Dreams are alive, more real than real . . . for a moment at least . . . that long magic moment before we wake.
—George R.R. Martin
I OPENED MY eyes to bright sunlight peeking between bedroom curtains. A little too bright, I realized with a shock. Squinting my nearsighted eyes, I read the digital clock. Today was Wednesday, and the time was—
“Eleven a.m.?!”
After all the drama last night, I’d forgotten to set the alarm. Now I’d slept in. I was supposed to pick up Seymour at half past noon so that he could be reunited with his Volkswagen, and I was already running late.
Suddenly the knocking from my dream returned, louder than before.
“Pen?” My aunt’s voice was muffled behind the door. “Are you awake?”
“I am now. Come in! Why didn’t you get me out of bed sooner?”
Sadie pushed open the door. “You seemed exhausted from your trip, so I let you sleep. I’m only bothering you now because I thought you’d like to see what Spencer and I accomplished.”
“You and Spencer?” My mind raced but came up with zip.
“Don’t look so worried. I’m sure you’ll approve. Come on down to the shop and see.”
That got me moving. I threw off the covers and hit the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, showered and presentable in a skirt, tights, and sweater, I descended the stairs, entered Buy the Book, and found our store busier than the local bank on payday!
“What is going on?” I asked no one in particular.
And one particular ghost replied.
It’s like Grand Central in here. What’s with the crowded aisles? How’s a guy like me supposed to rest in peace?
Sorry, Jack. There’s usually a lunchtime rush, but this is—
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Bonnie Franzetti appeared beside me, eyes bright. “Early this morning, Spencer wanted to see more of the pictures. By the time I got here, he and Sadie had unwrapped them all. We went to work and put the whole exhibition together in less than an hour. Spencer even adjusted the track lighting in the event space before he went to school.”
Sadie was now back behind the counter, checking out customers as fast as she could. And there were still people waiting in line!
“I’d better open up that second register,” Bonnie said as she scurried off.
Sadie spotted me and waved.
“Go in and see, Pen!” she called. “You’ll love it.”
While I slept the morning away, Sadie, Spencer, and Bonnie had done a remarkable job. All the works were in place. Easels had been strategically lined up along the walls, with plenty of space between them for gawkers.
Though the place cards hadn’t been printed up yet, I could see that Sadie had used the Palantine book as her guide. The art was arranged both chronologically and by type, with pulp covers on one side, book covers on the other.
A display copy of By Its Cover was mounted on a bookstand in the center of the room. The bookstand was actually our heavy speaker’s podium. Sadie had dragged it out of storage and polished the dull maple with Murphy’s oil soap, until it looked like it had just been varnished. Beside it, she’d positioned a table with stacks of shrink-wrapped copies of the just-delivered Palantine book for purchase.
I still didn’t understand how the display alone had drawn so many customers. But Sadie was right. I loved it—until I didn’t.
I noticed that a few of the most spectacular pieces of art were mounted on the wall. These included a fantasy cover by Frank Frazetta, a painting by Edgar Rice Burroughs, artist Allen St. John, Nathan Brock’s painting of Ruby Tyler, and finally—to my shock and horror—the cursed self-portrait of Harriet McClure.
So much for keeping the location of that painting a secret, Jack cracked.
What do I do now?!
Now? Nothing. It’s too late. You should have been more honest with your auntie and not played your cards so close to your vest.
What I found more shocking than anything was that despite all the great art displayed, the McClure self-portrait was getting the lion’s share of customer attention.
Thanks to Spencer, who had tinkered with the track lighting, Harriet was illuminated by a powerful white glow that bounced off the wild colors, giving the work a near supernatural aura, one that clearly impressed my fellow Cranberry Street merchants.
Moving closer, I paused to eavesdrop on the co-owner of our town’s bakeshop, Linda Cooper-Logan, and everyone’s favorite hairdresser, Colleen, as they oohed and aahed over the surreal elements in Harriet’s self-portrait.
“Whenever I see that grim, unflattering painting of Harriet at city hall, I always shudder. This is different. So alive and imaginative, and it shows Harriet to be so human.” Colleen pointed at the canvas. “I love all that hair flying in the wind. The dress is great, too. I’ll bet I could make a pattern.”
“The dress? You’re kidding. It’s so severe,” Linda said. “She’s dressed like an undertaker. Or a killer schoolmarm.”
“The Goth look is always in. Talk to Barb at the sewing shop; she’ll tell you.”
Linda stepped closer to the portrait, her spiky platinum pixie cut blazing whitely in the glare. “That beach looks wild, doesn’t it? I had a poster with Day-Glo colors like that in my dorm room.” She shook her head. “Makes me nostalgic for the trips I used to take in my college days.”
“Did you travel to different countries?”
“Ah, no. By ‘trip’ I meant peyote,” Linda replied, pointing at the lime green waves and flying pink fish. “That’s the way you see the world when you’re on psychotropic drugs.”
“Oh!” Colleen laughed uneasily.
“Don’t look so worried. Those days are far behind me. I’m a doughnut pusher now.”
They both laughed.
“Well,” Collen said, “I doubt Harriet dropped acid. But from the look of these crazy colors and strange symbols, I’d say the rumors of her madness are true.”
“I guess,” Linda said.
“Excuse me, Mrs. McClure—”
Startled, I whirled to face my own reflection in Joyce Koh’s huge, scarlet-framed glasses. Eighteen and pop culture obsessed, Joyce had come directly from work at her father’s store—I knew because she still wore the Kelly green Koh’s Market blouse.
“I wanted to see the madwoman’s picture,” she said.
“Sure, but how did you hear about it?”
“Sandy came in for groceries last night. You know, the lady who runs the cab company? She picked up Mr. Tarnish at the garage yesterday to take him home. On the way, he mentioned the picture.”
“Mentioned? You mean Seymour bragged about the picture, don’t you?”
“That’s right.” Joyce blinked. “I guess Sandy told you all about it, too.”
I wanted to smack my forehead—or Seymour’s. The location of Harriet’s self-portrait was supposed to be a secret, not the talk of the town!
Joyce peeked over my shoulder, itching to get that first look at the Harriet McClure. I stepped aside.
“Join the crowd,” I said, which was beginning to resemble the Louvre’s eternal knot of tourists around the Mona Lisa. As I untangled myself from Harriet’s knot, I nearly collided with Wanda Clark.
The director of the church choir, Wanda seldom shopped around town without the Reverend Waterman’s wife in tow, and today was no exception.
“Wanda! And Mrs. Waterman. Are you here to view the portrait?”
Mrs. Waterman nodded. “I was walking by and I saw the sign—”
“Sign?”
“The sidewalk sign about Harriet’s newly discovered self-portrait,” Mrs. Waterman replied. “I simply had to pop in and see it!”
I wasn’t too happy about the sign, but I also noted that her “popping in” included grabbing an armful of books. And Wanda was carrying a whole basket of titles, most of them newly released hardcovers—being the wife of Stuckley Autos’ top salesman came with a lot of perks.
At her first glimpse of the portrait, Mrs. Waterman sighed. “She’s lovely. Like a Madonna!”
Joyce shook her head. “More like Taylor Swift . . . around the eyes.”
“Oh, no!” Linda cried. “She’s definitely a Pat Benatar.”
“Or Aretha Franklin,” said Colleen. “Definitely a soul singer.”
The reverend’s wife finally caught on to the joke when she saw the mischievous grins on the other women’s faces. Then all of them started laughing together.
After extracting myself from the Harriet knot, I was about to head for the stockroom when I caught a whiff of La Chienne—La Chienne Number 5, that is, a scent not widely available outside of France. This I knew because it was a trigger for me. Just like the sight of rats for Winston Smith in 1984, that cloying aroma threw me back to a place and time I preferred to forget.
I spotted her standing with folded arms at the entrance to the event space. Stylish clothes, heels, perfectly blunt-cut blond hair, and a sour expression: Georgia Gilder had finally deigned to visit my bookstore.
I’d heard my old high school classmate had returned from Boston. Up to now, I’d managed to avoid her. Georgia’s parents had been the owners of Gilder’s Antiques, a beloved fixture in our community for decades. A few months ago the couple retired and moved to Arizona, but not before they turned their antiques business over to their daughter.
Since then, Bud Napp (Sadie’s beau and owner of Napp Hardware) reported that his friendly visit to welcome “Glamorous Georgia” had resulted in a snobbish dismissal. She’d told Bud she had “zero interest” in participating in our Quindicott Business Owners Association, known affectionately around town as “The Quibblers.”
Sure, we were a rambunctious group with members who liked to speak their minds. But when we banded together, we managed to get things done and help solve one another’s problems.
Bud wasn’t angry as much as hurt by Georgia’s insulting treatment, but her attitude wasn’t new to me. I’d say we were frenemies in school, but we never even pretended to be friends. Not the way she used to put down Seymour and Brainert and roll her eyes at me. To her, we were geeks, nerds, bookworms—“losers with zero social currency” is how she once described us to her cool-kids group.
Sounds like a peach.
Sure, Jack, one that’s rotten at the core. I remember her always bragging that she couldn’t wait to get out of our little “nowhere” town.
So why come back to Cornpone-cott?
No idea. The last I heard, she was married to a partner in a big Boston law firm, where she worked in human resources. Her parents said she was living the high life, traveling the world, hobnobbing with political big shots.
And now she’s back in nowheresville.
I’m sure it’s just temporary. At least I hope so. I don’t know how long I can avoid her.
I’d say ten more seconds.
Jack was right. The rotten Georgia peach was heading my way.