The Bright Silver Star bam-3 Page 6

  Mitch did not see Des there yet so he stopped in to sign books for Jeff, as promised. A glass wall separated his shop from the food hall. The first time Mitch had walked in the door of the Book Schnook he knew instantly that it was every publishing person’s dream bookshop. It felt more like a private library than it did a place of business. The space was two stories high with towering dark-wood bookcases. Rolling library ladders allowed customers to reach the higher volumes. A spiral staircase led up to a wraparound loft where there were even more books. Jeff had filled his place with cozy armchairs and brass reading lamps. There was a huge fireplace in the old red brick exterior wall, and tons of little nooks and crannies where customers could browse for hours in front of the windows as sailboats scudded past on the Connecticut River. Often, some very tasty music was playing. Right now, Ella Fitzgerald was singing Cole Porter.

  Jeff’s shelving system was beyond quirky. Nothing, but nothing, was alphabetical. His own favorite authors were arranged near the front on a wall of shelves he called Store Picks. It was a fluid and eclectic array, subject to his latest whim. This week, his picks included the contemporary novelist Richard Ford, British-born travel writer Jonathan Raban, the late food essayist M.F.K. Fisher, the bleak ’50s hardboiled crime writer Jim Thompson, Dorothy Parker, Emily Dickinson, Philip K. Dick, Wallace Stegner and H.L. Mencken.

  Popular sellers that Jeff didn’t like but had to offer were stashed way up on the second-floor shelves. If it was Mary Higgins Clark that a customer wanted, or a copy of The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen, Jeff made them go climb for it. It was his store and his system. And it was just about the choicest bookstore Mitch had ever been in. Jeff had everything a bookseller could ask for.

  Everything except for customers. The Book Schnook was deserted. And so silent after the din of the food hall outside that Mitch felt as if he’d just entered a shul.

  The little guy in his crooked black-framed glasses was dusting stock in hushed solitude when Mitch got there, sucking his cheeks in and out in a decidedly carplike manner. Jeff’s shopkeeper outfit wasn’t much different from his hiking outfit. He still wore shorts and sandals with dark socks. Only his shirt was different-Jeff had on an oversized Book Schnook T-shirt adorned with a portrait of Dan Quayle and the store’s motto: A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Lose.

  “Hey, Mitch, good to see you!” he exclaimed, dashing back to hisstoreroom. He returned a moment later toting two cartons of Mitch’s paperback reference volumes. They began unloading them onto a library table. “You’re doing me a real favor, man. Believe me, I need all of the help I can get.”

  “Jeff, I’m an author,” Mitch chided him gently. “You’re the one who’s helping me.”

  He got started signing the books, passing each one along so Jeff could slap an Autographed by Author sticker on its cover. As they worked their way through the stack a boy of twelve or so came in the door, looking very intimidated.

  “What can I do for you, buddy?” Jeff called to him encouragingly.

  “I-I was just wondering if the new Codfather book came in yet,” he stammered, his voice soaring several octaves.

  “I don’t sell that garbage in my store,” Jeff snarled in response. “Try Borders. Try Amazon. Anywhere but here, got it?”

  Which sent the little kid scurrying out the door in bug-eyed terror.

  “I can see you’re really working on your people skills,” Mitch observed.

  “Ab-so-tootly,” Jeff responded with great sincerity. “The old me wouldn’t have mentioned those other outlets at all.” On Mitch’s doubtful look he added, “Mitch, we have to measure our progress in inches. I learned that from my dear sweet mother, right along with another heartwarming chestnut: ‘You’ll never amount to anything.’ That’s why Abby dumped me, you know. She thinks I want to fail because deep down inside I think I deserve to. Didn’t want to be around my vibe anymore. Said it was contagious. What do you think?”

  “I think that you have a beautiful shop and you should be very proud.”

  “You really think so?” he asked Mitch imploringly.

  Needy. That was the word to describe Jeff Wachtell.

  “I really do,” Mitch assured him.

  Pleased, Jeff began moving Mitch’s signed books to a prominent spot by the front door. Mitch browsed a bit. Among Jeff’s Store Picks he spotted a paperback copy of Horseman, Pass By, the slender firstnovel by Larry McMurtry that Martin Ritt had made into the movie Hud. Mitch had lost his copy and had been meaning to reread it, so he brought one up to the counter and paid Jeff for it.

  As Jeff rang it up he started sucking his cheeks in and out again, peering at Mitch uncertainly. “Mind if I ask you something else? I just scored Abby’s tour itinerary from her Web site, and she’s making her way straight through Connecticut this week on her way to Boston. She’s already stopping at C. C. Willoughby and Company in Sussex, right? And her publicist, Chrissie Huberman, is here in town with Esme and Tito, right? Would it be out of line for me to ask her if she’d maybe schedule Abby to stop here? Abby sure would bring in the customers.”

  “Jeff, you don’t carry any of your wife’s books, remember?”

  “I could have fifty copies of The Codfather of Sole here by noon tomorrow,” he said in a determined voice. “All I have to do is pick up the phone.”

  Mitch raised his eyebrows at him. “This is a tectonic shift for you.”

  “Dead on,” he acknowledged, adjusting his glasses. “But I need to make certain allowances if I’m going to survive in this business. What do you think?”

  “I think this is a very healthy development.”

  “No, I mean about me approaching Crissie.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to Abby?”

  Jeff shook his head vigorously. “We only speak through our lawyers-at a cost of three hundred and fifty bucks an hour. Saying ‘Hi, how are you?’ runs me twenty-nine ninety-five.”

  “I guess it couldn’t hurt. The worst thing Chrissie can do is say no, right?”

  “Right,” Jeff agreed, a bit less than convinced. “Thanks, man.”

  Mitch headed back out to the food hall with his book. It was lunchtime and the place was teeming with hungry Dorseteers, the din of their voices rising up toward the skylights. A lot of them were lined up at the deli counter. Mitch took his place at the end of the line, watching Donna merrily take phone orders, chat up customers, and move the line along with a smooth assist from Rich Graybill, theyoung chef they’d brought in to help manage the place. Will was busy horsing a huge basket of baguettes over from the bakery. All three of them were moving at an astonishing speed. It takes superhuman energy to work in the food trade, Will once told Mitch. Mitch believed it.

  As he got closer to the counter, Mitch carefully studied the enticing platters and bowls on display in the refrigerated case, his stomach growling.

  Now Donna was serving the young woman in line ahead of him. “What can I get you, Marilyn? God, I love your hair. Who did it? I’ve got to go see her. Mine looks just like a Brillo pad… Shut up, it does so.”

  Mitch liked Donna a lot. She was peppery and funny, and she held nothing back. Always, her pink face was lit with a warm, genuine smile. She liked being who she was. Donna was a bit on the short side, nearly a foot shorter than Will, and more than a bit on the chubby side. And her hair did look like a Brillo pad, frizzy and black with streaks of premature gray. She wore a blue denim apron with The Works stitched across it, as did everyone who served food there.

  “Hey there, stretch, what can I get for you today?” she asked, squinting at Mitch through her wire-rimmed glasses with feigned astonishment. “Time out, Berger, is that you? My God, you’re nothing but skin, bone, and wrinkled khaki.” Donna had a pronounced Boston accent, the flat, Southie kind. “How much weight have you lost this summer, fifteen pounds?”

  “Ten pounds… well, nine.”

  “That’s a lot, Mitch,” Will said, unloading his basket of baguettes.

  “Not enough to sat
isfy a certain resident trooper.”

  “Oh, what does that scrawny gazelle know about poundage?” Donna shot back. “Me, I like a full-bodied man. A man whose ass is bigger than mine. That’s all any woman wants.”

  “So that’s it,” Will joked. “I always wondered.”

  “Okay, I’m getting mixed signals here,” Mitch told her. “You and Des have to get on the same page.”

  “Not a chance. She’s the one who sees you naked. I just sell you food. Not that I wouldn’t like to trade places.”

  “Donna, are you making a play for me in front of your husband?”

  “It’s okay, Mitch, I’m used to it,” Will said, smiling at her.

  Mitch studied their playful banter closely, wondering if Will was cheating on her with Martine. He had no idea. None.

  Donna said, “If you’re not going to whisk me away to Bermuda on your yacht then you’ll have to place an order. This is a business, Berger. I can’t just stand here all afternoon talking dirty.”

  Mitch went for the grilled shrimp Caesar salad, an onion minibaguette and a fresh-squeezed orange juice. He placed it all on a tray and ambled over toward an empty table, pleased to see that people at three different tables were intently reading his review of Dark Star in that morning’s paper. Mitch enjoyed watching people read his work. He was not alone in this-it was just about every journalist’s guiltiest pleasure. He sat and opened his book, keeping an eye on the big glass doors to the street.

  Des came striding through them a few minutes later and made her way lithely across the bustling food hall, a supremely relaxed smile on her face as her eyes alertly took in everyone and everything in the place. She was becoming an exceptionally good resident trooper, Mitch felt. She was confident, helpful, and straight with everyone. People in town genuinely respected her. Plus there was a refreshing absence of head games with Des. She didn’t try to bully or intimidate anyone. She didn’t need to. Whatever came along, she knew she could handle it.

  Mitch loved the way her face lit up when she caught sight of him seated there. Loved the special smile that she reserved for him and him alone. As she started toward him he wondered what would happen to him if she were not in his life right now. He would go right down the drain, that’s what.

  But she must never know this-she thinks I’m the one who has it all together.

  They did not kiss when she got to his table. Des had an ironclad rule about Public Displays of Affection when she was in uniform. But there was no avoiding the way they glowed in each other’s presence. Just as there was no missing the curious glances that they got from neighboring tables. Because they were a different kind of couple, no question. And when you’re different people wonder about you. The glances didn’t bother either of them one bit. They knew how happy they were together.

  “Hey, bod man,” she said, her pale green eyes shining at him from behind her horn-rims.

  “Back at you, Master Sergeant.”

  “I’m going to fetch me some lunch.”

  “Lucky me,” Mitch said brightly.

  She cocked her head at him curiously. “How so?”

  “Now I get to watch you walk away,” he replied, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Among her many attributes, Des Mitry possessed one of the world’s top ten cabooses.

  “Dawg, would you be talking trash at me?”

  “I’m sure trying.”

  “You’d better behave yourself before I perform a strip search.”

  “Could I please get that in writing?”

  She let out a big whoop and headed over toward the deli counter, her big leather belt creaking, her stride long, athletic, and totally lacking in self-consciousness. She wasn’t showing off her form. Didn’t need to. Des knew perfectly well what she had. She kidded around with Donna for a minute, then returned with a Greek salad and an iced tea, and sat across from Mitch, her brow furrowing intently. She had something unsettling on her mind. He knew her well enough to know this.

  Mitch raised his orange juice in a toast. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  “Wait, wait, I know this one! We watched it together. Humphrey Bogart, right?”

  “In?…”

  “Um, was it The Maltese Falcon?”

  “Almost, it was Casablanca. But you were so close that we’re going to give you one of our very fine consolation prizes.”

  “Which is?…”

  “Me.”

  “And if I’d won-what would I have gotten then?”

  “Me.”

  “Sounds like I can’t lose,” she said, attacking her salad hungrily. “Looks like I’ve got me some catching up to do, though. I see you’ve already had your dessert. I’m guessing something from the doughnut food group.”

  “Wait, what are you talking about?”

  “Powdered sugar on your collar, boyfriend.”

  He glanced down at the collar of his short-sleeved khaki shirt. There were indeed tiny flecks of white there. “I can’t put anything over on you, can I?”

  “Don’t even try. I’m a trained detective. Besides, I know you. Whenever you’re upset about something you break your diet.”

  “I’m not like you, you know,” Mitch said defensively. “I can’t survive on such a drastically reduced food intake. Pretty soon you’ll have me subsisting on a handful of vitamin pills, just like the Jetsons.”

  “Well, at least you’ve moved off of Yogi and Boo Boo,” she said tartly.

  “I sure do wish you’d let me take that one back.”

  “Not even. You told me the truth. That’s what I need to hear if I’m going to get any better. Hell, that’s why I keep you around.”

  “So that’s it.”

  Des gazed at him steadily from across the table. “What’s going on, baby?”

  “You first.”

  “Me first what?”

  “Something’s bothering you, too, isn’t it?”

  “No way. You broke your diet-you go first.”

  “Okay, I can accept that. But we have to keep this between us, okay?” Mitch leaned over the table toward her, lowering his voice. “Dodge Crockett dropped a neutron bomb on me this morning- Martine is having an affair.”

  “My, my,” Des responded mildly. “Isn’t this interesting.”

  Mitch frowned at her. “You’re not reacting the way I thought you would at all. You seem… relieved.”

  “Only because I am,” Des confessed. “Real, Martine told me this morning that Dodge was having an affair.”

  “No way!”

  “Oh, most definitely way.”

  “Well, who with?”

  “She didn’t say. Why, did he?…”

  “No, not a word,” Mitch said, electing to keep his hunch about Will to himself. At least for now.

  “Well, this is certainly tangled up in weird,” she said, taking a gulp of her iced tea. “I wonder why they’ve dumped it on us.”

  “Why pick the same morning?” Mitch wondered. “And why pick us?”

  She considered it for a moment, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I hate to say this, but part of me feels like we’re being moved around.”

  “Moved around how?”

  “She told me about Dodge’s affair so she could get out in front of any rumors about her own. This way, if word leaks out that she’s seeing someone, people will say ‘The poor dear had no choice-Dodge has been cheating on her for months.’ ”

  “You think he told me about her for the very same reason?”

  “It’s a theory, Mitch.”

  “But that would mean they’re expecting us to blab this all over town.”

  “Not very flattering, is it?”

  “Not in the least,” Mitch said indignantly. “Dodge told it to me in confidence. I’d never run out and tell everyone in Dorset that Martine is… Wait, what am I saying? This isn’t Dorset, it’s Peyton goddamned Place.” He paused, poking at the remains of his lunch with his plastic fork. “Do you think they’ll stay together?”

  Des shrugged her should
ers. “This may be totally normal behavior for them. Some couples get off on the jealousy. It lights their fire. Hell, for all we know this whole business could be nothing more than air guitar.”

  “As in they’re not really playing?”

  “What I’m saying.”

  “Is that what you think is going on?”

  “Boyfriend, I wouldn’t even try to guess.”

  “Neither would I,” said Mitch, who had learned one sure thing about Dorset since he’d moved here: no one, absolutely no one, was who he or she appeared to be. Everyone was fronting. That didn’t necessarily mean you didn’t like or admire people like the Crocketts, it just meant you didn’t know them. They didn’t let you. “The Crocketts seemed like the perfect couple, too.”

  “There is no such thing,” Des said with sudden vehemence. “And there’s no such thing as the face of a dying marriage either.” She was drawing on her own painful breakup with Brandon, Mitch knew full well. “If they choose to, a couple like the Crocketts can hide what’s really going on from everyone.”

  “So what are we supposed to do now?”

  “Besides keep our mouths shut? Not a thing. Not unless they ask us for help.” She finished her salad and shoved her plate away. “I did me some hanging with Esme this morning.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Sweet, childlike-at times it seems like nobody’s home.”

  “That’s why they call them actors. They’re not like you and me. They’re instruments. When they aren’t performing they’re no different than the cello that you see lying on its side in the orchestra room, waiting to be picked up and played.”

  “If that’s the case then why does everybody worship them?”

  “They don’t. They worship the fantasy that’s up on the screen. The performers just have a bit of the stardust sprinkled on them, that’s all. It’s all about the fantasy. People vastly prefer it to reality, which is depressing and painful and filled with really bad smells. Reality they already know plenty about.” Mitch gazed at her searchingly. “Des?…”

  “What is it, baby?”

  “Let’s not play games like that with each other.”