was old Mr. Turner.
His grandson saw himself as a great lover.”
The old man chuckled at his joke. Helen tried to steer the conversation back to the topic. “Did you see who Page drove off with?”
“Yes, indeed. I don’t miss much, especially not a pretty girl. Woman, I mean. I’m trying to raise my consciousness and say the right thing. But I’m not so old I don’t notice a pretty female individual. And this one was hard to miss. As I told the police, she had unusual dark red hair and a most imposing nose. It gave her character, you know. She was very attractive.”
Helen’s heart sank as Mr. Davies talked. “Did you see what she was driving?”
“Oh, yes. A little green car with a funny name. Always makes me think of Vietnam. I remember, it was a Kia. KIA meant killed in action in the war.”
Peggy, Helen thought. Peggy drove a green Kia. She picked up Turner the night he died.
“I also told them—” Mr. Davies said, but Helen could not listen to any more of the old man’s chatter. She was heartsick.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Davies,” she interrupted. “I have to go back to work.”
Chapter 11
Did Peggy drive Page Turner to his death?
Where did she take him, just before he was murdered?
And why?
Helen had to know. She needed answers now. She was not going to wait until Peggy felt like seeing her. Women prisoners were at the North Broward facility, way out west near the turnpike. Helen did not want to beg a ride from Margery or Sarah. This was between her and Peggy. She would take the bus. It was an hour-and-a-half trip one way.
Helen called the jail’s information number on her break.
Visitors may not bring in “drugs or weapons of any type,” the recording said. No problem there.
“Visitors are subject to search.” She expected that, too.
“Inmates are permitted one two-hour visit per week.”
That surprised her. She’d thought jail would be like a hospital, with daily visiting hours.
She could not take Peggy anything—no food, books, flowers, or candy. “Visitors may not give anything to or take anything from an inmate.” That was sad. She wanted to bring her friend some comfort.
Then she heard, “Photo identification, such as a driver’s license, military identification, passport, or state- issued ID card must be presented by each visitor.”
ID? Helen didn’t have any identification. She had to stay out of the government computers.
“Visitors who do not have proper identification will not be permitted to visit,” the recording continued relentlessly.
Helen panicked and hung up.
How was she going to get ID? Would Sarah lend Helen her license? No, Helen wouldn’t ask. She couldn’t involve her friend in a fraud. Besides, she couldn’t tell Sarah why she had no driver’s license. She could buy a fake ID on the Internet, but that would take weeks.
