I nodded and motioned to the boxes on the counter. “What’d you get?”
“Yves Beaufort died. He had a large collection of Victor Hugo that Charlie always wanted. I have to go back for the rest, but I’m dreading it. When I arrived this morning, the widow was in a black negligee. Said it was her mourning attire. She told me she would give me a discount if I fixed her sink.”
“Ew. Isn’t Mrs. Beaufort near eighty?”
“Eighty-two and doesn’t look a day older than ninety-five. And what do I know about plumbing? The things I do for Victor Hugo, huh?”
The door opened and Frankie sauntered into the shop. He put his hands on his hips and looked around.
“Frankie! You finally came to buy a book.”
“Hey, Yankee girl.” He folded a stick of pink chewing gum into his mouth, smelling the foil wrapper before crushing it and shoving it into his pocket. “Not looking for books, just looking for you.” He nodded to Patrick. “Hey, Marlowe, how’s the old man doin’?”
“He’s swell, thanks,” said Patrick.
“So, Jo, I heard that you were at the clink yesterday. Everything all right?” asked Frankie.
“Darleen told you?”
“I didn’t say who told me. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine, Frankie.”
“They askin’ about your momma?”
“No, why would they be asking about Mother?” I said.
“They were asking about the guy who died on New Year’s Eve,” said Patrick. I looked at him and furrowed my brow. He didn’t need to volunteer any information.
Frankie looked from me to Patrick, his jaw working the gum. “The guy from Memphis. Right. The cops come here, too?” he asked Patrick.
Patrick didn’t respond. Frankie looked at me.
“Forrest Hearne bought two books at the shop the day he died. They asked me if I thought he seemed sick when he was at the store. I told them that he seemed fine. That’s it.”
Frankie leaned on the counter and spun one of the books toward him. “Victor Huge-o.”
“It’s pronounced Hugo,” said Patrick. I had to stifle a laugh. Mispronunciation was one of Patrick’s pet peeves.
“Oh, yeah? I knew a guy named Hugo once. Still owes me a ten spot.” Frankie flipped open the book and began riffling through the pages.
“Please, the spine. It’s very old,” said Patrick, carefully taking the book. “Can I help you find something else?”
“Nah,” said Frankie, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “So, Jo, got anything Willie should know?”
He looked at me in that typical Frankie way. It was impossible to know what he knew, but I had to assume whatever he did know he told Willie, and Willie paid him handsome for it. Guilt crawled over me again. I should have told Willie about the watch. I had never kept anything like this from her. But Frankie couldn’t know I had the watch. The only thing I could be sure of was that Frankie knew more than I did.
“No, I don’t have anything for Willie. I’ll let you know if I do,” I told him.
“Yeah?” He smiled and cracked his gum. “And will ya let me know how long you’ve been seein’ Jesse Thierry?”
Patrick spun around. “You’re seeing Jesse Thierry?”
“I’m not seeing Jesse Thierry,” I said.
Frankie grinned. “No? Word on the street is that you were sittin’ in his lap last night and he was whispering in your ear.”
I hated this town. Who was watching me? I stared at Frankie. Had he told Willie?
“Where did this happen?” said Patrick.
“I’m not a gossip man, Marlowe—I’m an information man.” Frankie held out his hand for payment.
“Stop! You’re not selling information on me. It was at the soda counter at Dewey’s, and it was just a joke. Jesse’s a friend.”
Frankie put up his hands, surrendering. “I don’t have a problem with it. Jesse’s a good guy. The girls love him something crazy. See ya, Yankee girl.” Frankie walked to the door. I followed him out onto the street. I couldn’t stand it. I had to know.
“Say, Frankie, have you heard anything about Mother?”
“She’s been seen here and there. You know, Jo, you should stay close around Willie.”
“I do stay close to Willie.”
“She’s always had your back, and you should have hers too.” Frankie cracked his gum, gave me a salute with his long hand, and walked off down Royal.
I knew that Willie was Frankie’s biggest benefactor. So it only made sense that he stayed close to her and brought her info. But what was he implying by saying I should stay close to Willie? Patrick motioned to me through the window to come back in the store.
“You know, now it makes sense,” said Patrick. “Jesse comes by the store a lot, but he doesn’t buy anything. He just gets grease on the books. Isn’t he from some hillbilly town in Arkansas?”
“Alabama, and he doesn’t get grease on the books. You’re making that up.”
“Well, I guess he seems nice enough. He’s always smiling. Did you ever notice that?” said Patrick.
“No, I never noticed that.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said.
Patrick nodded. “He’s got good teeth.” His thoughts reversed. “Hey, I ran into Miss Paulsen yesterday.”
Miss Paulsen was a professor at Loyola and a lady friend of Charlie’s. I had never met her, but Charlie once confided that he thought she was looking to develop their close friendship into a long-term commitment. She hired Patrick as her aide in the English department one year.
“Miss Paulsen went to Smith,” said Patrick.
“She did?”
“Yeah, I completely forgot about that. Anyway, I told her about you, and she said she would be happy to answer any questions you might have. She’s stopping by the shop later this week to pick up a book I ordered for her. You can speak to her then,” said Patrick.
“Oh, Patrick, thank you!” I made an awkward attempt to hug him because it seemed appropriate. He stood surprised, then put his arms around me and rested his chin on my shoulder.
TWENTY-FOUR
I had read the materials so many times, I practically had them memorized.
It is the aim of the Board of Admissions to have its entrance requirements flexible and thus make it possible for able girls to come to Smith from various types of schools and all parts of the country.
I looked at the word able. Able to meet the stringent requirements? Able to be accepted? Probably able to afford it, which I couldn’t.
The Board of Admissions attempts to select from the complete list of candidates those students whose records of character, health, and scholarship give evidence of their equipment for college.
Character. I knew I was one, but they wanted me to have one.
Health. Besides the occasional red beans and rice incident on the Gedricks’ sidewalk, I was healthy.
Scholarship. The one B in Mr. Proffitt’s class was going to haunt me. I could still feel his sticky mothball breath steaming over my desk. Did he eat rotten sweaters from his attic? “You must apply yourself, Miss Moraine,” he would say in his whispery tone. “You must seek the soul of the equation.” The soul of the equation? I wasn’t convinced that calculus had anything close to a soul. But I should have pretended and joined Mr. Proffitt for a meal of sweater vests. That B would dent my application.
Admission is based on the candidate’s record as a whole, the school record, the recommendations, the College Board tests, and other information secured by the college regarding general ability, personality, and health. All credentials should reach the Board of Admissions before March 1 if the student wishes to have her application considered at the April meeting by the Board of Admissions.