A sentence occurs to her: The day my father shook my hand, I knew I was a writer.
JUST BEFORE THE school year ends, A.J. and Amelia make an offer on a house. The house is about ten minutes away from the store and inland. Although it does have four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and the quiet A.J. believes a young writer needs to work, the house is no one’s idea of a dream house. The last owner had died there—she hadn’t wanted to leave, but she hadn’t done much to maintain the house in the last fifty or so years either. The ceilings are low; there are several different eras of wallpaper to be stripped; the foundation is shaky. A.J. calls it the “in ten years house” meaning that “in ten years, it might be livable.” Amelia calls it “a project” and she sets herself to working on it immediately. Maya, having recently made her way through The Lord of the Rings trilogy, names it Bag End. “Because it looks as if a hobbit might live here.”
A.J. kisses his daughter on the forehead. He is delighted to have produced such a fantastic nerd.
The Tell-Tale Heart
1843 / E. A. Poe
True!
Maya, perhaps you don’t know that I had a wife before Amelia and a profession before I became a bookseller. I was once married to a woman named Nicole Evans. I loved her very much. She died in a car accident, and a large part of me was dead for a long time after, probably until I found you.
Nicole and I met in college and married the summer before we entered graduate school. She wanted to be a poet but in the meantime was unhappily working toward a PhD in twentieth-century female poets (Adrienne Rich, Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop; how she hated Sylvia Plath). I was well on my way to a PhD in American literature. My dissertation was to be on depictions of disease in the works of E. A. Poe, a subject I had never particularly liked but had grown to truly despise. Nic suggested that there could be better, happier ways to have a literary life. I said, “Yeah, like what?”
And she said, “Bookstore owners.”
“Tell me more,” I said.
“Did you know my hometown doesn’t have a bookstore?”
“Really? Alice seems like the kind of place that should have one.”
“I know,” she said. “A place is not really a place without a bookstore.”
And so we quit grad school, took her trust fund money, moved to Alice, and opened the store that would become Island Books.
Does it go without saying that we did not know what we were getting into?
In the years after Nicole’s accident, I often imagined what my life might have been like if I had finished that PhD.
But I digress.
This is arguably the best known of E. A. Poe’s stories. In a box marked ephemera, you’ll find my notes and twenty-five pages of my dissertation (most of it concerning “The Tell-Tale Heart”), if you’re ever interested in reading more about the things your dad did in another life.
—A.J.F.
What bothers me in a story more than anything is a loose end,” Deputy Doug Lippman says, selecting four mini-quiches from the hors d’oeuvres Lambiase has provided. After many years of hosting the Chief’s Choice Book Club, Lambiase knows that the most important thing, even more than the title at hand, is food and drink.
“Deputy,” Lambiase says, “it’s a three-quiche max, or there won’t be enough for everyone.”
The deputy puts a quiche back on the tray. “Like, okay, what the heck happened to the violin? Did I miss something? A priceless Stradivarius doesn’t vanish into thin air.”
“Good point,” Lambiase says. “Anyone?”
“You know what I freaking hate,” Kathy from Homicide says. “I freaking hate shoddy police work. Like, when no one wears gloves, I’m yelling, Shut up, you’re contaminating the crime scene.”
“You never get that in Deaver,” Sylvio from Dispatch says.
“If only they could all be Deaver,” Lambiase says.
“But what I hate more than bad police work is when everything is solved too quickly,” Homicide Kathy continues. “Even Deaver does it. Things take time to figure out. Sometimes years. You got to live with a case a long time.”
“Good point, Kathy.”
“These mini-quiches are delicious, by the way.”
“Costco,” Lambiase says.
“I hate the women characters,” Rosie the firefighter says. “The policewomen are always ex-models from families of cops. She’s got, like, one flaw.”
“Bites her nails,” says Homicide Kathy. “Unruly hair. Big mouth.”
Rosie the firefighter laughs. “It’s some fantasy of a lady in law enforcement is what it is.”
“I dunno,” Deputy Dave says. “I like the fantasy.”
“Maybe the writer’s point is that the violin is not the point?” Lambiase says.
“Of course it’s the point,” says Deputy Dave.
“Maybe the point is how the violin affects everyone’s lives?” Lambiase continues.
“Boo,” Rosie the firefighter says. She makes a thumbs-down sign. “Booooo.”
From the counter, A.J. listens to the discussion. Of the dozen or so book groups Island hosts, Chief’s Choice is his favorite by far. Lambiase calls over to him, “Back me up here, A.J. You don’t always have to know who stole the violin.”
“In my experience, a book is more satisfying to readers if you do,” A.J. says. “Although I don’t mind ambiguity myself.”
The groups’ cheers drown out everything after the word do.
“Traitor,” Lambiase yells.
At that moment, the wind chimes sound as Ismay enters the store. The group goes back to discussing the book, but Lambiase can’t help staring at her. She has a white summer dress on with a full skirt that emphasizes her tiny waist. She wears her red hair long again, which softens her face. He is reminded of the orchids that his ex-wife used to keep in the front window.
Ismay goes up to A.J. She sets a piece of paper on the counter. “I’ve finally picked the play,” she says. “I’ll probably need about fifty copies of Our Town.”
“It’s a classic,” A.J. says.
Many years after Daniel Parish’s death and a half hour after Chief’s Choice, Lambiase decides enough time has passed to make a particular inquiry of A.J. “I hate to overstep here, but would you check if your sister-in-law is interested in going on a date with a not-bad-looking law enforcement officer?”
“To whom are you referring?”
“Me. I was kidding about the not-bad-looking part. I know I’m not exactly the blue-ribbon cow.”
“No, I meant who do you want me to ask. Amelia is an only child.”
“Not Amelia. I mean, your ex-sister-in-law, Ismay.”
“Oh, right. Ismay.” A.J. pauses. “Ismay? Really? Her?”
“Yeah, I’ve always kind of had a thing for her. Going way back to high school. Not that she ever noticed me very much. I figure none of us is getting any younger, so I should take my chances now.”
A.J. calls Ismay on the phone and makes the request.
“Lambiase?” she asks. “Him?”
“He’s a good guy,” A.J. says.
“It’s only . . . well, I’ve never dated a police officer before,” Ismay says.
“That’s starting to sound awfully snobbish.”
“I don’t mean to sound that way, but blue-collar men have never been my type.”
And that worked out so well with you and Daniel, A.J. thinks but does not say.
“Of course, my marriage was a disaster,” Ismay says.
SEVERAL EVENINGS LATER, she and Lambiase are at El Corazon. She orders the surf and turf, and a gin and tonic. No need to put on a show of femininity as she suspects there won’t be a second date.
“Good appetite,” Lambiase comments. “I’ll have the same.”
“So,” Ismay says, “what do you do when you aren’t being a cop?”
“Well, believe it or not,” he says shyly, “I read a lot. Maybe you wouldn’t think it’s that much. I know you teach English.”
“What do you read?” Ismay asks.
“Little bit of everything. I started with crime novels. Pretty predictable that, I guess. But then A.J. got me into other kinds of books, too. Literary fiction, I think you’d call it. Some of it doesn’t have enough action for my taste. Kind of embarrassing, but I like young adult. Plenty of action there and feelings, too. I also read whatever A.J.’s reading. He’s partial to short stories—”
“I know.”
“And whatever Maya’s reading, too. I like talking about books with them. They’re book people, you know. I also host a book group for the other cops. Maybe you’ve seen the signs for the Chief’s Choice?”
Ismay shakes her head.
“Sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m nervous, I guess.”
“You’re fine.” Ismay sips her drink. “Did you ever read any of Daniel’s books?”
“Yeah, one. The first one.”
“Did you like it?”
“Not my cup of tea. It was very well written, though.”
Ismay nods.
“Do you miss your husband?” Lambiase asks.