The Knight of Pages Page 5

  “You stayed here?”

  “Nothing for me back east.”

  “You didn’t fight for her?”

  “No. I don’t think either of us was really in love. I know we were both of the opinion that love would grow, but I was the only one nurturing the marriage. She was marking time. We were foolish.”

  “It’s hard to think of you being foolish.”

  “Tell me who you think I am then?” Nash said, handing her a cup of coffee.

  “At first I thought you were Byronic. Later, I realized you weren’t moody at all, just disappointed.”

  “How long have you been studying me?”

  “From the moment I met you.”

  Nash swallowed hard. “You hid it well.”

  “In the beginning, I wasn’t looking for a relationship, but I knew I wanted your friendship.”

  “Why?”

  “I think you’re the most brilliant man I know,” Clara blurted out.

  “You obviously have been cloistered. I’m not brilliant or really very smart.”

  “Liar.”

  “Were you a nun?” Nash asked.

  “A nun?”

  “A cloistered nun?”

  “Not even a Catholic school girl,” Clara assured him. “I went to public school, community college, and then was lost. I started several careers. Nothing held my interest until I started cooking. I’m good at it, but here I am at thirty-five, and I still feel there has to be a better fit for me.”

  “Are you looking for fame and fortune?”

  “No. I don’t want to starve, but I would feel guilty if I was rolling in dough.”

  “Why, Miss Tyler, you’re a socialist!” Nash said in mock indignation.

  “Do you love being a bookseller?”

  “Actually, I do like what I do. Do I love it? Isn’t love reserved for people?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who broke your heart?” Nash asked.

  “I was in two long relationships, and neither man ever told me I was beautiful. I know beautiful is a word reserved for blondes or exotic brunettes, but I wanted to be the end-all for the man I was with.”

  “Jane Eyre was beautiful to Rochester.”

  “He was blind.”

  “In the end,” Nash reminded her.

  “One of my beaus said I was pretty in a non-threatening way. Who wants to be that?”

  “Clara, I would never have taken you for vain.”

  “Argh, I guess I’m not representing my case well,” Clara said, slipping down from the barstool. She paced a few steps and turned. “I used to watch my grandfather when my grandmother entered the room. He looked at her as if she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It’s love that makes you truly beautiful to your mate.”

  “I agree.”

  “Why should I put up with all the restrictions of marriage when I’m not beautiful to the man who was asking?”

  A book dropped overhead to emphasize her point. Clara looked up and said, “Thank you.”

  “It’s like it shouted Amen,” Nash said.

  “This store isn’t haunted; it’s enchanted,” Clara said.

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I’m thirty-five and unmarried because I want the marriage to be more than a checked box.”

  “Bravo.”

  “Why haven’t you replaced Rita?”

  “At first, I was mad, depressed, and apathetic. Then the bookstore consumed me. The advent of the, as you coined it, enchantment happened, and I thought it pretty much put me in a position of not exactly being thought of as a prime candidate. I’ll never make a lot of money, and my grumpy ways turn a lot of people off.”

  “Really,” Clara drawled.

  “Clara Tyler, may I court you?”

  “I have horrible hours. I’m in bed before nine, up at five, and on Sunday, I’m gone most of the day.”

  “Days off?”

  “Monday and Tuesday. Why do you want to court me, Mr. Greene?”

  “Because, Clara, you’re the most beautiful and interesting woman I have ever met.”

  The flutter of pages and books falling to the floor emphasized the butterflies that took over Clara’s stomach.

  “And,” Nash continued, “the books like you.”

  Chapter Five

  Jones stood outside of Marc Davis’s townhouse as Officer Brenda Blunt rang the doorbell again and again. She stopped and looked at Jones and said, “He’s not home.”

  Jones took out his phone and rang Marc Davis’s cell phone. They leaned in and both heard the iPhone’s default ring.

  “His cell phone is home. Who leaves home these days without their cell?” Jones asked Brenda.

  “Not many,” she agreed. Brenda jammed a foot inside the outer brick of the decorative front of the house and then the other, lifting her body above the door so she could look in the transom window. “I can see down a hall into the kitchen from here. There’s some kind of a shadow crossing the threshold there. Let’s go around back.”

  “You do that, and I’ll cover the front.”

  “Yes, Detective,” Brenda said. She jogged around the end unit of the townhouses, hopped the fence there, ran through the yard, and used a few cast-off crates to give her enough height to grab the top of the communal fence and vault over. She looked around the yard and noticed the leavings of a large dog. She pulled out her phone and called Jones.

  “Yeah.”

  “Evidence of a big dog. Do you still want me to proceed?”

  “Yes.”

  Brenda pulled her weapon out and climbed up the steps to the patio and over to the glass doors. Lying on the kitchen floor was a dog and a man. Neither was moving. She tapped on the door, and the dog lifted its head, looked in her direction, and whined. “Detective, call animal control and an ambulance. I have a man unconscious on the floor. Do you want me to enter?”

  “Yes.”

  Brenda housed her weapon and tugged on the door. It was locked. She took her two hands, placed them on glass and pushed upwards, lifting the door out of its runners, and set it aside. She entered cautiously, still not convinced the dog couldn’t still harm her. “Good doggy, I just want to check your master,” she cooed. Brenda squatted and was amazed to connect with warm skin. She felt for a pulse and got one. The man’s breathing was very shallow, as if he were sleeping. He was curled into a ball and his face was hidden from her. He had soiled himself. Brenda got up and walked through the hall to the front door and let Jones in.

  “He’s alive but barely. The smell is from his bowels letting loose. Permission to get some water for the dog.”

  “Do it outside. Forensic Services will have my balls if you disturb any more of the scene.”

  The sound of emergency vehicles approaching comforted Brenda.

  “Come on, doggy, let’s get you some water,” she coaxed.

  The dog wouldn’t go outside. The EMTs came in followed by two additional police officers. The dog growled.

  “Officer Blunt, secure the dog,” Jones ordered.

  “I’m trying,” Brenda said, reaching for the animal’s collar. “Come on, doggy. Let us help your friend.” Brenda ended up picking up the creature and carrying it outside. Her back was screaming. The dog put its head on her shoulder. She set it down on the patio next to a water dish and walked over to turn on the hose. That’s when she saw the small plastic wading pool. It was alive with flies.

  “Detective, come out here please,” she managed.

  “If the dog is a problem…”

  “The dog isn’t the problem. Look,” Brenda said, pointing to the pool. “I don’t know what’s in that, but the flies are feasting on it.”

  The dog whined and crawled in the other direction.

  Jones put on a glove, picked up a stick, and moved slowly towards the pool. He moved the meager contents around and said, “Looks like a lot of teeth and a mass, maybe a tongue. There’s a lot
of bloody gauze and a pliers.”

  “Detective,” one of the EMTs called out. “This man’s mouth is sewn shut.”

  Brenda felt a wave of nausea come over her, but she calmed her stomach. The dog whined. “Any sign of animal control?” she called in.

  “They’re five minutes out,” one of the other officers reported.

  Brenda picked up the empty bowl and walked into the house, skirting the EMTs, and walked into the bathroom. She filled the dish and ignored the disapproving looks from the other officers as she returned outside and put the dish close to the cowering dog. “This dog is traumatized,” she said.

  Jones, meanwhile, had found a folding chair that had been tossed into the bushes on the side of the house. He dropped a marker. “I think this chair must have been in the pool.”

  The EMTs did their best to stabilize the man they assumed was Marc Davis. His face was too swollen to be certain. They loaded him into the back and took off for the hospital. Meanwhile, animal control came in and secured the dog.

  “I gave him water. I don’t think he’s had any for a while. The toilet downstairs had the lid down and his dishes were dry,” Brenda reported.

  “Poor dog,” Jones said. “His owner is in bad shape. Did you see any blood on him?”

  “No. But I didn’t get a good look at him. I was just overjoyed he was alive, and I let you in. Then I was on dog duty.”

  “He was wearing clean clothes, his hair was smartly combed, his jaw was swollen on both sides, and his fingertips on his left hand had small bruised holes in them.”

  “Torture?”

  Jones pushed his left hand at Brenda. There were tiny red contusions on his fingertips. “My wife is visiting her sister in Cleveland. I lost a button on my jacket. I sewed it on, but I’m not used to sewing and kept sticking myself.”

  “So you’re thinking…”

  “I think Mr. Davis sewed his own mouth shut.”

  ~

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” Wendell said into the phone. “Tell her we at the Page Turners book club are thinking of her. Thank you.” He set the phone down and looked over at his mother who couldn’t help hearing his side of the phone call because of their proximity. “I got this number from Marianne’s work. I pretended to be her father. I assumed she was on a work retreat. Mother, she’s in a mental hospital run by the Sisters of St. Bernadette. I didn’t dare lie to the nun on the phone and tell her I was a relative. They won’t release any information on her condition.”

  “Maybe she needs a rest. You said she was a rather high-strung woman,” Catherine reminded her son.

  “I didn’t think it was anything more than too much caffeine and too little time for herself. She was one of my best readers. Such insight. She’s sharp. I bet she could hold her end of a discussion with Greene.”

  “Ah, the mythical Nash Greene, secondhand bookseller with a Columbia University pedigree.”

  “He must be doing well; he has a new employee. A pretty redhead. I found her charming.”

  “Perhaps someone you would like to invite to supper?” Catherine urged.

  “Mother, she’s a child.”

  “Don’t be so fussy, Wendell. A younger woman would bring a fresh perspective and maybe grandchildren…”

  “Now you’ve gone too far,” Wendell said and walked down the hall to his room and slammed the door.

  ~

  Kabir looked at the caller ID and saw One More Time displayed. He picked it up, relieved it wasn’t Detective Jones. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Patel, Nash Greene.”

  “Hello, Nash, how are you this evening?”

  “I’m doing well. I was looking at my records and wanted to ask if you had found a first edition of Far Pavilions or would you like me to continue to search for one?”

  “It must be pristine.”

  “I wouldn’t offer you anything less than that,” Nash said with an edge.

  “I’m sorry, Nash. I’ve had a hell of a few days.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Oh, dear me, no.”

  “Wendell Baumbach came into the shop today. Are you still in his book group or have you found a better audience for your wit?”

  Kabir laughed. It felt good to put his worry aside and speak with another educated man. “I do get weary of their platitudes, but I think I’ve been a good influence on some of them. Marianne’s comments used to be more like a child’s book report, but last month, she had some terrific insights on the thriller we were reading.”

  “Is that Marianne Irving?”

  “Why yes.”

  “She’s a regular at the bookshop. I haven’t seen her for a while though. She comes in with Wendell’s list, and I do my best to find her some deals.”

  “She is a little tight with her money. But a woman living alone must be prudent.”

  “I sent her home with a dozen books, including one containing a position paper on Burnett. I hope it was helpful.”

  “She also had a black leather-bound book with her other gems.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about?”

  “She had it with the other books from your shop.”

  “Sorry, I remember her order, and she requested mildly worn volumes. All I gave her were either paperback or cloth-covered cardboard covers.”

  “I could have sworn. Come to think of it, she was rather puzzled seeing it there in her bag. I think she said, ‘Oh, the dear man must have given me this by mistake.’”

  “I have never been referred to as a dear man,” Nash insisted.

  “I know, that confused me too,” Kabir said and let the laughter bubble up.

  “Okay, I’ll not keep you from your evening. You may want to give Wendell a call. I think he’s worried that he’s lost you to another book club. I’ll keep looking for a copy of The Far Pavilions that isn’t tearstained.”

  “Goodbye, Nash, thank you for calling,” Kabir said and hung up.

  Nash pulled up the copy of Marianne’s order and the copy of the books he filled the order with. There wasn’t anything that had a leather cover. Anything like that he kept in the humidistat-controlled case. He walked over and unlocked it, did a quick inventory, and all the books were accounted for. Most of them were either Bibles or prayer books.

  He shut the cabinet and did a tour of the store. He spent his time straightening books and looking at some of the latest best sellers, pondering when the world would shift away from political bios and back into books that made you feel. The bells rang over the door as a couple walked in, most likely killing time before their dinner reservation. Still Nash greeted them. He walked back behind the counter, willing the romance books to behave themselves. The events of the day surprised him. It wasn’t the books responding to him and Clara but he and Clara responding to each other. They had gone from kisses to conversation and back again when Clara told him she had to leave.

  He wanted to close the shop and walk her home. He could tell that she was weighing what had been a beautiful afternoon against the awkwardness of leaving her at her doorstep. “I have some mundane tasks to complete before I call it a night. Nash, I thank you for a wonderful end to a horrible day. I’m warning you, I’m a greedy woman. I want more Nash Greene.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “I think you’re too brave to be scared by what we could be together.”

  “You’re very astute.”

  He kissed her again, and she made little noises that caused the books upstairs to sway on their shelves. After he had watched her walk out of sight, he returned to the store and climbed the stairs. “What’s going on up here?” he asked as he returned the books to their shelves. There were books on deportment, books on romance, and finally, books on a subject that he had to comment on. “Really! I believe I know the mechanics of things.”

  ~

  Jones watched the unconscious Marc Davis. He had returned from surgery where the
y had removed his stitches, stopped the bleeding on what was left of his tongue, and removed any tooth roots that could cause further infection. It was a miracle he hadn’t died. The blood that was on Kabir and Marc’s blood weren’t a match, but the worry that Kabir had killed someone had sent the detective to Marc’s home in the first place. Indirectly, Kabir saved Marc. But from whom? Did Marc pull his own teeth and tongue out? Why? And whose blood was all over Kabir?

  Officer Blunt walked in and handed Jones a coffee. “I called over to animal control, and the dog is doing better. Evidently, it was restrained and had chewed through its lead. They found plastic fibers in between his teeth. I think the dog was trying to save this man from himself.”

  “Or from someone else. We don’t have all the tests back yet, but there is no blood match between the blood on Kabir Patel and Marc’s.”

  “What do Kabir and Marc have in common?” Officer Blunt asked.

  “The Page Turners book club. I think I’ll ask Wendell Baumbach if we could have a few minutes of his time.”

  “I knew a Baumbach when I was in school, Catherine Baumbach. I wonder if they are related. She’d be about eighty now,” Blunt said. “She was an excellent teacher, a bit old school, but she had a knack at getting the best out of us.”

  Jones flipped open his notebook. “Catherine Baumbach is the woman who identified herself as Wendell’s mother.”

  “Small world,” Brenda said. “Detective, I’m about to go off shift, unless you need something else?”

  “Are you heading for animal control?”

  “Yes, I’m going to spend a little time with Mr. Davis’s dog.”

  “According to the vet bills, the dog’s name is Argos.”

  “Argos, like Odysseus’s faithful dog?” Brenda asked.