black draperies, and smiled to herself. Old Mrs. Swenson hadn’t been able to resist eavesdropping. Not that she could have heard anything, deaf as she was, but Jacqueline didn’t blame her for trying. The poor old thing must be bored to death.
Her purse swinging sluggishly, Jacqueline started down the street. It was a nice day for a walk, and she had noticed a couple of antique shops in the business area along Main Street.
The first one proved to be a wasteland of old advertising memorabilia and rusty tools whose original function, much less their present utility, was in serious doubt. The owner was a retired civil servant from the capital, who had only moved to the area two years ago. No hope of learning anything about the Darcys from him.
Making her way toward the other antique shop, Jacqueline came to an abrupt halt and stared. Tucked in between two taller buildings, and modestly withdrawn from the sidewalk, was… Kathleen’s office.
A second glance told her the two little houses were not identical after all, though they had clearly been constructed from the same plan. The name over the door of this one was “Betty”; a sign swinging from a post amplified the name to “Betty’s Books.” The cottage looked the way Kathleen’s should have looked; it had been painted a cheerful primrose, and tubs of daffodils flanked the bright green door. As Jacqueline walked along the brick-paved path, the blind walls of the structures on either side gave her the feeling that she had descended into a woodland valley, an impression supported by the flower beds flanking the walk. Pink hyacinths and the scarlet and gold cups of tulips rose from a ground cover of low green plants dotted with tiny blue flowers. Forget-me-nots.
When she turned the knob and opened the door, a silvery tinkle of chimes announced her. There was no immediate response; the pleasant room within, lined with bookshelves, was empty of life except for a black cat curled up on a chair in front of the fireplace. It raised its head, dismissed her as unworthy of feline attention, and went back to sleep.
Then a voice called from somewhere in the back. “Let me know if you need help. And feel free to browse.”
Charming trustfulness, Jacqueline thought. She called out a thank-you, and began scanning the shelves.
It was a surprisingly well-stocked and sophisticated establishment for a small country town. Kathleen Darcy’s book was there, in several editions; the stock included, but was not limited to, the current best-sellers. Jacqueline always denied that she looked first for her own books, but of course she did; no writer can resist the temptation, even though their absence from the shelves produces an unhealthy rise in blood pressure. Yes, there they were, both of them. A wry grimace twisted her face when she saw Brunnhilde’s numerous oeuvres on the next shelf down.
Priestess of the Ice God
had been such a flagrant attempt to capitalize on the success of another book with the word “ice” in the title.
The bookshelves at the back of the room were freestanding. Jacqueline stood on tiptoe and peered over them, to behold a wall with two doors, both closed. A sound from behind one of the doors made her retreat hastily. She was studying a shelf labeled “Classics” when the owner of the bookshop made her appearance.
The slow, shuffling sounds of her approach had given Jacqueline warning of what to expect, but it was a shock, all the same. The contrast between the light, cheerful voice and the twisted body was hard to accept. She was young, too; less than forty, Jacqueline guessed, despite the pure-white hair, so dull and lifeless it might have been a cheap wig. One leg, shorter than the other by several inches, had been fitted with a heavy thick-soled shoe. From a face that showed the clear lines of plastic surgery, a pair of beautiful dark eyes awaited Jacqueline’s response. They didn’t expect much.
“I hope you didn’t interrupt your work on my
Her purse swinging sluggishly, Jacqueline started down the street. It was a nice day for a walk, and she had noticed a couple of antique shops in the business area along Main Street.
The first one proved to be a wasteland of old advertising memorabilia and rusty tools whose original function, much less their present utility, was in serious doubt. The owner was a retired civil servant from the capital, who had only moved to the area two years ago. No hope of learning anything about the Darcys from him.
Making her way toward the other antique shop, Jacqueline came to an abrupt halt and stared. Tucked in between two taller buildings, and modestly withdrawn from the sidewalk, was… Kathleen’s office.
A second glance told her the two little houses were not identical after all, though they had clearly been constructed from the same plan. The name over the door of this one was “Betty”; a sign swinging from a post amplified the name to “Betty’s Books.” The cottage looked the way Kathleen’s should have looked; it had been painted a cheerful primrose, and tubs of daffodils flanked the bright green door. As Jacqueline walked along the brick-paved path, the blind walls of the structures on either side gave her the feeling that she had descended into a woodland valley, an impression supported by the flower beds flanking the walk. Pink hyacinths and the scarlet and gold cups of tulips rose from a ground cover of low green plants dotted with tiny blue flowers. Forget-me-nots.
When she turned the knob and opened the door, a silvery tinkle of chimes announced her. There was no immediate response; the pleasant room within, lined with bookshelves, was empty of life except for a black cat curled up on a chair in front of the fireplace. It raised its head, dismissed her as unworthy of feline attention, and went back to sleep.
Then a voice called from somewhere in the back. “Let me know if you need help. And feel free to browse.”
Charming trustfulness, Jacqueline thought. She called out a thank-you, and began scanning the shelves.
It was a surprisingly well-stocked and sophisticated establishment for a small country town. Kathleen Darcy’s book was there, in several editions; the stock included, but was not limited to, the current best-sellers. Jacqueline always denied that she looked first for her own books, but of course she did; no writer can resist the temptation, even though their absence from the shelves produces an unhealthy rise in blood pressure. Yes, there they were, both of them. A wry grimace twisted her face when she saw Brunnhilde’s numerous oeuvres on the next shelf down.
Priestess of the Ice God
had been such a flagrant attempt to capitalize on the success of another book with the word “ice” in the title.
The bookshelves at the back of the room were freestanding. Jacqueline stood on tiptoe and peered over them, to behold a wall with two doors, both closed. A sound from behind one of the doors made her retreat hastily. She was studying a shelf labeled “Classics” when the owner of the bookshop made her appearance.
The slow, shuffling sounds of her approach had given Jacqueline warning of what to expect, but it was a shock, all the same. The contrast between the light, cheerful voice and the twisted body was hard to accept. She was young, too; less than forty, Jacqueline guessed, despite the pure-white hair, so dull and lifeless it might have been a cheap wig. One leg, shorter than the other by several inches, had been fitted with a heavy thick-soled shoe. From a face that showed the clear lines of plastic surgery, a pair of beautiful dark eyes awaited Jacqueline’s response. They didn’t expect much.
“I hope you didn’t interrupt your work on my
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