Book Clubbed

“I’m on fire!” Joelle cried, shaking her arm in the air, which only caused the flames to grow.

Instead of leaping forward to help her, Jerry backed up, looking terrified.

“Jerry—help me. Help me!” Joelle shrieked.

Sarah Jane was engulfed in flames, her head melting before Tricia’s eyes. She righted herself and lunged forward, shoving a screaming Joelle onto the carpet. She pushed her, rolling her over and over across the floor for what seemed like endless moments until Joelle crashed into the back of one of the upholstered chairs in the nook. At last, the flames were extinguished.

“Jerry, help me get her out of here,” Tricia called, but when she looked up she saw that Jerry had disappeared. The shop door was open, and the cold wind that whistled through it fed the fire. She could feel the blistering heat on her back.

Joelle’s coat sleeve was gone, her flesh glistening from the burns. A frantic Tricia grabbed her under her arm, causing her to scream, and hauled her to her feet, dragging her toward the exit. The air was already foul with smoke and Tricia coughed as she pulled Joelle out of the burning store.

Once outside, Tricia saw several people standing on the sidewalk, gawking.

“What happened?” Mary Fairchild, Tricia’s next-door neighbor asked, looking terrified.

“Jerry Dittmeyer set my store on fire. Call 911.”

“Thank God you’re safe,” Mary cried as Tricia pushed a reeling Joelle at her.

Tricia gulped fresh air, which seemed to clear her head, and she was seized with a terrible thought. “Miss Marple!” she cried and turned back to the shop door.

“You can’t go back in there,” cried Michele Fowler, who had suddenly appeared on the scene, with her cell phone in one hand and grabbing Tricia’s arm with the other.

“The hell I can’t,” Tricia said, twisted away, and plunged into the smoke-filled store once again.

If the lights were still on, Tricia couldn’t tell; the thick black smoke was a smothering curtain. She dropped to her knees and, coughing all the way, began to crawl to the readers’ nook, where she’d last seen her beloved cat. She pawed under each of the chairs, but couldn’t find the cat. “Miss Marple, Miss Marple!” she cried, and was seized with a terrible coughing fit. Pulling the neck of her sweater up over her mouth and nose, Tricia began to crawl around the floor. Where could the cat be? Had she run to the washroom? Could she have escaped out the open door to safety?

“Miss Marple, please come out!” Tricia wailed, but she doubted the cat would even be able to hear her over the roar of the fire. There was nothing left of Sarah Jane’s carriage, and flames licked the south wall and several shelves of vintage mysteries. Too stu

She inched her way across the rug, losing track of where she was in all the smoke, and smashed her forehead into the side of the cash desk. Blood cascaded from the wound and into her eyes, but she had only one thought on her mind—to find her cat.

She crawled behind the cash desk, groping around the floor, and finally touched something fluffy—Miss Marple’s tail. The cat didn’t move. Was she already dead?

Tricia scooped up her cat and stuffed her limp body inside her sweater and began to crawl, backing out from behind the cash desk. Tears and blood mingled, robbing Tricia of her sight, and she used the wall to guide herself to the open door. She crawled through the aperture and strong arms grabbed her, hauling her across the frozen sidewalk and into the street. She’d lost her shoes.

Sirens wailed, echoing off the buildings, and the Stoneham Fire Department’s rescue squad screeched to a halt along the curb. Seconds later, more strong arms hauled Tricia toward the vehicle, and she found herself sitting on its bumper, her feet freezing in the stiff breeze and an oxygen mask pressed against her face.

She coughed and coughed, thought about throwing up, and had to shake her head in order to think clearly. “My cat. My cat!”

“Calm down,” the EMT advised. “We’ll find your cat.”

Tricia pulled the mask away from her face. “You don’t understand, I’ve already got her.” She lifted her sweater and pulled out the small limp cat. Another EMT took Miss Marple from Tricia, and jumped inside the ambulance.

“She’s dead. I know she’s dead,” Tricia cried, and started to cough again, but the remaining EMT pressed the mask back to her face and proceeded to work on the cut on her forehead. Across the way, she saw another ambulance and more EMTs working on someone in the street. Was it Joelle?

“Tricia!”

Angelica clawed her way through the crowd of rubberneckers, to reach her sister. “Oh, my God. What happened?” she demanded, throwing her arms around Tricia. She was crying so hard her mascara ran down her cheeks in black rivulets.

“I’m okay,” Tricia said, but speaking those words only made her cough harder.

“Keep the mask on your face,” the EMT directed, towering over her with a no-nonsense expression.

“Miss Marple is dead,” Tricia cried. “I tried to save her but it was too late.”

“Please, ma’am, keep the mask on your face,” the man said once more.

“You don’t understand, my cat is dead!” Tricia cried, and even to herself she sounded like some hysterical harpy.

“No, she’s not,” said the EMT from inside the rescue vehicle. Tricia half turned and saw the man holding on to Miss Marple in a very undignified ma

“It’s a miracle!” Angelica cried.

“Let me hold her,” Tricia cried and realized she was shivering violently—unsure if it was from the cold or shock.

“Only if you keep that mask on your face,” said the man standing in front of Tricia.

The EMT inside the ambulance bent down and handed the cat to Tricia. Afraid Miss Marple might be frightened and try to escape, Tricia lifted her sweater and tucked the cat inside once more. A moment or so later, Miss Marple’s head popped out the top of Tricia’s sweater, and she took in her surroundings. “Yow,” she said weakly.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. Your aunt Angelica has some shrimp in the freezer. I will serve you one hell of a good kitty di

Chief Baker’s cruiser rolled to a halt, with more sirens screaming in the background. Tricia and Miss Marple watched as the big fire engine pulled up in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, with firefighters jumping out. Two of them smashed the big display, while another two hooked their hoses to the closest fire hydrant and went to work.

It was then Tricia realized she might lose everything she owned. She rubbed her chin on Miss Marple’s head, realizing the most important thing in her life had been saved. Still, as she watched the firefighters work, she knew that life as she’d known it might never be the same.

TWENTY-TWO

Twinkling stars punctuated the dark sky and all was silent in this little section of southern New Hampshire. After all, it was well after midnight and even the Dog-Eared Page had closed down many hours before. Tricia stood on the sidewalk in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, taking in the sooty residue that clung to its faux stone façade. The large display window that had shown off some of Tricia’s stock was now covered with brand-new pieces of ugly plywood.

Gone. For all intents and purposes, Haven’t Got a Clue was history. And though the fire had been contained to just the first floor, chances were most of her other possessions, like clothes, her computer, jewelry, and especially her personal collection of mysteries, were smoke damaged and essentially ruined.