The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (21 page)

“What made you go in there in the first place?” I asked.

She twisted her hands together. “It was the stress. I steal when I'm stressed. It's like . . . like an outlet. When I'm with my mom for any length of time—well, you've seen her. She treats me like I'm twelve, not twenty-two, and she tells every group she talks to about how she's had a bestseller every year except the year I was born. How do you think that makes me feel?” She sniffed hard. “She drives me crazy. Anyway, Saturday night, she was going on and on about how my costume wasn't appropriate, how I should have come as a character from one of her stupid books, and I just . . . I just
needed . . .” She stopped and dragged in a ragged breath. “There wasn't anything in the public areas worth lifting, so I just kind of wandered. I came to that hall with all the trophies and the artwork, and I . . . browsed. The office door wasn't locked, so I went in, just to see.”

She stilled and her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall behind me. I could tell she wasn't seeing us, that she was reliving her time in Wallace's office. It was a little eerie, frankly.

Her voice grew softer, more monotone. “I never know what I'm going to want in advance. Sometimes an object speaks to me. Like the crystal paperweight at the inn. I'd been in and out past it a couple of dozen times before I just needed to have it. I stood in the doorway a moment, making sure no one was coming. A man came out of the restroom and went toward the party. He didn't see me.”

I glanced at Maud with raised eyebrows, and she shrugged. The timing was wrong for the restroom visitor to be the killer. The man probably only needed to relieve himself of a couple of beers or martinis.

“What did he look like?” I asked anyway.

As if she'd forgotten we were in the room, Allyson started. “Oh! Uh, I'm not sure. I only saw his back. Tallish—maybe six feet? Short hair. Just a guy.”

“So then what happened?” Maud prompted.

Allyson blinked twice, slowly, and continued. “I went in—it was dim. The only light was from a desk lamp. Heavy furniture, kind of ugly. I wandered toward the desk. Computer, printer, iPod dock—not interested. I
never want anything big or bulky. A trophy—shiny and gold. I picked it up. It was a golfer, a man—it had a plaque. It felt awkward, heavier at the base than at the top. I put it back. Framed photos—nothing special. They didn't speak to me. There were display cases on the far wall. I went to them. Indian jewelry—turquoise and silver, beads. Pretty, delicate. A beaded bracelet that I couldn't take my eyes off. Intricate designs in green and black and yellow, a silver clasp. I tried to open the glass lid, but it was locked. Damn. I started toward the desk to look for the key, but I wasn't watching where I was going, and I bumped into a table. A stack of books came tumbling down—so loud!” For the first time since starting her recital, Allyson made eye contact with me, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open. “Too loud. I was sure someone had heard. Someone would come. My mom would be so mad. I didn't even bother to pick up the books. I ran out of there and down the hall and back to the party.” Her gaze went from me to Maud. “I told you I couldn't help.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Maud said. “If you think of anything else—”

“I don't want to steal, you know,” Allyson said, her fingers scratching at a spot on her neck below her right ear. “Like right now, I don't want to steal. I don't go around all day looking for things to lift. But then sometimes, I
have
to steal. This itchy feeling will come over me, sort of a cross between a tingle and hives, and I have to steal something. I just have to.”

She didn't say it as if she were trying to get us to understand. Something in her voice told me she'd given
up on making anyone understand her compulsion. She was explaining, nothing more. I felt sad for her and for Constance and Merle. I felt like telling her to go for a hike, or to the gym, when she needed an outlet for stress, but I had to suppose a therapist or three had already tried to help her find more acceptable ways of relieving stress. I was no psychologist and I wondered how common kleptomania was.

“Sometimes I give stuff back,” she offered with a tremulous smile. “When I can remember where I got it, and if I can do it without getting caught.”

I caught a glimpse of the bedside clock and realized I needed to beat feet if I was going to shower and change, and still get to the Club on time to set up for the birthday party. I signaled to Maud and we said our good-byes to Allyson. She stood in the middle of the floor, unmoving, as we left.

“That is one mixed-up young woman,” Maud said in a low voice as we descended the stairs. “I'm going to read up on kleptomania.”

Constance and Merle were hovering at the foot of the stairs, and Constance took one look at us and plunged up them without a word. Merle looked at Maud. “How'd it go?”

“How long has it been going on?” Maud asked.

“The stealing?” He tugged at beard hairs. “Since she was five. It started shortly after she entered kindergarten. She has a form of kleptomania called sporadic, where there are brief episodes of stealing interspersed with longer remission periods. Every time, we think
she won't go back to stealing, and every time, well, here we are again.”

I thought about what Allyson had said about stress. I was grateful I turned to chocolate for stress relief, rather than theft or something equally destructive. I surreptitiously patted my derriere, for once not minding the extra padding. A few extra pounds were little enough to carry around compared with the weight of guilt and frustration Allyson and her whole family carried.

“I can't even imagine,” Maud said quietly as we crossed the hall to the front door.

I knew she was talking about Allyson's compulsion.

“Nope, me neither.”

Faint knocking and indistinct voices drifted from the second floor, and I paused with my hand on the knob. I realized someone was going door-to-door upstairs. Doors opened and closed, and footsteps shuffled. I turned and looked up to see Constance and Allyson standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. The Stewarts, Cosmo Zeller, and Francesca Bugle, all looking curious, gaggled behind them. Constance and Allyson started down, with Allyson carrying a wicker basket.

“Wait,” Constance told me and Maud. “Allyson has a few things she wants to return.” Constance gripped the banister so hard the bones of her hand stood out white against the thin flesh.

I wondered how many times she'd played out some version of this same scene.

“Merle,” she said, surging into the breakfast room, “get Sandy and Dave. I think that's everybody, right, Allyson?”

Without looking up, Allyson nodded. We all trooped into the cheery room, bright with sunlight streaming through the side window. Allyson set the wicker basket on the nearest breakfast table, and then shuffled back a few steps, as if to dissociate herself from its contents.

“What did you say this is about again?” Lucas Stewart asked. He wore a raggedy T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and flip-flops, and his hair was damp. I figured he'd just gotten out of the shower. He looked unbearably hot, but his hotness didn't affect me nearly so much now that I knew how he and Mary had conned Eloise Hufnagle. It was almost as if the knowledge had smudged the sharp lines of his cheekbones, dulled the blue of his eyes, or softened the muscular planes of his chest. Impossible of course, but he definitely didn't seem as handsome as he had when I'd first seen him at Book Bliss.

Mary approached the table and rattled the basket. “What's in here?” She started poking through the contents as Merle returned, bringing Sandy Milliken and her husband, Dave. A big man, Dave was clearly still suffering from his cold, honking his nose loudly into a tissue as he entered.

Several “bless yous” welcomed him.

“I've got an important conference call with the studio,” Cosmo said impatiently. “What's this all about?” He sat in a chair pulled out from a table, ankle resting on his knee, foot jiggling.

Allyson gave her mother a pleading look, but Constance shook her head resolutely. Merle, plucking at his beard, said, “You can do it, baby.”

With a fleeting smile for her father, Allyson straightened her shoulders and said, “I've, uh, collected a few things here that, uh, might belong to some of you. I, uh, wanted to make sure you got them back.” Without further explanation, she gestured limply toward the wicker basket.

I saw Maud whispering to Sandy by the door. Sandy at first looked taken aback, then nodded slowly. She walked toward the table as everyone else hung back. Peering into the basket, she shifted a couple of items and then lifted a snow globe. She shook it vigorously so the “snow” became a blizzard obscuring the pagoda inside. “My paperweight,” she said. “I'm so glad you found it for me, Allyson.” She leaned over to hug the girl.

Allyson stiffened, her eyes wide with surprise, and then returned Sandy's hug awkwardly. I shot a look at Maud, who had her arms crossed over her chest and a satisfied smile on her face. I didn't know what she'd said to Sandy, but it had apparently convinced the B and B owner to be charitable. “And, look, Dave,” Sandy said, returning to the basket and rooting through it again. “Here's that ugly shot glass you've been looking for, the one from that bar in Texas. I was hoping it was lost for good.”

Dave greeted the return of his shot glass with a massive sneeze. The glass tumbled out of his paw and bounced across the carpet toward me. I picked it up,
noting the grinning skull etched in the glass above the words “Dead Man's Saloon,” and the tarnished silver rim. “Is it broken?” Sandy asked hopefully.

I shook my head, and she heaved an exaggerated sigh.

Dave, mumbling something about “more Sudafed,” bore his prize away in the direction of the kitchen and their living quarters.

Mary Stewart looked into the basket next, and pulled out a silver bangle bracelet and a travel alarm clock with an iridescent face. “I thought I'd forgotten to bring my clock,” she exclaimed. “And my bracelet.” Her long, narrow eyes took in Allyson's discomfort. “I could swear I never even took this out of my suitcase, so I can't imagine how you came to find it. I
simply
can't imagine.” She faced Constance as she said it, rather than Allyson, and I could tell she was wondering how she could use the situation to her benefit. I figured she'd be hitting Constance up for a quote for her next book, or another joint signing, before the day was over.

Whatever Constance might have said was preempted by Lucas's exclamation. “My Super Tool!” He pulled out each of the blades and gadgets from a lethal-looking Swiss Army–type knife, as if to assure himself they were all there. He polished the longest blade with the hem of his shirt, rubbing at something sticky. “Where did you get this?” His gaze skewered Allyson.

The girl seemed to shrink in on herself. “I—I sometimes—I never remember exactly. . . .” She trailed off. Lucas looked like he would pursue it, but Mary,
perhaps taking her cue from Sandy, put a hand on his arm and shook her head.

Curious myself, I walked to the table, and looked into the basket. I was surprised to see something I recognized. “Hey, my sunglasses.” I plucked them out, and slid them atop my head. “I've been looking for these—couldn't imagine where I left them.”

Maud approached and looked over my shoulder. “Nope, nothing of mine,” she said. I wasn't surprised; Maud secured her glasses, pens, and whatnot in the multiple pockets of her cargo pants, and rarely misplaced anything.

Francesca Bugle, looking more casual than I'd yet seen her in a pair of stiff jeans topped with a Blackhawks sweatshirt, strode forward. Without the ubiquitous hats, her hair was a solid dark brown, devoid of highlights or grays, that hinted at a home dye job. Without ceremony, she examined the basket's contents, and pulled out a silver-framed three-by-five photo with a little gasp. Before she clasped it to her bosom, I caught a glimpse of a grinning young man leaning against a highly polished car of 1980s vintage. “My brother,” Francesca said. “I didn't even miss this until this morning.”

Newly suspicious of “brothers” and “sisters” because of the Stewarts, I cocked a doubtful brow, but when she held the photo out to show everyone, I could see the young man looked enough like her to be her twin. Clutching the frame in one hand, Francesca moved toward Allyson. The young woman looked
nervously up through her lashes at the older woman's approach.

“You're a klepto, I take it,” Francesca said.

The word jolted all of us, I think, but there was no judgment or condemnation in her voice.

Still as a mouse facing a cat, Allyson slid her eyes sideways, looking to her mother for guidance. Constance looked like she was going to leap to her daughter's defense, but Merle stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“That's got to be miserable, and if you don't want to talk about it, I understand,” Francesca said, either unaware of or ignoring the family byplay. “But I'd love to talk to you about it before I leave. I've just realized that making my protagonist's best friend a kleptomaniac in the follow-on to
Barbary Close
would open up all sorts of plot possibilities. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. I was debating whether to make her an alcoholic or give her a gambling addiction, but those are so overdone.” Enthusiasm made her talk faster. “Is kleptomania considered an illness like alcoholism? When did you come down with it? No, that's probably not the way to phrase it, is it?” She laughed heartily at herself. “When did you first know? What are the treatments? Obviously, they don't always work.”

Constance drew herself up, prepared to be offended, but Francesca was so clearly following a train of thought and not meaning to offend that Constance deflated without saying anything.