29

Doresh’s drop-in left Jeremy rattled.

He barges in, and I feel like a suspect. What’s the matter with me?

Maybe it was the woman on Saugatuck Finger, no name. Tyrene Mazursky had been named. What did that mean? Old hat? Throwaway victims? Now, they didn’t even merit a name?

His breath quickened, and his eyes hurt. The walls of his office closed in on him. He paged Angela, but she didn’t answer. Tried it again- thinking a second time meant dependence and was he ready for that?

Still, no answer.

So tired of going it alone.

The air shaft outside his window was black, and all at once the window was wet and oily. Rain, a hard, dirty downpour, spitting at the glass.

He threw on his coat, left the hospital, walked to the surly mute’s bookstore.

By the time he got there, his coat was soaked through, his shoes sloshed, and his hair was plastered to his skull.

No one else was out on the street. No one stupid enough. A late-model station wagon was parked in front of the store. White, that made it easy to see. The blackened windows rendered the shop nearly invisible in the gloom. The door was open, and he walked in.

No fat man at the desk.

No desk.

No bookshelves, books. Nothing. The lights were on, but the space was empty, save for a coat folded over a chair, an unplugged cash register on the gray linoleum floor, and a strawberry blond woman sweeping up.

She said, “You poor thing- are you a customer?”

“I was.”

“You don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I had a towel or something.”

“Don’t know what?”

“The shop’s gone. My father died.”

Jeremy groped for the fat man’s name- Arthur had mentioned it… Renfrew. Finally, some neurons were firing correctly.

“Mr. Renfrew died?” he said.

The woman leaned her broom against the wall and came forward. She had a roundish, pleasant face, hips you could rest your hands on, maternal breasts, and curly, shoulder-length hair of the prettiest shade Jeremy had ever seen. Buttermilk complexion, light freckles, green eyes, forty or so. Little makeup because she knew she was aging well.

Her clothes were ill suited for janitorial work- a well-cut, mint green suit and matching shoes, discreet gold necklace, a diamond-studded wedding band. The raincoat on the chair was camel-colored, dry, folded neatly.

“I’m Shirley Renfrew DePaul, Mr. Renfrew’s daughter.” She gazed around the empty shop. “It’s the end of an era, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, it is.” Jeremy introduced himself.

“From the hospital,” she said. “Lots of doctors and nurses came here. Dad created an institution. Back when the neighborhood was better, you had all kinds of intellectuals dropping in- writers, poets, people of artistic stature. They weren’t loyal. It was you hospital people who helped sustain Dad during the last few years. Did you know that he studied medicine when he was young?”

“Really.”

“For two years, then he decided against it. Poetry was more to his liking. He was a soft man, raised me all by himself.”

Shirley Renfrew DePaul shoved a weak smile past her grief, and Jeremy pushed aside memories of the old grump who’d never acknowledged him. “This was a great place, Mrs. DePaul, and your father made a big impact. When did he pass on?”

“Just over a month ago. He’d had throat cancer years before- he used to puff on a pipe, nonstop. They took out most of his palate and damaged his vocal cords, but he beat the disease. Then his heart started to go bad, and we knew it was only a matter of time. My husband and I wanted him to come live with us, but he refused, insisted he wanted to be close to the shop.”

Palate surgery. Jeremy had attributed the fat man’s mutism to general surliness.

With my track record, I’ve got to stop assuming.

Renfrew dying a month ago meant shortly after Jeremy’s last visit.

The man had been terminal, gave no indication.

Shirley DePaul’s smile failed, and tears misted her eyes. Green irises, deepened by the suit. Stunning, really. Not a beautiful woman- not by far- she was barely handsome. But Jeremy was certain she’d never lacked for male attention.

She said, “I hoped it would happen the way it did. Dad came into the shop on a Monday, sat down, brewed his Postum and drank it, put his head down on the desk and never woke up. He couldn’t have scripted it better, dying among the books he loved.”

The last time Jeremy had been here he’d encountered Arthur reading something on war strategy. A couple of weeks later, Arthur had shown up at his office and turned on the charm. As an old customer- someone who’d known Renfrew’s name- he must’ve been aware of the bookseller’s passing. Yet he’d never said anything.

He said, “He didn’t suffer.”

“A blessing. So was his life.” Shirley DePaul’s new smile flickered and faded. “For the most part.”

She took a deep breath and eyed her broom. “Dad adored everything to do with bookselling. I’m an only child, but not really. This place was my sibling. There were times when I considered it a rather daunting rival.”

A high heel tapped the linoleum. “The building’s been sold. A development firm. They called a week after Dad passed. Vultures, I said, they probably check death notices. But my husband said, Why not deal with them, what use do we have for it? He’s a dentist, very practical. We have six children, and I barely have time to breathe. We live far, out past the county line, it just wouldn’t be practical. So we sold. They gave us a good price, even after taxes. No doubt, they’ll tear it down and put up something monstrous, but it’s not about bricks and mortar, is it? Dad put his soul into this place, and now he’s resting somewhere else.”

“Absolutely,” said Jeremy. “What happened to the books?”

“All sold.”

“Was there an auction? I would’ve tried to buy some.”

“There was no public sale, Doctor. Everything went to one buyer.”

“Who?”

She shook her head. “I can’t say- one of those tax things. It’s all for the best; I believe they’ll be appreciated. At least I hope so.” She wiped the corner of one eye. “Anyway, I’d best be finishing up. Though to tell you the truth, I don’t know why I’m cleaning up, they’re going to tear it down anyway.”

She returned to the broom, stepped daintily to another corner, and began striking the floor, using broad, hard strokes.

Striking progressively harder. Whoosh whoosh. Flogging the linoleum floors.

Jeremy left her and stepped out into the punishing rain.

30

He made it back to the hospital looking like a half-drowned dog. Used a rear exit, never guarded, that brought him past a utility area and up the stairs to the main lobby.

Past the marble donor wall. Names etched in beveled capitals. He was in no mood to think about charity.

As he headed for the elevators, he spotted Angela and Ted Dirgrove, white-coated, smiling, walking down the corridor, engaged in spirited discussion.

Walking close to one another. For a second their flanks brushed.

Angela spotted him, stopped. Waved gaily, said something to Dirgrove, and came Jeremy’s way.

She gave him a too-hard kiss on the cheek. Jeremy looked for Dirgrove, but the surgeon had disappeared around a corner.

Taking in his soaked clothes, she said, “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

“Didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”

She touched his wet hair, linked her arm in his, withdrew quickly from his sodden sleeve. “You really are soaked through.” She touched the tip of his nose. “I’m a physician, so you need to listen to me. Though the research doesn’t show any link between getting drenched and getting sick, I feel obligated to warn you about this kind of thing.”