I had just rung up a three-book purchase when I looked up to see Scooter. One of Kirsten's books was in his hand, along with what looked like a first-edition hardback Dick Francis mystery featuring a stylized horse and jockey on the cover, but he didn't hand the books to me.
"I had no idea you were the owner of the store these days," he said.
"Well, I am."
"Good to see you after all this time," he said with a faint smirk. "Did you receive a letter recently?'
"I haven't checked my mail the last day or two," I said, trying to disguise my distaste.
"You probably should," he said, the smirk broadening into a satisfied little smile that edged across his face.
I'd never liked Scooter, from the time I’d found him teasing Donny Knee, who had a speech impediment. I had been twelve, and several of us kids were hanging out, eating chocolate bars and slurping down sodas on the town playground. Donny had been trying to tell us about a fish he caught, but kept getting stuck on the F. Donny was turning red with frustration when Scooter had crumpled up his Snickers' bar wrapper and started mimicking him cruelly.
"What was that, Donny-boy? It was a f-f-f-f-f-f-? I've never heard of one of those."
Donny, embarrassed, tried again.
"A what?" Scooter teased.
"Stop it," I'd told him. Scooter was two years older than me, but I was always scrappy, and I hated seeing people teased. "Go on, Donny."
The stutter was worse now. He tried again, but could barely even get the "f" out.
"Retard," Scooter muttered.
"What did you call him?" I asked.
"Retard," he repeated. Tears formed in Donny's eyes, and he stopped even trying to talk.
I'd walked up to Scooter, who was six inches taller than me and had about forty pounds on me, but I didn't care. "Stop being a jerk."
"Who's gonna make me?" he'd asked, giving me that slitty-eyed little smile of his.
"If you don't leave him alone and get out of here, I'm going to punch you in the nose," I'd told him, anger eliminating all traces of common sense.
He'd blinked, then started laughing. I didn't think; I just pulled back my right arm and popped him in the nose.
He'd dropped his Coke, and his hands flew to his nose. A trickle of blood leaked out between his fingers.
"You little..."
For a moment I'd thought he was going to punch me back, and the gravity of what I'd done swept over me, along with the first burst of fear. My whole body tensed, and I was ready to turn and run. He lowered his right hand, and my hands went up instinctively, shielding my face. But instead of hitting me, he turned and ran out of the playground, still holding his nose. Donny, my friend Denise, and I stared at his red jacket as it billowed out behind him, not quite sure we could believe what had just happened.
"It was a foot-long fish," Donny said totally clearly. "And thanks for doing that."
"Yeah," Denise chimed in. "You're a rock star; I can't believe you popped him in the nose!"
"Me neither," I said, my knees suddenly weak. “I need to sit down." I sank to the ground. What had I been thinking?
"What a jerk," Denise said, her fiery hair a halo around her face, backlit by the sun. "Let's get out of here before he changes his mind and comes back."
We left in a hurry, and Scooter had never brought it up with me again. But from that point forward, he'd done everything in his power to make my life difficult.
Including now. He had several decades and a few dozen more pounds on him, and maybe a little less hair on top of his head, but that face was unmistakably the same. Giving me that same slitty-eyed smile, he said, "You know you don't really own the store."
"Pardon me?" I asked.
"Loretta Satterthwaite didn't have the right to sell it. You may have bought her half, but her sister Agatha never signed over her part of it." He looked around at the people, the freshly painted walls, the books lined up neatly on the shelves. "So no matter how much you paid for it, none of this is really yours."
5
"What? That can't be right," I said, staring at him. "Loretta signed some kind of deed... I think it was called a quitclaim deed?" We'd done the transaction without real estate agents to make the process faster and less expensive, and I'd bought the store outright.
He shook his head. "Quitclaim deeds can be trouble. Too bad you didn't have a title search done."
"Yes," announced a large man, who had what a friend of mine called a "success belly" and the air of someone who's spent his whole life expecting things to fall into his lap and actually having it happen. "And it looks like you've done some renovations, too. Do you have permits for that?"
"Permits?" I croaked.
"Permits," he repeated. "I understand some of your paperwork is out of date, and there's some question as to whether you're operating the business illegally." His mouth was a grim line in his flaccid face, but his eyes crinkled slightly; it was obvious he was more than happy to deliver this news. He lowered his voice and leaned forward conspiratorially, his jowls jiggling as he spoke. "Although maybe we can make a deal."
"A deal?" I asked. "Pardon me, but have we met?"
He blinked. "I thought you knew; I just won the selectman
