Boo

  “They’re quite addicting you know. Now, hurry along. We can’t be caught hovering in the shadows. People will start talking, and the last thing I need is to be the center of the town’s gossip.” She smiled tensely at Melb. “Good work.”

  “Oh, uh … thank you.” Melb started to leave and then turned back and said, “Miss Peeple, what do you plan to do with this information? I mean, you’re not going to, um …”

  “It’s out of sincere concern,” Miss Peeple said to Melb. “And what I plan to do with the information is save this little town from complete and utter devastation.”

  Melb’s eyes were wide as she nodded. “Oh, of course.”

  “But,” Missy warned, “you mustn’t tell a soul about this. Do you understand?” She leaned forward. “Most people abuse information they have, Melb. They gossip, pass it around like a platter of cheese. Information is important, but it must remain in the right hands.”

  Melb smiled and patted Miss Peeple on the arm. “Well, it’s good to know that it’s in the right hands then.” She clutched her purse and stepped back onto the sidewalk. “Have a good day.”

  Missy nodded and said, “See you at church, dear.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AINSLEY DABBED ON a little lipstick, just enough to give herself some color. She thought about mascara but decided against it. Lipstick. Mascara. Blush. No reason to give anyone a chance to speculate. The little town was nice but fickle. Besides, her daddy always told her she had a natural beauty, and all the makeup just covered it up.

  The chill in the air made her decide on her plum-colored turtleneck and the fall vest she’d made last year. It had a dazzling pattern of leaves on it. She’d gotten the pattern from the Martha Stewart Living magazine. She carefully put it on and admired herself in the mirror for a moment before whisking her hair up into a high ponytail and trotting downstairs. Her father was at the table finishing his breakfast.

  “How were the eggs, Daddy?” she said, kissing him from behind. She’d poached them perfectly, the old-fashioned way. She’d made a batch of pumpernickel bread last night for breakfast, but also to give the house a warm autumn smell. She loved the way pumpernickel smelled.

  “Fine, sweetheart.” He handed her his plate and took a swig of her freshly squeezed orange juice. Then he looked at her with his head cocked to the side. “Lipstick?”

  “Just a little, Daddy. Besides, I’m a grown woman, and I think I can pull off a little makeup, don’t you?”

  Her father shook his head but thankfully was too late for work to argue. “Gotta go, sweet pea.”

  “I’ll see you tonight,” she said with a wave. “Be careful out there.”

  Her father put his badge on and then his winter jacket. “Thief!” he called. The cat pounced off the kitchen counter and escorted him outside to his cruiser. Ainsley stood at the door and waved as the two got into the car. Thief’s black fur bristled in the cold air as he jumped into the passenger’s seat. Ainsley watched them leave before quickly cleaning up the breakfast dishes. So often she just wanted to leave them there until later, but there was hardly a circumstance she knew of that allowed for that kind of slop. It took her only five minutes. She took a dish out of her freezer and set it in a box by the front door.

  She sprayed air freshener in the entryway before grabbing her coat off the rack and tying her hand-knitted scarf around her neck. She pulled on her gloves, grabbed the box, and headed out the door.

  Her body shivered a little as she set the box in her trunk. The morning bore the first real chill of the fall, and it had quite a bite to it. The stack of logs for the fireplace was low, so she went around back to get a few more. She piled them on and then adjusted the array of pumpkins she had lined up and down the porch stairs. The porch needed a good sweeping, but she didn’t have time. She had a lot to do before getting to work.

  She climbed into her car and let it warm up for precisely ten minutes while she read her daily devotional. By then her hands had warmed up well enough for her to fill in the blank spaces for her thoughts about it at the bottom of the page.

  Then she headed to Mrs. Blythe Owen’s home. She left her car running so it would stay warm and gathered everything she needed. She walked up the sidewalk to her home and made a mental note to pull up her fall flowers come winter.

  She knocked softly on the door and called, “Mrs. Owen? It’s Ainsley.”

  She heard a muffled “Come in,” and opened the front door to find Mrs. Owen in her La-Z-Boy recliner, knitting a blanket.

  “Ainsley, come in, come in,” Mrs. Owen beckoned.

  “I brought you my beef and mushroom pie,” Ainsley said, putting the dish in her refrigerator. “It has instructions on how to heat it up.” She walked into the living room where Mrs. Owen was knitting. “Now, I know you get in a hurry and like it to cook faster, but it must stay on 350 for two hours or the noodles will dry out.”

  “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Owen said. “You know how I love that dish of yours.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, the arthritis isn’t liking this cold weather, you know,” Mrs. Owen complained. “My hands are so knotted up I can barely hold my needles.” She shook her head. “But thank God for a warm house. Seems to be a nip in the air today.”

  Ainsley smiled and patted her on the shoulder. “There is.” She squeezed the old woman’s hand warmly and after a little more chitchat assured her she’d visit on Thursday.

  Hurrying out to her car, she checked that off her list of things to do and then went to McCauley’s, the town grocery store that had been renamed Gobblin’s, a stupid play on words that was supposed to be scary and insinuate the “gobbling” of good food. Ainsley refused to acknowledge the name change, though, and always referred to it as McCauley’s, named for its three generations of owners.

  Inside, she took her sack of coffee beans to the meat counter. Barney, the butcher, greeted her with a hearty smile. “Hi there, young lady.”

  “Hi, Barney.” She handed him the sack of beans.

  “Finely ground, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  She never knew why they ground the beans at the meat counter, but that was just the way it was. She had her own coffee bean grinder at home, because she never made coffee from anything but freshly ground beans, but it was small and took a long time with this amount of beans. She admired the thick cuts of beef and pork, thinking to herself she should make her pork loin specialty sometime soon. Behind her she heard a customer complaining about the fact that everyone in town seemed to be out of allergy medicine. It happened a lot in a town that had a cat-to-human ratio of twenty to one. Barney returned with the beans, perfectly ground.

  “Thank you,” Ainsley said, and waved at him as she hurried out of the store. She drove seven blocks, turned down Parsley Street, and stopped at Mr. Laraby’s home. She didn’t bother to knock. He was nearly deaf and, to Ainsley’s relief, didn’t own a shotgun.

  “Mr. Laraby?” she called loudly.

  The old man appeared from the kitchen carrying a bowl of cereal. He startled as he saw her from the corner of his eye. “Ainsley!”

  “Hi, Mr. Laraby. Sorry to scare you.”

  “What, dear?”

  “I said, sorry to scare you.”

  “Well, stare all you want. I get my good looks from my mother’s side.” He winked and shuffled to the kitchen table.

  Ainsley laughed, shook her head, and gave him the ground coffee beans. He peaked inside the sack. “Oh! Thank you! What a treat!”

  “I know you like them freshly ground.”

  “What, dear?”

  “I said, I know you like your beans freshly ground.”

  “I seem slightly round? I’ve been retaining water lately, I guess.” He looked down at his stomach.

  “No, Mr. Laraby. Freshly ground.” She pointed to the sack. “Your coffee beans.”

  “Oh.” He grinned and Ainsley kissed him on the cheek.

  “I have to go,” she said properly, t
hough she doubted Mr. Laraby heard.

  He waved at her and thanked her again for the coffee. Back in her car, she checked that off her list. Just one more stop to make. She turned up the heater and radio. As busy as she was this morning, there still remained one thing—more accurately, one person—on her mind. And nothing, not even some good old gospel tunes, could drown him out.

  He opened the door to Sbooky’s, what appeared to be a charming little bookstore on the corner. A large handwritten sign on the front of the door said, “No cats allowed.” The first thing he saw upon entering was a gigantic poster of himself hanging from the ceiling. He rolled his eyes and regretted even opening the door. But before he could turn around, a young man with greasy hair and a slight case of acne nearly jumped over the counter at him.

  “No way!”

  Wolfe could only stick his hands in his pockets and shrug. He guessed he could’ve predicted this.

  “Dude! No way! I can’t believe you’re in the store. My manager’s on break. But he’s going to die. He went to get donuts and coffee.”

  “I see,” Wolfe said, looking around the store. He noticed immediately that it was overstocked with horror and suspense novels, every kind imaginable. His, of course, lined the front shelves with cardboard promotional displays.

  The kid was beside himself with excitement. He pointed to the front of the store. “Got all your books, man. Every single one. Read all of ’em too. Every single one. People come from all around the country to buy one of your books from this store. They sell ’em at every store that carries a book, but it means something to people to get it here.”

  Wolfe tried to smile. “I’ve never been here before.” He looked around the store and noticed that at least in the back there seemed to be something other than horror.

  “No way! Well, welcome to Sbooky’s. Get it? Sbooky’s? With a b instead of a p so it’s got the word book in there but it sounds like Spooky’s.”

  Wolfe nodded. “How clever.”

  “Yeah. It used to be ‘The Book Nook,’ but that’s kind of boring, don’t you think?”

  Wolfe shrugged. “I don’t know. Sounds nice to me.”

  “Yeah, but since we became Sbooky’s, our sales have gone through the roof.” Before Wolfe knew what was happening, the young lad had hopped back over the counter and was now holding a Polaroid. “Say cheese!” The flash went off, and Wolfe squinted, dazed and dizzy. “Thanks, dude. We’ll hang this on our wall and tell everyone.” The kid then said, “So, why are you here, anyway?”

  Wolfe blinked off the bright light around his corneas and said, “Well, I’m looking for a book.”

  “I can help you there.”

  “Okay. I’m needing something about God. Not the Bible. I already have one. But a book about God. Do you know what I mean?”

  The kid’s eyes widened in confusion. “Oh. Uh … yeah … no, actually.”

  “You know, something on the deeper spiritual life.” Wolfe tried to remember a title the reverend had mentioned.

  “Ah. Gotcha.” The kid bounced down an aisle and returned with a book in hand. “Here ya go.”

  The title read, Spirits Around Us. He handed the book back to the kid. “Um, not exactly. I’m looking more for something about knowing God better. A theological book, I guess you could say.” Ah. Yes. He remembered. “Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis.”

  “A theo-what?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “You don’t have any books here about God?”

  The kid shrugged and picked at his face. “I dunno. I mean, we got a lot of books about Satan.” He sort of smiled and looked away.

  Wolfe sighed. “I can see that. Tell you what, I think I’ll just browse.”

  “Okay. Take your time. And if you need any help—”

  “I know where to find you.”

  Wolfe removed his coat, deciding to head to the back corner. At the very least it promised to give him a small selection of good literature.

  Ainsley stepped lightly along the sidewalk, happy that fall had arrived and winter would soon be here. Fall and winter were her favorite seasons. She loved to roast chestnuts on the open fire, something not many people knew how to do. Martha had shown her four winters ago. Before that, she’d been stuck roasting marshmallows, which wasn’t terrible, just not very sophisticated.

  She waved or smiled at all she passed. She didn’t know everyone in the town by name, but she recognized nearly everyone by face. Only three weeks until Thanksgiving. They always had a big Thanksgiving at her home. They’d invite friends and family and feast like they would never eat again. And Ainsley loved every minute of it. Every year she decorated the house to make it warm and inviting, and though she certainly made the traditional favorites, she also liked to surprise the guests with something new and exciting. Last year it was pumpkin crème brûlée. She hadn’t decided this year, but she was tinkering with the idea of it being an hors d’oeuvre.

  Ainsley waved to the church organist across the street, then entered the bookstore.

  “Hey. Welcome to Sbooky’s,” said the kid as he stood behind the counter, his nose in some gruesome looking book.

  Ainsley took off her gloves and hat. “Hi. I was hoping you could help me with something.”

  He set down his book and said, “Name it.”

  “I’m looking for a rather rare book—”

  “We have a lot of rare books, even some of Stephen King’s that are out-of-print first editions, signed by the man himself.”

  Ainsley tried not to let out a disgusted sigh. “A children’s book.”

  “Oh.”

  “You do carry children’s books, don’t you?”

  “Sure. We’ve got a huge selection of Goosebumps.”

  “The book I’m looking for is called The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus by Frank Baum.”

  The kid, whose nametag read DUSTIN, scratched his head.

  “Frank Baum. You know, The Wizard of Oz?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Did he play the scarecrow?”

  Ainsley willed her eyes not to roll. “No. He wrote the book.”

  “It was a movie. Didn’t see it, though.”

  Ainsley bit her bottom lip. “Yes. But first it was a book. A classic. You should read it sometime.” She glanced down at the book in his hand. “It has witches in it.”

  Dustin’s face lit up. “No kidding?” He smiled. “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Terrific. Now, about the book. Do you have it?”

  The kid shrugged. “Don’t know. You can go look. Should be under the author’s last name.”

  Ainsley turned toward the back of the store and hoped somewhere in the little niche of worthwhile books she would find the one she was looking for.

  Wolfe’s heart thumped so loudly inside his chest he found himself covering it up with a copy of Great Expectations just in case it was actually audible. He couldn’t believe the coincidence. Here she was! In the bookstore! Should he talk to her? Pretend not to notice her? Leave? Stay?

  The questions flooded his mind in a way that made him dizzy with nervousness. He could see the top of her head making its way through the aisles and toward the back of the store. He wasn’t in the children’s section, but he was close, and at his height, it was hard to hide behind a display. He noticed suddenly that the palms of his hands were soaked, and as much as he tried to rub them on his pants leg, they weren’t about to dry out.

  At first she didn’t see him. She was standing nearby at the one bookshelf they had for children’s literature, her finger running along the spines of the books, intent on what she was doing.

  Wolfe thought for a moment about slipping out the other way to the front door. Then he thought he should just go up to her and say hello. But instead, he only stood there and stared, and before he knew it, he was caught doing just that.

  Her eyes widened as she saw him, and the heart that pounded so heavily just seconds before now barely fluttered. He found himself holding his breath. Realizing how awkward he must
look just standing there staring at her, he tried to smile. It perhaps came out more of a grimace, though, because she didn’t smile back.

  He swallowed down all the organs that had seemed to push their way up into his throat and said, “Hi there.”

  Her mouth hung open and her hand dropped to her side, but she recovered quickly and said. “Oh. Hi.”

  Wolfe took a step forward. “So you come here often?” He barely got the question out before biting his own tongue as punishment for how cheesy that sounded.

  Her face remained neutral as she said, “No, actually. I try to avoid this place at all costs.” She glanced down at the book he was holding, as if curious, then continued. “Anyway, I’m looking for a rare children’s book.” Her eyes cut to the shelf next to her. “But apparently it’s pretty tough to find any good children’s literature in this place.”

  He smiled and nodded. “I thought it was pretty lucky to find Dickens here.” He held up the book. But his hands were so slippery that it fell out of his hand and slapped onto the floor. He stooped down to get it, but lost his balance and hit his head on a rack full of Cliffs Notes, knocking several onto the floor next to him.

  He heard her gasp. “Oh! Are you okay?”

  He gathered himself and his book and stood up slowly. “Painfully humiliated. But I hear the scar only lasts a few years.”

  She looked very concerned, but then she went back to looking at books. Wolfe decided it couldn’t get much worse, so with great courage he stepped forward, causing her to look up.

  “What book are you looking for?”

  With apprehension she said, “It’s a Frank Baum book.” Her lips pressed together. “I don’t suppose you even know who that is.”

  “Of course I do. He wrote The Wizard of Oz. Among other things.”

  A small smile of satisfaction crossed her lips, but then it faded. “Yes, well, I’m looking for a rare children’s book he wrote called The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus.”

  “Never heard of it.”