Murder Between the Covers

It was a print-on-demand book. Helen tried not to sigh.

Another gullible author.

Print-on-demand, or POD, meant the books were printed as ordered. There were no large advance press runs, as with conventional books. Some POD publishers, including Melanie’s, used this new technology for an old scam. They ran a vanity press. Poor Melanie paid a hundred and fifty dollars to get her book published, bypassing the usual process with an agent, an editor, and a publisher. UBookIt sold her paperback novels for an outrageous twenty-nine ninety-five. UBookIt’s advertising implied their authors became best-sellers reviewed in the New York Times.

Publishing virgins like Melanie fell for that line. Actually, she had a better chance of being crowned Miss Black America.

Helen felt sorry for POD authors like Melanie. They were so eager. So hopeful. So duped.

Most newspapers would not review POD books. Most bookstores would not sell them or give signings for them.

Certainly not snooty Page Turners.

Helen knocked on the door and Page opened it, wearing a smoking jacket like a roue from a forties movie. He put his massive arm around Melanie’s shoulders, and Helen saw his hand was slyly heading for her breast. Melanie was staring at his office, which took up the whole floor. The spectacular view of Fort Lauderdale was almost overpowered by his five thousand first editions.

“Look at all these books,” she said, wide-eyed. “Is that really Ray Bradbury’s Dark Carnival?”

“Signed,” Page said. “That’s an autographed Dorothy Sayers. There’s a signed first edition of John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. On this shelf is a Faulkner first edition.

My family knew him, naturally. I have Dashiell Hammett and ...”

They were all collected by his grandfather, Page Turner I, a man who knew and cultivated the greatest names in fiction. Page Turner III’s only additions to the collection were a signed set of Burt Plank novels. Helen wondered how Dorothy Sayers felt sitting next to him.

Page didn’t point out that the locked cabinet behind him contained nude videos of the women he dated— videos they must now regret. Brad said Page and Burt Plank watched them like stag films. He’d come in once to get the staff schedule and seen the two of them laughing like drunken frat boys.

The enormous leather couch seemed to squat there like a malevolent beast. Staff gossip said there was a hidden camera over it. Helen did not want to see any more. She quietly shut the door.

An hour later, Melanie the POD author came down the stairs, flushed and pretty, blond hair gleaming.

“Mr. Turner is going to give me a signing,” she said, dancing in the aisle. “Imagine me at Page Turners! And he said he could get his good friend Mr. Burt Plank to give me a blurb. I’m so excited.”

Helen shuddered. She knew what Melanie would have to give the plump Plank for that blurb. I have a nasty mind, she thought. But then she noticed Melanie’s blue wraparound skirt was on inside out.

So did Gayle, the night manager. “I’m not letting him take advantage of another woman,” she said. “He lies. He lies to them all and gets away with it because he’s the great Page Turner.”

Melanie came tripping up to the cash register in her clear plastic heels. “I want to order two more copies of my book.”

“It will take two to five weeks,” Helen said. If she was lucky. UBookIt was as slow as it was crooked.

“My baby is worth waiting for,” Melanie said. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” Helen pointed over by the exit sign.

Melanie headed in that direction, fluffing her hair.

“I’m going to have a chat with her,” Gayle said. “Wait two minutes and follow me in.”

Helen did. The white-tiled bathroom stank of peppermint disinfectant and old diapers. Someone had left a half-empty latte on the sink and a Bride’s magazine by the toilet.

She heard Gayle saying, “Yes, he did. He was dating this woman while he was engaged to his current wife. She read about his engagement in the newspaper, came running in here, and threatened to kill him. He humiliated her. Ask anyone who’s worked here awhile. They’ll tell you. She wasn’t the first—or the last. You’re just one in a long line.”

“No!” Melanie said. “Mr. Turner said I had talent. He said he would give me a signing.”

“No, he said he would try. Next he’ll say he tried, but your books weren’t available from the distributor. And they won’t be, because they’re print-on-demand. Page Turners never has signings for POD authors.”

“But he said he’d get Mr. Plank to endorse my book,” Melanie said, and Helen heard her awful desperation.

“Yeah, you’ll get a blurb,” Gayle said. “If you get out your knee pads. You know what Burt Plank’s last blurb said? ‘Good is not the word for this book.’ You want that on your cover?”

“It’s not true. You’re just a jealous old dyke.”

Helen spoke up then. “It is true,” she said. “Ask Mr. Turner to set a date for your signing. I’ll bet my next paycheck that’s when he says your books are not available.”

“You’re lying. Both of you.” Melanie was almost sobbing now. “Mr. Turner is an honorable man. I’ll prove you wrong. I’m going up there right now and ask him.”

“While you’re in there, ask to see his videos,” Gayle said. “He keeps them in a locked cabinet by the couch. I bet you’ve already starred in one. He watches them with his buddy Burt Plank. That way Burt can preview the coming attraction.”

“Mr. Turner would never do that.”

“There’s a camera hidden in the vent over the couch,” Gayle said. “Check it out next time you’re on your back.”

That was nasty. Helen thought it was Gayle’s payback for the “jealous old dyke” remark.

Melanie flounced up the stairs to Page’s office. She was back down in ten minutes, cheeks flaming, blond hair flying every which way. She didn’t say anything to Helen or Gayle as she walked through the store, head high.

“There goes another fool,” Brad said when she passed his register. Melanie’s head snapped back as though she’d been lashed, and her cheeks grew redder. She’d heard him.

Helen wished Brad had not said that. But even more, she wished Page Turner had not taken advantage of Melanie.

“That son of a bitch,” Helen said.

“I wish Page Turner was dead,” Gayle said. Helen looked at Gayle, her face white with rage, and wondered how Page had hurt her.

At midnight the store closed and the staff chased out the last customers. Page Turners was a mess. Helen opened the women’s rest room and groaned. The stalls, mirror, and sink were draped in toilet paper. Even the waste can was decorated. More paper crisscrossed the floor. Worse, it was wet.

“What’s wrong?” Gayle said.

“We’ve been TP’d. Wet TP. I just hope they used water.”

“Oh, gross.”

It took the two women an hour to clean it up, and they still had to put the store in order. Stray books were piled everywhere. Sticky cafe cups and napkins were abandoned on shelves and floors.

“Screw it,” Gayle said. “Let’s leave. This store is going to close anyway.”

That’s when Helen knew Page Turners was dead.

Thursday brought more rumors that the entire bookstore chain was closing, and more whistling-in-the-dark denials.

“The Turner family can’t close our store,” Albert said, all starch and sanity. “We’re the flagship, started by Page’s grandfather.”

“They can do anything they want,” Matt said, the dread-locked rebel. “And they will.”

“How do you know?” Albert said, looking every day of his fifty-six years. “You’re what—twenty-two?”

“Twenty-four,” Matt said. “But I don’t have your handicap.”

“What’s that?” said Albert.

“I don’t believe white men. Especially rich ones.”