Chapter 10 Harper
“Where can I find your Via Belle books?” Harper asked a saleswoman at The Book Barn whose name, according to her badge, was Deidre. The woman’s ebony hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore dazzling diamond earrings and a polka-dot summer dress with sandals.
Deidre eyed her curiously. “No one’s asked for a Via Belle book in ages.”
“My mom was a big fan.”
Deidre tapped the counter with her pencil as if trying to solve her own mystery. The shelves behind her were packed with book spines, some shiny new, others subdued in sun-worn leather. “Are you here on vacation?”
“No, I’m house-sitting for my aunt and uncle.”
“I probably know your family.” Deidre typed into her computer as she talked. “I’ve lived in this area my whole life.”
“Gerald and Marcia Sutton.”
Deidre studied Harper again like she was trying to filter out the truth. “They never mentioned a visit from their niece.”
And she didn’t intend to explain that even though she called them aunt and uncle, they weren’t actually blood related.
“I just want to buy a book.” Not pick a fight or explain how the Suttons were her heart family.
As Deidre searched for the books in a computer, Harper eyed the racks of books at the entrance, creating three neat rows up to the front registers. During the weekends, this lobby must be flooded with shoppers.
“We have four of Mrs. Belle’s titles.” Deidre traced her finger down the computer screen. “They’re on the third floor in the blue barn, catalogued in the historical fiction section.”
“Do you have a biography about her?”
“None that I can see.”
Harper had envisioned an entire section with the local novelist’s autographed works, in one of the endless halls that Brett described, not tucked away in the attic. “How do I find the blue barn?”
Deidre retrieved a paper map from under the counter, then spread it out.
She circled a blue block, two buildings down from the lobby, and pointed to her left.
“Follow the hall until you reach the blue sign. Take the stairs to the second floor, and you’ll pass by three rooms with biographies.
” She circled a room on the map. “The next one is dedicated to historical novelists from A to C.”
Harper ducked under the doorway’s low-hanging rafter and entered a room plastered with bricks and mortar behind thousands of shelved books, the rows void of chairs as if the lack might ward off customers tempted to spend their day reading instead of purchasing books.
The floor slanted and wobbled in places like tree roots underneath had traveled amuck in their desperate search for reading material.
Perhaps the roots would snag The Lorax off a shelf or The Giving Tree.
Really, someone should shoot a movie in this place. The discarded book characters could come alive in the late hours, like the displays in Night at the Museum.
On the soundstage of Harper’s mind, musketeers began swashbuckling down the aisles while characters from Pride and Prejudice danced in a far corner. And then flames—the attic fire in Jane Eyre. Queens and beggars and a magnificent mash-up of a thousand children’s characters.
In that script, Forrest Gump really could meet The Princess Bride.
By the time she’d reined in her roving mind, a sign welcomed her to the yellow barn. A quick consultation of the map, and she doubled back through the arteries of the blue building to search for a staircase.
“Are you lost?”
Deidre scrutinized Harper like she might be a book thief. With the detailed map in her hand, she couldn’t pretend to be lost.
“Just meandering.”
“The steps are right behind you.”
The doorway, partially closed, blended into the old-world walls. “Got it.”
“Second floor and then fourth room on the left.”
The door creaked when it opened, alerting anyone in the blue space that she was about to ascend.
Down a precarious hallway, Harper found the historical fiction section clearly marked along with three Via Belle novels instead of four, but alongside the fiction was a biography, just like she’d hoped, catalogued in the wrong section.
Lady of the Lake was its title, with a photograph of Via Belle sitting on a hearth, the fireplace behind her built from river rock.
Mrs. Belle cradled a bundle of calla lilies in her lap, her hair plaited into a bun.
According to the book flap, Elijah Lamb wrote the biography in 1965.
A relative, perhaps, of the Ingrid Lamb who’d made her stew.
Harper tucked the biography under her arm along with a novel called Silver Summer, then wove her way down through the labyrinth.
Another saleswoman worked the front counter, filling two bags for another customer as she gnawed on a wad of gum. Harper scanned the faux trees in the lobby for Deidre. Surely gum was forbidden among all this paper.
“I can ring you—” At the sight of Harper, the woman’s jaw tumbled open like a book falling off its shelf, the pink gum teetering on her lower lip. “You must be Angeline’s daughter.”
Her mother’s name, spoken so rarely these days. Strange how a name could bring both healing and pain to one’s ears.
“You are the spitting image of your mama.” The woman caught the bubble gum with her tongue, staring at Harper as if she were a ghost. “Deidre said Gerald and Marcia’s niece was visiting, but I thought it must be one of the many from Gerald’s side.”
“You knew my mom?”
The woman spit her gum into an envelope and dropped it somewhere below the register. “Angeline was my nemesis at the spelling bee.”
“That sounds like her.”
“I was really sorry to hear—”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Betsy Keith, lifelong resident of Catawba.” Harper shook the woman’s outstretched hand. “I remember when you visited Marcia ages ago. Running around town with that ruffian son of hers.”
Harper smiled. “The ruffian who’s now a lawyer?”
“I preferred the earlier version.”
Instead of ringing up the sale, Betsy studied the Lady of the Lake cover. “I didn’t know we had Via Belle’s biography.”
“It was shelved with her novels.”
“Ah, a runaway.” Betsy held the book a moment longer as if she wanted to read it herself. “We all called her Mrs. Ashe back in the day since she was the wife of Reverend Ashe, but now everyone calls her Mrs. Belle.”
“So Via Belle was a pen name?”
“I think it was her maiden name. I don’t remember much about her, but she and my mother were friends from church.”
“How wonderful,” Harper said. She’d much prefer spending time at the home of a novelist like that than with a houseful of Hollywooders.
“I suppose it was.” Betsy glanced out the window like she could watch the memories unfold.
“I used to play at her house when I was a kid. A whole group of us would congregate there on the occasional Saturday afternoon for tea before her first husband died. My mom tried to call on her a few times in the 1940s, to inquire about her well-being, but her gate was always locked. Some people would say she wanted her privacy, but I still wonder if it was more—especially after, you know . . .”
Harper shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“After she disappeared.”
Harper froze. “What do you mean she disappeared?”
“Gone.” Betsy snapped her fingers. “Just like that. No one seems to know what happened to her.”
Harper studied the older woman with sugar-and-cinnamon-spiced hair, wearing a milky-brown velour tracksuit. Like a cup of chai. In her curious gaze, Harper saw a kindred spirit who knew how to lose herself in her imagination.
Betsy tapped buttons on the electronic register. “Total is eight dollars and fifty-eight cents.”
A bargain to learn about Via Belle.
“Have you read Moonflower Lake?” Betsy asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, you have to read it. That was her bestselling novel.”
“I didn’t see it upstairs.”
“It’s hard to find nowadays, but for Angeline’s daughter, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Harper paused. “Where did Mrs. Belle live?”
“Just a few miles from here.” Betsy slipped the books into a paper bag stamped with a stone barn. “Not far from the covered bridge.”
Harper thought about the river streaming under the old bridge, the dirt path that doubled as a county road, the watery trail into the trees. The area where she remembered finding her own enchanted lake when she was a kid.
Was Mrs. Belle’s house near the lake?
“Who lives in her house now?” Harper asked, fishing for anything she could catch.
Betsy leaned across the counter. “Ghosts.”
Harper laughed, but Betsy didn’t join her.
“People have seen lights up there at night and shadows behind the curtains. It’s spooky.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Belle returned.”
The woman opened her mouth to answer but then caught herself as her fellow employee ducked under a rafter and stepped into the lobby.
Deidre eyed Harper’s shopping bag. “Looks like you found Via Belle’s section.”
“I did.” Harper lifted the bag. “Do you happen to know where—?”
Betsy cleared her throat and gave the slightest shake of her head as if warning her not to ask about the author’s residence.
Deidre moved behind the second register. “Did you need another book?”
Harper hugged the bag to her chest, not sure what to say.
“We’ve actually got several great spots around here for lunch.” Betsy dove back under the counter for a second map, this one outlining local roads instead of the many bookshop rooms. She tapped on a crossroads in Catawba. “But I think you’ll like Sunshine Café best.”
Deidre arched her eyebrows. “That’s because her daughter owns it.”
“It’s on the corner of Mulberry and Pine.” Betsy circled the location. “Rene serves the best sandwiches and soup around.”
Harper slipped the map inside the biography. “Thank you.”