Murder Between the Covers

Anesthesia.”

A worried Albert and a defiant Matt went home at four-thirty, and Gayle, the night-shift manager, came on. Helen kept ringing up sales. At five o’clock, a short, plump, white-haired man of about sixty-five walked importantly up to the counter. He seemed to have an entourage with him, even when he was alone.

“Is Mr. Turner here?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s in his office.”

“Could you tell him Burt Plank is here?”

“Burt Plank the author?” Helen said.

“That’s me,” said the little man, basking in her recognition. Helen couldn’t believe it. Burt Plank wrote the Dirk Rockingham mystery series. He was a New York Times best-selling author. His character, Dirk, a millionaire cop, always got his man. He also got his woman. Fabulously beautiful females were always sliding under restaurant tables to give Dirk oral sex.

“Do you live in Fort Lauderdale?” Helen said.

Burt looked slightly offended. “Palm Beach,” he said. “I have a private plane. I fly down to see my old friend Page Turner. Then I have dinner and return home. When do you get off work?”

“Seven o’clock,” Helen said.

“Would you like to dine with me at the Riverside Hotel?”

“I’d love to,” Helen said. “But I’d have to go home and change first.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “You’re fine just the way you are.”

Burt Plank, best-selling author, thought Helen looked fine. Even the appearance of Page Turner couldn’t spoil that moment.

“Burt!” Page Turner said expansively. “I hope you’ll autograph some more stock for us. Those books of yours just keep on selling. Come on up to my office for a drink.”

“See you at seven,” Burt said.

Gayle the manager had been watching with disapproval.

“Be careful. He’s a real hound, just like Page. I’ll bet he asked you out to dinner.”

“He did. The Riverside Hotel.”

“That’s so he can sit outside and everyone going past can say, ‘Is that Burt Plank?’ ”

“I thought it was because the place has good food,” Helen said coolly. She liked Gayle, but the manager was overprotective. Gayle was gay, but she never hit on Helen.

Rumor said that Gayle had a married lover who wasn’t out of the closet. Of course, rumor also said the store was closing.

“Besides, aren’t you seeing someone?” Gayle said.

“I am, but Burt”—Helen got a little thrill at dropping a celebrity name—“and I are only having dinner. There’s nothing romantic about him. He’s short, pudgy, and old enough to be my father. He certainly doesn’t look like his character Dirk Rockingham.”

“He does in his own mind. There he’s a foot taller, thirty years younger, and a lot more muscular.”

“Gayle, relax. It’s only dinner. I thought it would be fun to have some literary conversation.”

“The closest you’ll get to literary conversation is when he talks about all the money he makes from those books.”

Gayle was waiting at the bookstore counter like a stern mother when Burt Plank came out of Page Turner’s office.

That is, if moms wore black jeans, metal-studded leather belts, and Doc Martens. Her arms were folded across her chest. “Take good care of my best saleswoman,” she told Burt.

“I plan to wine her and dine her.” Helen could smell bourbon on his breath. Burt guided her out of the store with his small damp hand on her back. His hand slid a little down past her waist and rested almost on her buttock.

Helen thought of removing it, but decided not to make a scene. Instead she moved briskly ahead until his hand slid off naturally.

Burt was dressed for Palm Beach, which meant he looked silly in Fort Lauderdale. The British yachting jacket and white linen pants seemed pretentious. The gold chains at his neck and wrist were overdone. He’s supposed to be overdone, Helen thought. He’s a celebrity.

She wished he didn’t look quite so much like a sugar daddy. At least no one will confuse me with a bimbo, she thought. Not in a six-year-old pantsuit and flat shoes.

When they walked between the golden lions at the entrance to Indigo, the hotel restaurant, the staff started fussing over them. Helen enjoyed it. Burt was offered the best table in the house, but he did not want to sit inside. He insisted on a table outside on Las Olas, practically on the sidewalk. They ate their appetizers to a whispered chorus of “Isn’t that Burt Plank?” Burt puffed out his chest every time he heard those words.

The food was sculpted into artistic shapes and placed into pools of colored sauce. It sure beat her usual dining experience—a can of water-packed tuna over the kitchen sink.

“You are the most interesting woman at the store,” Burt said, ordering more wine. It was a rather thin compliment.

The only other woman was Gayle, and she had no interest in Burt or any other man. It was also the last time he devoted any conversation to Helen.

“Tell me about your next book,” Helen said. She wanted to know how he worked out his exciting plots. Maybe he’d drop the names of New York editors and agents.

“Like Dirk, I enjoy flying my own plane,” he said. “But I’m thinking of trading in my Cessna for a single-pilot jet.

A Raytheon Premier One. I made more than a million dollars on my last book, including the movie rights, and it’s time Dirk and I had an upgrade. It’s not an extravagance.

With my own jet, I don’t waste time hanging around airports, waiting for a flight. Do you like to fly?”

“Hate it,” Helen said, wondering when Burt would talk about how he wrote those books. “Do you use a word processor?”

“Yes. I’ve just bought a new laptop. It’s the lightest one available. Cost me ...”

Helen concentrated on her duck, oven-roasted with jasmine-scented charcoal. Burt had ordered for both of them. It sure beat canned tuna.

“And then I thought I’d get a Ferrari.”

“A Barchetta?” said Helen, who knew a little about Ferraris.

Burt looked startled. “No, a Testarossa.”

“Nice car. And about two hundred thousand dollars cheaper than the Barchetta,” Helen said. Burt looked like he’d been punched in the stomach by Dirk Rockingham.

The waiter removed their empty plates. Burt ordered cappuccino for two, without consulting Helen, and began talking about his “seaside mansion” in Palm Beach. He actually used those words. Helen stifled a yawn.

“Are you sleepy?” he said.

“It’s been a long day.” And this dinner was as literary as a stock-market report.

Helen felt a tickling sensation on her thigh. Oh, god, not another bug. Not after last night. If it was a palmetto bug she’d scream, even if she was in one of the best restaurants on Las Olas.

“You need to relax,” Burt said. “I’ve had a vasectomy.

I’m safe.” That’s when she realized the small creature creeping along her thigh was Burt Plank’s hand.

Helen removed it like a cockroach. Burt looked surprised.

“You’d better get your dessert from the menu.” Helen stood up and left the restaurant, passing the waiter holding two cappuccinos. The last thing she heard was, “Is that the woman with Burt Plank?”

What a fool she was. A literary dinner indeed. She was just another cheap date. For the price of a meal, she was supposed to warm the great Burt Plank’s bed while he talked about the one he loved—himself. She had a perfectly good man, but no, she had to dine with a literary light.

Nothing had gone right today. First the rumors about the store closings, then the long, dull dinner with Burt. It was nine o’clock, and she suspected Margery would have more bad news when she got home.

Her landlady was sitting by the pool, smoking Marlboros and staring sadly into the night. Her deep purple shorts set looked like mourning clothes.