Final Masquerade (27 page)

That afternoon she took a purseful of cash and headed west on 7th Street in search of bookstores.

The following morning, Paige rose early and headed for work. Max wasn't there. She didn't know why she'd expected him to be. Maybe she hoped their short relationship and slight increase in sales had made an impression on him. She stepped inside Polly's shop to the comforting tinkle of her doorbell.

"Angela! I thought you were gone for good."

"It crossed my mind."

"Coffee?"

"Please. So, what's been going on around here?"

"Same old, same old. He opens at 11:00 and then chases all the customers away with his grousing and complaining. I heard hammering over there yesterday though, but didn't dare check to see what was going on.” She tapped the lid on Paige's coffee. “What did you two fight about anyway?"

"Max didn't tell you?"

She laughed. “I went over with coffee the first morning and he shooed me away. I didn't bother going back."

"He overheard me ordering a computer and blasted me out for spending his money without checking with him.” Paige held up the nylon case containing her new laptop. “Bought it with my own money."

"Did you tell him that?"

"He never gave me a chance. Started busting up the place and yelling about things that must have happened a hundred years ago."

"Had he been drinking?"

Paige nodded.

Polly nodded sympathetically.

"Well, I guess I'll head over and see how bad the place looks."

"Good luck to you."

Paige crossed the alley and tried not to peek through the window as she undid the padlock. At least he hadn't changed the lock.

She shut the door and laid the computer on the counter. She stood, hands on hips, a torrent of emotions passing through her, anger over the senseless argument, satisfaction for what she'd accomplished, and embarrassment over how she'd handled Max. She knew from experience with Nina's mother way back in high school that you handle an alcoholic with kid gloves, watch every word, every movement, every expression.

During the four days spent at home, Paige had also realized something else. She harbored a special bundle of feelings for this crotchety old geezer. She smiled and walked to the back where the argument had occurred. Instead of finding a mass of wood chips and crumpled paper, there was nothing but a drift of sawdust, neatly swept into a pile.

Paige ran her hands over the nicely mended shelves. Well, I'll be ... he even repainted the repaired spots. She swept the sawdust onto a sheet of newspaper and poured it in the trash.

Mended shelves weren't the only surprise for her that morning. Behind the counter, several large cartons were stacked atop each other, preventing access to the back hallway. Paige slid the top one to the floor, bracing it against the others. She slit open the retaining tape. Inside were books. That Paige had expected, but these books were all in good condition, not the moldy eyesores she'd been pawing through for the past five weeks, books with classic titles and authors, books that would bring excellent prices. One by one, she opened the rest of the boxes. They too contained collectible titles in many genres from Jane Webb Loudon's book on perennials to Malcolm Lowry's
Under the Volcano
. Paige clutched it to her chest, realizing she hadn't even removed her coat. The book was worth a fortune.

She wandered among the aisles, coffee in hand, feeling the rough textured spines, noticing Max had also attempted to shelve some of the books from upstairs. He'd gotten the categories all wrong from the plan she'd designed, but a surge of emotion swept through her as the back door opened.

Paige met Polly at the door. “What's wrong?” Polly asked.

Paige shook her head and wiped away another tear. “That old fool. He fixed the broken shelves and even cleaned up the mess. Polly, he bought
new
books. Look at this.” She pulled one book after another from the boxes. “These are real collectibles, not the junk he's got here in the shop."

"Where did he get them?"

"I have no clue."

"Well, now I've seen everything.” Polly hugged Paige. “You really made an impression on him. Congratulations, woman. I have to get back. See you later."

Paige went slowly upstairs, wondering what changes might have taken place there, but outside of the few boxes Max had hauled down, nothing had changed. She gazed around, envisioning the attic as she had planned with shelves lining the walls instead of the boxes piled to the ceiling, and the skylights letting in bright light that would seep into every corner.

Downstairs, the door opened. Paige sighed and headed down. Max stood at the bottom. His hair was combed, he was clean-shaven, and he was smiling.

"Max, is that you? You look fabulous."

A pink spot formed on each cheek and he quickly turned away. He pointed at the boxes behind the counter. “I see you found them."

"Where did you get these? Do you know what this one's worth?"

"Of course, I'm not an idiot you know."

"I know that. It was a rhetorical question. Where did you get them?"

"Estate sale in St. Paul. This woman was anxious to move them out of the place after her father died. Got ‘em cheap."

"How cheap?"

"$1000 for the lot."

"Max! You parted with a thousand dollars? From your own pocket?"

He turned away again. She could barely hear him when he muttered, “Welcome back."

The day passed in a blur. She showed Max her new computer and the website where they could find book values. While he was still in a good mood, she broached two new topics, advertising and a new sign to put near the main street. He okayed both without argument. She wondered if she should mention the skylights and decided not to push her luck.

While they ate lunch together in the alcove, Paige asked, “Who's Norma?"

Max raised his eyes from his trembling, liver spotted hands. It had been four days since he'd taken a drink, he'd admitted. He seemed to take strength from her encouragement, and Polly, who brought gallons of coffee. “Where did you hear about her? From Polly?"

"No. All Polly said was you'd had a hard time. You mentioned her the other day."

Max stared out the window into the empty courtyard. “She was my wife."

Paige waited patiently the way Harry had the night she opened her soul to him. She mulled over Max's use of the past tense.

"She died seven years ago."

"I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't think so.” He finished the last of the coffee, then tore his gaze from the window. “It was a burglar. He came one night when we were closing up. She was upstairs shutting off the lights. I was out back breaking down some cardboard boxes.” He tilted his head at the ceiling. “The filthy animal sliced her throat. She never even had time to call out."

Paige had a dozen questions but asked only one, “Is that when you started drinking?"

Paige arrived in a taxi, which backed into the alley and stopped in front of the shop. The driver helped her unload packages and boxes from the trunk. Polly appeared on her doorstep to watch the proceedings. “What's going on?"

"Christmas."

Polly glanced over her head at her own meager string of lights around the doorway. “Looks like you'll have more than me."

"We're going all out,” Paige said as the cabbie slammed the trunk.

"Want help takin’ this stuff inside?"

She undid the padlock and threw open the door. “Thanks, that would be nice.” She took a few steps toward Polly and announced in a loud whisper, “We're having a party."

"Why do I get the feeling you haven't told Max?"

Paige's reply was a conspiratorial smile. She slipped plastic shopping bag handles onto each of several fingers and followed the cabbie inside.

She tacked a garland of red lights around the inside of the window and another around the edge of the counter. She hung wreaths at the ends of the shelves and strung cascading lights along the stair railing.

"What the hell's going on here?” boomed Max from the doorway.

Paige straightened up from pushing the last tack into the stair railing and took a second to rub the base of her spine. “Don't tell me you've been out of circulation so long you've forgotten what Christmas is."

"Well, I never heard of decorating a book shop for the holidays."

"Well, whether you've heard of it or not, we're doing it. Business is getting better every day. Christmas is coming and we're decorating. Do you know anyone with a ladder we can borrow?"

"What for?"

"Because I can't stand on this chair to string lights around the outside window, that's why."

"Outside?"

"Yes and, by the way, we're giving a party too,” she said as she unboxed a set of twinkling gold lights to hang in the upstairs window. “We'll invite Polly and Harry and all our best customers."

Max's grumble followed her. “Here? Why here?"

Because she couldn't do it at her apartment. Paige shook off the momentary melancholy that settled on her. “This is going to be a wonderful holiday. The best ever."

With Stefano, Christmas meant a gathering of his associates at the Rolando Hotel in New York City. The men met in the Valentino Room until midnight, then, already drunk, join the women in the Swann Room where they'd eat, drink, and celebrate until way past dawn.

As a child, Christmas meant watching the hired help put up the artificial white tree and tape garlands on the stair railings and balconies. Although Violet had let Paige and her brother decorate their rooms, it wasn't a family affair. She sighed. Nothing in her life had ever been a family affair. Polly and Max were the closest she had to family, and this was going to be a fabulous Christmas.

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Paige met Harry in his second floor office on Hennepin Avenue. He had the phone to one ear and motioned for her to make herself comfortable. She removed her coat and sat in one of the chairs before his desk.

Harry laughed and leaned forward in his chair. Catching her eye, he rolled his and made chatterbox motions with his fingers. Then he pushed a notebook forward for her to look at. It was a steno pad list that confused her.

Apartment

House

Van

Trust

Disguises

Safe deposit key

She felt herself frowning when he finally replaced the receiver and said, “I was throwing around ideas. Different ways for you to lose yourself in case his men locate you again."

"It's only a matter of time, you know."

He nodded.

"Maybe sooner than we think if Chris is one of them.” As she said it, the words sort of hung in her throat. He couldn't be one of them, could he? “If I can lay low ... I've changed my hair color and style. I've gained almost twenty pounds and changed my name so many times I hardly remember the original."

"Which is?"

Paige put a finger to her lips while she attempted to recall what name she was using when Chris picked her up at that truck stop. “It seems so long ago. Tracy Wilson is the name he knew."

"What name are you using now?"

"Angela Lawson is the name I've used since arriving in Minneapolis."

"How many hotels did you sign that name to?"

"Just the Residence Inn, the one I'm in now."

"All right, it's a situation we'll have to deal with. Now, as for preparations,” he tapped the nib of his pen on the steno pad.

"Explain the list?"

He counted the options on his fingers. “Renting a dummy apartment and paying the tenant across the hall to act as sentry. Or, my wife has offered to have the upstairs of our garage renovated into an apartment."

"Your wife knows about my situation?"

"She knows I have a client in deep trouble. Another thought was to purchase a motor home and rig it for your escape. You could bounce from one campground to another.” He leaned back in the chair and made a tent with his fingers. “Well?"

"You've put a lot of thought into this. What if we use all of the above?"

"I have another idea which isn't on the list. I think it's the perfect solution. What if I hire someone who looks like you to drive to Detroit? In Detroit, this woman will buy an airline ticket to Jamaica. She'll fly to Jamaica and sign a lease on an apartment with the story that she's a stewardess or a salesperson and spends most of her time on the road. She'll set up a bank account into which we make regular deposits transferred from banks all over the world, as if she were truly on the road."

While Harry talked, Paige rose from the chair and went to look out the window. Traffic flowed smoothly on Hennepin below. No sign of a yellow tractor-trailer. “That's not a bad idea. Not bad at all."

"It's going to cost, but we'd only have to do it for maybe six months, then we just send the trail somewhere else and gradually let it peter out."

"We could plant some of Stefano's money in that apartment, too."

Harry rose and poured a glass of sherry from a decanter on the sideboard. He offered the glass to Paige who shook her head.

"There are obviously a number of people who'd hate to see you leave Minneapolis, including myself. So, from my selfish viewpoint, it makes sense to try and work on a plan that will keep you here. What do you think?"

"There's a way your plan could work.
I
could be the one to go to Jamaica."

"No—"

"Harry, I can't let someone else do my dirty work."

He nodded and sighed. “Let me think on it a while longer. There's got to be a solution.” He walked Paige to the door.

All the way back to the shop, Paige thought about ways she might make Harry's
Jamaica
plan work. She liked the idea of the Jamaican decoy apartment and bank account. She didn't notice the snow until she slipped in the slush on the corner of 8th and Marquette. A pair of strong hands grabbed her elbows and kept her from falling. She turned and gazed up into a pair of smiling blue eyes.

"That was close,” she said. “Thank you."

"You're very welcome,” said the smooth tenor voice. She stared at a long neck with a prominent Adam's apple. As Paige regained her footing, she took note that the Adam's apple was the only feature that marred an otherwise perfect specimen. Her cheeks reddened at the thought, but the voice apparently believed she was embarrassed over her clumsiness and she said nothing to dispel the idea.