Steve’s Shorts: P. Arnold Crandall’s Old Book Emporium…
[An author on Twitter—sorry, I can’t remember her name—gave me the idea for this. Well, not exactly the details, because I changed the story plot a lot while writing it. We were chatting about Zafon’s two novels involving a bookstore (highly recommended). Stan Brown’s The Legacy, reviewed last week, was a bit of inspiration too. I love bookstores, and I even have some cameos in my novels where I’m a bookstore owner!]
P. Arnold Crandall’s Old Book Emporium
Copyright 2018, Steven M. Moore
Arnie Crandall looked up as the customer put the books down on the counter. Most of my clients are so old, but she’s not, he thought. “Can I help you find anything else, Miss?”
“What’s the P stand for?” she said with a smile.
In spite of himself, Arnie glanced at the lettering painted on his shop’s entrance door: P. Arnold Crandall’s Old Book Emporium. Not a particularly catchy name, but it seemed fitting for that tiny street in Brooklyn.
“Peter,” he said. “My father’s name was Peter Arnold. I’m a junior. I prefer Arnie.”
“An emporium is supposed to be larger than this, you know. I’m lucky you have only a few customers.”
“You’re the only one so far today, and I thank you for coming.” He began totaling her purchases. “This one’s a bit damaged,” he said, showing her the water marks on Spells and Encantations by Ronald Q. Huxley. All her selections had a similar theme.
“That’s OK. It’s marked down quite a bit, and I’ve been looking a long time for it.”
Interesting. “You do know these books are only curiosities, right? None of this works.”
She winked at him. “Maybe you have to believe it works.”
She gave him a business card. Agatha Breton-Calais, Attorney at Law. He figured the office address was about twenty blocks away.
“R&R reading then, I imagine. That will be $37.63 including tax.”
“You never know, P. Arnold.”
He watched her walk out the door. The bell only tinkled on entry. Why is there now a sulphorous odor in my shop? He took a can of air freshener from under the counter and sprayed a bit. Maybe it’s the acid found in the paper of those old books?
***
Arnie looked older than his years. He was only thirty-seven, but with his vest, pocket watch and chain, and wire-rimmed glasses, he could have passed for a non-descript European gentleman from 1925. His whole life was centered on books. Even as a kid he was reading when his father wasn’t beating him. Not that he blamed his father. Arnie’s mother had disappeared one day, and his father was stuck raising Arnie and his sister.
She was the normal one—not bookish at all. She worked in an ad firm in Manhattan. She had two masters degrees; he had a PhD in philosophy. He knew that they had been motivated to study so much to get away from their father. Neither sibling had married. Arnie was too shy; Shana was too busy.
He’d found Agatha Breton-Calais attractive, though. He wondered if she was born Agatha Breton and Calais was her husband’s name. He hadn’t noticed a wedding ring.
He promptly forgot about her as he resumed reading the book he’d been perusing when she’d entered the store.
But she returned three days later.
***
“Mr. Crandall, do you know if Ronald Huxley has written any other books about magic?”
“I can check some databases I use. I don’t have any in-house. Please give me a moment, Mrs. Breton-Calais.” To Arnie, it felt clumsy to say the full name.
“It’s Miss, to use a more genteel terminology than Miz. My father is a Breton-Calais, and my mother loved Agatha Christie.”
“My error. Let me check for your author.” He perched on a stool and logged onto his old laptop. There were two old comfortable chairs in front of the shop for readers who wanted to lounge a bit or work on their computers or smart phones, so the shop had a Wi-Fi network people could use. He used it too. “There are three more books by Ronald Q. Huxley in the public library’s main branch on 42nd and Fifth. I don’t know if the author is the same Ronald Q, though. If so, you might find the books there, not checked out. I can’t imagine they’re very popular. Only readers with some strange tastes like ours would read them, I suppose.”
“Correction: my tastes aren’t strange. His is the only book I bought from you that seems to have authentic material. I’d like to find this Ronald Q. Huxley.”
Authentic material? “For a case?”
“Yes, in a way.”
Arnie checked his computer again after brushing back his thinning hair. “I suggest you try a cemetery then. He’s buried in Boston just off the Freedom Trail before you turn toward the old South Church.”
“I don’t talk to dead people.”
Just checking. “I was making a joke. About the talking to him, not about where he’s buried.”
“I see. Does he have any descendants?”
“I have no idea. He was a Presbyterian minister. They can marry, so he might have had children, and so on.”
She frowned. “Maybe his descendants could answer my questions.” She thought a moment. “Where did you get the book?”
“Let me check on that. Because I have so many old books, I keep a record of their provenance. Many are first editions.” He hammered at the keys. “Loretta Huxley. I remember her. A nice old lady trying to make a few bucks from what she called junk before she went into the retirement home. Hmm. Huxley? She could be related. A distant relative for sure. Maybe the book came down to her through various generations of Huxleys.”
“You would make a good Hercule Poirot, Arnie.” He blushed. “Do you have an address for Mrs. Huxley?”
“She wouldn’t be there if she went into a retirement home. But we can go check.”
“We?”
“Her apartment building is only a few blocks from mine. We can ask the super if she left a forwarding address for the retirement home.” Arnie looked at his watch. “I’m five minutes beyond closing time. I’ll walk you there.”
Bold of you, Arnie, to think she’ll want your company.
“That would be peachy, Arnie.”
Peachy? The last time he heard that word was in the ice cream shop down the street.
***
“Offer me your arm, Arnie,” Agatha said outside the bookstore. He hesitated but then offered his arm. “You’re such a gentleman!”
Arnie noticed some of the other shop owners were watching, those outside smiling and those inside staring in disbelief. He patted her captive arm with his other hand. “It’s a nice evening to walk, and it will be quicker than waiting to catch a taxi on the avenue.”
The clocks hadn’t changed yet, but summer was turning to autumn. Some multicolored leaves crunched under their feet as they walked along, talking about books in general and British mysteries and their authors in particular, starting with Dame Agatha, who had popularized the genre. They had a nice discussion about whether mysteries could also be thrillers, agreeing that the Goldilocks principle applied: there shouldn’t be too much action or too little but just the right amount as the sleuths did their work.
They found the apartment building soon enough. Agatha pushed the button that corresponded to ADMIN. A woman’s voice came on the intercom. Agatha explained who they were. She didn’t seem to react well to the attorney and bookstore owner.
“If you’re selling something or are some kind of religious nuts, go away. I’m not buying any goods or trying to save my soul. Don’t have time for either one either.”
“We’re looking for Mrs. Loretta Huxley,” Arnie explained. “Do you have a forwarding address? It’s about a legal matter that would benefit her.” He winked at Agatha, but she frowned. She’s not forthcoming about her real interest in the Huxleys, yet she doesn’t like my little white lie? Strange.
The super let them in, eyeing both of them with suspicion and making Arnie uncomfortable. “What’s in it for me? Is she getting some kind of inheritance?”
“We have an important message for her from a relative,” said Agatha. “It has to be delivered in person.”
“And who’s he?” said the super, gesturing toward Arnie. “The relative? Or your bodyguard?”
Arnie looked at Agatha and raised an eyebrow. OK, not exactly a lie. The older Huxley, although dead, is a relative. He was rather proud of the old woman’s last assumption. Maybe I don’t look like a nerd!
“I’m sorry. We’d have to let Mrs. Huxley work it out with you for any compensation you might receive.” Agatha smiled at the old woman.
“OK. Just mention me to her. We were friends, we were. Let me look for the address. The old biddy called a while back asking me to forward any interesting mail to her. She was quite chatty. She wasted my time, though. I think she’s going senile. Maybe too much Anheusers.”
“Do you mean Alzheimer’s?” said Arnie, thinking that would mean that Mrs. Huxley would have little or no information for them.
“No, Anheusers. The beer. Loves the stuff. Drinks it instead of water. ‘Course, she wouldn’t be doing that in the retirement home, I suppose.”
***
They had to return to the avenue and flag a taxi to go to the retirement home—over the bridge and up the West Side Highway. Arnie hadn’t been that far north in Manhattan in years. He insisted on paying the taxi with a credit card, though. It’s a new age, but I won’t let chivalry die.
Mrs. Huxley was in her room watching a soap opera on her TiVo when they followed the aide into her room.
“Loretta, you have visitors.”
Mrs. Huxley eyed them with suspicion after the aide left. “Do I know you?”
Agatha smiled, bent over, and stared into the old woman’s eyes for a bit, and then backed up. “We win, Loretta.”
The old woman rubbed at her eyes and then stared back, a horrible expression wrinkling her ancient face even more. The eyes turned red and then burst open with little snakes crawling out from the blood and tissue. Her body started to smolder. Her mouth opened wide, showing flames. She slumped down in the wheelchair.
Arnie stared at the smoldering corpse and then looked at Agatha. She winked at him.
“Long-standing feud, Arnie. She was Ronald Q. Huxley’s wife.”
“That would make her—“
“Centuries old,” said Agatha. “We witches tend to live a long time, and our families hold grudges forever.” She offered her arm. “I feel like celebrating, Arnie. Let me show you a good time. You deserve it. You’re such a gentleman.”
***
Comments are welcome!
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