“That’s some pleasant imagery.” Bess rolled her eyes.
“Some days it feels more fitting than others. Some of these people are total garbage.” Lucy shrugged.
“Well, maybe don’t call them garbage to their faces.”
“Hey, no problem, boss.”
Lucy saluted her before walking away, ending Bess’s obligation to make polite conversation. Bess resisted the instinct to ask a customer if they needed any help. She wasn’t on the clock and, despite the devotion she felt to this place, it wasn’t her business, which meant giving away her time for free was a fool’s game. Instead, she walked over to the bar and stood at the corner. The hectic atmosphere suited Carol. She seemed younger when she was busy. A loose tendril of curly auburn hair hung in her eyes and she absently swiped at it with the back of her hand as she made drinks and conversation at a rapid pace. She was smiling freely, something Bess rarely saw Carol do, and the effect was charming. In moments like this it was obvious why Carol opened a bookstore. She loved the work, she loved the people.
When she finally spotted Bess she gave a quick little wave and motioned for her to come behind the bar.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was out and thought I’d drop in, see how you were.”
“I’m great. Business is fantastic tonight. I think it’s the weather.”
Bess glanced outside and tried to imagine what Carol meant about the weather. It’d been hot and rainy, but she wasn’t positive how that translated into sales. “Do you need any help?”
“Hell no, you enjoy your night off. I’ve got this covered. Oh but, I did mean to tell you,” she said, swatting at the stray curl again. “A cop came in a little bit ago, he said he knew you. Something Holland?”
“Howland?”
“Yes, that’s it. He had a drink and said you recommended the place. Is he the guy you were out with the other night?”
“No, that was someone else. Detective Howland is just… someone I know.”
“He’s nice looking. You should get to know him better.” Carol dropped a very un-Carol-like wink and Bess laughed.
“I don’t know how I feel about him. He’s attractive, but he’s also…”
“A cop?”
“Yeah, that sums it up.”
“He seemed nice,” Carol said, but her attention was already somewhere else.
“Look, I’m going to get out of here. I felt like seeing you,” Bess said.
Carol stopped what she was doing and studied her friend’s face. “You sure? Why don’t you stay for a drink? Hell, I’ll even drive you home if you want. This rush is going to end any minute and I’ll be sitting here twiddling my thumbs wishing I had my Bess around.”
“You’ve always got your Lucy,” Bess laughed.
“I mean it, sit down. We don’t get to talk enough anymore.”
Bess rolled her eyes and pretended to be put out. There was something beautiful about someone asking you to stay with them. About the offer without prompt. And even when there was a prompt, or clues to a prompt, at least they loved you enough to notice and care. Because caring was no longer a given in the world. Despite the great universal interconnection of all things, people had still, by and large, chosen not to care. Even if it meant—and oh god, it very likely did—their destruction.
Why did people believe Amelia Earhart was a spy? Was it because the evidence was there? Or because they wanted to give her a greater purpose? To imagine her out there, the great female aviator, done in and lost to history by a stupid navigational error, it almost hurt too much to breathe. But lost on a secret spy mission from FDR—the possibilities were vast and majestic and worth dying for. Die a hero, Amelia, not a failure. Die a hero or a bank teller or a fairy tale in a young girl’s notebook. Or all these things and more.
Carol eased up to the curb in front of Bess’s house and shut off the engine. They’d agreed that Carol would pick her up for work in the morning and she could retrieve her car then. No problem. The store didn’t open until noon on Sundays, plenty of time to sleep off a few drinks and be fresh for work. Bess peered up the walkway at her darkened house and exhaled slowly, like she wanted to get every bit of oxygen out of her body.
“Doesn’t look very inviting, does it?”
“Are your windows muddy?” Carol asked.
“It’s a long story. I’m being stalked by a little old lady.”
“Yeah, that does sound like a long story. Hey, when was the last time we had a sleepover?”
Bess rolled her head over to look at her boss and friend. “We have literally never done that.”
“All the more reason we should. We can say it’s a team building exercise. Oh hell, if we order a pizza I can write it off on my taxes.”
“Are you being serious?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have to sleep on your couch if you’re not into it, but it could be fun to come in and talk some more. Unless I’m not welcome.” Carol exaggerated the last sentence, making it over the top so she could play it all off as a joke if Bess said no. She could leave without any exposed feelings.
“Carol, you’re always welcome,” Bess said.
Bess exited the car and pulled her keys from her pocket. She shook them in her hand until the door key dislodged itself from the pack. She briefly wondered if there was anything inside the house she needed to clean up before Carol got in there. Not dirty dishes or clothes, Carol wouldn’t judge her housekeeping. But maybe notes on saints or Amelia Earhart or a bunch of murdered women.
She flicked on the light as soon as she entered and scanned the top of her desk for anything too weird for company. But most of her notes were out in the garage and that seemed like a safe enough place for them to stay.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said, gesturing for Carol to enter with a grand flail of her arm. “Can I get you a drink? I only have Fat Tire and orange juice. And I guess tap water.”
“I’ll take a beer if you don’t mind,” Carol replied, taking a seat on the couch. “So, what’s up with this old lady stalker that smears mud on your walls?”
“Nope,” Bess said, retrieving two beers and plopping down next to Carol. “You already think I’m a nutbag.”
“I in no way think of you as a scrotum, dear. I’m worried that the homeowner’s association is going to start sending you nasty letters.”
“The neighbors are already complaining.” Bess nodded solemnly.
“Is there something I should worry about? Is the little old lady going to break in?”
“I’d like to tell you it wasn’t possible, but I honestly can’t.” Bess giggled as she opened her beer. Why shouldn’t she tell Carol everything? She already thought Bess was slipping. Was letting her know about Amy Eckhardt really going to change much?
Her phone rang and she pulled it out of her pocket. The caller ID showed Anonymous.
“Hello?” she said, rolling her eyes and mouthing telemarketer at Carol.
“Have you been talking to the cops about me?” Not a telemarketer.
“Greg? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me. I heard you were down at the police station. That you’re getting cozy with that fuckwad detective.”
“Well, first off, hey, nice to hear from you. I’m flattered that you called,” Bess said, affecting a Southern accent she didn’t normally have.
“You listen to me, you little bitch.” There was venom in his voice. “I’ve got enough problems without you going around town telling everyone I killed my girlfriend.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bess hung up before he could say anything else.
“What was that about?” Carol asked. “I didn’t even hear it ring.”
“Yeah, I keep the volume down,” Bess said.
“Was the telemarketer named Greg?”