9

There are some people you meet who you connect with immediately. Claire of Ghost Mountain New and Used Books was one of those people for me. She was my age, or maybe a few years younger, and had the kind of engaging personality that could light up a room. Her eyes were somewhere between blue and the color of cold steel. There was an air of subdued intelligence about her, a sense she knew more than she was letting on, and that was one of the things I liked best about her from the beginning. Maybe I’d spent too much time with men like my father and men like Ronnie, who threw it all on the table as soon as you met them, leaving it up to you to sort through what was worthwhile and what wasn’t. At least in Ronnie’s case, I’d found there was a lot that was worthwhile. My father, unfortunately, had been made of bluster and unchecked ambition, and there was nothing about his life or legacy that didn’t make me feel ashamed.

“Earl Marcus,” Claire said, with just the slightest emphasis on my last name. She said this even before I introduced myself.

“That’s right,” I said, hesitating as I tried to decide how to best explain that I was nothing like my father.

I never got the chance. “I’ve read about you in the papers.” She beamed at me. “In fact, I even voted for you. Too bad you didn’t win. The one we got is an asshole.” She covered her mouth. “Oops. Sorry. I forget myself sometimes.”

“No worries. I appreciate the vote and agree with you one hundred percent.”

She continued to beam at me. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Did you come to buy books, to browse, or to talk?” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I’d love to just talk. Gets a little lonely in here sometimes.”

I smiled and looked around, taking in the store. The bookshop was a renovated old home just down the street from the library. The entire first floor was the bookstore, and I appreciated that the owner hadn’t knocked down any of the walls to create a larger space but instead had just made each room a kind of surprise. We were standing in what I believed had once been the dining room. There were three tables and several bookshelves, all loaded down with used books. Mystery/Crime and Thriller Room, the sign on the wall read. How appropriate.

I picked up a James Lee Burke novel I hadn’t read. “I’ll buy this, but I would like to talk too.”

“Best of both worlds. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll ring you up. Then we can have coffee.”

I followed her down a hall flanked on either side by smaller rooms, each one overflowing with books of every sort. There was one room that focused on transportation and seemed to contain both nonfiction and some fiction. We passed an “occult” room with stacks of books about magic and weird studies. There was a small table dedicated to H. P. Lovecraft and some other authors I’d never heard of who obviously wrote in that same vein. Two other rooms went by in a blur before we reached the kitchen.

This was the only room without books. Well, that wasn’t exactly accurate. There was a shelf of books behind the kitchen table, but on the wall above the shelf was a sign that said Not for Sale. Claire sat down at the table by an iPad and an old cash register.

“Cash or credit?” she said.

I gave her a ten and told her to keep the change.

“How long have you been working here?”

“About a year, but I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about you. And hopefully something juicy you’re working on.”

The bell in the front room rang as she spoke, and she shook her head as if to tell me not to worry, she wouldn’t let a customer interrupt what I had to say.

“Well,” I said, “I did want to check in with you about something I found recently.”

“Oh, goody,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to help solve a mystery.”

“Well, it’s not too exciting.” I held out the bookmark. “I assume you give these out to customers?” As soon as I asked the question, I realized she hadn’t given me a bookmark.

“No. Well, I did at one point, but I ran out.”

“When did you run out?”

“A couple of days ago. The owners are supposed to print some more soon, but with a different design.” She made a face. “This one makes me want to vomit. Where’d you find it? Was there a criminal in the bookstore?”

“I’m not sure about that, but I am looking for the man it belonged to.”

She moved a strand of blonde-gray hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “I can look at the credit card receipts and give you a list of names.”

“That would be amazing. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll have to figure out how to do it, of course. And it’s not going to work if he paid cash.”

“Sure. I don’t mind waiting.”

“Oh, I can’t do it now. I’ll have to talk to the Robinsons. They’re the owners. They handle the technical stuff. I’m just a glorified clerk.” She laughed.

“Can you run checks too?” I asked.

“We don’t take personal checks.”

“Not a bad policy around these parts.”

“Hey,” she said. “I have an idea. Why don’t we make a dinner date to discuss it further?”

She fixed me with a penetrating gaze that made me look away. I realized suddenly that I found her attractive.

“I’m actually, uh, spoken for,” I said.

“Ugh, please forgive me,” she said. “I’m not usually like this. I feel like a jerk.”

“No problem. You had no way of knowing …” I felt myself blushing a little and wasn’t sure why.

“Well,” she said. “This is awkward.” A floorboard creaked out in the front of the store, and I remembered we weren’t alone. “I’ll get that information to you soon, Mr. Marcus. Can you just leave me your number?”

I lowered my voice a little, keenly aware someone else was in the store. “Call me Earl. And sure, you got a pen?”

She reached for a pen, and I scribbled my name and number down on a yellow legal pad.

“Would you mind telling me a little bit about the case you’re working on? I’d love to help.”

A floorboard creaked again out front, and I smiled at her. “Do you need to check on that customer?”

She cupped her hands to her mouth and hollered hoarsely. “You need any help?”

No one answered.

“Gone,” she said.

“But …”

She waved her hand, dismissing my concern. I wasn’t ready to let it drop. “How many ways out are there?”

“Just one, but you never answered my question.”

I had to admire her persistence.

“You mean about the case?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, let’s just say it’s a case of secret identity. I’m trying to find out who a man is.”

“The man with my bookmark?”

“That’s right.”

“Is he dangerous?” I swear I thought I saw excitement in her eyes.

“No,” I said. “Hate to disappoint.”

She frowned. “I suppose that’s good.”

“Yeah. It’s good. I do have one more question for you, if you don’t mind?”

“Please.”

“Do you know much about the Harden School?”

“I’ve heard of it. Reform school, right? On the eastern edge of the county. It seems like there was a tragedy there in the eighties, or maybe it was the early nineties.”

“Tragedy?”

She smiled. “I remember bits and pieces of things. I’ll have to look it up.”

“If you find anything, can you please let me know?”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch.”

I stood up and reached across the table to shake her hand. She smiled at me as we shook, and I felt a little better, the awkwardness gone.

“I hope you succeed,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, and headed out of the kitchen, down the hallway. I glanced in the rooms off the hallway as I passed each but didn’t see anyone there. Once I reached the front room, I looked around but didn’t see anyone there either. Perhaps the customer I’d heard come in had left. But I had a way to test that theory easily enough. I walked to the exit and pushed the door open. The bell rang loudly.