Fangs for the Memories(7)

“I know I shouldn’t judge your sales tactics, but sometimes it’s a little freaky that you can do that with a smile on your face,” she said, smoothing her braids back from her heart-shaped face.

Margie had smooth, teak-colored skin, wide brown eyes, and cheekbones I would’ve killed for. She was currently smarting from her recent ejection from the Half-Moon Hollow Chamber of Commerce. And while it was rumored that her being shown the door was related to her being African American, it had more to do with her age and the demerits she had been assigned for wearing the wrong shoes with her off-the-rack pantsuit. The Chamber of Commerce had suffered some sort of sorority coup and was run by a bunch of evil, pink-worshipping women, all named Courtney. Margie read the demerits for what they were—writing on the wall reading: You’re over forty. Get out.

“Well, if you want to have a conscience, you probably shouldn’t pay me based on commission,” I told her.

“That’s a good point,” she admitted. “I hear Jane’s having a hard time.”

“She really got close to Mr. Wainwright while she was working with him, sort of a surrogate granddaughter,” I said.

“Well, I’m glad Gilbert had someone toward the end of his life,” Margie said. “He was a really lovely man. He never had much of a family—just that creepy nephew of his, Emery.”

“You’ve actually met Mr. Wainwright’s elusive nephew? I thought he was at some missionary center in South America.”

“He still is.” Margie shuddered. “I only met him once, a few years ago, when Gilbert had some minor surgery. You know I volunteer in the hospital gift shop on weekends. Gilbert went in to have his gall bladder removed, and in swans Emery, acting like he owned the place. He was already talking about living wills and not prolonging his uncle’s suffering. Gilbert didn’t even have any complications! He came through the surgery just fine, but his nephew already had his hand on the plug.”

“Poor Mr. Wainwright!” I exclaimed. “Did Emery really hate him so much?”

“No,” Margie said, shrugging as she carefully lifted the little snow globe boxes from their crate and stacked them on the register counter. “But Emery is Gilbert’s only heir, and he wanted to make sure that he got his hands on his inheritance as soon as possible. He claimed that he wanted to donate it to the church, where it could do the most good, but I just didn’t trust him. There was something about him that made my skin crawl. I mean, who stays that pasty when you live in the jungle?”

“Inheritance?” My jaw dropped.

“Of everything I just said, that was the word you picked up on?” She snorted.

I protested, “But I thought Mr. Wainwright was basically broke. His shop is a decrepit old mess. And he lived above that decrepit old mess.”

Margie shook her head. “He has—or had—a big old Victorian house on the outskirts of town. He owned the shop building. And the contents of the shop . . . there are a lot of rare, weird old books in that shop. Who knows how much they’re worth?”

“It’s next to an adult bookstore!” I exclaimed.

“And that adult bookstore used to be a really nice furniture shop,” Margie said. “Turns out there’s more money in porn.”

“They should put that on the Chamber of Commerce sign,” I muttered, making Margie snicker. “So basically, Jane will be fired, again, when this nephew rolls into town?”

“Probably.”

“Don’t suppose you’re looking for another salesclerk?”

“You probably shouldn’t have framed that as Jane being fired ‘again’ before you asked,” she said.

“She wasn’t fired from the library for performance reasons. You’ve met Mrs. Stubblefield. She’s incompetent and petty as hell. And after Mrs. Stubblefield fired her, Jane was almost immediately mistaken for a deer, shot, and turned into a vampire. Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

“I barely have enough business to justify your salary,” Margie said. “But I’ll keep my ears open.”

“Justify my salary,” I harrumphed, tossing the empty box behind the sales counter. “See if I sell any more of your tiny educational juice glasses.”


Several hours and an alarming number of “I’m with Stupid” potholder sales later, I arrived home to my apartment and considered another contemplative bath. It was long after sunset, and my living room was dark when I locked the front door behind me. I had a few hours before I had to be dressed and ready for an appointment with Sophie, a local Council member who needed me to help a reluctant newborn through her first live feeding.