The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [20]
“Miss!” Annie yelped, “Miss—you at the door—can I help you with those books?”
The agent jolted to a stop and looked blankly down at the books, Full Cleveland by Les Roberts and If Ever I Return, Pretty Peggy O by Sharyn McCrumb. “Sorry.” Her New York accent was crisp. “Didn’t intend …” She shook her head, slapped the books onto the counter top, and hurried out the door.
That was the crowning blow, a lost sale! Annie glared around the room, looking for the cause. Where was the jerk?
It wasn’t hard to spot Bledsoe. He was bigger than almost anyone else. He had returned up the central aisle and was only a few feet away, his back to her, studying the contents of the true-crime section. She didn’t see his companion.
True crime wasn’t Annie’s favorite section, although lately it had done a brisk business. Most of her really weird customers gravitated there. The ones who loved real murder cases, wallowed in their graphic evocation of gore and insanity. No crime was too brutal, too vicious, or too degrading for their pleasure.
The jerk had found his niche.
But even as she sneered, she had to admit to herself—deep in the recesses of her mind—that he might be a jerk, he might be a bully, and he might be altogether disgusting, but the damn man radiated sex appeal in the way he stood, the slope of his shoulders. Annie willed her eyes to move past him.
A small woman knelt in the used-book section, gently lifting out one book after another, glancing at the title page, then replacing them. She arranged the books just so, all the spines even. Her fingers lingered on the last volume. There was more than care here. Her touch was almost reverent, as if these books were holy. Annie studied her profile. She was not a young woman. Deep lines etched her gaunt face. The smooth hair drawn back in a plain chignon was so gray it gave no hint of its youthful color.
Bledsoe’s deep voice bayed gleefully. “Well, if it isn’t Victoria. Long time no see.”
A book slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, tumbled to the floor. The tiny woman gasped and reached for it.
But Bledsoe’s huge hand scooped it up, away from her reach. His black eyes flicked over the title, faded black on a brown cover, and he gave a huge whoop of laughter. “The Clue of the Chattering Parrot. Oh, sweet Jesus, can you believe they ever sold even one of these! My God, what tripe!”
“Stop it, Neil. Stop it.” The woman struggled up from the floor and snatched for the book.
Bledsoe merely held up his arm, and the book was far beyond her reach. “Finders keepers,” he crowed. “I think I’ll buy this. Be a pleasure to throw it away. Maybe I’ll start a new crusade. Buy a lousy book a day and throw it away. That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it. Rid the world of all these simpering, lily-livered cozies.”
Annie had had enough. She charged out from behind the cash desk.
“The book,” she demanded crisply, her hand outstretched.
Bledsoe shed his joviality faster than Vidocq changing a disguise. His tone changed from jeering to snide. “This is a bookstore? You do sell these books?”
“Not to you, buddy. Hand it over and get the hell out of here.”
It hung in the balance for a long moment. Annie could see in his darkening face the desire to keep after it, to badger and harangue, but Frank Saulter was turning toward Bledsoe. The police chief wasn’t nearly the size of the critic, but