The Witches’ Bane
by Edward Ahern
Chapter 7: At the Bookstore
During the drive to Barre, Gordon mulled over his impressions of Vermont. The yuppy army that had invaded in the late twentieth and early twenty-first century had outlawed the unwholesome and enforced a regime of spotted cow motifs and Birkenstocks. The native population slaved to repair Volvos and prevent deer — without killing them — from eating ornamental shrubs. Gordon realized that he’d always sympathized with the Anglo-Saxons rather than the Normans.
The bookstore in front of him was clearly part of the occupying forces. “Barrely Books” the outside sign read. The front counters were filled with the Word-made electronic pads and notebooks, readers and DVDs. Ink on paper was shelved in the back: topical assortments that could be found in ten thousand other middle-brow bookstores across America. Whitman’s Samplers for the literate. Gordon speculated about a mind-control agency that steered the distribution and reading of socially correct books.
The largest sign inside the store read Concierge Desk, under which a woman sat at a glass topped desk behind a computer terminal. Gordon approached closely enough to read her name tag. “I’m impressed with your operation here, Brenda,” he lied.
“Thanks, but I saw you wince at the book shelves in the back. Don’t worry, I can order you almost any book you want from here.”
Brenda Perry was a fair-skinned dirty blonde who lacked any discernible makeup. Her total freckle coverage, chapped hands, and close-cropped nails suggested good deeds performed conscientiously in the out-of-doors. Gordon couldn’t decide if she was attractive despite the lack of artificial assistance or because of it.
“I’m here about Judy Bentley.”
Brenda’s face crumpled into sadness. “The state police called yesterday. A terrible, terrible thing.”
“I’d driven up to see her and found her body.”
Brenda made a wry expression. “I’m not sure how I can help.”
Gordon stayed in reasonable proximity to the truth. “We’d been close, and she’d asked me to help her out with a problem. But that’s really all I know. I’d lost track of her, and I’m hoping you can tell me about what she’d been doing recently.”
She stared up at him, completing her first-impression scan of him — something over six feet, trim, neatly dressed, and clean-shaven. No ring. Polite. Definitely not a local. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Gordon Lormor. I knew Judy when she was living in New Jersey.”
“So you’re the one. She said there’d been a busted relationship.”
“That would have been me, sorry.”
“Not your fault, maybe. She just seemed sad that it hadn’t worked out.”
“How long had she been working here?”
“About a year. She liked books, and was a good worker when she was here.”
“But she wasn’t always here?”
“That was my only problem with her. Every once in a while she’d call in sick for a couple of days.”
“Are you the manager or the owner?”
“Yes.” Brenda smiled. “I probably give sole proprietorship a bad name, but I’m it — except for Judy and a couple of other women who handle this desk when I can’t.”
Gordon smiled back. It was sincere; Brenda was very likeable, but it was also his nuanced “I’m interested” smile that he knew to be effective. Brenda’s body language changed accents.
“Brenda, we’re more akin than you know. I own and run a magical supply and bookstore in New Jersey.”
“As in stage magicians?”
“No, as in witches, which is what Judy felt she was.”
“No shhh... Gee, that explains the stuff she’d order using the store discount. Would you like a cup of tea while we talk?”
“Please.”
Brenda brought back the unsweetened tea he’d requested. Gordon held his hands over the cup, stared briefly at his ring, and drank. “So, please tell me about Judy.”
“No serious vices that I know of... She didn’t drink or smoke. Bookstores are pick-up hot spots and some of the customers hit on her, but as far as I know she wasn’t in a relationship.”
“Did she have friends here in Barre? Go out with you or the co-workers?”
“Not really. There was one woman, Helen Connelley, who would stop by once in a while at closing time.”
A sales assistant came out of the back room to cover the register, and Gordon suggested they continue over lunch. Brenda agreed and excused herself to visit the restroom before they went out.
The restaurant, Barre Essentials, was only a block away. Gordon suggested she have a glass of wine, but Brenda declined and emphatically ordered tap rather than bottled water, saving the landfill from being violated by a drink container.
“Go ahead and have a beer if you want, Gordon, or a wine. You’re not counting change.”
“Nice thought, but I became a closet ascetic years ago. Really boring... I don’t smoke, drink, or do drugs.”
“Keeps you lean, obviously.”
“I have bouts of ritual starvation.”
They began to reveal glimpses of their safe secrets, like children coyly selecting pictures of themselves. Gordon told about having been a priest and Brenda, about a bad marriage. Despite the presumed murkiness beneath Brenda’s wholesome surface, Gordon enjoyed her company. Until after lunch.
Copyright © 2018 by Edward Ahern
