Murder Between the Covers

“If we’re lucky,” Helen said.

Albert glared at them, and they lapsed into guilty silence.

“So, to recap before we open this morning.” Gayle began counting on her fingers. “One, no new stock will be delivered. We will not be getting any new books until further notice.

“Two, we will not be receiving any more new magazines.” Brad’s sharp face went red with anger. The magazines were his domain. He managed the section, fussed over the stock, worried about the snowfall of subscription cards. Now he was demoted to an ordinary bookseller.

“Three, staff hours will remain reduced.

“Four, there will be no new hires, even if someone quits.

“And five, if customers ask if the store is closing, the answer is no.”

Helen didn’t believe that. In her experience, business declines were rarely reversed. Page Turners was on a downward slide. They were enforcing Page’s destructive last decisions and had made more bad ones. She had to find another job.

Albert stood there, shell-shocked. He did not ask if the store was closing. Even his optimism was dead. The starch had gone out of his white shirt, and his tie was spotted.

Helen heard him muttering, “At my age, what am I going to do?”

When she went to the break room to get her name tag, Denny was putting on his cafe apron. His normally curly auburn hair stuck out in porcupine spikes. His innocent face was troubled.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” he said. “We have people lining up to buy books. Look at the crowd waiting for us to open. It will be like that all day. In the cafe, I’ll be cranking out five-dollar coffee drinks and selling four-buck slices of cake nonstop. But they’re acting like the store is a loser. Where’s the money going—up someone’s nose?”

Maybe once upon a time, when Page and Peggy romped in the upper room. But Page had stopped using coke when he’d married Astrid. Gayle said the late owner was all about money. Where did the store’s money flow? Was it an underground river, diverted to some unknown source? And what—if anything—did it have to do with the penniless Peggy?

Gayle opened Helen’s cash register, unlocked the doors, and greeted the customers with her usual smile. But they were not fooled. They knew Page Turners was in trouble.

A skinny elderly man who smelled of cigar smoke and solitary soup lunches waved a newspaper clipping in Helen’s face. “Why don’t you have that book? It’s on the New York Times best-seller list.” He pointed out its place on the list, as if that could make her produce it.

“Our shipment was delayed,” Helen lied.

“You’re supposed to be a bookstore,” he said. “Where are your books?” He threw the clipping on the counter and stormed out.

Behind him was an unhappy old hippie. His bald dome tapered off into a pony tail. His red eyes were dilated from weed. “Don’t you have more of these music books? That’s a pathetic selection, man.” The Grateful Dead biography he handed Helen was well thumbed and sticky with spilled whipped-cream coffee.

“That’s our only copy, sir. But I can check with the manager. We could sell it to you for ten percent off.”

“I can’t give this as a gift,” he said, leaving the stained book on the counter next to the newspaper clipping. “Hey, no prob. I’ll go to one of the chains. I just wanted to support your store.”

Brad mourned the fact that the floors were no longer strewn with subscription cards. “The new magazines come out this week,” he said. “These magazines are so old all the cards have fallen out. That People magazine story on J.Lo is four weeks old. I have to get my news about her on the Internet.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You can’t take a computer into the bathroom,” Denny said as he passed by with a tray of abandoned cafe plates and cups.

Brad glared at him. “It’s not like that,” he said. “J.Lo is a lovely person. The Internet runs the same four photos of her.”

The only bright spot in Helen’s depressing day was when Sarah walked in the door. Her friend wore a long cool dress the color of lemon sherbet. A shell cameo bracelet showed off her plump, pretty arm.

“When do you get off work?” she said.

“Half an hour. I’m on a shortened schedule. Everyone’s hours were cut back.”

“Then you need some serious cheering up. I’ll be waiting in the cafe.”

It was two o’clock when Helen finally balanced her cash drawer. Sarah was drinking something frothy with whipped cream. “Come on,” she said. “There’s still time to make it.”

“Make what?” Helen said.

“Butterfly World. It’s better than Valium.”

“Is that the butterfly preserve in Coconut Creek? How much is admission?”

“About fifteen dollars,” Sarah said.

Fifteen dollars was pocket change in Helen’s old life.

Now she didn’t have the money, unless she wanted to skip meals. She’d learned to judge costs by how long she had to stand behind a counter. A Butterfly World ticket was two and a half hours on her feet.

“I can’t go,” Helen said. “I can’t afford it.”

“I’ll pay for your ticket.”

“I’m not a charity case,” Helen said huffily.

“So pay me off at a buck a week. Consider it an investment in your mental health.”

The world looked different riding high in Sarah’s luxurious Range Rover. She’d bought it with the proceeds of some shrewd investments. Sarah was smart, no doubt about it. Which was why Helen downplayed the possibility of the bookstore’s closing. Sarah wanted Helen to quit her deadend job and get something that used her number- crunching talents. Helen couldn’t tell her friend why she needed to steer clear of corporate and government computers. So Sarah delicately probed and Helen dodged her questions on the interminable trip.

The long drive to Butterfly World was made longer when they got stuck behind a car with a Quebec license plate, going twenty miles under the speed limit. “Can he go any slower? Why do Canadians drive like they’re on ice?”

Sarah grumbled.

“Why are South Floridians so prejudiced against Canadians?” Helen said.

“Because they’re slow on the road and slower to pull out their wallets. You should see the anti-Canadian graffiti on my supermarket walls: ‘Canadians, give us your money or go home.’ ”

“Every country has cheapskates,” Helen said.

“You ever met a Canadian big spender?”

Fortunately, Helen didn’t have to answer. They’d arrived at Butterfly World.

Helen looked at the names of the buildings on the tour map. “Isn’t this a little overdone? The Paradise Adventure Aviary. What kind of adventures can you have in an enclosed building?”

“You’ll see,” Sarah said. “Go inside.”

Helen stood in the entrance, dazzled. She’d never seen so many butterflies. There were hundreds. No, thousands. A big white butterfly looked like a piece of flying lace. A huge electric-blue one fluttered past, glowing in the sunlight. A flock of butterflies with camouflage owl eyes on their giant brown wings feasted on bananas.

Everywhere she turned was another strange and beautiful sight. An orange-and-brown moth the size of a dinner plate clung to a green branch.

“You have a butterfly on your back,” Sarah said. “One of those electric-blue ones.”

“He’s wearing track shoes,” Helen said, as the butterfly walked up her back. “For something that looks so light, he sure stomps around.”

“You do attract the good-looking ones,” Sarah said.

“Yeah,” she said. “But they take off in a hurry.” The blue butterfly was suddenly gone.

Mozart played softly in the background. A waterfall tumbled into a koi pond.

“This is so romantic,” Helen said. “Maybe I could take Gabe here.”

“Gabe?” Sarah said. “What happened to Rich?”

Helen pulled back her sleeve and showed her wrist. The bruises were now an ugly yellow-green.