18 Deader Homes and Gardens by Joan Hess Read Free Book Online Page A

Mother?”
    Peter would not be happy if he got back to Farberville on the day of her arraignment. I dumped them at the duplex and went to the Book Depot to brood. The clerk whom Peter had hired for me was a grad student from the English Department. He’d told me that he’d been writing his dissertation for five and a half years on James Joyce’s use of alliteration. As I came inside, he stuck a book under the counter and stared at me with disconcerting intensity.
    I flinched. “Did we receive the shipment from that small press in Arizona?”
    “Yes, Ms. Malloy. I went over the invoice and placed it on your desk.” He consulted a notepad. “The sales rep for the college press dropped off the fall catalog. The fall reading lists from the area public schools and the college are on your desk. I wrote up the orders, and as soon as you review them, I’ll submit them electronically. I’ve rearranged the window display for this month. In mid-July, I thought we might run a sale on beach books—if you approve, of course. I repaired the leak in the lavatory. The exterminator is coming on Friday.”
    “Thank you,” I said weakly. The Book Depot, my musty, unruly baby, was in more capable hands. My desk was neater than it had been in a decade. The filing cabinets’ drawers could be closed without straining, and the habitual clutter atop them had been vanquished. My wastebasket was empty. As I sat down behind my desk, I felt as though I were intruding. Sighing, I reached for the order forms. Which were thorough and flawless.
    A few customers came in to browse and left with paperbacks, study guides, or nothing whatsoever. My science fiction hippie, replete with scruffy hair, tangled beard, and pink flip-flops, shuffled inside and ducked behind a rack. After a while, I cornered him and frisked him with the diligence of a TSA officer. Once I’d removed the paperbacks he’d stashed in the pockets of his odiferous army surplus jacket, we chatted amiably as I escorted him out the door. If the Book Depot ever closed, I’d miss him, fleas and all.
    I was accomplishing nothing. My beloved house was beginning to blur in my mind. Were the drapes in the master bedroom pearl or ash gray? How many bar stools were available should I desire to entertain guests with a demonstration of my cooking prowess (after a semester at Le Cordon Bleu)? Did the foyer have an umbrella stand?
    If I couldn’t deal with the elusive Angela or the pompous broker, I needed to cut out the flotsam in the middle and speak to the owner. I would simply tell him that I wanted to buy the house. No quibbling or bargaining required. He would accept the check and hand over the key. Nattie had said something about the house belonging to Winston. I opened the telephone directory. Winston was his first name; Hollow was apt to be his surname. Although my deductive skill was admirable, Winston Hollow had not deigned to allow his name to be published in such a plebeian locale, nor had any of his fellow Hollows. All the surnamed Winstons lived on familiar streets. I closed the directory.
    Caron, bless her parsimonious heart, could have used her computer to locate him in the bowels of Tasmania or wherever else he was hiding from me. She would not be pleased if I interrupted her rendezvous at the mall, however. A rather clever idea came to mind. I went out to the counter, where the clerk was wiping the wood surface with lemon-scented polish.
    “I need to find somebody,” I said to him, “but I don’t know how to search on the Internet. Will you do it for me?”
    “I would prefer not to.”
    “Why not? I am your employer, you know. Do you have scruples that preclude Internet snooping? I’m not stalking someone. Please give me one good reason why you won’t try.”
    “I would prefer not to.”
    “Not to explain your refusal?”
    His expression was unfathomable, and I wasn’t at all surprised when he said, “I would prefer not to.”
    I might have wrung his neck had it