Crime and Poetry Page 2

  It was beginning to ebb, but adrenaline still pulsed in my veins from fear that Grandma Daisy was ill. Even though I hadn’t been back to Cascade Springs since I was seventeen, I saw my grandmother at least twice a year. She visited me in Chicago for Christmas, and every year we met somewhere in the world for our annual girls’ trip. People might think it was odd I vacationed with my grandmother, but those people didn’t have a grandmother like mine. I was the one ready to call it a day at eleven. Grandma could party the whole night through. Last year, she drank me under the table in São Paolo.

  The front bell jangled, notifying the shop that someone had entered. Grandma Daisy rushed past me with a tray holding a lemonade pitcher and glasses. She shoved a sweaty glass of lemonade into my hand on her way to greet her customer.

  As beautifully crafted and enchanting as the shop itself was, the books were the most eye-catching aspect. They were everywhere. Along the walls, bookshelves rose eleven feet high. In the middle of the room, much shorter shelves held even more volumes, and soft chairs were tucked in every corner for a quiet place to get lost in a book.

  I walked around the shop, sliding my finger across the spines of all the lovely books. Charming Books had been the place where I had fallen in love with literature. When I was a child, I ran here every day after school, eager to see what new novels and plays my grandmother had in stock. Back then, I daydreamed of running the shop myself one day, and helping shoppers find the perfect book for themselves and their family or friends. That was before. Now I poured my love of the written word into my PhD program in American literature. After years of scholarship, I was one dissertation away from my culminating degree, and after that, who knew what would happen? I’d started submitting my vita to colleges and universities, but as of yet haven’t yielded much more than a lukewarm reception to it. In the world of academe, a PhD in literature was easy to come by and the competition was fierce for the few open professor jobs in the country. I wasn’t panicking. Or at least I wasn’t panicking yet.

  I heard muffled voices as Grandma Daisy chatted with the shopper about a book, and I smiled at the sound of her energetic voice. Nothing made my grandmother happier than talking about books. I stepped out from the bookshelves and found Grandma with a white-haired man in riding pants and a red jacket with tails. His riding boots were polished to a high sheen, and he tucked his black top hat under his arm. His and my grandmother’s heads were suspiciously close together, much closer than in a typical bookseller-and-buyer transaction.

  I cleared my throat.

  Grandma Daisy jumped back from the man. “Oh, Violet, you gave me a start.”

  The man beamed at me. He had straight white teeth that sparkled against his tanned skin. “You’re Violet. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m so glad to finally meet you. My, aren’t you the spitting image of Daisy?”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I still had the crazy pom-pom do on the top of my head. It couldn’t have been more different from my grandmother’s sleek and smooth bob. I frowned. “I haven’t heard about you.” Usually, I was a much friendlier person, but it was hard to be polite with a crow looming over you.

  He laughed. “I see you get your spunk from Daisy too.” He held out his free hand. “I’m Benedict Raisin, the best carriage driver in Cascade Springs or on either side of the Niagara River. Don’t let anyone else tell you different.”

  I shook his hand and smiled despite myself. “Nice to meet you.” Self-consciously, I touched my hair. “I have to apologize for my appearance. I just arrived.”

  “Aww, what’s to apologize for? I thought that’s how all the young girls wear their hair nowadays,” he said, releasing my hand.

  I laughed.

  “There, now, I see you have your grandmother’s beautiful smile too.”

  I glanced at Grandma Daisy, and her cheeks pinkened. My suspicion returned. Who was this guy, and why was my grandma acting like a twelve-year-old girl with a crush around him?

  “How do you two know each other?” I asked.

  “He’s a customer,” Grandma Daisy said a little too quickly.

  A customer? Just a customer? I wasn’t buying it.

  Benedict chuckled. “Seems to me you’ve been in the big city far too long. Everyone knows everyone in our little village.” He dusted off the top of his hat. “I’m one of Daisy’s best customers. I’m here to restock on my reading material. Being a carriage driver means that ninety percent of my time is spent waiting for the next tourist. It’s good to have a book handy for the slow times of the day.”

  “What are you looking for?” I was always interested in what people were reading.

  He cocked his head. “I’m not sure. I do like action. A good thriller keeps the blood pumping in my old ticker.” He rested a hand to his chest. “Poor old thing doesn’t work quite as well as it used to, but I get by.”

  Grandma Daisy smiled. “Don’t let Benedict fool you; he is the picture of health.” She turned back to her friend. “Why don’t you browse a bit? Would you like some lemonade?”

  “I never turn down your lemonade, Daisy.”

  Again, I looked from Benedict to my grandmother and back again. There was definitely more to their relationship than my grandmother wanted me to know.

  Grandma Daisy went to the tray on the counter and poured Benedict a generous serving of lemonade.

  “Your grandmother tells me you’re studying literature,” he said.

  I nodded. “At the University of Chicago. I’m working on my dissertation in Transcendentalist literature.”

  He frowned as if he wasn’t sure what I was talking about. I got that look a lot when speaking about my dissertation. I supposed it wasn’t a good time to share my interpretation of Walden.

  “You must have gotten your love of books from Daisy,” he said.

  I smiled. “I did. In fact, if it weren’t for Gran—”

  A book flew off the shelf and nailed Benedict on the kneecap and fell open.

  “Ouch,” he cried.

  “Where on earth did that come from?” I searched the room for Faulkner. I half expected the crow to be responsible for the projectile book. I was wrong. Faulkner sat silently in the tree, not moving a feather. He made eye contact with me, and I was the one who looked away.

  Benedict leaned over to pick up the book. “Oh my. Emily Dickinson. You know I used to be a bit of a poetry buff as a young man. Here’s my chance to brush up a little. I have always enjoyed Dickinson. ‘The Carriage,’” he said, reading the poem that the book had fallen open to. “Doesn’t that sound like the perfect poem for me?”

  “I’m a fan of Dickinson myself,” I said. “She was a contemporary with many of the Transcendentalist writers.”

  He cocked his head as if he considered that bit of information. “It will do me good to get some culture, then. It’s been a long time since I read anything without an explosion in it. This seems to be a good place to start.” He read from the book,

  “Because I could not stop for Death,

  He kindly stopped for me;

  The carriage held but just ourselves

  And Immortality.”

  He frowned. “It’s not the most cheerful verse in the world.”

  “Emily wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine,” I said.

  “Apparently not.” He laughed.

  Grandma Daisy abandoned the lemonade and hurried over to him. “This must be some kind of mistake.”

  Benedict and I both raised our eyebrows at her.

  She cleared her throat and reached for the volume of poetry in Benedict’s hands. “I mean, there are so many newer novels that you haven’t read. Why don’t we find something else for you? Dickinson is all right, but I’m sure I could find you something else that you would like even more.”

  Benedict stepped back from her. “But I want to read this one. Poetry is food for the soul.”

  Grandma Daisy took another step toward him. “What about some Tom Clancy? James Patterson? I’m sure James has published five books since you were last in the shop. He’s so prolific. I know those are both your favorites.”

  I set my lemonade on an end table. “Grandma, why are you trying to talk someone out of reading a classic American poet?”

  She turned to me, and there was a strange look in her eyes. Was it fear? Fear of what? A book?

  My grandmother may have claimed to be the image of health, but maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she wasn’t right in the head if someone buying a collection of Emily Dickinson’s poetry freaked her out. The thought made me shiver.

  “Daisy, don’t be silly. I have always wanted to read this. It will keep me company as I wait for my customers.” He lifted the book in his hand. “Considering its size, it will keep me occupied for some time. I’ll just take this one today.”

  Grandma Daisy chewed the pink lipstick off her lower lip. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” He smiled good-naturedly. “Now, I must be returning to my post. Let’s ring this up.” He wagged his finger at Grandma Daisy. “And before you say it, I insist on paying for the book.”

  My grandmother and Benedict moved across the huge Oriental rug that covered two-thirds of the shop floor. He had a bounce in his step, and Grandma Daisy dragged her feet.

  After she’d rung him up, Grandma Daisy watched him stroll out of the store. She bit her lip, and I might have been mistaken, but I thought I saw tears in her eyes.

  THREE

  I’d arrived in Cascade Springs in the early evening, but as we were just days from the summer solstice, the sun was still high in the sky.

  “Why don’t I close early tonight so we can catch up?” Grandma Daisy said. “I don’t do much business on Monday evenings anyway, even in the summer.”

  She moved toward the front door, but before she could close it, a young woman bounced in. She wore a white sundress dotted with red and blue hearts, bright red lipstick, and saddle shoes, and her silky black hair was tied back into a high ponytail with a red ribbon. She clapped her hands. “Is she here?” She bounced—and I do mean bounced—with excitement.

  Grandma Daisy grinned. “Sadie, I would like you to meet my granddaughter, Violet. Violet, this is Sadie Cunningham.”

  The small woman skipped over to me and gave me a surprisingly strong hug. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you. Daisy talks of nothing else. She’s always telling me how brilliant you are, but she never said how beautiful. Look at that hair and skin! I would kill for skin like yours. I guess you won’t be needing the spa while you’re here. And OMG, I love your T-shirt.”

  I looked down at myself. I was wearing flip-flops, yoga pants, and a Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt, all chosen for comfort for a cross-country drive. It wasn’t my best look.

  She put her small hands on her narrow hips. “Were you trying to achieve a beehive with your hair?” She squinted at me. “I can give you tips on how to make it a little straighter. It’s all about the hair spray.”

  Grandma Daisy smiled as she picked up books customers had left lying around the shop. “Sadie knows everything about fashion.”

  Sadie beamed. “I own Midcentury Vintage across the street.” She pointed at a small yellow cottage with lime green shutters on the opposite corner from Charming Books. Midcentury Vintage had a good view of the Niagara River and the Riverwalk, which was filling up with tourists out to dinner. My grandmother’s shop sat on the curve on the L-shaped River Road where it turned west and started following the Niagara River out of the village and in the direction of the Falls. There was another house to the south of Charming Books, but to the north and east, it was surrounded by the village park. Over the generations, my family had owned the land on the edge of the park and many had tried to purchase it for access to the village’s famous springs.

  Remembering my manners, I turned to Sadie and said, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

  She clapped her hands. “Well, I’d better be off and let the two of you visit. I just had to pop over and meet you!” She spun around and her ponytail flew out like a flag. Over her shoulder, she said, “Daisy, don’t forget—Red Inkers meets tomorrow night! I can’t wait. David is reading his next chapter. It will be amazing.” With that, she bounced out of the store.

  After she left, I looked to Grandma Daisy. “Red Inkers?”

  “It’s a local writers’ group. I let them meet here in the evenings once or twice a week. They’re an interesting bunch. You should hang around the Springs to meet them.”

  I gave her a lopsided smile. “Nice try. I know you’re trying to trick me into staying in Cascade Springs longer.”

  “Is it wrong for a grandmother to want her only grandchild close to her?”

  I sighed. “No, it’s not wrong, but it’s not going to change anything either.”

  “It was so long—”

  I shook my head. “Please, Grandma, I don’t want to talk about it. I left because I didn’t want to talk about it. That hasn’t changed.”

  She didn’t say another word about the incident, but I knew by the way her brow wrinkled above her cat’s-eye glasses that this conversation wasn’t over.

  After we closed up the shop, I left my Mini Cooper parked on River Road, and Grandma Daisy and I walked to her row house one block over on another perfectly picturesque Cascade Springs street with iron lampposts dotted with hanging flower baskets.

  “Before we go in the house, I have something to show you.” She smiled brightly. “It’s a surprise.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Is this like an I’m-not-really-dying surprise? Because I don’t need a repeat of that.”

  She chuckled. “No, you will like this one.” Grandma Daisy ran into the garage through the back door and came out with a huge gift bag. “Open it.”

  I took the bag from her hand and riffled through the tissue paper until I came up with an aqua bike helmet with white and purple violets painted all over it. I blinked.

  “One of the artists from the arts district painted it for me.” She beamed. “What do you think?”

  I swallowed. “It certainly stands out.”

  “Try it on,” she said.

  I placed the helmet on my head and adjusted the strap under my chin.

  “Adorable.”

  I felt about as adorable as a thirteen-year-old with braces and headgear.

  “Everyone will know it’s yours.” She smiled. “Do you like it?” She looked so hopeful.

  I gave her a big smile. “I love it. It was so thoughtful.” I paused. “But I don’t understand. Why would you give me this? I don’t own a bike.”

  “Sure you do.” She winked at me. “You have your mother’s bike.”

  I froze. “My mother’s bike?”

  Grandma Daisy grinned. “I had it tuned up for you, so you could use it during your visit or if you decide to stay in the village.”

  “I’m not—”

  She cut me off. “Do you want to see it?”

  I did.

  Grandma Daisy punched in the garage door code in the keypad on the side of the garage, and the door opened. Grandma’s ancient compact car was parked inside, but behind it, just waiting to be ridden, was my mother’s bicycle.

  I touched the white seat. It was an aqua-colored cruiser bike and had a pink wire basket with a pink silk gerbera daisy on the front. It looked like new. Mom’s bicycle had been the only way she’d gotten around. She’d hated to drive and said she could reach every corner on the village on her bike. If I closed my eyes, I could see her riding along the river, her strawberry blond hair flying behind her like a banner.

  A tear leaked out of the corner of my right eye. It was such a thoughtful gesture by my grandmother, but I knew I still couldn’t stay in the village. It just wasn’t possible.

  After our dinner, I made excuses and went to bed in my old bedroom at the top of the stairs. Grandma Daisy simply nodded as if distracted by something, but I was too tired to ask her what it was. As I stumbled up the stairs, I promised myself I would ask in the morning. I crashed into the bed fully dressed, completely exhausted from the day.

  Because I had gone to bed so early, I woke up at three, four, and five in the morning. Each time I forgot where I was and I reached across the bed for my cat, Jane Eyre. When I remembered she was gone, it made my heart ache for my beloved tabby, who’d passed away from old age in the spring. Jane Eyre had been with me when I’d left Cascade Springs the first time. It was strange not to have her with me now. I knew it was time that I adopted a new kitten. I missed having someone greet me at my apartment door after a long night of studying in the university library, but a little part of me was worried that that would feel like replacing her.

  I took a shower and dressed before padding barefoot downstairs. Grandma Daisy was still in bed, but she would be up soon. She rose every morning at six forty-five on the dot and had woken up at that time for as long as I could remember.

  In the tiny kitchen, I started a pot of coffee. I found the mugs, spoons, and coffee filters. Everything was in the exact place it had been on the day I left Cascade Springs. Maybe I should have found that eerie, but instead, I found it comforting.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter while the coffee brewed, and when there was just enough for one serving, I poured a mug of it from the pot while the coffeemaker was still percolating.

  Cupping the mug in my hands, I peered through the window over my grandma’s flower basket bursting with purple petunias. I blinked. Outside, a horse and carriage was parked in the middle of Grandma Daisy’s driveway.

  I stared at the ceiling. Did Grandma Daisy have a guest? I hadn’t heard anyone else in the house last night, but I’d basically passed out before my head hit the pillow. I set my mug on the counter and started for the front door. I unlocked it and stepped outside.

  I tiptoed through the thick grass, damp with dew. My toes curled from the cold. I came around the side of the house to the driveway toward the carriage. The horse turned his head to look back at me as much as his harness would allow. He stamped the driveway and blew mist from his nose. The back of the carriage where guests would sit was empty, but a white-haired man sat straight up in the driver’s seat.