Murder Between the Covers (2 page)

DENIED, the computer said.

Helen had typed in the wrong transaction number. She’d have to start all over again, retyping the ten-digit transaction number, five-digit store number, and six-digit date.

“Just give me my book,” the Hunk said, reaching for the Burt Plank thriller.

“I can’t do that, sir,” she said, sliding it under the counter. Finally she typed in all the numbers.

“I hope you’re done now,” he sneered, and this time it didn’t look sexy at all. He did not look like the young Elvis anymore. He was mean and arrogant.

“Not quite,” she said. “I still need the manager’s approval.” She paged Gayle.

“For a freakin’ paperback?” the Hunk said.

Helen looked nervously at the line. It was even longer. All those paying customers were kept waiting because of another half-witted Page Turner policy.

“
I want my book!
” the Hunk screamed.

Helen’s face was hot with embarrassment. The other cus

tomers in line shifted uneasily. A few glared. She didn’t blame them. She was new and slow. The store policy was old and stupid. It was a fatal combination.

Behind the Hunk, an elegant blonde in a blue sundress crossed her arms and said, “People like him should not be let out to ruin the day for the rest of us.” The blonde was angry, but not at Helen.

A short woman with a majestic bosom and a New York accent said loudly, “Rude people stink.”

“I am so tired of public rudeness,” a pale gray-haired woman agreed. She had the soft voice of an NPR announcer, but the Hunk heard her and turned the color of raw liver. He didn’t look nearly so pretty in that color. Helen understood now why he had that ringless hand.

By the time Gayle the manager ran up and typed in the approval code, every customer in line had condemned the Hunk. He took his book and left without another word. The bookstore customers had held their own antirude rebellion.

The elegant blonde handed Helen a P
aris Review
to ring up. “Don’t let him upset you, dear. You’re doing a good job,” she said.

Helen had never felt so good about a dead-end job. Page Turner III was a jerk, and she wished she made more than six seventy an hour. But the customers could be surprisingly kind, the booksellers were fun, and she loved books. Work would be perfect, if someone would just murder Page.

For the next half hour Helen rang up stacks of computer manuals, romance novels, and mysteries until they blurred into one endless book. Then, suddenly, there were no more customers. They seemed to come in waves. By some silent agreement, everyone in the store would rush forward to buy books at the same time. Then they’d all leave together. The only sound now was the Muzak, sterilizing a Beatles song.

Helen looked at the clock on the computer. Four o’clock. She was off work in thirty minutes, not a moment too soon. She only hoped the rest of the customers were reasonably normal.

It looked like she was going to get her wish. The twentysomething woman at the counter looked like a tourist from Connecticut. She had a small sunburned nose, a short practical haircut, and baggy khaki shorts that showed knobby knees. She looked familiar, but Helen wasn’t sure why.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for books on astrology,” she said.

“They’re in New Age, aisle twelve,” Helen said.

“Where’s that?”

“Between Religion and Self-Improvement,” Helen said. Wasn’t religion supposed to be self-improving? she wondered. Why did they need two categories?

“You can see it from here,” Helen said, pointing. It was polite to point in a bookstore. Besides, she couldn’t say, “It’s the aisle with all the books on the floor.” New Age attracted the biggest slobs in the store. Helen wondered why “free spirit” meant “inconsiderate.”

The woman returned with a copy of
Astrology for Dum
mies
, which Helen thought was a wonderfully apt title. Something clicked, and Helen knew who the woman was. She’d just moved into Helen’s apartment complex. Helen hadn’t had a chance to introduce herself yet. The introduction would have to wait. Customers were lining up again.

The woman fixed her deep brown eyes on Helen and said, “I’m psychic. I know your past.”

Helen paled. She’d buried her past after that terrible day in court. Even her own mother didn’t know where she was now.

“I can tell you have come a great distance,” the psychic said.

Helen felt the fear grip her stomach and pull it inside out. She had run from St. Louis, crisscrossing the country to throw off her pursuers, before she had arrived in Fort Lauderdale.

“You are Russian,” the psychic said.

Helen giggled in pure relief. She was as Russian as bratwurst and sauerkraut. Her family was St. Louis German. Helen had changed her name when she ran. This woman was no more psychic than a cement block.

“Not even close,” Helen said cheerfully, shoving the book in a bag.

The woman handed Helen a card that said, MADAME MUFFY’S PSYCHIC SERVICE. HELPFUL ADVICE ON ALL AFFAIRS. TELL PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. $20 PALM READING WITH AD. GET ONE FREE QUESTION IF YOU CALL NOW!!!!!

“Madame Muffy?” Helen said. “What kind of name is that? What sort of psychic wears a pink golf shirt?”

“Spirits on the astral plane do not care about frivolous earthly matters,” Muffy said.

“True. But people here have certain expectations. You need some Birkenstocks and dangly earrings.”

“Listen, sweetie, I have a lot of business clients. They want advice on the stock market,” Madame Muffy said. “They don’t want me traipsing into their office in some weird getup. There’s a Lighthouse Point executive—I can’t give you his name because my clients are confidential— who is a million dollars richer because of me.”

“Right.” Helen handed Muffy her book bag. Only South Florida would have a psychic called Muffy. Helen figured that was why Madame Muffy did such a rotten job predicting her past. She was too normal for the paranormal.

“May I help the next customer?” Helen said.

Two boys stepped up to the counter. The eight-year-old gave her a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a copy of
The Ad
ventures of Captain Underpants.

“Another Captain Underpants fan,” Helen said. “Are you one, too?” she asked the older boy, a solemn twelve.

He looked offended. “That stuff’s for kids.”

“Who do you like?” Helen asked.

“Steinbeck,” the boy said. “Ever read
The Grapes of
Wrath
? Steinbeck rules.”

Steinbeck rules.
Helen’s heart lifted when she heard those words. This was the future talking. There were still readers, despite what the cynics said. Helen couldn’t stop thinking about the boy as she walked home on Las Olas.

Las Olas was the fashionable shopping street in Fort Lauderdale, but it had nothing for her. She passed trendy restaurants where the entrées cost more than she made in a day, and chic shops where hand-painted gifts cost more than she made in a week.

The Coronado Tropic Apartments were only four blocks from the bookstore. In the slanting late-afternoon light, the white two-story Art Deco building looked like a vision of old Florida. The building’s exuberant S-curve seemed hopeful. The turquoise trim was jaunty. Purple bougainvillea spilled into the tiled pool in romantic extravagance. Helen ignored the fact that the nearly new air conditioners were starting to rattle and drip rust down the white paint.

Peggy, the woman in 2B, was on a chaise longue by the pool, with Pete the parrot on her shoulder. Peggy looked rather like an exotic bird herself, with her dark red hair and elegant beak of a nose. She was beautiful in an offbeat way, but Pete was the only male Peggy tolerated. She seemed to have given up on men. Instead, Peggy spent all her money on lottery tickets.

“Hey, Helen,” she said, waving her over. “I’ve got a new system.”

Peggy always had a new system for winning the lottery. Before Helen could find out what it was, a small woman in baggy khaki shorts interrupted. “Do you have the time?” she asked Helen.

It was Madame Muffy. Helen recognized the little psychic immediately, but Muffy did not remember her. People who wore name tags were often invisible away from their work.

“If you’re really psychic, why do you need to know the time?”

“I use my powers for serious things.” Madame Muffy stared at Helen until she said, “Oh, you’re the bookstore lady. I just moved into 2C. I’m your new neighbor.”

Helen hoped Madame Muffy could not read her mind. She was not happy about this charlatan living at the Coronado.

“Let me read your palm—both of you—as a gift for my new neighbors,” Muffy said. “You can ask one question, no charge.”

Helen started to refuse, but Peggy looked amused. “Come on, Helen, don’t be a stick. It will be fun.”

“Squawwwk!” Pete said. It sounded like a protest to Helen.

Three people and one parrot went upstairs to Muffy’s apartment. Her living room was as plain as her preppy outfits. There was a desk with a computer, a small round table covered with a brown cloth, three white wicker chairs from Pier 1, and a large poster with prices for tarot, palm, and crystal-ball readings. There were no pictures on the wall. The speckled terrazzo floor was bare.

“You go first,” Peggy said.

Helen sat down reluctantly and put her hand palm-up on the table. The table wobbled, and she realized it was plastic patio furniture. When Madame Muffy took her hand, Helen stiffened, although the psychic’s touch was warm and gentle. “What is your question?” she said.

“What about my job?” Helen said.

“That’s it?” Peggy said. “What about romance? What about your life?”

I can’t risk any revelations about my life, Helen thought. “My love life is fine,” she said. “I’m worried about work.”

“You have a powerful aura,” Muffy said. “As powerful as Martha Stewart’s.”

Helen saw her aura wrapped in white tulle and silk ribbons.

“You were meant to be a leader,” Muffy said. “You were meant to make money and hold a powerful position. You almost had it, and then you lost it.”

Helen could feel the blood draining from her face. In St. Louis she’d made six figures. She’d been director of pensions and benefits for a big corporation. Then she came home early one day and found her husband, Rob, who was supposed to be building a new deck, nailing their neighbor, Sandy. Helen had picked up a handy crowbar and ended her marriage with a couple of swift swings. She still remembered the satisfying crunching sound.

“I see you working with money. You like it. You understand it. But you are working below your capacity. Something in your past is blocking your success. Your life will not move forward unless you remove this block. For a thirty-five-dollar palm reading, I can find out the name of the person who is blocking you.”

I can save myself thirty-five bucks, Helen thought. I already know the name. And I know what Muffy is: a fraud. Of course she saw me working with money. She saw me standing at a cash register. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out I used to have money. I’m wearing four-year-old Escada. It’s a little threadbare, but better than anything I can afford now.

That’s what Helen hated most about bad psychics. They were good at messing with your mind. For a minute she’d almost believed the malignant Muffy could tell the future.

“You need me, sweetie, to straighten out your life,” Muffy said. “Come see me when you’re ready to talk.”

“I will,” Helen said, prying her hand from Madame Muffy’s grasp. Right after I marry G. Gordon Liddy on Las Olas in rush hour, she thought.

“And you can get me a discount at that bookstore,” Muffy said. “Next.”

Peggy sat down at the undercover patio table and presented her palm. Pete the parrot patrolled her shoulder restlessly, letting out earsplitting squawks.

“Calm down, boy,” Peggy said. She took back her palm to pet her parrot. Pete settled into a sulky silence.

“Now,” Muffy said. “What’s your question?”

Helen could predict that one. Sure enough, Peggy said, “When will I win the lottery?”

Madame Muffy took Peggy’s palm and said, “I can give you some lucky numbers if you—”

She stopped suddenly, looked closely at Peggy’s palm, and turned as white as the Pier 1 wicker. “I see death,” she said. “I see death, destruction, and murder.”

Then Madame Muffy fell face-forward on the table.

Helen slapped Madame Muffy’s face. The little psychic moaned, but did not open her eyes. Helen hit her again.

“Maybe I should get her a glass of water,” Peggy said. Pete the parrot was silent, watching them with his beady, intelligent eyes.

“This is better,” Helen said.

“I didn’t know you knew first aid.”

“I don’t.” Helen slapped Muffy again. “But I feel better slapping her. She pulled a rotten trick, scaring you like that.”

“I’m not scared,” Peggy said, but her voice was high and a little shrill. Peggy was not her usual cool self.

Madame Muffy opened her eyes. She was white as unbaked bread, except for the red slap marks on her face.

“Are you OK?” Helen said.

“I must have fainted. I have low blood sugar. Please leave.”

“Can we get you some food?” Peggy said. “How about some orange juice? That’s good for low blood sugar.”

Madame Muffy turned even whiter when Peggy spoke. “Just go,” she said, herding them toward the door. “Please. Leave me alone. I’ll be fine as soon as you’re out of here.”

As they walked down the stairs, Peggy said shakily, “That was definitely weird. What do you think she means about seeing death, destruction, and murder?”

“She doesn’t see anything but the next buck,” Helen said. “At the store she told me I was Russian.”

“She was trying to hit me up for money for lucky lottery numbers, but then she turned strange. What if she actually saw my future?”