Author: Alexie Aaron
Category: Paranormal
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/alexie-aaron/page,20,552944-the_knight_of_pages.html
“Thank you.”
“You must have some early hours.”
“Yes.”
“So, you and Greene, how do you manage…”
“We’ve recently moved from friends to lovers. I think we’re still figuring things out.”
“I thought I caught the new relationship vibe. He can’t stop looking at you.”
“Really?” Clara gushed and then remembered she was talking to a cop and sobered up.
“What do you think about all these book club people getting themselves into trouble?”
“I only just met the guy who runs the club, Wendell Baumbach. He seems like a kind man, but a bit cowed by his mother. Although, I understand she is awesome. He asked me to have dinner with him and his mother.”
“Asking you out right under Nash’s nose?”
“No. I think he mistook why I was hanging around the bookshop. He took my sincere refusal with dignity. Wendell did, however, seem a bit upset when he found out I was serious about Nash.”
“Not a fan of Nash’s?” Molina dug.
“Well, when we found out about someone possibly putting a dangerous book into people’s hands, and Wendell, who is a bookdealer by trade, was acting oddly, Nash banned him from the store. Maybe he was a bit hasty…”
Molina’s eyes lit up. “Maybe not. If I need to reach you…”
“I’m here until Saturday, then I’ll be back at work.”
“The evenings…”
“Here. There is an apartment upstairs.”
“Nash lives here over the shop?”
“No, but we have spent a few nights here.”
“Why not his place?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You are new to this relationship. Take it from me, check out his apartment. It will tell you a lot about him away from the shop. He may be a reader’s climax here, but at home he could be an SOB.”
“You seem to be speaking from experience,” Clara noticed.
“Off the record, I was dating this guy who was tough and rugged. You know, the type of guy a girl could wrap her legs around. He takes me to his place, and while he’s fixing dinner, I’m checking out the medicine cabinet, and then I pulled open a few drawers. One of the drawers was filled with women’s panties. I thought maybe he was married, but then I get to looking at the size of the underwear, and behold, they were his. I kept that discovery to myself. After dinner, he admits to me that he loved that I was this tough cop because he was so vulnerable.”
“Yikes.”
“Yep. I just couldn’t warm up to this guy. I’m sure there is someone for everyone, but I’m into knuckle-dragging, boxer-wearing, hairy-backed men.”
“Lucky them,” Clara replied.
Nash and Jones walked out. Nash stopped at the counter and came up with Candance Moore’s card. He also pulled a few receipts from his diary and placed them on the copier before giving the originals to Jones.
Clara watched him from the door where she waited for the police so she could let them out. Molina watched her.
“Thank you, I’ll get these originals back to you. If you do remember anything else that would help us understand what is going on with the members of Page Turners, please call,” Jones said.
Clara held the door open, and after the police left, she was quick to close the gate.
Nash stood there staring off into the shop. “The books are waking up.”
“They have been twittering to themselves,” Clara said, walking over. “I told the cop that I accidently let a bird into the shop.”
“Clever. I’ll have to remember that one,” Nash said. “Would you be my late-lunch guest? I thought we could pick up Chinese and eat at my apartment. I have to check the mail, get some clothes, and check on Eleanor.”
“Would it be easier if we just stayed there in the evenings? Or you could stay with me?” Clara offered.
“You have strange men climbing in your windows at night,” Nash reminded her.
“Spider-Man falls under strange. But I assure you, he was the first and will be the last,” Clara said, picking up her baseball bat from behind the counter.
“I love scary women,” Nash said.
“You,” Clara pressed a finger lightly on Nash’s chest, “are only allowed to love this scary woman.”
Nash gave her a look that almost took Clara’s knees out from under her.
Chapter Nineteen
Molina sat across from Eleanor Aldrich at her kitchen table. Eleanor was not at all bothered by the officer arriving unannounced. She had Butterball contained and a spread of home-baked goodies on the table before Molina had a chance to decline.
“I always have something on hand for one of the boys. Harlan and Nash have been like sons to me since my Edward passed. They work such long hours. Harlan works security at Macy’s, and Nash has his own bookshop.”
“I know. I’ve been in it,” Molina said. “Can you tell me the last time you saw Nash Greene?”
“Let me see. Oh yes, it was when he left for work on Saturday morning. He called me late Saturday night to tell me he was going to camp out at the store and wouldn’t be able to make our Sunday gin rummy game. He explained that he would have odd hours for the next few weeks and would call and check in with me when he could. I think he has a girlfriend. I hope he has a girlfriend. I’ve been worried about Nash.”
“I don’t want to speak out of school, but I think I met her,” Molina said. “Did you play rummy with Nash on Sunday the twelfth?”
“Let me see,” she said, getting up and taking a wall calendar down. She adjusted her bifocals and nodded. “We play every Sunday. I just didn’t know the date.”
Molina looked over at the calendar and saw the letters H and N in almost all the past squares. There were numbers next to the letters. She looked up, and Eleanor blushed.
“You must think me a busybody.”
“I don’t understand,” Molina said. “Are you keeping track of these men?”
“It started off as a game for me to pass the time. I wanted to see which one of them stuck to a rigid schedule. And then I found that I was waiting by the door to see if they made it home safe at night. Nash usually stops. Harlan will wave, but Nash stops to have a few words with me. They are both good men to put up with a nosy neighbor like me.”
“Anything unusual happen around here in the last few weeks?” Molina asked.
“Last Wednesday, the police were at the expensive condo building down the street. Harlan had a visitor Friday. I think it was his cousin or brother. They look so much alike.”
“Tell me, could Harlan or Nash leave the building without you knowing?”
“I’m a light sleeper, and the pressure is pretty good in this place. If someone opens a door, it wakes me up, or Butterball will meow when she hears the men walk by. I’m not always here during the day, but at night, I would know.”
Molina took a look at the calendar, and the times Nash said he was here were noted on the proper day. “Would you mind if I took a picture? It would save me writing this down.”
“Why? Is Nash or Harlan in trouble?”
“Nash just needed to have his time at home verified. He’s not in trouble. He just needed to be ruled out of our investigation.”
“Are you investigating that condo down the street?” Eleanor asked, interested.
“No. But now I’m curious,” Molina said. “This is a pretty nice neighborhood.”
“It’s changed a bit. I’m glad I got in when I did. I don’t think young folks can afford it.”
“I live with my parents. My dad renovated the top of the garage,” Molina said. “He likes to keep track of me.”
“But we know, you’re keeping track of your folks, don’t we?”
“You’re a smart woman, Eleanor,” Molina said.
“Tell me about Nash’s girlfriend.”
“A tall pretty redhead who blushes when she catches Nash looking at her. C
lara is a chef. And she’s fiercely protective.”
“Good. When I first met Nash, his wife had left him for a Hollywood producer. He was sickly, evidently a heart problem. I know even now, after the transplant, he’s not robust. I try to get him to eat. He thinks I don’t notice that he has no appetite.”
“Did his wife break his heart?”
“No, I think he always suffered. I do think that it was a good separation.”
“Well, as much as I would like to sit and have a good gossip, I better get back to work. Eleanor, it has been a pleasure,” Molina said. “Here’s my card. If you have any concerns, just call.”
“Thank you, Officer,” Eleanor said and pinned it on the bulletin board. She then rehung the calendar before walking Molina out.
Nash slowed his steps on the sidewalk, putting and arm around Clara. “Isn’t that Officer Molina?” he asked, pointing down the street.
“Small world,” Clara hissed.
They hung back until Molina got in her police sedan and drove off in the opposite direction.
“I bet she was checking out your alibi,” Clara said.
“I figured they would but not this soon,” he said worried. “I should have warned her.”
“Her?”
“Eleanor. What must she be thinking right now?” Nash asked, entering the lobby. He opened the mailbox and shoved the contents in one of the takeout bags.
“Tell you what. You give me your keys, and I’ll give you a few minutes alone with her to explain,” Clara offered.
“No, you’re just going to head right for my medicine cabinet and then see if I have women’s panties in my drawer,” Nash said, climbing the stairs.
“How?” Clara asked, amazed.
“You were standing over the heating grate which hooks up with the grate in the workroom. We could hear everything.”
“This is why you suggested eating here,” Clara said. “You’re one smart fellow. Give me your keys.”
“Fourth floor,” he said, handing her his keys.
“Which apartment?”
“The fourth floor. This place is built like a wedding cake. It gets smaller as you go up.”
“Gotcha,” Clara said. “Give me the bags and enough time to check out your book collection.”
“I have eight hundred books up there.”
“I’m a fast reader,” Clara lied.
They walked down the hall to the fourth-floor steps. Nash heard a squeak of a board by Eleanor’s apartment, reversed, walked back, and knocked on her door.
“Nash!”
“I saw you had a visitor…”
Clara climbed the steps and found herself in a tiny landing. She opened the door before her and reached around blindly for the light. She didn’t find it at first. She let her eyes grow accustomed to the dim light the downward slats of the wood blinds provided. The foyer, although a bit stale smelling, was a good size. She found a table lamp a few feet in front of her. She set the bags down and turned on the light. Once the little blue dots from her looking almost directly into the bulb calmed down, she was overwhelmed with books of every shape and size.
The hallway was lined with shelves. She followed it to the right and found herself in a kitchen. She flipped on the light. The room, at first, seemed very sterile. The appliances, although thirty years old, gleamed as if they were never used. There was a large microwave that, she saw upon opening it, had seen better times. “Nash zaps his meals,” Clara said. “No table means he eats elsewhere.” She set the bags on the counter, taking time to vent the eggroll container so they wouldn’t be too soggy.
“Alrighty, time to snoop,” Clara said and opened the refrigerator. There was nothing but a carton of eggs, a few beers, and at one point, it looked like Nash had bought carrots and celery; although, they looked nothing like the vegetables she was used to seeing. “Dead zone.” She opened the freezer, a few Hungry-Man dinners and a generic frozen lasagna. Behind them in a clear freezer bag was what was left of the box of Girl Scout cookies she gave him. “Huh? This man doesn’t eat. I’m going to change that,” she promised herself.
Eleanor talked a mile a minute about Officer Molina and then asked him questions about the redhead who disappeared up the stairs.
“Her name is Clara Tyler. She’s an orphan. She has one brother who lives in Alaska. Clara is a chef for Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz. Buzz as in caffeine buzz, not pot. Shame on you, Eleanor.”
“I didn’t say anything,” she argued.
“You thought it.”
“Why didn’t she come in with you?”
“Hot food, and she didn’t want to intrude. I’ll bring her by. We’ll call first. This way she can dress to impress. We’ve been camping out in the bookshop.”
“Why?”
“Whoever the police are looking for may be out to hurt me and mine. Do not open the door for anyone but me, Harlan, or the police. Don’t let anyone give you a book, especially a black leather book.”
“Why?”
“The book is dangerous. Promise me.”
Eleanor flushed. “I promise.”
“You’re very important to me, Eleanor. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner to speak with you. I’ve been a little…”
“Lovestruck?”
“She’s been a friend for a while. Clara and I met at the shop. We would have great conversations when she came in to buy a book. It got to where I would look for her every time the door would open. She came in a lot. Sometimes it was just for conversation, and then bam! I took a chance.”
“Officer Molina says Clara is very protective of you.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Maybe she can fatten you up. Tell her I tried in vain but…”
“I never had much of an appetite until recently.”
“You’re happy now. I can see it. Call and we’ll make arrangements for a snack and a game of crazy eights.”
“Deal.” Nash rose and walked to the door. “Clara probably is upstairs alphabetizing my books by now.”
“I would be reading your mail,” Eleanor said honestly. “Postcards especially.”
Nash walked in to find his apartment lit with soft light. He walked into the kitchen and found it empty. He rounded the corner, and Clara was just finishing setting the coffee table. She had grabbed a few couch cushions and dropped them on the floor.
“This is a beautiful place, Nash.”
“I thought you’d find it dreary.”
“The kitchen is, but only because it doesn’t have me. All kitchens love me,” she professed.
Nash chuckled. “How far did you get?”
“Here. I admit I fell in love with the fireplace and caressed the bricks awhile. So unusual. Very clean.”
“Never used it. I’m sure there are a few birds’ nests holding the flue cover down. Would you like the grand tour?”
“Please.”
“The hall you came into also opens up around the corner where I have my home office.”
Clara walked in, and as he turned on the lights, she saw an office. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a strange little door cut out of one.
Nash unlocked the door and opened it. “This leads to one of two patios.” He took her hand and helped her to navigate until her eyes adjusted. He pointed up to the brick façade, in particular, the sculpted boxes every few yards. “The building has sconce lighting outside, giving it an art deco feel. If I want the light from the sconces, I open them up on the bottom. Both patios are enclosed by six-foot brick walls and are invisible to the street and alley. I suspect a nudist used to live here. Kalaraja used to make me sleep out here during the day when I was convalescing.” He walked to the end of the patio and unlocked another door. “Here is my bedroom. The back patio is accessible from the back bedroom and opens also into the dining room.”
“Dining room? I missed that.”
“No table. Big open space,” he said, inching Clara towards his bed. “I dreame
d of having you here.” He kissed her tenderly. “About our meal… I have a microwave…”
Between kisses, Clara managed, “I know.”
~
Elma Kis studied the package she had found on her doorstep after she exited the taxi. She had just returned from her business trip. Whatever it was, was wrapped old-style in brown paper. Someone had written the wrong zip code in the address. It was off by one number. She supposed it bounced around post offices until someone had the initiative to look her up in the bloody phone book. How many Elma Kis’s were there? Just one. She was certain of that. All through university and well into her career, she made sure no one took her name. She had it copyrighted.
“So what have we here? A gift from an admirer? Or did I order something and have forgotten about it? No, I never forget anything,” she answered herself. She tossed the package in the outside pocket of the overnight bag and continued into the house.
A red blinking light on her ancient-but-still-reliable answering machine drew her further in. She pushed play and then turned on the light. Her house was immaculate. This pleased her, as she couldn’t abide dust. She didn’t know how anyone who had the ability to grip a dust rag didn’t dust.
Elma, this is Wendell Baumbach from the book club. I’m calling to remind you we are going to be continuing with The Secret Garden Wednesday evening, even though our core group is depleted. I did receive some inquiries from interested new readers. I thought it was best to start them when we move on to a new book. I’m interested in your thoughts on this. Give me a jingle.
“Good God, Wendell, can’t you do anything without a committee?” she said aloud as she sat down and removed her travel shoes and slid into her house slippers. She rolled her bag into the laundry room and opened it. She set aside anything she hadn’t worn and sorted the dirty laundry, setting her cashmere twinset aside to be taken to the dry cleaners. She shut it and rolled it into the master bedroom where she sorted out the cosmetics and hair-care bags. After emptying the inside, she tossed in a rose petal sachet, zipped it, and lifted it to its place in the hall closet. She stood there a moment, thinking she may have forgotten something.