“Not yet. We’ll keep you posted.”
Seymour glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s starting time for the day job. Back to the stamp mines. If I’m late again my supervisor will go postal for sure. See ya later.”
With Seymour gone, I glanced at the crowd around Cooper’s one last time. If anything, the line had gotten longer. Doughnutless and filled with sugary longing, I headed back to brew my own pot of coffee and open the store.
WHEN I UNLOCKED the front door at ten o’clock, there were a few more customers than I expected. They were mothers, mostly, out and about after sending their little ones off to school. They finally saw some quiet time ahead and were buying up new releases.
I rang up purchases, including Sue Keenan’s new Cornwell, and sorted the mail, pointedly ignoring the three cardboard boxes of books neatly stacked behind the counter—the books we’d brought back from Peter Chesley’s mansion in Newport the night before. At quarter to eleven, a local youth named Garfield Platt reported for duty.
“You’re early,” I noted.
Garfield shrugged and hung up his coat. “I left an hour early on Friday, remember Mrs. McClure? I have an hour to make up.”
“Good. The first thing you can do is carry those boxes to the storage room. Put them next to Sadie’s desk. And be careful, those volumes are quite valuable.”
“Can do, Mrs. McClure.”
Young Mr. Platt was our newest employee, hired because Mina could only work weekends due to her college classes. Unlike Mina, Garfield had disliked college and cut the experience short. He returned to Quindicott, and moved back in with his parents. He claimed he was making some money off a Web site he ran out of his home—doing what, I didn’t ask, nor did he volunteer that information—but Garfield needed more capital to move into his own place, so he worked two part-time gigs. He spent weekday afternoons and early evenings at Buy the Book, and the rest of the night doing odd jobs at the twenty-four-hour gas station out on the highway, finishing up at two A.M. The kid was motivated, I had to give him that.
Though Quindicott was a small town, I’d never met and didn’t know Garfield’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Platt. They didn’t attend our church and they didn’t mix socially with anyone I knew in the community, though they’d lived here for over two decades.
Garfield wasn’t as reclusive as his folks; in fact, he was outgoing, well-spoken, and possessed a wry sense of humor that made him fun to have in the store. Sadie and I had figured that out the day of his impromptu job interview.
It was a breezy autumn day in early September, a little over a month ago. I’d hung a HELP WANTED sign at the same time that I placed the new Dan Brown hardcover in the “hot picks” slot in the store window display.
Garfield blew in with a gust of wind fifteen minutes later. The cool, dry air had bristled his curly brown hair and spiked his full beard. He stood an inch shorter than me—though taller than my bantamweight aunt—with a broad shouldered build and a bright, direct gaze.
“My name is Garfield Platt. I’ve come to apply for the job,” he announced, reaching out to shake my hand.
Garfield’s voice rose a notch on the last word, so I thought he was asking a question. That miscommunication, and his lunge across the counter to shake my hand rattled me.
“Excuse me?” I replied, stepping backward.
“I think he’s applying for the job,” Sadie explained.
Garfield nodded, eyes unblinking. “I’d like to work here, if you’ll hire me. I have no experience and I just flunked out of college. But I read mysteries and I know authors, so I can help your customers find the titles they’re looking for. And I can count and make change. Seeing this is a commercial enterprise, I’d say that’s a plus.”
My aunt and I exchanged glances.
“Have you ever worked retail? Do you have experience dealing with the public?” Sadie asked.
Garfield stared blankly. “None at all.”
“Can you use a cash register?” I asked.
For a moment Garfield had that look of a deer before it ends up on the hood of a fast-moving car. Then he cleared his throat.
“Look,” he said. “I have no useful skills—beyond computers, which are kind of like my hobby. I know my prospects don’t seem bright at the moment. In fact, I probably look like a total loser to you and everybody else. Even my parents aren’t proud of me, although, compared to my ex-con brother, I’m golden. But I’ll learn fast, show up on time, and won’t bug you for a raise once a month, so what do you think?”
Sadie and I burst out laughing—and hired the guy on the spot.
“These books smell old,” Garfield observed as he lifted the final box. “Do you think they could be older than the Apple Mac I use for a doorstop?”
“Yes,” I replied. “But, unlike your doorstop, I’m betting books will never become an obsolete tool; otherwise, we’re both out of a job.”
“Do you want me to unpack them?”
“Sure, Garfield. That would be great. Just stack them on Sadie’s desk. But—”
“I know, I know. I’ll be real careful.”
Garfield was only gone a moment when I heard the chimes ringing over the front door. My oldest friend, J. Brainert Parker, rushed to the counter where I stood.
“Pen! I understand you’ve got a Phelps Poe in the store. Why didn’t you inform me at once?” His voice was practically shrill with excitement.
“Ah,” I said calmly, “so your mail was delivered.” J. Brainert Parker (the J. was for Jarvis, a name no one dared call him on pain of a polysyllabic tongue-lashing) was an assistant professor of English Literature at St. Francis College. Like me, he was in his early thirties. He was also exceedingly well read.
Today his slight build was clad in one of his typical preppy ensembles—a salmon-colored V-neck over a pressed white button-down, brown corduroy slacks, and polished penny loafers, with a heavily lined J. Crew windbreaker tossed on to combat the fall chill. I could see he wasn’t teaching today because he was sans tie (bow or any other kind). His straight brown hair was neatly trimmed, the bangs, which he could never decide what to do with, were today slicked back off the forehead of his patrician face.
“Yes, yes, it’s true,” Brainert conceded. “Seymour delivered the news with the gas bill. So which volume is it? Or do you have more than one.”
“I believe it’s a complete set.”
“Gad! Now I must see them. What’s their condition? How much are they worth?”
“A lot, I suspect. But the problem is…” I sighed. “Well, I feel a little funny about the whole deal now.”
Brainert blinked. “Whatever do you mean, Pen? You are selling them, aren’t you?”
“Well—”
I was about to tell Brainert all about last night, when Garfield flew out of the storage room, interrupting us.
“Mrs. McClure! Mrs. McClure!” he cried, waving around a bundle of yellowed papers. “I found these in one of those boxes of books. Letters, or papers, or something. The stuff ’s really old, too.”
Brainert’s eyes widened. “Is he speaking about the Phelps editions?”
I nodded, opened my mouth to speak, and the chimes rang over the front door once again.
The man who entered was such a striking figure, we all stared for a long rude moment. Tall as Lincoln and rail thin, the man’s short-cropped hair was completely silver, a stark contrast against his black suit and overcoat. He strode across the store and up to the counter, carrying a shiny black attaché case in one pale, long-fingered hand.
“Madame. Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”
His French accent was somewhat pronounced, but I had no trouble understanding him.
“Yes, I am. May I help—”
“I am Rene Montour. You are certainly familiar with my name, are you not?”
“Hello, Rene. I, um…w-well—”
He did not smile, nor did he acknowledge my clumsy stammering. Instead, the man frowned down at me, cutting
me off with his even baritone. “I believe you have some property that belongs to my client. I am here to retrieve it posthaste.”
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“I am referring, of course, to a certain consignment of rare and valuable books.”
CHAPTER 7
The Accidentally Purloined Letter
He was a guy who talked with commas, like a heavy novel.
—Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye, 1953
WHILE I STOOD flabbergasted in front of the stranger, looking less than brilliant, my aunt arrived, looking sharp as a tack in a navy pantsuit, her reading glasses dangling from a sterling silver chain.
“Mr. Montour! I’m so happy to meet you at last.”
She crossed the selling floor with her hand extended, her features appearing rested despite our harrowing evening. “I’m Sadie Thornton. You and I have exchanged so many e-mails, I feel as if I know you.”
Unfortunately, my aunt’s welcoming smile did little to thaw Mr. Montour’s chilly countenance. He ignored her proffered hand, bowed stiffly instead. Unperturbed, Sadie gracefully withdrew her hand.
While Montour did cut a striking figure—from a distance—he was not particularly attractive up close, unless your taste ran toward ghouls. His flesh was pale pink against the night-black clothing, his face narrow with high cheekbones. Under a pair of circular, black-rimmed glasses his eyes were dark pits. Pencil-thin sideburns—white like his hair—reached from his ears to the hollow of his cheeks.
“I see you’ve met my niece, Penelope,” Sadie said. “And this fellow here is J. Brainert Parker, a professor at St. Francis College.”
The man jerked his head in a curt gesture I assumed to be a nod of acknowledgment.
“Mr. Montour has come from Montreal, Canada,” she informed me, “to accept delivery of a set of very valuable first editions. Isn’t that right?”
“Correct,” he replied.
Recovering from my shock, I realized Rene Montour’s arrival had absolutely nothing to do with Peter Chesley’s consignment. Montour was actually expected—just early. I quickly remembered that a pickup was scheduled for later this week, but not under the name of Rene Montour.
Rene was obviously representing his uncle, Jacques Montour, a Quebec-based, French-Canadian investment banker and collector of twentieth-century first editions—and I mentally kicked myself for not making the connection faster. As his uncle’s representative, Rene was here to take possession of a cache of Raymond Chandler rarities assembled by Sadie over the past several years.
“The arrangements were finalized months ago,” Mr. Montour said. “The books were to be made ready for my arrival this week, as I understood it; and, all the details have been worked out, therefore, I, of course, trust there will be no problem.”
All that yammering is giving me a headache where I don’t have one—a head, that is…
It was Jack Shepard, intruding into my thoughts for the first time today.
“Good morning, Jack.”
“Fortunately my business in New York City ended prematurely,” Mr. Montour continued. “So I rented an automobile and drove to Quindicott in order to secure the consignment for my uncle, who, as you might imagine, is very eager to make the acquisition.”
I’ll bet this squealing rattletrap is a high-priced mouthpiece. They all get paid by the word, like some low-rent pulp writer. Either that or Bela Lugosi here is really a mortician.
Mr. Montour’s eyes narrowed distrustfully. “I am, of course, well aware that my arrival was originally scheduled for Wednesday,” he said. “But as I said, my work was finished in New York City, and, as an attorney, my time is quite valuable.”
Didn’t I call it?!
“Therefore, because the price has been agreed upon and the books in question have been paid for, I decided it was in everyone’s mutual interest to make the journey to New England prematurely, in order to facilitate the transaction.” One of Montour’s long-fingered hands adjusted the rim of his black glasses. “I trust my early arrival has not inconvenienced you, or caused any delay in the culmination of our arrangement.”
The room was silent for a moment, until Sadie realized Mr. Montour had finally stopped talking.
“No, not at all,” she replied. “Your arrival does not trouble us in the least.” She touched the man’s arm. “If you’ll come with me, I will show you the books in question. I’m sure you’ll find their condition acceptable. After that, we’ll pack your purchase and draw up a receipt.”
As she led Mr. Montour to the storage room, Sadie called to me over her shoulder. “Could you help us, Pen?”
Brainert spoke up next.
“Excuse me. Since you’re heading to the back room, could I tag along and check out the Phelps editions you’ve been hiding? I’m dying to see them.”
Rene Montour’s head jerked around, and he flashed Brainert an intense glare. “Do you mean the Eugene Phelps volumes of Edgar Allan Poe?”
Brainert arched an eyebrow. “Apparently they have a complete set.”
Montour cleared his throat. “Do you have a buyer?” he asked, feigning only a mild interest. But the lawyer’s earlier eagerness had already tipped his hand.
Sadie, bless her little entrepreneurial heart, laid it on thick. “Well, we’ve only just acquired the editions. We haven’t even accessed their condition and salability. So I really can’t say if we’ll be offering them.”
“In the meantime, it won’t hurt to take a look,” Brainert interjected. “Shall we go?”
Taking the lead, Brainert hustled my aunt and Mr. Montour to the storeroom. I faced Garfield. “Take over the register, please.”
“But what about this stuff?” He displayed the bundle of old papers in his hand.
“Put them under the register, and keep them out of sight. I’ll take a look later,” I said, then hurried to catch up with the others.
The storage room was located through the store’s newly established Community Events space, part of our expansion into the adjoining storefront, which actually had been part of the store’s original space before the 1950s. The large room had exposed fieldstone walls, a restored parquet floor, and renovated restroom facilities. Padded folding chairs were stacked at one end beside a few floor displays and standees that we’d used to decorate the room during our last author appearance.
We moved through the empty space to a short hallway where the restrooms were located, then through another door that led to the storage room. “Room” was a misnomer, because though the space was fairly large it was definitely not roomy. Much of the area was dominated by crates of inventory. We kept our own files back here, and I had boxes of Jack’s old case files here, as well (the reason I had them was a story in itself, but then, I’ve told that tale already).
There was an old wooden desk, which Sadie used to examine the collectable books that came into the shop. On it was a laptop computer she used to hammer out descriptions for Buy the Book’s online catalog.
As instructed, Garfield had unpacked Peter Chesley’s consignment and laid the old volumes on the desk—except for the folios, which were too large to fit, so he’d left them in the box. The irregularly-shaped Phelps books occupied the center of the desk, next to the 1807 edition of Thomas Paine.
On a shelf against the opposite wall, the Raymond Chandler first editions awaited Rene Montour’s inspection. They were arranged neatly, each volume sealed in a clear Mylar sheath. Generally the hardcovers were in good condition, with some fraying on the dust covers and, of course, some yellowing of the acid-based paper.
It took only a few minutes for Rene Montour to accept delivery of the Chandlers. He looked at each volume, took one or two of them out of the Mylar, and nodded in satisfaction.
Then, while Sadie and I spent the next fifteen minutes carefully boxing up the Chandlers and surrounding them with a protective layer of foam popcorn, Montour joined Brainert in examining the Eugene Phelps editions. The two men spoke in hushed tones about the books, as if
they were discussing religious philosophy.
“Do you think Mr. Montour will make an offer for the Phelps set?” Sadie asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know.”
I still wasn’t sure how I felt about selling any of Chesley’s books. But I could tell by the way Sadie was watching Montour that she didn’t share my uncertainty. Of course, she was the one who’d had the long-standing relationship with Peter Chesley.
“He’s using his cell phone,” Sadie whispered excitedly a few minutes later. “Maybe he’s calling his uncle and he’ll make an offer.”
Brainert was close enough to hear Rene Montour’s conversation. I tried waving him over to tell me what he was hearing, but my old friend didn’t seem to notice my gestures.
Save your sign language show, baby. Your overeducated pal isn’t picking up your broadcast. He’s too busy jazzing over that musty pile of old kindling.
“What is the lawyer saying, Jack?” I asked.
The frog’s jawing about those moldy doorstops he’s been looking at. He’s talking dough, too, with some high-flying top hat on the other end of that Dick Tracy wrist radio.
Rene Montour closed his cell phone. He turned his back on the Phelps books and approached Sadie.
“We’re almost done here, Mr. Montour,” she said.
“Excellent,” he replied. Montour paused, then cleared his throat. “About those Phelps editions. My client is very interested in one of the volumes, but, unfortunately, he is not in the market for a complete set.”
I stepped forward, cleared my own throat. “I’m not sure we should break up the set—”
“Oh, nonsense,” Sadie interrupted. “You know very well the former owner gave us no stipulations as to how these books should be sold. What volume is your client interested in, Mr. Montour?”
“Specifically volume twelve, The Poetic Principal,” he replied. “I have examined the volume in question and the condition is…acceptable—”
“It’s practically mint,” Sadie countered, cutting him off.
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