The Book Hound

This was how he liked to spend his birthday, a fresh brew of his favorite coffee and an adventure book in his hands. There was nothing different today than any other Saturday morning for the past twelve years. He came to Hound's Books and Café every week, and the associates knew him by name and mood. Based on how he dressed himself that week, they were in tune with his feelings. Today was a loafer and white pocket polo day, that's how he celebrated, and that's what Horace liked about this place, the friendly staff and the peaceful ability to get lost in a book. One book a week for twelve years.

Twelve years. Has it really been that long? Ever since Margot. She loved books. She explored mystery novels, swallowed them up as a matter of fact. Her favorite was The Maltese Falcon. People usually recognize the film, but the book is astounding. The layers of mystery kept her mind sharp and her problem-solving skills ahead of most.

He was more of an adventure reader, an escapist. If you pitch anything to him with pirates, mountain climbers, or long-distance races, he is hooked. Today, his birthday book was called Fever Conquest, about a group of Australian adventurers on an expedition searching for an ancient Native relic.

Lost in fever himself, Horace unconsciously took a sip of his coffee. As he placed the coffee back down, a small piece of paper slid under the cup. His eyes moved to the note now tucked under the latte, breaking his concentration. He scanned the area. People drinking and reading as usual, but none in close enough proximity. Tugging the paper from the cup, he turned it around and read, "I know about Margot."

He felt the blood drain from his face. Icy pins filled his stomach as he looked around the café pensively. He dropped his book on the floor and nearly fell off the chair. He knew his left leg hit the ground because he was still standing but couldn't feel it as he tried to push himself upright next to the table.

Barry, the barista, ran over and picked up the book. "Are you okay, Horace? You don't look well," he said alarmingly.

"Who?…" Horace struggled for the words. "Was there anyone else here just now?"

"There's a bunch of people here. Do you want me to call someone for you?" asked Barry, concerned for his long-time "Coffee Hound."

Horace didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't really see what was happening. His mind started racing, and suddenly like an old water heater, he felt all that cold in him begin boiling up.

"Is this a joke?" Horace muttered under his breathe.

Horace was trying to hold on to the present moment. His memories of Margot filled his senses, scattering his perception of reality. He was here in this book store, not there with her. That was impossible. He was sure he had never mentioned her to anyone. He couldn't have. He knew the repercussions.

"Let me get you some water Horace," Barry offered. "Meg, toss me a bottle of H20!" as he called out to another girl behind the counter. The café was moderately busy, with about half of the tables full, most people playing chess or card games of some sort.

Barry caught the well-tossed bottle with one hand spinning off the top in a ninja-like motion and placed it in Horace's hands. Horace took a sip. "Better?" asked Barry. Horace shook his head and gave Barry a pat on the back. "Let me know if you need anything, alright," Barry said eagerly.

Horace pressed the cold water bottle to his head. In minutes his body managed two extremes shifting from ice to fire so quickly that it started to make him dizzy. This couldn't be happening. It must be in his mind. He re-read the note.

"I know about Margot."

He didn't know how, but someone knew. This was real. He sipped his water again, but something caught his attention in the back of the bookstore. It couldn't be. A petite woman with bushy brown hair was rummaging through several books at a quickened pace. Margot? The water cascaded down his lips, coating his white polo. He stood up, rubbing the water in.

"Happy Birthday Horace!" An elderly white-haired store clerk passed by, gripping his arm. Horace raised his hand to signal "Thank You," but it was to the back of her head as she was already gone…so was Margot.

The bookstore and the café had an open floor plan, and they seamlessly integrated each other; tile flooring for the coffee hounds and comfortable carpet for the book hounds. As trivial as this separation was, it created two different ambiances. The coffee hounds could chat and cheer over the tiled taps of shoes while the book hounds could quietly focus on the stories being read in their heads. As Horace stepped from tile to carpet, his heart rate slowed, and he strode across the store now with deliberation. Something locked inside him had come back out, a tool he only used in his weekly readings, raw anticipation. He was the Australian adventurer, Margot was the relic; unseen for twelve years. He knew it couldn't have been her, but he was too curious now. Curiosity took over his thoughts, filling the interstices of his mind with adrenaline.

He turned the corner making his way towards the mystery section, hoping to disprove his false sense of reality. No one. Some of the books were rustled out of their regular positions. His eyes widened as he caught a familiar scent. He couldn't describe it, but all fathers know the smell. It pervaded his olfactory, and the memory slideshow began. Her laugh. The shape of her feet. Dimples and birthmarks. Her mother.

A copy of The Maltese Falcon was face down on the floor. He picked it up and looked around suspiciously. Then he saw it on the ceiling.

"That's a sweet detective tale," came the lisped voice of a gangly bald man. Horace recognized Igor, the store owner. "I would have thought you read that by now," he continued.

"I have. Igor would I be able to see…."

"Happy birthday Mr. Helms!" A young "hound" said as he passed by them, pushing a cart of books.

"That's right," exclaimed Igor. "It's your birthday. Happy birthday buddy." Igor attempted a hug that Horace was not interested in at the moment but figured he better dive in if he was going to get Igor to let him into the back room. "How old are you today? You don't look a day over 50, that's for sure."

"Thank you. Igor, would it be possible for me to check the cameras?" Horace pointed to the security camera above them. "I believe there was someone just here that I may know."

Igor leaned in and whispered to Horace, "I can't do that. The security system has been down for weeks. I haven't told the staff, they think I go back there and watch it sometimes. Keeps them productive."

Horace didn't know why, but he held onto the copy of The Maltese Falcon. He was channeling Sam Spade as he investigated every inch of the bookstore. He encountered friendly smiles and birthday greetings from familiar faces. None of them was Margot. He took the escalator to the second floor where the music records were, imagining he'd find her with headphones on, lost in the rhythm of some forgotten jazz band. There was barely anybody up there, though.

Maybe she left. No, that was ludicrous. She wasn't here. He had thought it up, envisioned only what his heart truly desired. Twelve years he spent trying to forget he had a daughter because that's what they told him to do. Twelve years he mourned the murder of his ex-wife Claire, reliving the crime scene in his head. He blamed himself for never being able to make it work. If he was only more present in her life, someone who was there when she needed a partner, someone to look after her best interest. Maybe then Margot wouldn't have felt the need to rebel, and Claire would be alive; her killer locked away instead of Margot being forced into witness protection.

But these were thoughts he didn't want to dwell on. He preferred to fill his mind with adventures that always had an ending. It was too draining to imagine a world where he could hold his daughter again. The probability of catching the ring leader of the gang her boyfriend belonged to was unlikely. Twelve years is too long, and the statute of limitations would be surpassed one day.

No, the best thing he could do was what they told him to do. Forget you have a daughter. You want to protect her, forget her. The detectives made that very clear. Margot wasn't here; she couldn't be.

Horace walked back to the café in a damper mood, offering somber waves to the staff as they pitched birthday pleasantries. Crossing the threshold from the carpet onto the tile was as if someone hit unmute. The place was alive with soft pop music, chitter-chatter from the chess players, and the pleasant sound of steam from behind the coffee bar. He sat down at his table, Fever Conquest still resting on the chair next to him. This was all that mattered now. He picked up his book. Adventure, coffee, and…then who wrote the note? He couldn't shake that. Someone must have written it.

He reached into his pocket, but before he could pull it out, someone pushed a plate with a chocolate croissant and a lit candle in front of him. Horace looked up at the staff of "hounds" surrounding him, all singing off-key. He smiled politely.

After they departed, Barry brought Horace another latte. He asked how he was feeling. He said fine, despite his best efforts of concealing his emotions. He knew Barry didn't believe him. He eventually left after he noticed Horace's candle melting into the croissant. Horace closed his eyes, thought of Margot one last time, and blew out the candle.

He picked up Fever Conquest; Barry marked the page for him to his surprise. He opened it up to find a sealed envelope. A birthday card from Barry, probably. He was the best barista "hound" here. He tore the seal and pulled out a white card with colorful balloons on the front. Inside was a handwritten "Happy Birthday" centered perfectly on the right. On the left was a hand-drawn picture of a large bird, a falcon perhaps, flying high above a small house in the distance. At the bottom was just written the letter "M." He reached into his pocket, pulling out the piece of paper from earlier. He examined this signature "M" with the "M" in Margot. The same. Horace smiled. He wasn't definitively sure, but he deducted what this all could have meant. He knew that the probability had shifted and that he would be seeing Margot sooner rather than later. This was her birthday gift. He put down Fever Conquest and opened up The Maltese Falcon while sipping his coffee. She always did love a good mystery.