my melodrama, as she could have called it, or frowned, puzzled. Most importantly, there was no cunning in her look, nothing to indicate that I was talking with an enemy. Her face registered only one emotion, as far as she allowed it: a delicate, flickering fear.
"The cards were there yesterday morning," she said slowly, as if laying down a weapon and preparing to talk. "I looked up Dracula first, and there was an entry for it, only one copy. Then I wondered if they had other works by Stoker, and I looked him up, too. There were a few entries under his name, including one for Dracula. "
The diner's indifferent waiter was setting coffee on the table, and Helen drew hers toward her without looking at it. I thought with sudden fierce longing of Rossi, pouring out far finer coffee than this for himself and me - his exquisite hospitality. Oh, I had other questions for this strange young woman.
"Someone obviously doesn't want you - me - anybody - checking out that book," I observed. I kept my voice quiet, watching her.
"That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she said sharply, putting sugar in her cup and stirring it. But she looked unconvinced by her own words, and I pressed on.
"Do you still have the book?"
"Yes." Her spoon fell with an annoyed clatter. "It is in my book bag." She glanced down, and I noticed beside her the briefcase I'd seen her carrying the day before.
"Miss Rossi," I said. "I beg your pardon, and I'm afraid I'm going to sound like a maniac, but it's my personal belief that there may be some danger to you in possessing this book, which someone else clearly doesn't want you to have."
"What makes you think that?" she countered, not meeting my eye now. "Who do you think would not want me to have that book?" A slight flush had spread over her cheekbones again, and she looked guiltily down into her cup; that was the only way to describe it - she looked downright guilty. I wondered with horror if she might not be in league with the vampire: Dracula's bride, I thought, aghast, the Sunday matinees coming back to me in rapid frames. That smoky dark hair would fit, the rich, un-identifiable accent, the lips like blackberry stain on the pale skin, the elegant black-and-white garb. I put this idea firmly out of my mind; it was fantasy and it fit too well with my jittery mood.
"Do you actually know someone who wouldn't want you to have that book?" "Yes, as a matter of fact. But that is certainly none of your business." She glared at me and went back to her coffee. "Why were you hunting for the book, anyway? If you wanted my phone number, why did you not simply ask me for it, without going through all this rigmarole?" This time I felt my own face redden. Talking with this woman was like sitting still for a series of slaps, delivered arhythmically so you couldn't know when the next one was coming. "I had no intention of asking for your phone number until I realized those cards had been torn out of the catalog and thought you should know about it," I said, stiffly. "I needed that book very badly myself. So I went to the library to see if they had a second copy I might be able to use."
"And they didn't," she said fiercely, "so you had the perfect excuse to call me looking for it. If you wanted my library book, why didn't you just put it on reserve?"
"I need it now," I retorted. Her tone was beginning to exasperate me. We might both be in serious trouble, and she was quibbling about this meeting as if it were a bid for a date, which it wasn't. I reminded myself that she couldn't know what dire straits I was in. Then it occurred to me that if I told her the whole story, she might not merely think I was insane. But it might also put her in greater danger. I sighed aloud, without meaning to.
"Are you trying to intimidate me out of my library book?" Her tone was a little softened now, and I caught the amusement that made her strong mouth twitch. "I believe you are."
"No, I'm not. But I would like to know who you think might not want you checking out this book." I set down my cup and looked