The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 23
I look out. Meryl is peering through the glass, her breath steaming up the window.
I grab my keys from the counter and open up.
‘I had to get milk from the dairy,’ Meryl explains. ‘And I saw that you were open so I thought I might just take a look at my calendars.’
‘It was a good exhibition the other day. Were you pleased?’ I ask, keeping the thought that we weren’t actually open inside my head.
‘I sold two pieces.’ Meryl pulls her trolley behind her to the counter.
I dutifully haul out her pile, now including ‘Namaste Bitches!’ and ‘Lovecraft of Life — Wit and Wisdom of the Elder Gods’, which I’ve been secretly hoping won’t sell so that I can have it.
Meryl sifts through the selection, muttering her proposed calendar recipients. ‘I might swap this one.’ She passes me the ‘Lovecraft’ calendar and I take in the picture for September, a swirling mass of many-eyed tentacles in a hypnotic galaxy with the inspiring message from Azathoth: ‘In madness we find truth.’
‘Yes, I’ll get this one instead.’ She plucks ‘Death a Day — 365 Days of Serial Killers’ from the stand.
More than anything, I’d love to meet the intended recipient. ‘Shall I add it to your pile?’
‘No. I’m going to buy them all today.’ Meryl rummages in her trolley. Eventually she pulls out two pristine series five, one-hundred-dollar bills from her purse.
So there’s little doubt about who purchased Meryl’s artwork.
‘Don’t forget your keys,’ I say, and scoop them from the counter.
Meryl reaches out a hand, then stops, gazing past me, her eyes wide like a cat transfixed by a house ghost.
Scrunching my toes in my shoes, I force away a shiver and turn to see what has bewitched Meryl. The ragged scrap of cardboard with Dafydd’s painting of Sherlock Tomes is Blu-tacked to the wall.
‘He truly was a genius, had a photographic memory, would paint brilliant scenes from something he’d only ever glimpsed.’ Meryl fishes a handkerchief from her sleeve as she makes her way to the door. ‘Until he broke.’
I get that itch in my brain where I know I’ve missed something important. I turn back to Dafydd’s painting and examine it afresh. The detail is limited — there’s only so much you can do with cardboard and emulsion — but Meryl is correct: Dafydd is a genius, a master at creating an impression with a few brushstrokes.
I open up the shop’s Facebook page and scroll back through several posts until I find the image I want. Comparing it to Dafydd’s painting, my suspicions are confirmed. I’m not sure what this means for the case, but I can’t wait to tell Eloise.
Unfortunately, I have to wait. A text informs me of the following:
Eloise: Going to be late Stevie rolled in something disgusting on his walk. (Poo emoji, Poo emoji)
My thoughts of our wonderful pupperoo joyously squirming on his back while Eloise looks on in horror are interrupted by the tip-tap of the Admiral’s cane.
‘Heave ho, heave ho, lash up ’n’ stow.’
I stand to attention and chuck up a salute. ‘Morning, Sir.’
‘Any more trouble with those rapscallions?’
There’s been plenty more trouble with the Black Dogs, but I’m hardly going to tell the Admiral. ‘No. I think they knew they’d met their match.’
‘I should cocoa.’ The Admiral brandishes his cane. ‘Had a signal that my Wooden Boat was in port.’
I rummage through the magazines put aside for customers and pull out his order. ‘On the house today, Sir, by way of a thank you.’
‘Top hole. Jolly decent of you.’ He rolls up the magazine and tucks it below one arm like an RSM’s pace stick, then saunters from the shop.
The morning continues well: there’s a conference on in the Village, and by the number of presents I’ve wrapped at least three different parties. The back door slams, then in slinks a shiny, clean, shampoo-smelling Stevie. He hrrruffs a complaint at me and settles in the stock room.
‘You had a good walk then?’
‘One of us did.’
‘Well, I’ve got something to cheer you up.’ I point to Dafydd’s painting. ‘What do you see?’
‘The shop?’
‘Look at the detail.’ I tap a finger against the card.
‘I get it. He’s a good artist. What I don’t get is why you’re going off on one.’ Eloise folds her arms and looks at me like I’m insane.
‘When exactly were we painting the shop?’
‘I don’t know. A week or so ago?’
‘Remember, it was the night after Amelia had put the Halloween window in, because the new orange flowers matched the display.’
‘I’m sure there’s a point to this.’ Eloise picks up the scissors we use for gift wrapping. ‘Much like there’s a point to these scissors which I’m going to stab you with if you don’t tell me in the next five seconds why you’re so excited.’
‘Look at the books in the shop window. It’s not the Halloween window, it’s the time before when the flowers were taken.’
‘So?’ Eloise twirls the scissors with menace.
I pull up the image of the shop window that Amelia took for Facebook. ‘The books in the painting are exactly the ones that were in the window at that time. Even their positioning is perfect.’
Eloise’s gaze flicks between the two images. ‘He’s remembered it perfectly,’ she says at last. ‘You don’t think . . .’
‘That if Dafydd had witnessed something disturbing on the night of Tracey’s disappearance he’d be able to paint it picture perfect.’
Eloise: 4 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
It’s stuffy in the shop today, not quite warm enough for the air con but getting there. A glorious morning that holds promise of the summer to come.
The sunlight through the windows gives a great view of the war memorial and the trees across the road. It also gives a great view of the greasy mitts that have pressed against the glass. There are forehead prints, too, at adult height, from where evening Village revellers have peered in, rather myopically if their whole head has been smooshed on the glass. I’ll give it a good going over next time we change the display.
I’m peering out of the smudgy glass, taking a pile of books for a wander round the shop, when a couple in their sixties come in. He’s Pākehā, very tall and slim, wearing a suit that looks to be worth more than the Tomato. She’s petite, really dainty, of Japanese origin I would say. They’re first timers, looking up at the chalkboards, taking in the Invisible Dragon’s cage on top of the card stand. She’s smiling, he’s frowning.
‘Good morning,’ I practically sing. ‘Are you happy having a wander, or may I help with anything?’
‘For god’s sake, we’ve only just walked in, woman. Save your hard sell for a few minutes at least.’
I’ve met this guy’s type before, and am prepared. ‘Certainly, sir. And if you need help finding anything, your manners for instance, do let me know. Enjoy my beautiful bookshop.’
His companion lets out a surprisingly hearty laugh and says, ‘Marvellous.’ Mr Grey Eyes glares, open mouthed and as unattractive as a bad temper will make you. I smile and slowly continue putting books out, practically marking my territory by keeping in close proximity.
When I feel that the natural order of things has been restored, I sally back up to the counter.
‘Exemplary customer service,’ says Garth, patting my arm.
‘Thank you, love,’ I reply.
Garth starts checking the customer orders folder, I begin unpacking a couple of small boxes and loading the stock into the system. The dainty visitor comes up to the counter with a stack of books, including two fairly expensive cookbooks and the latest lush New Zealand interiors tome, Green is the New Beige. Mr Grey Eyes is waiting outside, blocking the doorway and staring down the road.
‘Don’t mind Gavin,’ she says. ‘He’s a bit of a bully but easily faced down, as you demonstrated.’
I can’t be bothered to get into a conversation about not enabling such behaviour, especially as she’s about to spend about four hundred bucks. We exchange pleasantries: they’re staying at the Boutique Hotel and, yes, it’s lovely, they have friends who own one of the local wineries, etcetera, etcetera. Off she goes, and Garth tracks her progress until she’s well out of the door.
‘Gavin,’ snorts Garth. ‘What a cock.’
‘Old Gav.’
We share an age-inappropriate amount of sniggering, then settle back into our tasks. I’m wondering if Franklin White will be so easy to deal with.
It’s edging towards lunchtime and I’m starting to think more than is natural about sushi when I spot a familiar figure on the street. I shove a small pile of books at Garth and hare off down the steps and the non-fiction aisle, veering left out of the door and catching up to Dafydd as he’s peering into the window of the cashmere shop.
‘Hi Dafydd,’ I say, too brightly.
Dafydd turns his head slowly and frowns. ‘Goats’ undercoats,’ he replies.
‘What? Cashmere? Is it goat wool?’ I ask, but I’ve already lost his attention. He has turned away from the window and is heading off, albeit very slowly, towards Joll Road.
‘Dafydd, I wondered if I might ask you a question?’ I’m aware I’m already asking a bloody question.
Dafydd behaves as if I don’t exist.
‘The thing is, Dafydd, I was having a chat with Meryl and she was telling me all about how you and she used to hang out with Oddbean back in the day.’
Dafydd stops so abruptly that I crash into him, grabbing onto his coat. It’s quite sticky and smells of wet dog. Does he have a dog somewhere, or does he just smell like one? It’s not unpleasant, but I hold my hands wide open in an effort not to feel it. Dafydd is looking right at me.
‘No,’ he says firmly, and I see a world of pain pass through those blue eyes which have cleared so that I feel that for once he is seeing me, not just his inner world. Then the moment is lost; his shoulders sag, his eyes cloud and his forehead takes on a vague expression, a confused frown.
‘Dafydd? Do you remember Oddbean?’ I ask gently.
He doesn’t respond, just hums something rhythmic but tuneless, perhaps soothing himself back into his own world. He starts to move on.
‘All right, mate. See you soon,’ I offer feebly, and watch him wend his way past the bank and out of sight around the corner.
I wend my own way, past the goats’ undercoats shop and back to my own.
Hilda from book club is standing outside, staring at the Isabella Garrante poster in the window.
‘Eloise! When were you going to tell us about this?’ she squeals. She looks equal parts indignant and excited.
‘I was just about to email book club, I promise. It’s all been very secret and we’ve only just put the posters up.’
‘Why here? Why you? Oh, I know you’re a good bookshop and everything, but why is she not doing it in Auckland or Sydney or Paris?’
‘She has her reasons and I’m sure we’ll find out very soon.’ I try to sound enigmatic.
‘Well, put me down for the book and a front-row seat at the launch, please. I’ve been her biggest fan for years.’
I promise I will do just that, although I dread to think how many other requests there’ll be from Isabella’s ‘biggest fans’.
With an order to get the email out to book club, she bids me e noho rā and continues on her way.
‘Any luck with Dafydd?’ asks Garth, holding his fifth coffee of the morning, watching as I squirt antibacterial soap onto my hands and start giving them a good scrub.
‘No. I think there was a reaction to Oddbean’s name, but it was gone almost immediately.’
‘Bugger.’
‘I’ve been thinking about our staff meeting the other night, though. Amelia’s rellie, whatsername, was a friend of Franklin’s ex, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. That’s how she got the goss for us. I’ll ring her and find out if I can get a number for her — the ex.’
Garth: 3 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I turn the Tomato from Joll Road into an alley alongside the cinema. Stevie presses his snoot against the windscreen.
‘We’re going to the shop, Stevie,’ I say. ‘You like the shop.’ This isn’t strictly true; he tolerates the shop at best.
We’re easing down the inclined car park when I see the motorcycle parked at the shop’s rear. It doesn’t have ape-hangers, but I have little doubt the owner is a Black Dog. There’s no one else about.
I reverse into position alongside the motorcycle. Hastily I slip Stevie’s lead over his head. ‘Come on, boy, we need to get in.’ But before I can get my key into the door, it swings inwards and I’m confronted by a Black Dog.
Stevie takes one look and bolts for the car, dragging my arm painfully behind me.
The Black Dog lifts his chin in a reverse nod. ‘The boss wants to know how you’re doing.’
‘Let me into the shop and I’ll tell you,’ I reply, eager to get Stevie somewhere safe, or at least confined.
The guy grunts and turns around, not an easy task in the narrow corridor, then he heads through the Tardis door into the shop. I follow him in, dragging Stevie behind me until I can let go of the lead and he dashes into the stock room.
I switch on all the lights, hoping that Meryl might be lurking again, giving me an excuse to open the front door.
‘How did you get into my shop?’
He pats one of the pockets on his vest. ‘Your locks ain’t no good. Easy as with a jiggler key.’
I make a mental note that if I somehow weather my dealings with the Black Dogs, and if Franklin White doesn’t make good on his threat to have us thrown out, I should have the landlord upgrade the locks.
‘You couldn’t have just waited for me to arrive?’
‘Wanted to look at the books. My boy needs to big-up his reading else he’ll end up like me.’
‘Did you find anything?’
For a moment the guy looks sheepish, like he’s back at school and been called out by the teacher. ‘Nah. Got in here, saw all the books and sort of panicked. Thought you could help me.’
Without thinking, I switch into bookseller mode. ‘How old’s your boy?’
‘He’s eleven, but he don’t read so good. Maybe the same as my daughter, she’s eight. Her mum’s real smart.’
‘Okay. And what sort of things does your son like?’
‘Dragons,’ he says. ‘He’s always had a thing about them.’
The childish glint in his eyes tells me exactly where his son got his thing about dragons. ‘Then do I have the perfect book for you . . . and your son.’ I pull a copy of James Russell’s The Dragon Defenders from the shelf. ‘He’ll love this and it’s a series, so once he’s read the first one there’s another one to go on to.’
‘How much is it?’
I check the price label. ‘Twenty-two dollars.’
The gangster pulls out a wad of bank notes and slaps a fifty on the counter. ‘Give me the second book, too.’
I place the books in a paper bag and hand them over, then realise the till is empty. ‘I haven’t set up for the day yet, I don’t have any change.’
‘All good, bro. Chur for the help.’ The Black Dog thrusts the paper bag inside his vest. ‘Gotta tell the boss summin’ about his money. What’s it to be?’
That’s a tricky one. Far harder than finding the right book for a gangster’s son. The puzzle of Oddbean’s and Tracey’s disappearance is close to fitting together, of that I’m certain, but we need the last few pieces to complete the picture.
‘Tell him we’ve made progress and we’ll have an answer for him soon.’
‘Yeah-nah.’ The Black Dog shakes his head. ‘I tell him that, he’ll kick seven shades of shit out of me.’
That’s a fair one; even to me my answer sounded lame. ‘Okay. Tell him, I think I know where the money went and that there’s no chance of getting it back but I’m narrowing down on who took it.’
The Black Dog lifts his chin. ‘Gonna need to know when you’ll be done with your narrowing.’
‘Next Wednesday,’ I reply with far more confidence than I feel, pinning my hopes on the possibility that Isabella Garrante’s novel will provide the missing clues we need.
‘Sweet as. See ya next week.’ The Black Dog smiles, then swaggers from the shop.
I sag on the counter. And for the first time ever since coming to New Zealand I consider the benefits of returning to Blighty.
I spend the next hour mostly giving further advice on children’s books. I’ve just finished gift-wrapping Leonie Agnew’s latest when Tama appears at the counter.
‘Ata mārie. Busy morning?’
‘It has been. Got my first sale before we even opened.’ I don’t mention that it was to a Black Dog.
‘I thought I’d fill you in on developments if you’ve got a moment.’
I wait for the customer to depart with her gift. The shop is now empty. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘Belinda Henare, the death in Waipuk, they’re going to take another look at it.’
‘That’s good, eh?’
Tama screws his mouth up, tilting his head. ‘Thing is, she was cremated, so I doubt they’ll be able to tell much else.’
‘What about the original postmortem?’
‘Didn’t do one. She’d been to the doctor’s a couple of times recently with heart palpitations and was booked in to see a specialist, but you know how long that takes. They just put it down to a dodgy ticker.’
‘So, what are they actually investigating?’
‘They’ll do a bit of digging into her personal life and follow up on the Pinter aspect. But honestly, I don’t think they’ll uncover any more than you did.’
