The Pepper in the Gumbo (Men of Cane River #1)(16)



“You know, if you had a few beers before we got on the flight, you wouldn’t have to do the Lamaze routine every time,” Andy said.

“I don’t like to self-medicate,” Paul muttered. A beer was only a beer… until it wasn’t. His mama once told him his absent father liked to drink too much, so he’d always been wary of needing a beer for anything, even flying. His mind flashed to his mama’s face and he smiled. As soon as he’d been able, he’d moved her out of Natchitoches. Only a few hours from her sisters, she lived in a big farmhouse on the edge of a small lake. Swans drifted across the surface and when the sun set, it was like something from a calendar. He was proud of a lot of things, but being able to buy his mother her dream retirement property was one of his proudest moments. It would be nice to be closer than New York City, if only for a few months.

The plane seemed to level off a little and Paul opened his eyes. Andy was scanning reports from the marketing department, eyes narrowed, deep in thought. Andy called himself lazy, but everyone knew that was a lie. The guy never stopped working, something Paul appreciated in a business partner. He had a hard time going on vacation himself, so the two of them were well matched.

He flipped open his laptop and set it on the table in front of him. Some of the perks of having his own plane were not having to worry about losing his internet connection, or fighting for space or trying to tune out loud passengers. There was a theater room in the back but Paul hardly used it unless they had guests. He and Andy both usually worked through the flight. Paul wasn’t sure if that made them dedicated or just boring.

He flipped through a few project overviews but couldn’t focus. He felt like a kid on his first day of school, and that had never been a good thing. He logged onto Browning Wordsworth Keats and tried not to groan at the number of messages. But answering a few was better than nothing. He’d been trying to work from the bottom, but this time he clicked on the newest. A thank you note. Another thank you note. A complaint over the violence in a book on the African Safari. Another thank you… from Natchitoches?

Paul sat up with a snap. She owned a bookstore, offering him help. Interesting. He had people offer to send him boxes of old books, but he didn’t want to sort through and then find a safe place for the vintage volumes if they weren’t what he needed. But a book store… full of rare books. A slow smile spread over his face as he typed his answer.

Dear Mrs. (Miss? Ms.?) Augustine,

I’m glad your customer has discovered the glory of Beau Geste. It was my favorite book when I was twelve. I didn’t appreciate John’s beau geste as well as I should have. I always thought he deserved to live and have a happy ending. Call me a romantic.

Thank you for your offer. I do need assistance now and then. Some of these books are hard to track down, as I’m sure you understand. In fact, now that I think of it, would you have a copy of The Duke’s Secret for a fair price? If you do, I can arrange to have someone pick it up.

Sincerely,

Browning Wordsworth Keats (Mr.)

He pushed send and went to the next email. Complaint. Request. Thank you. Thank you. Request. He paused, rubbing his eyes. Even as fast as he answered, his inbox filled faster. He wondered exactly how fast and hit refresh. Another message appeared. He refreshed again and watched the numbers climb. After a few minutes he figured it at a minimum of ten per hour. He shook his head, refreshing one more time.

The bookseller had responded and he leaned forward, mouse hovering. He hadn’t thought to specify a price. Would she quote him an outrageous figure? Savvy businessmen always inflated the price when there was demand. Paul clicked on it.



Dear Mr. Keats,

I do happen to have a copy of The Duke’s Secret. The price is three dollars because the condition is somewhere between neglected and deplorable. It has a lovely cover and is still legible, though. I’ve put it behind the counter for you (or your friend).

I’m sure you fend off many unwanted requests and demands but I was wondering if you could answer a personal question. Is that you in the fedora? If so, is that your bookshelf in the background? Forgive me for being a nosy parker but I believe you can tell a lot about a person by their bookshelves. Even (especially?) if they own a whole building full of them.

Alice Augustine (Miss)



Paul grinned. Three dollars. He flipped to the picture of himself on the website and squinted, trying to see which of his books appeared in the background. A sinking feeling filled his stomach. A few old textbooks, programming guides, Watership Down, Brave New World, a Ray Bradbury collection, the Steve Jobs biography, a Neil Gaiman book for children, 1984, a favorite book of poetry so slender you couldn’t read the title, Dune, a collection of Flannery O’Connor short stories, Fahrenheit 451, Wordsworth’s poetry, a lot of Jules Verne, Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. But at the end, a history book about the Creole people of Cane River and a fat video game programming manual were side by side. He’d written the manual with two other programmers and his name was clear as day on the spine. If anyone had any right to suspect that Browning Wordsworth Keats was Paul Olivier, video game programmer raised in Natchitoches, that was pretty strong evidence.

No one had asked Paul about the books in the picture before. Not the thousands of visitors who came for the message boards, not the hundreds who emailed. He frowned, considering, then decided it didn’t matter much. No one had any reason to link him to the site. Paul Olivier was a man who spent his waking hours shaping the online gaming world. Browning Wordsworth Keats dedicated his life to giving new life to obscure classic literature. Not even Sherlock could piece that puzzle together.

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