Murder Between the Covers

register. They weren’t the usual women’s reading: Letters to Penthouse XIV, XV, XVI, XVII.

“I’m not sure this is what I want,” she said. “I need a book on talking dirty. Can you see if you have any books like that?”

Helen typed talking dirty into the bookstore computer and got several hits. She read the titles out loud.

“No, that’s not quite it.” The hard-faced woman had a surprisingly soft voice. “How about ‘talking sexy’?”

Helen typed in those key words. “I get a lot of books, but they’re about relationships.”

“I don’t want a relationship.”

“Can I ask what you do want?” Helen said.

“I’m going back to work doing phone sex. It’s been a couple of years and I’m out of practice. The new place does not allow scripts. I need some backup in case I go dry.”

Helen typed in phone sex. Bingo. “Here’s Confessions of a Phone-sex Queen. We don’t have the book in stock, but I can order it.”

“I’ll take it,” the woman said.

Another satisfied customer, Helen thought. “What’s your last name?”

“Retner,” the woman said. That name was familiar.

Helen typed it in and saw three other Retners had ordered books in the last thirty days. One was Albert. Helen wondered what kind of book the prissy, bad-tempered manager would order.

Curiosity overcame her. After the phone-sex worker left, Helen looked in the computer. Albert had ordered Smother Love: The True Story of a Serial Killer Who Smothered His Victims to Death.

Interesting.

Helen checked the publisher’s information on Smother Love. She read: Darryl Eugene Crow was shy and quiet, but he had no problem finding women. The relationships never lasted. When love died, Darryl Eugene’s lovers died, too.

He would ply his soon-to-be lost loves with alcohol, then end their lives with a pillow. This compelling study of ...

End their lives with a pillow? That was how Page Turner died. He was drunk, too.

When did Albert get this book?

Helen looked at the computer record. The book arrived three weeks before Page Turner died.

Helen couldn’t see Albert killing someone with a knife or a gun. That would be messy. He might get blood on his hands. But something sneaky, like smothering a defenseless drunk, that was his style. She could imagine him pressing down that pillow. It would be neat and quick. Albert wouldn’t even get his starched shirt wrinkled.

“Did Albert work the night Page Turner died?” Helen asked Brad.

The little bookseller looked skittish. “No, he got off work at six with me.”

“Where did Albert go after work?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Brad said. “Excuse me, I have to go.” He seemed anxious to get away. Had she offended him? And how could she ask Albert such a personal question? The thought made her head throb, and that gave her an idea. Helen waited till he returned from lunch, then clutched her forehead dramatically. She knew she couldn’t count on Albert to ask what was wrong. If she fell over on the floor, he’d reprimand her for lying down on the job.

She said, “Do you have any aspirin, Albert? Ever since Page Turner died, I’ve had the worst headaches.”

“I don’t dispense medication,” Albert said. “I read where a woman at a store was sued because she gave an aspirin to a customer.”

“For heaven’s sake, Albert, I’m not going to sue you. I have a headache. Didn’t Page Turner’s murder bother you?”

“Well, it has affected my colitis,” he said. “Just this morning ...”

You asked for it, Helen thought, as Albert gave her the intimate details of his ailment. At least they were bonding.

“I’ve never had an attack so explosive,” he finished. “It’s gotten much worse since Mr. Turner passed on. Stress, you know.”

“That’s terrible,” she cut in quickly. “His death seems to have caused so many problems. When Page left the store that Friday, I had no idea it would be the last time I’d see him alive. I went to a party, like it was any other day.

Where did you go?”

“What I do on my own time is my business,” Albert said, and his lips zipped. So much for bonding.

He’s hiding something, Helen thought. And I’m going to find out what it is.

But not tonight. Tonight she had another task. It was even worse than listening to Albert. She had to call her mother in St. Louis. Once a month, at seven in the evening, she made the call. And dreaded it the rest of the time.

At home, Helen prepared herself. She shut the mini-blinds and locked the door, then opened her utility closet and got out the battered Samsonite suitcase that held her seven-thousand-dollar stash. She rooted around in the old-lady underwear until she found the cell phone and a piece of pink cellophane from a gift basket.

She’d bought the cell phone in Kansas when she was on the run. She’d sent her sister Kathy a thousand dollars and hoped that would cover the bills for a long time. Her air conditioner was rattling so loud, it sounded like it was about to take off and join the mother ship. She had to turn it off so she could hear on the phone.

“Hi, Mom. How’s everything?” she said.

“Just fine,” said her mother in a high, clipped voice that signaled disaster. “Absolutely peachy. Kathy—you remember your sister?—was in the hospital with emergency surgery. I’m taking care of the kids. Of course, I couldn’t call you, because I don’t know where you are, and you won’t tell me.”

“Surgery? Oh, my God. What’s wrong?” Not Kathy, the only person she trusted.

“She had her gall bladder removed,” her mother said.

She was dragging it out, reveling in Helen’s remorse and guilt.

“The doctor was able to do the so-called easy surgery, but her recovery has been slow. It didn’t help that you weren’t at your sister’s side when she needed you, because you’re busy ruining your life for a stupid, stubborn reason.”

“It’s not stupid,” burst out Helen. “Rob betrayed me— with Sandy, a woman he said he couldn’t stand.”

“He made a mistake. Men do that.”

“A mistake! Mother, that man didn’t have a job for five years. He lived off me during that time. He was supposed to be oiling the patio furniture. I came home from work early and caught him with our next-door neighbor.”

“And instead of handling the situation with dignity, the way a daughter of mine should, you went crazy with a crowbar.”

Helen was not getting into this argument again. “Is Kathy home? I’d better call her before it’s too late.”

“You can’t hang up,” her mother said. “I want to talk to you. Helen, what if Kathy had died? What if something had happened to one of her children? Or me? You need to—”

Helen crinkled the pink cellophane. “Sorry, Mom, you’re breaking up. Bad connection. Good-bye, Mom, I love you.”

Now she really did have a headache. She was sweating heavily, and not just because the air conditioner was off.

Helen dialed her sister’s number with shaky fingers.

“I’m fine, Helen,” Kathy insisted.

“You don’t sound fine. You sound weak.”

“I was asleep. Really, I’m OK. Tom has been making me dinner. Mom has the kids. I’m enjoying the rest. I may malinger a little longer.”

Helen wished she could see her sister so she’d know for sure. Instead, she resorted to their old childhood code.