Murder Between the Covers by Elaine Viets

but I never thought I’d need it for him.” Her voice faltered for a moment, then steadied. “We used to talk about books for hours upstairs in his office.”
    Helen saw how the blonde filled out her white halter top. Another pigeon, she thought.
    “They had such lovely literary discussions,” said the little brown mother hen with her. “You don’t find many men who can talk about books in South Florida. And to die in such a senseless way.”
    “We’re all sorry, ma’am,” Helen said, sliding the book into a bag.
    But she wasn’t, and neither was anyone else who worked at Page Turners. Helen felt like a fraud as she made fake sounds of sympathy to the customers.
    Only Matt, the bookseller who’d walked off the job when his paycheck bounced, came out and said it. He stopped at the store the morning after Page Turner’s murder hit the news. Matt’s dreads were as luxuriant as ever, but his usual white T-shirt was black.
    “You’re out of uniform,” Helen said. “What’s with the black? You in mourning for Page?”
    “I’m not wasting any tears over that man. I heard you found the body.”
    “It was dreadful. He had a butcher knife in his back.”
    “I told you he’d pay,” Matt said. “The man passed, but it wasn’t easy. He’s gone and I’m glad.”
    Helen was, too. But she couldn’t bring herself to say so. This store has pigs, pigeons, hens, and weasels, she thought. You can add another animal to the menagerie. I’m a rat. I’ve got to get out of retail. I’m beginning to hate the human race. I need a nice desk job. Someplace without a cash register. I need to get off my feet.
    Before Helen started at Page Turners, she had no idea how physically hard a bookstore job could be. Booksellers were not allowed to sit when they worked the cash register. Cheap Page did not carpet the cashiers’ area. He wouldn’t even spring for rubber mats. After eight hours of standing on concrete, her feet hurt so badly she could hardly walk home. Her back ached and kept her awake at night.
    “The key to survival,” Gayle told her, “is to get the ugliest shoes with the thickest soles you can find.”
    Helen spent sixty dollars she couldn’t afford for cushionsoled lace-ups too styleless for her grandmother. Gayle was right. The thick soles helped. But the pain never really went away.
    Now that she was cut back to thirty hours a week, Helen had time for a serious job search. She’d had an interview with a good prospect after work. An accounting firm wanted an office assistant.
    The office was in a new building four blocks from the Coronado. Helen saw herself sitting at a clean, well-lighted desk with a comfortable chair and a potted philodendron. The pay was better than the bookstore: eight fifty an hour. The requirements would be laughable anywhere but South Florida. Must have neat appearance and speak fluent Eng lish , the ad said. Local standards could be delightfully low. Helen hoped she could persuade the owner to pay her in cash off the books. She’d settle for eight dollars an hour.
    At four-thirty, Helen put on fresh lipstick, combed her hair, and checked her panty hose for runs. No doubt about it, she looked neat. She walked confidently to what she hoped would be her new job. The door to the office suite was a solid slab of mahogany with a discreet silver plaque: THE HANSELMEYER COMPANY. The old corporate part of her responded immediately and approved. The receptionist’s desk was equally impressive, and the woman behind it was a dignified fifty instead of some fluffy young chick. Another good sign.
    The owner, Selwyn Hanselmeyer, looked like a snake in a suit, but Helen figured she could put up with him. He had a flat face, yellow eyes that never blinked, and a large bulge in his midsection. Helen wondered if he’d swallowed a piglet for lunch.
    Just beyond his door, she glimpsed the office cubicles, padded with soft gray fabric to deaden sound. Even ordinary office workers had big leather