Lake Silence

CHAPTER 31

Vicki

Moonsday, Juin 19

Julian Farrow looked at my face and winced. I thought having the deep purple bruising above my eyebrow looked bad enough, but when the secondary bruises showed up yesterday, coloring the whole eye area, I decided purple wasn’t a bad look in comparison.

Two middle-aged women were browsing the shelves of used romances. In such a small community, you would think I would know everyone, at least by sight, but I didn’t know these two women beyond type—they were Sproing’s country club set, if Sproing was a place that could afford to build a country club for the handful of families that were too important to rub elbows with the rest of us. These were the women who wouldn’t think of going into Come and Get It for lunch or to the local clothing store unless they wanted everyone to know they were slumming. They were the kind who made a seasonal trip to Hubbney or Toland for a clothes-buying spree, which impressed no one except themselves.

My ex-mother-in-law had been like them, smiling and keeping her voice devastatingly pleasant while she listed my inadequacies and all the reasons Yorick could have done better if he’d thought with his head instead of letting his loins respond to a moment’s temptation, which was the only reason I had ensnared him into marriage. The fact that he didn’t have access to any of the family money when we got married and needed someone to help support him while he “grew into his potential” meant none of the posh girls would have been of any use to him since they, too, needed someone to support them while they grew into their potential.

At a party for our fifth anniversary, one of his friends asked him why he was holding on to his starter wife now that he was established. When Yorick just laughed, that should have told me something, but by then I believed him when he told me that no one else would want to screw, let alone marry, someone who looked dumpy even in the most expensive dress, and I was lucky that he still wanted to stay with me.

“Should expect something like that to happen when you live around brutes.”

I don’t know which woman said it, but I felt the punch behind the words. Easier to blame the woman for the black eye until it’s your eye. Then I saw the look on Julian’s face as he turned toward the women, and I leaped to stop him from doing or saying something he would regret.

“What do you think?” I said loudly, moving into his line of sight. “I’m trying it out for a friend who does stage makeup. The color is called Bruise Yellow.”

Julian studied me. Did he understand what I was trying to do? Would he play along?

“It looks real,” he said after a moment. “But why only do one eye?”

“To make it look realistic.”

He nodded as if that made sense.

A muttered remark from one of the women. I didn’t catch it, but that look filled Julian’s face again—a look that made me think he’d been other things in his life besides an amiable bookstore owner.

“You know what else my friend told me?” I asked Julian, once more pulling him away from a potential confrontation.

“What?”

“That there is a shade of red lipstick favored by women of mature years that has a special, very secret ingredient. Know what it is?”

“What?” he said again.

“Bull urine.”

He blinked. The women, who had their backs to us, gasped.

“What?” Julian said for the third time, making me wonder if something was wrong with him. He usually wasn’t so limited in his vocabulary.

“Bull urine. It’s the ingredient that adds that hint of yellow under the red. So instead of asking someone if he would kiss his mother with that mouth after he uses really bad swearwords, you should be asking if he’d want to be kissed by someone wearing that shade of red lipstick.” I looked at the two women and gave them a Sproinger happy face.

They stared at me as if I’d suddenly grown fangs. Which made me wonder if there were any of those costume shops left where you could buy things like fake teeth for Trickster Night. Might be fun to greet the Proud and the Huffy with a fanged happy face. But I wouldn’t want to insult my attorney, whose fangs were anything but fake.

One of the women lifted the books she had selected to make sure we were watching. Then she dropped them on the floor and sniffed at Julian. “If you’re going to let riffraff into your establishment, we’ll take our business elsewhere.”

“Do that,” Julian snapped. “And just so there are no misunderstandings in the future, if you do decide to purchase books here, I won’t accept any used books from you in exchange. The last time you brought books in, one had been dropped in dirty water and the other two smelled like cat piss. Any books you buy here from now on, you pay the going price.”

“Well!” the first woman huffed.

“I’m going to report you!” the other snipped.

“To whom? I own the place,” Julian said.

The second woman hesitated, then dropped her stack of used books on the floor in a show of solidarity. The first woman kicked a book out of her way as she marched to the door and out, her friend trailing behind her.

Julian came out from behind the island counter and began to pick up the books the women had dropped. When I took a step to help him, he snapped, “Don’t.” Then, more softly, “Bitches.”

Since I didn’t think any business in Sproing could afford to lose customers, I felt badly for him—and felt guilty because my coming into the store had contributed to his trouble with some of his customers.

I watched the women cross the street. “They’re going to the police station.” I turned and looked at him. “They’re going to report you to the police?”

Julian had been checking the books for damage. He glanced toward the police station and sighed. “Gods, I hope Wayne isn’t in the station right now. This is the kind of bullshit that makes him crazy and is the reason he chose highway patrol in the first place.”

I didn’t feel all warm and fuzzy thinking about a large man with a gun going crazy. Then again, I woke up that morning with a Panther-shaped Cougar standing next to my bed, staring at me as if trying to decide if I was still alive and was going to get up and make breakfast or had died and could now be breakfast. Since it looked like this was going to be my new normal, I might not be using the straightest ruler when it came to measuring crazy.

I went into the back half of the store, where the new books were shelved. Julian had a small display next to the island counter that held the newest releases, but the rest of the new books were back here. It seemed like a less-than-stellar business plan, having the more profitable part of your stock where it wasn’t easily visible, but the used books really were more like a lending library than a store.

Maybe Julian should make up a membership card and charge a modest annual fee that allowed people to do the buy and swap of used books like they did now, and people who didn’t pay the fee could just buy the used books.

I’d float the idea past Ineke first and see what she thought. In the meantime, I gave in to the need for some kind of treat to take away the sting of the woman’s words and my guilt over hurting Julian’s business. I browsed the shelves, picking up another thriller by Alan Wolfgard as well as a mystery by an author I hadn’t read before. According to her bio, she lived in the Finger Lakes area in a village I’d never heard of.

Looking at the terra indigene names on the covers of some of the books, I realized why Julian kept the new stock in the back half of the store. Sure, he carried the books by human authors that could be found in any bookstore in human-controlled towns, but he also had books by authors who would be unknown in cities like Hubbney or Toland—authors he kept in stock for a clientele that wasn’t human.

I selected a few thrillers and mysteries, then perused the romance shelves, finally choosing one about a ship’s captain and a female stowaway who faced danger on the high seas—the biggest danger being the Sea itself. The capital S was the only hint that the captain and his stowaway might be squaring off with an Elemental, so of course I had to buy it.

I brought my selections to the counter. Julian looked at the stack and sighed.

“You don’t have to buy more than you want in an effort to support the store,” he said. “Those women did nothing for my bottom line.”

“I like to read.” It wasn’t a snappy or clever reply, but it was the truth.

Julian rang up my purchases and deducted the total from my revolving line of credit. Me buying books on credit didn’t help his bottom line either, but I would pay him. Eventually.

He put the books in a cloth Lettuce Reed bag and held it out. I took the bag but hesitated to leave the store.

“Does the eye really look that bad?” I asked.

“Compared to what?”

Now I sighed. I’d planned to stop at the general store to pick up a few things since I wasn’t feeling up to driving to a grocery store in Crystalton or Bristol for a full load of victuals. Besides, Pops Davies carried all the basics, and he bought the food fresh from local farmers, and that included the milk, cheese, and ice cream. What more did I need? Well, I needed big sunglasses that hid half my face so I wouldn’t have to answer the “What happened to you?” question at every store I entered.

When I asked Ilya Sanguinati to spread the word about how I got hurt, he knew I wasn’t thinking about the humans in Sproing, but maybe I should let certain people know. Problem was, I really didn’t want to tell humans I had a black eye because I had a nightmare and fell out of bed.

While I considered if I really needed milk and fruit, Detective Swinn slammed into the store, looking triumphant. Officer Osgood trailed behind him, looking worried. Looking scared.

“You’re coming with me, Farrow,” Swinn said.

“Why?” Julian asked calmly.

“To answer the charges of abusive language and threats of bodily harm.”

“Come again?”

“Are you resisting?” Swinn’s expression made it clear he really wanted the smallest indication of resistance.

“I’m asking for clarification.”

“Two women made a complaint about you,” Osgood said.

“You mean the two women who marched over to the police station after insulting another customer and damaging some of my stock?” Julian asked so pleasantly I knew he was furious. “The two women who come in at least once a week to complain that I don’t carry their preferred authors? I do carry those authors, by the way, but the women would have to buy new copies of the books because I don’t have those titles as used books. Are we talking about the two women who come in and complain about what I charge for used books, saying they can get them cheaper in Bristol? The two women who bring in damaged books that I can’t possibly use and expect to be given full credit toward their next selection? Are those the women who made the complaint?”

“Julian didn’t say anything objectionable,” I said.

“No one asked you, missy,” Swinn snapped. Then he studied my face and smiled. “That’s a good look for you. Fireplug.”

Julian almost leaped over the counter, but Osgood said loudly, “Something is going on at the bank.”

Swinn had been pushing for it, hoping Julian would react. I silently thanked Osgood for the diversion. Then I looked out the bookstore’s big front window and realized it wasn’t a diversion. A mob of people crowded the sidewalk in front of the bank and no one was getting inside.

Of course. The Sanguinati had closed the bank after the end of business on Firesday. It looked like it was still closed, which was not a good way to start the workweek. I wondered if anyone had thought to put a sign on the door to let people know the bank would reopen.

“Looks like the bank is closed today.” Julian took a step back from the counter as he regained control of himself. “You might want to go over and assist with crowd control.”

“Not my job,” Swinn said.

“Neither is following up on a ludicrous complaint, but you’re here.”

Marmaduke Swinn locked eyes with Julian Farrow.

“The bank’s president sold out to save himself,” Julian said quietly. “He and the bank manager are off the game board. So is Franklin Cartwright. So are Chesnik, Baker, and Calhoun. Are you and Reynolds also pawns in someone’s scheme? What is the price of loyalty?”

The hatred that filled Swinn’s eyes was totally out of proportion to Julian’s words—unless Swinn really was a pawn in someone’s scheme.

“Someone should have put a bullet in your brain years ago,” Swinn snarled.

I froze, shocked. Osgood looked equally shocked. Maybe more so because Swinn had been his commanding officer a few days ago.

“Better men than you have tried, and I’m still here,” Julian replied.

“Your luck won’t hold forever.”

“Maybe not. But I have allies too, and I’ll let them know that if something happens to me, you should be the first person they check out.”

“That’s enough,” Grimshaw said.

I don’t know how long he’d been standing just inside the door. I didn’t see him come in, didn’t know how much he’d heard.

“Officer Osgood, go over to the bank and start dispersing the crowd. I’ve been informed that the bank will reopen tomorrow under new management. People should bring in proof of their checking and savings accounts. Every account with confirmed paperwork will be honored. Pass the message.”

“Yes, sir.” Osgood fled.

“Detective Swinn,” Grimshaw continued. “This isn’t your territory. You came in to investigate a man’s death. It has been determined that no human agent was involved in his death, so the case is closed.”

“Just because a human didn’t kill him doesn’t mean a human wasn’t involved.” Swinn looked at me when he said it.

“The investigation is done.”

“It’s done when I say it’s done.”

Grimshaw took a step toward Swinn. “It’s done when your captain says it’s done. He called you this morning, telling you to return to Putney. You and Reynolds. I know because your captain called mine to request that any follow-up be handled through the Bristol station.”

Swinn’s face turned an unhealthy shade of red. “This isn’t over.” He laced the words with venom.

“Unfortunately, you’re right about that.” Grimshaw stepped aside, giving Swinn a clear path to the door. He watched Swinn until the other man pushed through the crowd still milling around the bank and got into the unmarked car. Then he looked at Julian. “We need to talk.”

Julian hesitated. “You know where I live.”

Now Grimshaw focused on me. “Do you feel all right?”

“My face is sore. Otherwise, I think I look worse than I feel.”

“That’s good.”

I guess that was his way of telling me I really didn’t want to visit any more stores until the bruises faded.

“Call Pops with an order and ask him to drop it off at the boardinghouse,” Julian said.

“Why there?” I asked. Although getting a snack at the boardinghouse had a lot of appeal. And I could give Ineke the gossip firsthand. Between the showdown at the bookstore and the run on the bank there was a lot to talk about. “Scratch that question. Dropping off an order at Ineke’s would save Pops some time and gasoline.”

Julian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Exactly.”

Grimshaw walked me to my car. “They shouldn’t bother you, but if Swinn or Reynolds shows up at The Jumble—or anywhere else—I want to know about it. Understood?”

“Did Swinn mean what he said about Julian?”

Grimshaw opened my car door and didn’t reply.