by S. E. Babin
Sometimes it was more difficult than it sounded. Books were easy.
Real life was hard.
* * *
Detective Cavanaugh pulled up to the front of the store five minutes early. Fortunately, he did not get out of his car, and I rushed out the door as soon as I saw him roll down his window and wave at me. I'd been standing by the door impatiently, my gloves and hat held loosely in my hands. I already had my jacket on and my purse gathered. I pulled open the door, turned to lock the shop up, and then ran down the steps like my tail was on fire. A quick glance around told me no one was watching me, but this town was so small and so prone to gossip, you never knew when someone would be peeking out from behind the blinds.
I slid into the newer model Toyota Avalon and groaned a sigh of relief at the warm air blowing through the vents. I slid my gloves on anyway because it wouldn't take too long to get to Marcy's. "This is a nice ride," I said, smiling at the detective as I buckled my seatbelt.
Clarke had taken up most of the questioning at Marcy's house, so I didn't get to fully check Cavanaugh out. I was not immune to a strong jawline and long lashes on the male species, both of which he had in spades.
His hair was dark and cropped short to his head, making his deep blue eyes stand out even more. Cavanaugh's skin was darker. If I had to peg him, I thought he might be Italian or possibly even Greek. His cheekbones were high, and his lips were generous.
I was in the car with a stunner and I hadn't even realized it.
"They just upgraded the fleet of cars, so I got lucky to slide into this one." He grimaced. "Usually we get stuck with cars that have years’ worth of coffee spills in them."
"Nice," I agreed. I sat back in the comfy leather seat and adjusted the purse on my lap. "What is it exactly you want me to do?"
"I know you only have an hour, but we're trying to see if you can give us a roundabout value on the book collection she has." He drove with both hands on the wheel, in a perfect ten and two position.
"I'll do my best. I really can't promise how far I'll get, but I'll skim and see if anything jumps out at me."
His jaw clenched. "I bet it will,” he murmured.
My brows drew together. "Did something happen?"
"We can't find any evidence of foul play," Cavanaugh said. He pressed his lips together.
My heart began to pound. "But you suspect there is?" I asked aloud. "Why?"
Cavanaugh clammed up and wouldn't say anything more, but a thought occurred to me. "It's the books, isn't it?" I breathed. "You think someone was after them."
He didn't confirm or deny, but I suspected I was on the right track with them. "Wow," I said. "If that's the case, that's pretty risky. There are only a certain number of serious collectors in the states," I added. "Wouldn't it be easier to just narrow those down?" I frowned. "Even if they hurt Marcy, though, they wouldn't be able to get their hands on those books. Not legally, anyway."
Cavanaugh made a smooth left turn and drove in silence. My mind spun with the implications. "You don't think this was an accident." I ran a hand over my face. "But I didn't see a speck of blood anywhere. Or anything else for that matter."
The detective sighed. "The ME is working on it. We should have initial findings in a day or two. The toxicology screens may take longer to come back."
I shook my head and turned to stare out the window. One problem I always had was people thinking they could take your things just because they wanted whatever you had. Growing up in Virginia, I hadn't run into a lot of that, but there had been times in school when students got their way when they shouldn't have. This felt like one of those instances, but in this case, the consequences were a lot more deadly.
We fell into a companionable silence, but I snuck a glance out of the side of my eye and noticed how tight Cavanaugh's jaw was compared to the lines faintly showing at the corner of his eyes. He either knew or suspected something and it seemed like he was counting on me to make it happen.
"Cavanaugh?" I said softly.
"Hmm?" he asked, never taking his eyes off the road. His hands were white-knuckling the steering wheel. Whatever he wasn't saying was bothering him.
"If something happened to Marcy, you'll figure out what it is." I didn't know him that well, but he seemed like a trustworthy kind of guy. Plus, he was a detective. If he couldn't figure a way to make the truth come out, maybe there was no truth to be found. My mind played back to when I'd last seen Marcy, happy but a little frail browsing inside of my store. Cavanaugh looked over at me for a second before turning his gaze back to the road. "Thanks," he said softly. "There's just something ... off about it." His jaw tightened as he turned down Marcy's street.
The last time I'd been here I noticed how far apart the houses were spaced. It was a nice neighborhood, but now that I was paying more attention, I realized there were no cars in any of the driveways. That was odd for a town like this one, made up of a lot of craftsmen, artists, and retirees. I frowned as we passed by house after house and all of them looked empty.
"Do you know anything about this neighborhood?" I asked the detective.
Cavanaugh blinked as if I'd jostled him out of a memory. "Not much," he said and shrugged. "I know a lot of the houses were bought up by an investment company. The last one sold about six months ago."
Something ugly drummed in my stomach at the implications of that. Nick sat up a little straighter as he pulled into Marcy's driveway. As soon as he stopped the car, a contemplative look came over his face and he slid out of the vehicle with purpose.
I followed him as he walked away from her house and down the street. He stopped at the third house. This one was empty too.
Cavanaugh's jaw tightened, and he rubbed a hand over his jawline. "Good catch, Miss Adair. I'll be looking into this when I get back."
It didn't feel good. It felt like maybe he was right, and Marcy was the victim of foul play. "Do you know why they're all being purchased?" I asked. My thoughts went back to Jeff. He'd been constantly pressuring me to sell my store in an effort to just tear it down and build something for the corporate world. A conglomerate. That's the last thing this town needed.
The detective shrugged and started walking back to Marcy's. "Who knows? I always hate when investors get involved. They rarely have the good of the town in mind when they come in somewhere to snap up properties."
We walked in silence until we were on Marcy's porch. As soon as he opened the door and flipped the lights on, he started talking.
"Take as much time as you need in here. I'll be up front giving the scene another once over." He shook his head. "I don't know that I'll find much but I have to try."
I pointed down at my shoes. "Do I need to put booties on?"
"Not this time. We've done everything we need to. I'll hand the keys over to her next of kin soon."
"Is that Carrie?" I asked, not quite able to smooth out the frown forming.
His gaze sharpened as it lingered on my face. "Yes. Why? Something wrong with her?"
I hesitated to tell the detective I didn't like her. Not liking someone didn't mean they were a murderer. Shaking my head, I shrugged off my jacket. It was still chilly in here, but not like it was outside. "No. They came in my shop the other day. She was ... bossy. That's it."
But I wasn't sure that was it. Plenty of people were bossy. I'd been called bossy many times over the years. Carrie was controlling, too. Maybe more controlling than bossy.
Nick made a hmmm noise as he walked over to where Marcy's final moments were. I sighed. Squaring my shoulders, I passed by him.
"Start at the second room on the left," Cavanaugh said, his voice distracted as he bent down to peer at something on the floor.
I passed by him, keeping a wide berth. My gaze was everywhere. The paint on the walls was a nondescript neutral, plain and beigey. There were few pictures on the wall, and none were photographs. I passed by one with a woman in a blue dress staring out the window at a beach scene. A hollow loneliness surrounded her, and my b
reath caught with tears as I stopped in front of the room Cavanaugh said to start in.
The door creaked and groaned as I opened it. I gasped and stepped back as that weird, sweet scent came out of the room. I put my face in the crook of my arm and stepped through. I couldn't open a window in a room full of books like this. It would allow moisture in which would decrease the value. I stumbled on my first few steps. Looking down, I noticed some of the floor had been pulled up and replaced with the new flooring. It was weird that the books were still in here if there was work being done. I reached over to flip on the light and gasped in surprise. Books, hundreds of them, lined the rooms in large wooden bookshelves. There were books stacked in piles on the floor, books in the closet, and books stacked on top of the shelves. It was like a wildly disorganized library. The bibliophile in me stood up and wanted to clap and weep all at the same time. The collector in me wanted to clutch at my hair and wail at the conditions, though.
I slowly put my arm down from my face and tried to take shallow breaths. It didn't completely diminish the sickly scent, but it helped.
I walked over to the first shelf and leaned in to examine the titles. My scalp tingled with excitement as I saw the first title. It was a copy of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. I dug around in my purse for my gloves and slid them on before I handled the title.
Cracking open the spine, the scent of must and something I couldn't identify hit me. The pages were in wonderful condition and I couldn't see any water damage. I held the book up and turned it to study it further in the light. My pulse pounded as I turned to the copyright page.
In my hands I was holding a first edition. Of Narnia. Freaking Narnia! My hands trembled as I carefully placed the book back in its place. It should be in a temperature-controlled room probably under lock and key. If I had to guess, the book was worth at least ten grand. I pulled a notepad and pen out of my purse and started to take notes. I only had an hour, but if Cavanaugh would let me, I'd try to come back and see what else she had. If that was the first book, there was no telling what she had in here.
I swallowed hard and got busy.
6
I flipped off the lights in the third bedroom I was in, Marcy's master by the looks of it. Slapping my thighs to rid them of the dust I'd gathered, I found Cavanaugh. He'd made a place for himself at her kitchen table, his notes and pictures spread out around him. As soon as I stepped into the room, he turned, a surprised expression on his face. "Done already?" he asked. "I thought you would have been in there for hours."
A sheepish smile lit my face. "I really do have to get back. Any other time you would have been right."
"What's the verdict?" He put his pen down and gave me all of his attention.
I shook my head, in awe at what I'd just seen. "Her collection is incredible. It should be under lock and key."
Cavanaugh's expression turned to one of anticipation. "And?"
"I didn't have time to get through everything," I admitted. "That would take me weeks. Right now, my best guesstimation is a minimum of $250."
His face fell. "That's it?" he mumbled more to himself than me. "I would have expected a lot more than that."
Realizing my mistake, I chuckled. "Two hundred and fifty," I said again. "Thousand. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars."
Cavanaugh's eyebrows rose high in surprise. "Holy smokes," he muttered. "Quarter mil. Are you sure?"
"Definitely." I'd never seen a more valuable collection in my life. "She has several first editions. Some of them signed. Whoever put this collection together knew what they were doing. It's ... incredible."
The detective sat back in his chair and tapped his pen against the tabletop. "This is interesting," he said to himself.
I hiked my purse higher on my shoulder. "I need to get back," I said. "Are you about finished?"
Cavanaugh nodded and began to gather his things up. "Just give me a sec and we'll get out of here. Thanks for doing this, Miss Adair."
"Dakota," I said, feeling old every time he called me Miss.
He shoved all the papers into his computer case. "Dakota," he repeated. A smile quirked his mouth, exposing a tiny dimple I'd failed to notice the first time I'd met him. "You can call me Hardy."
Amusement trickled through me. "Hardy?" I said, trying not to laugh. "As in the Hardy Boys?" Be still my literary beating heart.
Cavanaugh sighed. "I hear it all the time. But it's my name, and I have to live with it. It's better than my middle name, that's for sure."
Interest sparked. "Oh?" I said lightly. "And what is that?"
"It's never to be divulged," Cavanaugh said. He winked as he hauled his briefcase up and snatched his keys from the table.
I laughed as I followed him out, even though I was more curious than ever now. Hardy was a good strong name, but uncommon. I had no idea what would top that as a middle name.
* * *
The ride back to the store was mostly quiet. Cavanaugh appeared deep in thought. I couldn't stop thinking about all of those books. I wondered who the next of kin was. My gut told me it was Carrie. It made my heart hurt. Would she hold on to the books just to see their value grow? That's what my intuition told me. Either that or she'd sell them right away. She didn't seem like a woman who loved things for the joy they brought. I could be wrong. Sometimes first impressions went awry, but I didn't think I was.
There was something off about Marcy's sister. It still didn't mean she would harm a family member, though.
The property situation there was also weighing on my mind. Had she held out on selling and then wound up as a casualty? Whoever the next of kin was could sell her house. It would free up the investor's project if hers was the only one they were waiting on.
Hardy pulled up to the curb and came to a stop. His blue eyes settled on my face. "Thank you for your assistance," he said. "Can I call you if I have any more questions about those books?"
"Of course, you can," I said, sliding out of the car. "You still have my card and you know where I work."
"I do. But I did notice you didn't give me your cell number. Just the shop number."
My hand stilled on the passenger door. "I rarely give out my cell number."
His grin was teasing. "Not even to law enforcement?" he asked.
Right now, Cavanaugh looked more like the wolf who ate Red's grandma than a law enforcement officer. I cleared my throat nervously. "I practically live at the shop," I said. "It's the best way to get me. I don't check my cell phone that often. Sometimes I set up call forwarding, depending on what’s going on."
He stared at me like I was an exotic bird. "Who doesn't check their cell phone every five seconds?" he asked in amazement.
"Bookworms," I said with a grin. Quietly closing his door, I turned and sped up the steps into the safety of my shop. Only when the door shut behind me did I lean against the back of it and sigh, trying to calm my racing heart. Cavanaugh was a handsome devil. I had a strong rule about not getting involved with anyone prettier than I was.
Once my breath calmed down, I flipped the sign back to Open and put all the lights back on. I was only fifteen minutes late. Not as bad as I expected.
Heading over to the coffee pot, I spied the new shipment of books I'd gotten a few days ago and had yet to put up. I tucked it right next to the coffee stand and had forgotten to get to it. As soon as I freshened up the pot, I pulled the box over to me and quickly opened it with my keys.
Bending down, I pulled the extra paper from the box and saw the newest shipment of hardcovers I'd ordered from a newer publisher I'd fallen in love with. Most of them were copies of a new, sweeter romance novel with dogs and kinder heroes. I was tired of alpha men in romance. I wanted someone to wake me up with a cup of coffee and a muffin the size of my face. Not demands.
The smell of the brew filtered through the entire store and I inhaled it, bringing it deep into my lungs. I hadn't had lunch yet and today was Wednesday. One town over there was a place to get a heck of a meal. I planned to get
out of the store today and grab something to eat from there. I probably shouldn’t leave, but I wanted some fresh air.
* * *
Once I’d gotten situated at the table and had my napkin spread in my lap, I dug in to eat. The place was super cute, but I couldn't hope to do anything like this at Tattered Pages because of a lack of space. I would love it if people were able to come in, grab a cup of coffee and a scone or something and enjoy it inside the bookstore. I wasn't interested in opening up a restaurant or anything, but I would love to have some little nibbles. I'd thought about asking the owner of Sprinkles to provide cupcakes, but every time I started to, I'd hesitate. I couldn't bear it if frosting or fillings got on any of my books. Crumbs could easily be brushed off. Maybe I'd chat with Mom about it and see if she had any ideas. We were both really good bakers, so I knew she could help me figure it out.
I'd just taken a bite of heavenly clam chowder when I overheard two women beside me chatting. My ears perked up as soon as I heard the word "books." There was a used bookstore somewhere around here, I was pretty sure, and the woman talking appeared to be the owner.
She was on the shorter side, a little plump, and had a wonderfully friendly face. Her brown eyes gleamed with the thrill of gossip as she leaned into her friend, a thinner, pinched face blonde.
"A guy came to visit me a day ago and claimed to have all kinds of first editions." The woman rolled her eyes. "He wanted to know if I was interested in buying them, but he couldn't produce proof he had them."
Alarm trickled down my spine. First editions weren't exactly common, and our towns weren't too far apart. I leaned over. "Excuse me," I said. "I don't mean to intrude, but I overheard you talking about first edition books."
The woman's gaze flashed with annoyance, but she smiled at me. "Hello," she said, her tone guarded.