Silent Confessions

“Other than the erotica? Nothing I’ve discovered in the last forty-five minutes.”

Running a hand through his hair, Jack sighed. “Well, it’s a solid lead. Let’s get on it, start checking their backgrounds. Maybe something will overlap.”

“Overlap we’ve already got.”

Nudie postcards and titillating tales. “True enough. This erotica stuff is the key. But damned if I know how.”

“What did Professor Baker have to say?” Donovan kicked his feet up onto Jack’s desk and twisted the top off a bottle of antacid.

“The man was useless.” And tedious. The professor talked like a living telegram, except the stop came between every single word, slowing his speech to a mind-numbing pace. After about two sentences, Jack had been ready to strangle the man. “He didn’t know a thing about erotica other than that it existed. Oh, and he’d heard of Fanny Hill.”

Donovan shrugged. “That’s something.”

“That’s nothing. Every junior high school boy looking for a thrill knows about Fanny Hill.”

The corner of Donovan’s mouth twitched. “Not me. I was a Playboy kinda guy.”

He ignored the comment. “The point is, he’s no help. While you’re running down connections between the women, I need to find someone who can make sense of this stuff, tell me if there’s some pattern, some hidden meaning. Something. Anything.”

“The department doesn’t have that many intellectuals lined up to consult, Jack. You tell the professor to take a hike, and we’re gonna be out of luck.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

An adorably crooked smile. Emerald eyes. Deep, rich hair. The images swirled in his head, and he mentally reached out, wanting to pull the vision closer.

“Donovan, my man. This just might be my lucky day.”

* * *

“What do you think?” Joan paced in front of the break-room table, twirling a pencil in her fingers. Postcards, books, prints and sketches littered the tabletop, along with a single three-ring binder, one burst of modernism in a sea of vintage paper.

Ronnie picked up the binder and studied the pages of inventory. “Postwar erotica? Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller? Frank Harris’s My Life and Loves?”

“Sure. Along with Rojan’s lithographs and those cool postcards you brought back from Paris. I bet it’ll be our best catalog yet.”

“Sort of a banned-books theme,” Ronnie said, smiling. Archer’s Rare Books issued two catalogs a year covering the finer items from the entire stock, along with one specialty catalog that focused on erotica. Debating with Joan over the theme of the special issue was one of her favorite summer activities.

“They weren’t all banned. And, anyway, back in the twenties and thirties, these books really pushed the envelope. It was a whole new era.”

With a quick twist, Ronnie pulled her hair up, securing it with a pencil. “So you’re wanting to make some sort of historical or sociological statement?” She frowned. Joan wasn’t usually the political type.

“Nah,” Joan said with a shrug. “Mostly it’s just that we have enough stock from the period to put together a good catalog.”

Ronnie laughed. How could she argue with logic like that? Especially since Joan was absolutely right—they could put together a hell of a catalog. Smiling, she nodded. “It’s a great idea.”

Joan clapped her hands, bouncing like a little girl. “Good. Because I’ve already started pulling stock. We have Henry Miller, and all four volumes of the Harris—those should fetch a lot—and we have an inscribed Anaïs Nin.” She did a fake swoon. “I don’t know how you get your hands on some of this stuff.”

“Trade secret,” Ronnie said with a wink. The truth was, it had taken her five years and endless hours building up the store’s erotica section. And now that the store had a reputation, collectors often came to her when they wanted to sell a prized book or manuscript.

For as long as she could remember, she’d put her heart and soul into the store, and Ronnie couldn’t even imagine another career. With the sad state of the current economy, though, the store was going through some tough times, and Ronnie was doing her damnedest to keep the place profitable. Which made the fact that some creep had broken in all the more infuriating. What if he’d made off with some of her valuable stock?

“What’s wrong?” Joan asked, her brow furrowed.

“Nothing. Just thinking about our intruder.” She waved her hand, then rifled through the pages in the binder, trying to look nonchalant despite the image of Nat in big-brother mode dancing through her mind. Without an update from the police, he was going to stay in New York instead of taking the career opportunity of a lifetime.

The bummer of it was, so far she’d completely struck out in the detective department. First she’d been scorned that morning by a detective who doubled as her own personal fantasy man, then she’d received the big brush-off when she’d called a few hours later. Detective Parker may have specifically told her that someone named Donovan was on her case, but the police department didn’t seem to be too clued in. When she’d complained to the clerk, she’d been told that Donovan wasn’t assigned to the matter. So far, she’d left two voice-mail messages for the cop who was supposedly running the show, but she hadn’t heard back. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “No surprise there,” she said.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Joan asked, studying Ronnie over her psychedelic rims.

“Nothing. Ignore me.” She shot a glance toward the phone on the wall. “I’ll try the precinct again in an hour or so. Sooner or later they’ll send someone out just to shut me up.”

“Just call 911,” Joan said, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a soda. She popped the top and took a swallow. “Tell them we’ve got another intruder.”

Except for the fact that a false emergency call was probably a felony, it sounded like a heck of a plan. This was sort of an emergency, wasn’t it? After all, getting rid of Nat really was reaching critical status. So maybe she should...

No. She was a responsible business owner. She paid taxes. She shopped for groceries and voted when she remembered.

But she did not make fake emergency calls.

She took a deep breath. “Let’s just work on the catalog. I’ll call again in a little while.”

Joan nodded and brought over an archival box filled with French postcards from the twenties and thirties. “I thought we could scan these and do an illustrated catalog.”

Ronnie pulled out one of the sepia cards, lightly running her finger over the edge. Unlike the ones that often turned up at flea markets or on eBay, these were in pristine condition, their edges clean, the images crisp. Someone—the photographer, probably—had hand-tinted each card. Just a touch to highlight the model’s jewelry, the ribbon in her hair, the nightgown pooled at her bare feet. The effect was dreamlike. Sensual.

Joan started pulling cards out of the box and laying them faceup on the table. “They’re not quite as erotic as the Rojan lithographs, but that’s okay, right?”

Ronnie nodded, pulling her thoughts back to the conversation. True, the lithographs tended to feature couples lost in their own private passions, while the postcards each featured a single woman. But, to Ronnie, the cards were just as alluring.

She plucked one out of the box. A nude woman, wearing nothing but a long strand of beads, reclined on a chaise longue, one arm behind her head, a coy look on her face. A sultry siren tempting the man behind the camera. “These cards have secrets,” she said, passing it to Joan. “That’s why they’re so erotic. It’s like we’re sharing a private moment between the woman and her lover.”

“I guess that makes her an exhibitionist and us voyeurs,” Joan said, grinning as she pulled up a chair.

Ronnie laughed. “Maybe it does.”

“So,” Joan said, leaning in closer, “have you ever done anything like that?”

“Exhibitionism?” Ronnie asked, sure her voice was squeaking. “Not hardly.”

“No, no, no.” Joan rolled her eyes. “Not for all the world.” Her devious smile lit up her entire face. “For just one guy. Burt? Anybody?”

“Have you?” An obvious avoidance tactic, but maybe Joan wouldn’t notice.

The bell in the main room jingled, cutting off Joan’s response. Instantly, she hopped to her feet, pointing a finger at Ronnie. “You stay. See if you like the other stuff I picked for the catalog. I can handle a customer.” Then she slipped out the door. A second later, she was back, peering around the door frame. “And the answer to your question is yes. Andy might have been a jerk out in the real world, but in the bedroom he was blue-ribbon material.” She winked, then disappeared again.

Alone, Ronnie gazed at the image of a 1920s ingenue, coy and flirtatious. The woman was perched on the edge of a padded bench, looking almost ethereal as yards of diaphanous material swirled around her.

What would it be like to be that woman? To feel the caress of her lover’s eyes on her, to know that he wanted her, and then to open her arms in silent invitation?