Murder Between the Covers

She checked the store’s author files in the computer, but there was no mention of Melanie, more proof that Page Turner never considered giving her a signing.

The key to Page Turner was in the bookstore, Gayle had said. And the key to the author? In her book. That’s one of the last things Mr. Davies told Helen. “Authors always write about themselves. The good ones are better at disguising it.”

If Helen wanted to find out anything about Melanie, she would have to read her book.

Where did she hide it?

Behind the other D’s on the hold shelf. Helen moved a pile of books. There it was: Love and Murder—Forever: A Romantic Mystery or Mysterious Romance, by Melanie Devereaux DuShayne.

The lurid cover showed a half-clad woman on a bed in the embrace of a Fabio look-alike. A bloody knife was plunged into their pillow.

Helen read the first sentence:

Jillian’s gaze rested on Lance’s broad chest and gentle touch.

How does your gaze rest on a gentle touch? Helen couldn’t figure that out, but she kept reading.

Her heart told her this was the only man she would ever love. Jillian felt a stirring that left her moist, yielding.

Lance’s eyes slid down her dress.

Helen started giggling. She saw two eyes sliding down a dress, leaving a bloody trail. She closed the book. Enough.

On the back cover was a photo of Melanie holding a fat surly cat. Her biography said, When she’s not writing romantic mysteries, Melanie Devereaux DuShayne is a dental assistant at the Mr. Goodtooth Clinic in Sunnysea Beach, Florida, where she lives with her Siamese cat, Samson.

She lives at the clinic with her cat?

No, that had to be more of Melanie’s tangled syntax. But now Helen knew where Melanie worked. The Mr. Goodtooth Clinic was in the phone book. Maybe they could have that chat after all. There must be some way to casually ask Melanie where she was the night of the murder. Everything Helen thought of sounded lame. But then, Melanie didn’t seem to be the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

Helen called the clinic. The receptionist said, “Melanie is with a patient. Can she call you back?”

“Uh, no,” Helen said. “I can’t take calls here. Could you put me on hold?”

Helen listened to a Muzak version of “Strawberry Fields” that went on forever, before Melanie answered the phone.

“Melanie, this is Helen at Page Turners bookstore,” she said, and immediately wished she had been smart enough to use a different name. “We’re trying to locate Mr. Turner’s briefcase because it had some important business papers in it. I understand you picked him up at the store the night he ...”

He what? Croaked? Died? Went to his reward?

Melanie’s voice turned cold enough to frost the orange crop. “I was nowhere near the bookstore the night Mr. Turner died.”

“Really? We have a witness who says you picked up Mr. Turner.”

“Was it that old man? Because he was asleep when I... He always slept in that chair. You’re trying to find out if I have an alibi! I can’t believe this. Your store has always persecuted me, and now this!” Melanie slammed down the phone.

When she what? When she picked up Page? Put the pillow over Mr. Davies’ face?

And why was Melanie talking about Mr. Davies in the past tense, as if he were dead? His death wasn’t in the papers or on TV.

Helen needed to know more about Melanie. All she had was a hunch, a slip of the tongue, and a dead witness. There was only one way to learn more. It would be horrible, but she would do it for Peggy.

Helen would read Melanie’s book.

Chapter 27

Helen fixed some coffee and sat in her turquoise Barcalounger, determined to read Melanie’s book. Last time, she’d gotten as far as Lance’s eyes sliding down Jillian’s dress.

She knew Lance loved her. Lance, with his strong, sensitive hands, his sage-colored eyes, his devotion to dental science. He was her knight, the lord of her throbbing love. But Jillian was bound by law, if not by love, to the heartless Simon de Quincy, who was as rich as he was evil. Her spun-gold hair, bluebell eyes and lush, feminine body were subject to the rough, insolent caresses of another man, a man who never flossed. Jillian had toiled as a dental assistant when she first met Simon.

A dental assistant? That was Melanie’s job. Mr. Davies was right. Melanie put autobiographical details in her novel. She was the heroine in this romance novel, with spun-gold hair (courtesy of Miss Clairol) and bluebell eyes (contacts). Her heaving bosom was clad in discount ruffles and laces. Her glass slippers were clear plastic.

Yet Melanie’s job was ruthlessly practical. She stuck her fingers in strangers’ mouths and patiently scraped the gunk off their dirty teeth. Nothing was less romantic.

Was her book a way to inject some romance into her life?

Were these questions a delaying tactic on Helen’s part to avoid reading this book? And what was a rich guy named Simon de Quincy doing married to a dental assistant?

Simon was a patient who needed his diseased gums lasered. Alas, after she married him, she realized her new husband also had a diseased soul. If Jillian ever left him, Simon would make sure she never gazed upon her darling baby Jarrod again. The corrupt de Quincys were so powerful, they could do anything, even tear a mother from her child. Night after night, Jillian endured Simon’s embraces while she thought only of her true love, Lance.

Helen read about Simon de Quincy’s countless cruelties and inadequate dental hygiene until her gaze glazed and she fell asleep. She woke again at three-thirty. No woman could endure this on her own. It would take another pot of coffee.

She made it extra strong. Then she resumed reading. She was 190 pages into the book. Jillian and Lance had gazed at each other sixty-seven times.

What was it about romances and gazing? Helen figured that’s why it took the couple so long to get into the sack.

When gazes rarely went below the neck, it took time to get down to business.

I have no romance, she thought.

Helen got up, stretched, then poured her eighth cup of the night. The caffeine buzz would keep her awake until next week. Come on, she told herself. You have work to do.

She resumed the painful task of reading.

The vile Simon de Quincy was snoring on the white satin chaise longue, still wearing his muddy riding boots. The dreaded riding crop, the source of so much humiliation, was gripped in one hairy hand. A black silk tunic clutched his broad chest, just as she had once desired to clutch him in wifely lust, before he had crushed her spirit and her love. A bottle of priceless Napoleon brandy was beside him. It had fallen over.

Its precious liquid spilled out on a mahogany table that had graced the de Quincy mansion for four generations.

That was another problem Helen had with romances.

Why didn’t the guy wear normal clothes? You could be a villain in jeans and deck shoes. Well, a Florida villain, anyway.

De Quincy’s filthy snores grew louder. Jillian knew the utter degradation she would face when he awoke.

Simon would beat her and force her to... she would feel his thrusting... he would fondle her... no, she could not endure that again. She was sickened at the very thought. Last night, she had forced herself to keep quiet as his hands slid over her tender camellia-white body, knowing her precious Jarrod was in the next room. But