The Dirty Book Murder (27 page)

Riverrun had become dependent on the bookselling dot-coms such as AbeBooks and Alibris, which presented my inventory to book buyers throughout the United States and the world. What a pity the person who had helped me establish the books on the Internet had turned out to be a coconspirator to murder.

I felt low for other reasons as well. The Colette, along with the other erotica, had been returned to Beatrice Land who, at my suggestion, placed it with Sotheby’s for its winter rare books auction. She’d get an appropriate price, more than enough to keep her in whips and dog collars to the end of her days. I had dared to hope after numerous hints that she would give me one or two of the Japanese scrolls, if not in gratitude, than as a commission. But it was not to be. Riverrun would remain just a used bookstore.

Dr. Guffey’s
in our time
was returned to Delaware’s Special Collections Department where it now rests in its half morocco slipcase three floors underground in the bowels of the Morris Library. I spent the $250 reward (approximately 1/1000th of its fair market value) on a first-edition biography of Captain James Cook by J. C. Beaglehole. It sits on my bookshelf at home next to
The Endeavour Journal of Sir Joseph Banks
, edited by the same Professor B.

Anne hadn’t e-mailed or phoned from L.A. in a week. We’d gotten in the habit of communicating every other day, but I trusted her enough not to worry about the lapse. Like she had said not so long ago, I needed to get accustomed to having an adult child.

Even the Irregulars had stopped coming in regularly. It was as if the Violet and Weston Preston business had put a curse on the store. It got to the point that I seriously
questioned whether Riverrun was worth operating anymore.

Although I knew the Internet drill well enough to get by, I couldn’t watch the shop, price books, go on buying trips, and do everything else necessary to run the business by myself. In the five months since the encounter with Quist, it was more than I could continue to handle and still make a profit. My customers, having become accustomed to the place being open ten hours a day, began to dwindle after I cut back the hours.

Maybe Violet was right about my being a lousy bookman. Despite my love for books and the joy that comes with owning such a comfortable gathering place, I really had failed to make a real go of the business. Not ready to quit, however, I advertised for the kind of help I needed: a hardworking, sensible, devoted book lover with an eye for numbers and a good sense of humor.

A lot of people answered my ad. The first words out of their mouths were invariably, “I just love books and bookstores.” When I told them what I could afford to pay, most said they didn’t love books
that
much and those who said they could live on minimum wage didn’t know James Joyce from Joyce Brothers.

I interviewed several bright people who could make change, knew a good mystery writer from a bad one, and had spouses with good jobs or had made their money in earlier careers and were bored with retirement. In the end, I passed on every one. It wasn’t because of the nose rings worn by the grandmother in her sixties or the retired insurance salesman’s ridiculous hairpiece.

The fellow with the toupee had been pleasant, even humorous, and he certainly knew his books. The grandmother claimed to have been on the magic bus with Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters and quoted whole poems by Gary Snyder in her interview. By all accounts, both seemed like honest, likable, and interesting people. But I didn’t know them, and the two employees I
had
known and trusted for five years tried to set me up for a murder that they committed.

I got out of the chair by the window and went into the closet that serves as my office to place a call to one of the best used bookstores in Omaha. I knew its owner had long wanted to open a second shop in Kansas City.

“Pimpernel Books, Mingos speaking,” answered the familiar gravelly voice.

“Hey, Carl. It’s Mike Bevan.”

“I heard you had some excitement this summer. Got any books for me?”

“You might say that. Riverrun’s for sale if you want it.”

There was a long silence, then an exhalation of breath.

“The whole thing? You sure about this?”

“I’ll fax the details today. You’ll be able to afford it and there’s three years left on a very favorable lease.”

“Damn, I should be jumping out of my shorts about this, Mike, but, you’re a good bookman and there aren’t too many of us left.”

“Thanks,” I said, remembering that I’d thought something similar about Gareth Hughes after he was dead. “I’m tired of it, Carl.”

“Horsehocky! You can’t be tired of books. That isn’t natural.”

“It’s not the books or even the business. Maybe it’s people I can’t handle.”

For a moment I thought the line had gone dead.

“All right,” Carl said quietly. “E-mail me the numbers.”

I hung up the phone, pulled a Diet Coke out of the minifridge, and started to add some sales figures.

“Are you hiring?” a voice said from outside the office door.

“No,” I said as I tried to finish an entry in the accounting notebook. “I’m afraid that will be someone else’s decision.”

“Too bad. I so wanted to work with you.”

I looked up to see Josie Majansik standing at the sales counter.

She wore a sporty red jacket and a crisp white blouse with the top two buttons undone. She had the same crooked, sweet-natured smile that I’d found so endearing the first day we met. Seeing that gamine face, an erotic mixture of tragedy and triumph, rekindled the longing for her I’d tried so hard to suppress.

I got up and walked to the counter. The air around her was flowered with jasmine and peach. I found it difficult to speak.

“Well, are you hiring?” she repeated.

“I just offered Riverrun to another book dealer.”

“So I heard.” Her voice faltered a little. “Don’t do it.”

“Do you really want to work for me?”

“No. I want to work
with
you. I know books, but you should know that I prefer Chandler to Hemingway and Turgenev to Tolstoy.”

“Can you operate a computer?”

“Second nature to my generation.”

“It’s not a very adventurous job.”

“I’ve had enough adventure for a while.”

“What about the FBI?”

“Like I said before, I wouldn’t be good at it anymore. Besides, I broke rule number one.”

“What’s that?”

“I fell in love on the job.”

“So you indicated to me that night at Fitzpatrick’s. I suppose it’s a fellow agent; if it was Eddie Worth you wouldn’t be looking for work. When’s the wedding?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I don’t get it.”

She reached for my hand. “You’re the one, you blockhead.”

She stood on tiptoes to lay a kiss on my lips.

“But I thought …”

“You thought wrong. When you refused to see me I was terribly hurt. I thought you could never really care for me. After our dinner at Fitzpatrick’s, I returned to Columbus to start life over again, thinking I could get you out of my mind. I couldn’t. It just got worse with every passing week. I picked up the phone a dozen times to call you, but each time put it down, afraid you’d reject me again. A week ago, Anne contacted me out of the blue. Her encouragement was all I needed.”

“And you were the one who said you’d bring
her
back to
me
.”

“She sounds happy.”

“The editing work on the film is keeping her out of trouble,” I said. That was as far as I’d go to give Langston credit for my daughter’s continuing recovery.

A lady brought in a bag of paperbacks to trade. I told her to leave them on the desk and have a cup of coffee next door while I added them up. I looked back at Josie.

“That’s the kind of excitement you can expect around here. Do you really think you can handle such pressure?”

“I love you, Mike. Do I get the job?”

“Just a moment,” I said.

I dialed Omaha.

“Hello, Carl?”

“Yeah?”

“The deal’s off.”

“Riverrun lives?”

“Yup. I found all the help I’m going to need for a while.”

I wish to thank my agent, Victoria Skurnick, and my editor, Kate Miciak, for their unwavering support and guidance.

Tom Shawver owned an antiquarian bookstore in Kansas City for fifteen years. Prior to that, he was a Marine officer, lawyer, and journalist. This, his first novel, begins a series featuring bookman Michael Bevan.

Every great mystery needs an Alibi

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