The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) (3 page)

Karen leaned back and closed her eyes as instructed. “I know I didn’t find anything in my client files.” She gestured toward a chaotic pile of file folders and loose papers. I would have been surprised if she had found anything in that. “I’ll keep trying.”

“I don’t want my tombstone to read ‘killed by a woman in beige,’ meaning Vera,” I joked, turning back to the kitchen.

“Oh boy, I don’t want to be responsible for Vera’s crimes against you
and
fashion! Such a worry.” She chuckled and relaxed a bit. I got her breathing deeply and stayed quiet in the hope that the right memory would pop into her dented noggin.

“Feel no pressure.”

“If only it hadn’t been the Sayers collection,” Karen said. “Such elegant and witty books. So intricate.”

I stuck my head back into the living room. “I agree. They’re quite complex. You can’t just sit and read one in a couple of hours. They are layered and there’s a lot to be learned about the twenties and thirties in English society.”

“Not all of it good,” Karen said, a smile twitching her lips.

“Agreed. It’s pretty shocking how matter-of-factly she reflects the prejudices of the day.”

“I do like Wimsey and Harriet Vane though,” she said.

“Me too. I especially love how the police just let him handle corpses and investigate crime scenes and order constables about. He can walk into and out of people’s homes at will.”

“Pays to be an aristocrat.”

“No kidding. I wish I had a bit of that,” I said with a grin, before getting back to my tea making.

“You have more than a bit of it, Jordan.”

“Ah, but no, just a simple Irish family.” I left out “of crooks,” although I had a feeling it didn’t bother her much.

“You carry yourself with confidence. I am sure you could walk into and out of people’s homes at will. Who would question it?”

A few minutes later, I emerged from the tiny kitchen with a bone china pot full of Darjeeling tea, with milk and sugar in matching pieces and a plate of amaretti.

“Signora Panetone sent you a fresh batch of her special almond cookies,” I said. “She’s taken a shine to you. Make sure you eat them all or that could change and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Karen had cleared off the small octagonal table by the armchair and stacked those books on the floor. “I don’t deserve those cookies. I’m still drawing a blank.”

“Everyone always deserves cookies.” I settled things and poured the milk into delicate china cups in shades of orange and gold. Karen liked the milk in first. I’d learned to prefer it that way too.

I decided to help Karen’s memory as I added sugar and poured.

“Tall or short?” I said.

She blinked. “I don’t remember. They were sitting down.”

I passed her the teacup. “Man or woman?”

“They are almost always men, in my experience. I mean my customers who collect fine first editions.”

I did know that. “I guess Vera’s the exception.”

“She is unique. In many ways.”

“No arguments here.”

I said, “Hair or no hair?”

“Hair!” Her face lit up. “Lots of silver wavy hair.”

“Excellent. Man? Woman?”

Karen’s forehead crinkled. “Man. I suppose that’s a bit of a help. A man with a great head of hair.” She paused. “But also long hair, I think. I have a tiny memory of hair. Long hair.”

“A man with long hair? It’s not a good look for most people.”

“Not a man. A woman. The woman had beautiful long straight brown hair. A man and a woman.” Her brow furrowed as she struggled to clear her mind. “The man was with a woman. She was helping him, I think. I can see them.”

“Wonderful. Name?”

The smile slipped. “No names yet. But I can see their faces. She is younger than he is. A daughter perhaps. Or a trophy wife.”

“Enjoy your tea. It will come back to you. We’ve just made progress.”

“I feel terrible about this, Jordan. I had no idea that those books had been stolen from the Van Alst collection or I never would have touched them. I know you are under a lot of pressure to find them. There were some lovely volumes in that batch of books. I remember how excited I was when I was offered that collection. In perfect condition. I think I made quite a bit of money on them.”

We sat chatting and nibbling on the almond cookies for a while.

I said, “I know you’ve checked it, but how about we go through your receipt book? Together. I can read out the names and . . .”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I think they were cash transactions. I don’t usually put the person’s name.”

That would have been one hell of a cash transaction. But I didn’t digress into the economics of cash transactions. None of my business. My business was getting the books back.

“Right. How about your mailing list? You do keep that?”

“Of course.”

“If I run through the names, I could see if anyone sounds familiar.”

“We could certainly do that. It will take a while.”

I grinned. “Listen to the patter on the windows. It’s started to rain. So now it’s a rainy Friday afternoon in October in beautiful downtown Grandville. I don’t have a million things to do and I’m happy to hang out with you.”

More than that, I needed to find those books for Vera or she was likely to make me miserable, or even fire me. I wouldn’t have put it past her.

Karen said, “I’m glad of your company. I’m really pretty much stuck here until I recover from this . . .” She pointed to her head.

I tried not to remember what Karen had looked like when I’d found her wounded. I didn’t want to revisit that image or those emotions and made a mental note to make sure Uncle Lucky was bringing Walter to visit Karen today. “How about a fire? Or is that gorgeous fireplace just for effect?”

“It works. I keep some faux logs in the basement. They’re easy to light.”

“I’ll get them.”

“There’s a mason jar with matches. Bring some of those too, if you don’t mind.”

I stood up. “I’ll get a couple of logs while you fish out the mailing list.”

The basement was exactly the type you’d expect to find under a shop called the Cozy Corpse
and also exactly what you’d expect from Karen. For starters, she had a triple dead bolt and it had a key on a Cozy Corpse key chain stuck in it. Why inconvenience your home invaders?

It was crammed with stacks of paper, battered books and broken tools. I was briefly distracted when I bumped into a large craft table parked in the middle of the only corridor. After one quick glance I concluded that at one time or another, Karen must have tried and abandoned every known pastime, from macramé to decoupage. There were cans of spray paint, small tools, a saw, turpentine, a huge jar of faux pearls and another one with buttons. You name it. Maybe the shop could be called the Crazy Corpse. I thought I could give her a hand with a garage sale. She could use a few dollars and the basement would be safer if it were cleaned out. I kept going and continued to bump into things, stacks of empty paint cans, musty books, dented cookware. It was very dark because ancient and dusty curtains hung on what must have been the windows. From the harvest gold, avocado and orange print, I dated them somewhere in the late sixties. Besides being dark and musty, the basement was full of unidentified lumps, shadows and creatures with eight legs and bad attitudes. Every piece of junk and the surface it sat on was covered with dust. Luckily, it didn’t take long to find the stack of faux logs and the mason jar of matches next to a huge old stockpot on a shelf in the creepy basement. I figured Karen must have come down to pick up logs fairly often, because the area around them was relatively free of dust. I wasn’t sure what else she might keep on those shelves, but I stopped wondering when a spider descended in front of me. I grabbed the last three logs and a half-dozen matches from the jar. I dashed back upstairs as fast as I could, brushing possibly real and possibly imaginary spiders from my hair. I hate spiders, real or imagined, and that’s all I’ll say on that topic. We spent the afternoon combing through the mailing list, correspondence and even emails. I kept a lid on my impatience, but I could tell that Karen was stressed by her inability to remember. She kept rubbing her forehead.

I fiddled restlessly with my smoky topaz cocktail ring until a thought finally popped up. “How did you send the books? Did you use a courier? That would be traceable.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t have any record of it if I did. I’ve already checked.”

“Mail?”

She shook her head.

“Or did he, or possibly he and she, pick them up? Because if so—”

Her eyes widened. “I delivered them!”

“Wonderful! Where?”

She frowned in concentration. “I’m not sure. It couldn’t have been that far. I remember driving and pulling up in front of the house. But I don’t remember where the house was. I feel so stupid.”

“Please don’t feel stupid. You’re doing great and you’re starting to remember.”

“You know what? I do remember the house. It was a gorgeous Craftsman style.”

I inhaled. I adored Craftsman-style houses.

She said, “Not that it will do us any good. A house without an address is pretty useless. It could be in any town. I wonder if we’ll ever find those books for you, Jordan. You’ve been very kind to me and so has Vera.”

I didn’t want to tell Karen that kindness wasn’t in Vera’s makeup. No point in giving her anything else to worry about.

She said, “I really want to remember. It’s useless, isn’t it?”

“Not useless,” I said. “But tell me, Karen, did you usually deliver books yourself?”

She shook her head. “No. So this must have been a very important customer. But then you’d think I’d remember him and/or her.”

“Maybe it was someone you wanted to become an important customer. Someone new. Someone you didn’t know all that well.”

She smiled a slow smile. “That could be it. Something has to explain it.”

“I have an idea. If you delivered books to these people, then maybe other dealers would have done that for them too.”

“Of course!”

“I think it’s worth it for me to talk to a few other dealers.”

Karen nodded. “I wish I could help you with some names but . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. The Antiquarian Book and Paper Fair is back in Grandville this weekend.” I heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced at Karen to see if the mention of the book fair had upset her. She was always pale. Was she a bit paler now?

Best thing was to act naturally and help her to feel that all the places in her world could soon be normal again.

I said, “It’s quite possible that the same buyer has seen some of the other vendors and possibly asked for purchases to be delivered. I think I’ll pop by tomorrow and sound people out.”

Karen’s face fell. I knew she was sad about missing out on the book fair and yet probably apprehensive about going. There was so little I could do for her. But I could do this.

“So tomorrow, got any plans you can’t break?”

A
T ELEVEN ON
Saturday morning, I felt my back stiffen as we turned the Cozy Corpse van into the parking lot of Saint Sebastian’s Hall and the Antiquarian Book and Paper Fair. The van did not handle nearly as well as my Saab, but we needed it for Karen’s walker. In the passenger seat, she was breathing quickly. Never mind. It was time for both of us to get back on that horse. With Karen’s disability parking permit attached to the rearview mirror of the van, we eased into the space next to the door. I could feel my heart rate rise. I could only imagine what Karen was feeling, returning to this spot. Still, Saint Sebastian’s was where the fall book fair was happening and it was where we needed to be. I extricated Karen’s walker from the side door of the van and set it up. She was trembling slightly as she got out of the passenger seat and gripped the handles. Together we walked toward the table to pay our five-dollar entry fee. The woman behind the table dropped her coffee cup when she spotted Karen. She paid no attention to the brown liquid spreading on the patterned carpet. “No charge for you!” she squealed. “Welcome back, Karen.”

Karen’s grin was shaky. But that was a good start.

There was no charge for me either, which was excellent, as most of my money went automatically into my college savings account. I was in my usual state of flat-busted broke, to use my uncle Danny’s expression.

We wobbled through the big double doors into the exhibit hall. Karen’s knuckles were white on the handles of her walker. We’d nicknamed the walker Winged Victory one day while joking about a drag race between Vera and Karen. I noticed the carpet had been upgraded to a smart, modern filigree pattern in a neutral color. It still had the triple under-padding. Nice. I guess the bloodstains never did come out. That under-padding certainly made it nicer for the folks that were on their feet all day working these events.

I inhaled the familiar and tantalizing smell of aged paper and leather bindings. I stared back at the clump of pale, gawking faces. I heard nothing. Not a peep. The room was silent. Then the tall, stooped, gray-bearded man at the map booth began to clap. Soon the room erupted in applause. “Welcome back, Karen,” the woman from the booth with the vintage children’s books shouted.

Karen was well on her way to putting the ghost of her attack behind her. I’d had my own trauma about this place, but this visit helped me to see it the way it should be and not as it appeared in my nightmares. In those nightmares the building was darker and my feet were heavier and I didn’t get there in time to save Karen.

But I still had my task to take care of: finding some clue to the person who had bought the Sayers collection from her. As people pressed toward her, I helped her to a chair where she’d be able to hold court with everyone who wanted to say hello or squeeze her hand wordlessly. I leaned in and whispered, “If something shakes a memory loose, let me know right away.” I didn’t want to diminish the moment by adding, “before you forget.”

In the meantime, I made the rounds, admiring the books, maps, old photos and sketches. I loved this stuff. I could only imagine how much Karen had missed this part of her world these past few months.

Finally, I reached Nevermore Mysteries, where I spotted George Beckwith with his elegant silvery hair. As usual he peered at me over the reading glasses at the end of his nose. His whole life was “just so.” You could tell this guy was no fun to live with. From his sock drawer to his alphabetized refrigerator, Master Beckwith had to be in control.

There was no sign of his wife, Jeannette. Too bad, because I liked her more than I liked him.

“Jordan Bingham,” he said, in his plummy British accent. Not for the first time, I wondered if that accent was real. “How nice to see you.”

I wasn’t so sure he meant it, but I would take what I got. He wasn’t curling his lip, so that was promising.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

I wasn’t likely to let George know that Vera was after something. By now he was well aware that I represented her, and that was enough to drive up the price of any desirable object. George being George, I wasn’t sure he’d give me the information I wanted, just because I wanted it. Better not to let him think it was anything other than a friendly visit.

I picked up a pristine copy of
“B” is for Burglar
and said, “Just taking Karen around for a spin. She can’t get out by herself yet.”

I gasped as someone grabbed me. I spun, but before I could use the old Kelly standard uppercut, I realized it was Jeannette Beckwith, George’s much-better half. She had me in a bear hug. She might have needed a hip replacement, but she hadn’t lost the strength you get from years of schlepping boxes. I was laughing when she let go. “Thank you for bringing Karen,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “That was so kind.”

“My pleasure.”

Jeannette sank into a chair and winced. I sure hoped she’d get that operation soon.

I sank into the chair next to her. The Beckwiths had a double booth and always plenty of room for a customer to sit and be talked into a purchase.

Jeannette said, “It must be hard for her, being out of the mainstream.”

“She’s getting better.”

“How’s her memory? That’s what I’d worry about after an injury like that.” Jeannette’s round, kind face was full of concern.

“She’s making the best of it, trying to remember people. The other day we had a bet that she could remember a certain client’s name. She was lusting over their Craftsman home where she delivered an order, and when I mentioned I would be auditing an American architecture class online, it just popped into her head. It wasn’t even an important client, just suddenly this house and person were in her mind, then poof, blank. She couldn’t remember who or where.” I was making it up as I went, not wanting the Beckwiths to pick up on the real reason for our interest.

George decided to poke his longish nose into our conversation and I began to worry. Even his immaculately pressed shirt was annoying. I stifled an urge to somehow smear newsprint on it. I was sure that if George knew Karen needed to know someone’s name, he was quite likely to see if there was anything in it for him. Rumor had it he’d been a ruthless trader in the days before he retired.

I wouldn’t have put a bit of “client-napping” beyond him. Just as I went to change the subject, one of the regulars, an impossibly tall man in a trench coat, sidled up. I was glad of the distraction, but I wondered where he bought his pants.

Jeannette seemed unaware of my feelings about her husband and didn’t appear to notice the unusual height of her customer. She chattered away. “We all forget things.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I was thinking that going back to the house would jog something for Karen. She seemed to have it in her mind so clearly. If she were there again, maybe she’d remember more. Besides, I want to see this place. I love everything to do with the whole Arts and Crafts movement. I guess I’ll just have to wait until this person reorders and then insist on delivering the order with her.” I tried to sound offhand.

Jeannette said, “Oh, I know who that is!”

I was just about to ask who when George glanced over curiously. I leaned in toward Jeannette and said, “Who?”

“Oh, let me think! Gosh. Karen has an excuse. What’s mine? I can’t remember my own name lately. George insists it’s my pain medication, but I’m not giving that up.”

I tried not to bite my lip in frustration. Just as George turned back to fawn over a well-dressed male customer, Jeannette said, “Isn’t that funny. I remember the house and the town, but not the name. We delivered a stack of lovely books over to Burton not that long ago. A very keen collector and a gorgeous example of Arts and Crafts near the downtown, not far from the statue of Hamilton Burton. It was almost enough to make me think of leaving Nevermore.”

There wasn’t much chance the Beckwiths would ever give up their charming yellow clapboard farm on its manicured acres, and little more that Jeannette would remember the name of the collector. But I almost did a dance of joy. With luck, I had enough to go on.

It was not easy to extricate Karen from the fair. I’ve had less trouble dragging Uncle Lucky away from a winning hand at the poker table. Every dealer had to have a word and the more demonstrative needed a hug or a hand squeeze. At least Karen would have something to hold on to: the thought of getting back to business and getting her life on track. For the moment, she was almost too exhausted to hobble back to the van. She leaned on her walker, swaying slightly.

“Tomorrow,” I said when she was settled and comfortable, “we go to Burton.”

All I heard back was a charming little snore.

It didn’t matter. The town of Burton wasn’t that far away, and how hard could it be for the two of us to find a single distinctive house?

• • •

BREAKFAST IS SERVED
at eight sharp at the Van Alst residence, and you are on time if you know what’s good for you.

Vera was already installed in the conservatory when I arrived slightly breathless, my hair still damp from the shower and pulled back into a twist.

Although the windowpane was now repaired, Vera’s wheelchair was parked at an angle from the table so that she didn’t face the gorgeous grounds, and she was sporting a moth-eaten blanket on her lap. Black Watch tartan, unless I was mistaken. Like every other morning, she was working at the
New York Times
crossword. That was fine. With the exception of regular stern reprimands and dismissive comments, I never expected small talk from her in the morning, or anytime really.

Even though Vera never kept the heat at a reasonable level, I loved the conservatory almost as much as I loved the signora’s mountains of food. Again today the autumn leaves glowed magically outside the massive windows. Three sides of the Van Alst property were ringed with trees, a mix of deciduous and evergreen. We got all the benefits of every season.

Vera glowered at me.

I believe it was Tina Fey who coined the phrase “Blerg.”
Blerg
, I thought, channeling Liz Lemon in
30 Rock.
This was not a great start to the day, but I was used to it. Plus my uncles have always taught me to act the way I wish things were.

“Spectacular foliage,” I chirped as the signora bore down upon us with a platter of scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon. Perhaps a few lumberjacks were about to pop in and join us. ”Eat! Good for you! Eat! You eat, Vera.”

Vera ignored her and continued to scowl.

“Nothing but a nuisance.”

I gasped. Vera could be harsh and insensitive, but it wasn’t like her to actually insult Signora Panetone.

She added, “I hate leaves. Nothing but a big mess.”

Ah. Just a little nature hating with our meal.

Of course. We were without a gardener or a handyman at the moment. No big surprise, as Vera wasn’t the ideal employer and word travels. If you are the most hated woman in your community, it can be very inconvenient keeping your acreage pristine. The way they spoke about Vera in Harrison Falls, you’d think trees wouldn’t even grow here. Most likely no one in any of the surrounding communities was willing to work for the daughter of the man who closed the Van Alst shoe factory and brought the area to its economic knees. It was a long time ago, but feelings still ran high.

Vera, being Vera, did nothing to improve that situation. And as Uncle Mick would say, “Sometimes people need someone to hate.”

It crossed my mind that life might be more congenial if I could help her find a replacement gardener. Of course, I had no idea who that might be, but I was definitely going to give it some thought. I didn’t rejoice in the idea of spending weekends riding on the tractor mower, an activity that Vera was perfectly capable of requesting under “other duties as required” in my constantly changing job description.

The signora launched another stealth attack, depositing thick rustic toast, with lovely melted butter, on Vera’s plate. I thought Vera’s face would break at the sight of it.

“Is there zucchini in that bread, Fiammetta? You know I detest that vegetable and it is one more thing to loathe about the fall.”

“Zucchini good! Vitamins! You eat, Vera.”

Good luck with that, signora,
I thought, gratefully accepting a couple of pieces for myself.

“Bah. No zucchini. Take it away. I can’t stand the sight or the taste of it.”