“I was right, but I sure as hell didn’t want to be. We got termites,” Margery said. “The inspector came out today.
They can save the place, but they’re going to have to tent it.”
“What’s that mean?” Helen said.
“I forgot. You’re not from around here. They wrap the whole building in giant tarps, and then pump in poison gas.
Everyone has to be evacuated for three days.”
“Three days! Do I have to move out now?”
“No, it takes awhile to set it up.”
“Will the termites come back tonight?” Helen said. “Is it safe to sleep in my place?” She couldn’t stand to fight another insect horde.
“Keep your front lights off after dark. That’s probably what attracted the swarm.”
“Where will we live during the tenting?”
“I’ve got a friend who has a beach motel in Hollywood.
I’ll put you up at my expense. How’s that? Three days on the beach. It’s my present for the inconvenience.”
Helen no longer saw the sadness in Margery’s face. All she heard were those three words: a beach vacation. Helen hadn’t had a vacation in years. Even in St. Louis, she’d either worked through most of her vacations or spent the time calling her office to learn the latest disaster. Now she’d have three days on the beach. Her life was definitely taking a turn for the better.
Maybe she should have picked up that crowbar sooner.
Chapter 4
“Death, destruction, and murder.” That’s what Madame Muffy predicted, and now Helen saw it all around her.
There was death and destruction at the Coronado.
As for murder, the whole staff wanted to kill Page Turner III.
The next day, Page announced that the Palm Beach store was closing, effective immediately. Matt had warned them.
But the booksellers couldn’t have been more shocked if terrorists had blown up the place.
Brad kept wandering around saying, “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Matt said. He was Cassandra in a white T-shirt.
“It’s only temporary,” Albert insisted.
Helen said nothing. The Palm Beach store had opened with great fanfare less than a year ago. Why was Page closing it so quickly? It didn’t make sense.
Brad called a friend who worked there. “The Palm Beach staff is shell-shocked,” he reported. “They didn’t get any notice. They’re not getting any severance pay. They’re all out on the street.”
“What about the books?” Helen said.
“Our store will sell them. The Wilton Manors store won’t get any.”
“Then it will close, too,” Matt said. He was relentless.
“Do you know that or are you just talking?” Albert said.
“I believe,” Matt said firmly, “that Wilton Manors will close very soon.”
But we’re safe, Helen thought, and felt guilty for entertaining that hope.
Brad said it out loud. “We’ll survive because we have the Palm Beach books.”
“We’ll close before the last Palm Beach book is sold,” Matt predicted.
The other booksellers, except for loyal Albert, must have agreed. Within an hour, newspapers began missing their help-wanted sections. The copy machine ran constantly.
There were whispered phone conversations for suspected job interviews.
When Helen stopped in the cafe for her midmorning coffee, she saw the dread-locked Matt studying the paper. He looked up guiltily. He’d been reading the employment section. “It’s hopeless. Nothing here but jobs for telemarketers and debt collectors.”
“I’m not that desperate,” Helen said. “Most employers want too much work for too little money. Look at this ad:
‘Nanny, excellent English required, two lively boys, must love dogs.’ Eight lousy bucks an hour.”
“It says that in the ad?” Matt grinned.
“I added the last part. But you know what that means.
The dogs and the kids run wild. No, thanks. I’m going to keep looking.”
“Me, too,” Matt said.
“Why don’t you go back to school, Matt? You’re young and smart.”
“And broke,” he said. “I’m trying. But scholarships are getting cut back, too. Page Turner is cruel. He could have given the Palm Beach staff a few thousand dollars in severance. That’s pocket change for him. Instead, he strung them along, then dumped them. He’ll pay for that.”
“People like him never pay for anything,” Helen said.
The one bright spot was Helen’s beach vacation, but she bought it at a high price. She had to work three nights.
Helen was used to irregular hours at the bookstore, but she hated nights. The customers were bizarre. The store was dirty and disorganized after a busy day. And Page Turner was so cheap, he made the night booksellers clean the rest rooms.
Still, if it got her beach time, Helen would clean toilets at midnight.
She had to work two of the dreaded nights before her vacation.
Wednesday, there was Melanie.
Helen knew it would be a bad night when Page Turner III showed up at seven. He had the flushed face and hearty manner of a drunk about to turn mean. He was carrying a Bawls, bent straw dangling from the bottle.
Bawls was a high-caffeine drink with guarana, which was something exotic from the Amazon. He added a hefty jolt of something less exotic from the liquor store. Vodka, probably. Caffeine drinks laced with vodka were the current club scene rage.
He held up the bumpy blue glass bottle and yelled, “Who’s got Bawls?” The staff didn’t laugh. He didn’t notice.
An hour later, a slender young woman with masses of blond hair came up to Helen’s cash register. She gave the impression of being small and fragile, but she was almost as tall as Helen and well muscled. Maybe it was her girlish clothes. She wore a short, pale blue wraparound skirt, a low-cut ruffled top, and clear plastic high-heeled sandals that showed her toes. They made her look vulnerable and naive.
“I’m an author,” she said proudly. “Melanie Devereaux DuShayne. I have an appointment with Page Turner.”
“Another one for the harem,” Brad said, too loudly, and rolled his eyes. Helen glared at him. Most of the time Brad was funny. Tonight he was not.
“I’ll take you to his office,” Helen said. She felt like she was leading a lamb to the slaughter. Or a lamb to the wolf.
“Is your book published?” Helen asked Melanie as they passed the velvet rope barrier and walked up the stairs to Page’s office. Ninety-nine percent of the women who went into Page’s office were not published authors, and never would be, despite the promises made on his couch. Page said he knew New York agents and editors, which was true.
But he wouldn’t waste his precious contacts on a passing fling.
“Oh, yes, with UBookIt.” She opened a blue flowered purse and pulled out a trade paperback called
