A Novel Death (13 page)

End of story.

Except that why couldn't Margaret and Amil between them fend him off? Unless he had an accomplice with him. Or a gun. But neither of them had been shot.

When I woke up again the room was shimmering with morning light; the striped couch seemed to be dancing up and down. I lifted my arm and pain radiated along my back, the payoff for having slept upright for five hours. Raj had crept back and was creating a warm spot in my lap. Reflexively, I reached down and petted him. He gave his usual yelp, and then looked at me anxiously with his crossed blue eyes. Spending the night in a living room chair meant something was amiss.

"It's okay, baby," I crooned. "Want some coffee?"

Coffee. Despite the pain I knew I would feel, I leaned forward and pushed myself up. I had dreamed about Amil's parents in India, something drawn-out and melancholy. I had been trying to explain to them that I had gone to the beach with Amil and he disappeared, something that they refused to understand.

In the kitchen I gave the cappuccino maker a longing look, but did not remember how to froth the milk. The directions were somewhere under a furl of cheesecloth, and appliance warranties. But even if I found the instructions, I would have to try and figure them out. Instead I measured coffee into the French press, and went upstairs to take a bath.

By the time I was sitting on the stone bench beside the fish pond, clean and sipping coffee, it was still only six thirty A.M. For several minutes I watched the flashes of orange and black, the languorous silky fins, but I couldn't stop thinking about Amil. I was also becoming obsessed by the mystery seller. Had something I said made him think I was only an amateur, that I wouldn't bid high enough on what he had? Truth be told, I probably wouldn't have been able to, but how did he know? In the old days the phone company kept records of incoming local calls, but with unlimited calling plans I wasn't sure they bothered anymore. I supposed I could try to find out.

But why even bother? I needed money myself. I'd fallen behind in my work the last few days. I had a pile of packages to open, checks to log in and cash, and new books to catalog.

Reluctantly I picked up my coffee cup and went back into the house. Although I tried to keep the business confined to the barn, I now had a stack of Media Mail packages and envelopes on the din ing room table. It was not Christmas in July; most of the packages were either books I had ordered for customers or found as sleepers on eBay. Carrying the armload over to the wing chair, I sat down and picked up the first box. It was a package I had mailed out myself; across the front was scrawled, "No such street number" Sighing, I put it to one side to investigate. The second package held The Pop- Up Book of Phobias, which I had bought on eBay and hoped to briefly enjoy before I sold it. The third package had a Port Lewis postmark and a post office box for the return address. It was the smallest of the Priority Mail boxes used to mail books, designated by the post office as Large Video. Modern novels and children's chapter books fit compactly inside. I saw that it had not gone through the postage meter. Instead, someone had created a colorful train of stamps that nearly ran off the right-hand corner.

But-had they forgotten to put something inside? The box felt too light to hold anything at all.

Prying open the sticky flap, I wondered if I would need my utility knife. But the cardboard fold yielded to pressure. I pulled out a crumpled New York Times page and a small package of bubble wrap. But there was no book inside. I ripped off the clear mailing tape and retrieved a piece of white paper wrapped around a small brass key. On the inside of the paper Margaret had written in her distinct angular script: Delhi, please keep this safe. If something happens, you'll know where to look.

I stared at the postmark. It had been stamped in Port Lewis on Friday and probably been delivered Saturday. But that was the only thing that was clear. Keep what safe for her? Surely not the key. If anything happens-and something had-you'll know where to look. But I didn't. I hadn't a clue. Her house was the logical place to start. But maybe there was a locked desk drawer or file cabinet in the bookstore.

Shakily, I went to the kitchen for the coffee I had stashed in the thermos. I had just started pouring a cup when there was a sharp rapping on the front door. It turned me to cement. The key! I had to hide the key! Darting back into the living room, I stuffed the note and key under the cushion of the wing chair. Then I went to the door.

I did not know the man on the porch. He looked about my age, perhaps forty-five, with a colorless buzz cut and hazel eyes that indicated they had seen everything and didn't like most of it. His mouth pursed with the same sentiment. Even at this hour he had on a tan suit that contrasted nicely with his olive skin. A political candidate? But no. Candidates smiled at you and didn't show up at seven A.M.

He took out a black leather case and flipped the top down. It showed a silver badge. "I'm Detective Marselli, Suffolk Homicide. You're Mrs. Laine?"

"Uh-yes. Delhi Laine. Come in." I unlocked the screen door and extended it all the way, and then led him into the living room. Thank God I had not brought my pillow and sheet downstairs and left them on the sofa like a derelict bunking down. I sat in the wing chair, on top of Margaret's key, and watched him settle himself on the striped couch across from me.

"Too early for you?" He sounded as if he hoped it was.

"No, I get up early. Want coffee?"

"No.'

We stared at each other.

"You found Mr. Singh when you were working at the bookstore?"

So I explained. I told him about how I had found Margaret and even mentioned Lily. But when I explained about deciding to keep the bookstore open, his head jerked up.

"You don't work there?"

"No. But I thought Margaret would need the money, so I kept it open"

"You aren't employed there?"

"No, we're just friends. I'd fill in sometimes when she needed help. I'm a bookseller too."

"Do you know if she kept a lot of money in the store? Or removed it at night?"

"I don't. Sorry."

"How about security: Was the shop alarmed?"

"Alarmed?" For a moment I pictured the leather couches and oriental rugs upset at the goings-on. "Oh. No. At least I never saw any keypad"

And then he erupted. "Let me understand this: You didn't really work there, you don't know squat about how she handled the money or locked up at night. Yet you suddenly decided to play store, totally screwing up a crime scene!"

I jumped. Who did he think he was talking to? "I wasn't `playing store' ! I'd worked there before. Many times. I even checked with Officer Kazazian and he said to go ahead!"

"Maybe because you didn't tell him about the ladder being tampered with. That didn't set off any alarms?"

I was almost too shocked to answer. "I called him as soon as I saw it! He should have checked it anyway. He's the policeman."

"Allegedly." But he was calming down. "Okay. You were in the shop, you smelled something bad and went downstairs and found Mr. Singh."

"Actually my daughter noticed the smell. I have allergies this time of year; her nose is much better. I mean, I did smell something, but it seemed sweet like, you know, aftershave." I was babbling, no doubt relieved that he was no longer furious.

He eyed me curiously, as if the men I knew had strange tastes in toiletries. "But you knew Mr. Singh was in there."

"Of course not! How could I?"

"What was your relationship with him?"

"Amil? We didn't really have a relationship. I saw him when I went to visit Margaret."

"Oh please, Ms. Laine. You went to his house"

"But-that was after he disappeared! I was trying to find him."

He leaned toward me, his thighs muscular in his tan suit pants. An attractive man, I realized, though exhaustion was making his eyelids droopy. "Why were you looking for him?"

"Because I told Alex Kazazian I would. He told me he wanted to talk to him."

This detective said everything with his eyes. Now they slanted skeptically. "So as a good citizen, helping out the police. How did you know where he lived?"

"I didn't. Until I found out from the university. Amil was, had been, a grad student there." Before he could ask why the university would tell me, I added, "My husband teaches at Stony Brook. Dr. Colin Fitzhugh. They weren't sure Amil was still at that address, so I went to the house. But I called the police as soon as I found out!"

He seemed to accept that. Or perhaps the fact that I had a husband who was a professor made it less likely that Amil and I had been dancing cheek-to-cheek. "Was Mr. Singh involved romantically with anyone? Did he have a girlfriend?"

"I don't know. He was very attractive." Uh-oh. "On the other hand, he got into a lot of fights," I added quickly.

"Fights? What kind of fights?"

I explained what had happened with Margaret. "And there was the instructor at Stony Brook. He cost her her tenure."

"Would you like to tell me what you're talking about?"

I did. He made more notes.

"Who else did he have altercations with?"

"His housemates, I think. At least one of them, Russell Patterson; he seems to hate him. I don't know why," I added, to forestall more sarcastic questions.

He shifted against the striped sofa back, which was a little too low to support his shoulders comfortably. "Did you have fights with Mr. Singh?"

"Me? Of course not! Why would I have fights with him? I hardly knew him. Everyone thought he was charming. Margaret certainly liked him. And Shara Patterson. And that woman at the university. I don't think it was a woman anyway. More like an angry husband. Or a drug deal gone wrong."

That head jerk again. "Why a drug deal?"

I hesitated. "When Amil took out his wallet on Friday to write down his phone number, the wallet seemed stuffed with money. A lot of bills."

He held up a callused palm-a home do-it-yourselfer? "Stop. Right. There" He enunciated very slowly, as if speaking to someone who was mentally challenged. "Why was this man you `hardly know' giving you his phone number?"

Damn. "I don't know! When I saw him in the shop Friday, he seemed upset and wanted to tell me something about Margaret. Then he saw someone out the window and stopped. I don't know who. Then he wrote down his number on a card and said to call him Saturday."

His head found the wall behind him and he leaned against it, eyes closed. "How long, Ms. Laine?"

I shivered. "How long what?"

"How long would it have taken you to realize that this is information that the police needs to know?"

I accepted the question as rhetorical.

"So he was carrying a lot of money and was upset with Margaret Weller. And for some reason he wanted to confide in you"

I shrugged. "I have kids."

He accepted the shorthand of my being a mother figure. "Any idea at all what he wanted to tell you? Problems on the job?"

"I asked Margaret after he pushed the coffee back at her, and she said that she was going to have to let him go. But-mostly she was acting like it was just an accident, that he hadn't meant anything. When I said she should call the police, she thought that was silly." I could not tell if he thought it was silly too. "But it burned her face! It could have blinded her. To me that's assault."

"Battery," he corrected absently.

Whatever

"Anything else you've forgotten to tell me?"

"Actually, there is," I confessed. "When I reopened the shop, I moved the shirt that had been under Margaret's head and the Nike, and put them out next to the trash. I didn't want customers to fall over them. I didn't know they were evidence."

I expected a tirade, but he only looked interested. "So you did that." Then he flipped back several pages in his notebook. "So you don't know if Ms. Weller kept a lot of cash in the shop."

I almost laughed. "There's not that much cash in a used book business. Any big sales would be by credit card. But Margaret can tell you that when she's conscious."

He stood up. "Ms. Weller won't be telling anybody anything."

"What?" My hand flew to my throat. In all yesterday's craziness, I hadn't called the hospital.

"She's in a coma. And as far as you're concerned, the shop's closed."

"Don't worry! You couldn't pay me to go back there. Not after finding Amil. The smell alone. Not after two people I know were attacked there!"

He watched me with a small smile that was not heartwarming.

Shut up, Delhi.

"You have the key?"

For a horrible second I thought he meant the one she had sent me in the mail. How did he even know? Then I realized he meant the key to the bookshop.

He held out his hand.

I found my woven bag on the kitchen table and fished out my knot of keys. I wasn't sure why my fingers were shaking, but it took a long time to untwist the silver key from the double ring.

I dropped it into his outstretched palm.

"I'll be back," he warned. "There's too much that doesn't make sense." He handed me a card with a raised line drawing of a bull inside a circle, the Suffolk County logo. I saw that his full name was Francis X. Marselli. With his hand on the front doorjamb, he added, "Thank you, Ms. Laine. You've been a veritable fount of information."

I knew he was referencing my academic connections, ironically. But it sounded more teasing than mean-spirited. And I felt happy that a real policeman was finally in charge.

It wasn't until he was halfway down the front path of bobbing hosta wands and daylilies that I remembered that Margaret's key might unlock a drawer in the bookshop that I was now banned from.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.