“It seems like such an invasion of privacy,” I said.
“It is, but a worthwhile one.”
I looked at the envelope. “I don’t want to look at it.”
“Fine, but keep it. You might want to at some point. You can thank me now though. For the report, for the coffee, and for finding a police officer who would question you gently.”
“I’d like to be mad a little longer.”
“Sure, but when can I expect you to get over it?”
I sighed. “Maybe by tonight.”
“That’ll work. I’m going out with a man named Mutt tonight. There are just some things you can’t even imagine happening, let alone predict. So I’ll be okay with you being mad a tiny bit longer. Are you going out with your new boyfriend?”
“I might be going out with Seth, but I’m not sure. I think we should stick with potential new boyfriend.”
“It’s about time you get back out in the world.”
“You say that like it’s something I’ve been able to control. I haven’t been asked out all that much since . . . since your brother.” I was surprised by the lack of venom in the word “brother.”
Jodie laughed. “That’s because the vibes you put out are that you don’t want men looking at you or calling you or texting you, and you definitely don’t want them asking you out.”
“I do not.”
“Come on, Clare. You’re gorgeous and for the most part smart.” She smirked at my rolling eyes. “There’s not a single man who’s met you or seen you across a crowded room that didn’t want to ask you out.”
“That is so not true.”
“Okay, whatever you say, but nevertheless, Seth is cute. If only it weren’t for . . .” She bit her bottom lip and eyed the envelope.
“I’m not taking that bait. I’ll ask him about his criminal record.”
“You should.”
The radio on Jodie’s belt beeped and a voice said. “Jodie, you there?”
“I’m here,” she said as she pushed its side button.
“We’ve got a problem. We need you and Omar at a scene right away.”
“Gotta go. Can you get back to The Rescued Word on your own?” Jodie said as she stood and sped out the door without waiting for my answer. I watched her hurry away and tried to still be mad at her, but mostly I admired her dedication to her job.
I sighed as I thought about the trek up the hill, but I didn’t mind getting back to work on my own. Police stuff was more important than my stuff anyway.
12
I threw Jodie’s partially drunk coffee away but took mine and the envelope with me as I left the coffee shop. I thought about throwing the envelope away, but I didn’t want whatever was inside it to be floating around out in the world for anyone to read. I debated shredding it when I got back to the store, but I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do. For now I folded it into threes and put it in my pocket. I didn’t want to think about it or the pictures or if the answers I’d given to the police were acceptable.
It was a perfect sunny day with a clear blue sky. Because of the high elevation, Star City never got too hot in the summer and humidity was close to non-existent, so it wasn’t unusual to enjoy three straight months of weather perfection; more, of course, if you also enjoyed the snow. There were many Star City residents who thought the pleasant summers were a pretty big inconvenience when it came to their worship of the white stuff.
As I set out up the hill, I noticed that there was a tantalizing smell coming from somewhere not far away. I let my nose lead me about halfway up the block and down a small side street similar to Bygone Alley, but not as charming. A roasted-almond cart had been set up. The owners were testing their product, considering whether they would open for the winter season. I was happy to be a taste-tester and gave the cart cook a thumbs-up regarding the almonds. I told him that the winter months would be an even better time to sell the warm snack.
I should have been in more of a hurry to get back to work, but I meandered out to Main Street, glanced in a couple of store windows, and found some bright orange cowboy boots that Jodie would love and some earrings Marion might get for her next birthday.
I wasted just the right amount of time apparently so that when I started up the hill again, I happened to see someone who seemed familiar standing at the opening of the walkway behind Bygone. The opening was mostly hidden by overgrown vines from bordering buildings and a bus stop sign that, though small, somehow drew eyes to it instead of the entrance. Some instinct buzzed in me and I stopped walking and watched him. He looked so familiar. How did I know him?
He glanced around furtively. If he’d really been looking closely, he would have noticed me standing partway down the hill, watching him as I pulled another almond out of the paper cone and put it in my mouth.
But he didn’t see me. He didn’t think anyone was watching him. Suddenly, he darted into the walkway.
“Wait, was that an O’Malley?” I said aloud to myself. “Brian, I think.”
He was too far away for me to be sure, but there was something about his dark hair and ruddy complexion and the untrusting slant of his eyes. I hadn’t seen him for some time, but I thought I’d just watched Brian O’Malley disappear into the walkway. Where a man had recently been killed.
I rolled the top of the cone down, clutched it in my fist, and took off in an awkward uphill run.
I was used to the elevation, and though I’m not in bad shape, I’m in better shape in the winter. By the time I made it to the walkway, I was pulling in noisy, deep breaths.
I pushed away the vines and peered in. The view from this direction was much different than the view from outside the back door of The Rescued Word. From here, it wasn’t really a walkway as much as an unpleasant space wherein one might choose to walk if they had absolutely no other path to take.
I didn’t see Brian O’Malley. I didn’t see anyone.
Why would he have gone in there? Where did he go? Why did I care? I didn’t have answers to any of the questions, except that I knew I did care, or was, at least, very curious.
I looked around, much as alleged-Brian just had, but I didn’t see anyone paying me any attention. Star City had its fair share of summer tourists, but the streets weren’t busy at the moment. The few people who were here were more interested in looking into store windows or pushing themselves to make it up the hill than in what I was up to.
As I stepped into the walkway, I knew two things for certain. One, the back door to The Rescued Word was locked tight—or at least I hoped so. I’d checked it recently enough. And two, there was no exit on the other side. One way, the same way, in and out.
I decided I wouldn’t venture far.
The path curved a little to the right about five feet in, and once around the curve, I could see the entire length of the space, the buildings’ backsides, the uneven path, and the thin rectangle of blue sky above. The broken window that had been leaning against the wall was no longer there, nor were the pieces of broken glass that had been on the ground around it.
There were no people. The walkway ended with a brick wall that was the entire height of the buildings. It wasn’t as foreboding as I thought it would be. The light from above helped give the area a warm glow, and there were no bad smells. Given a little TLC, I thought it could be cleaned up enough to be cozy.
I wasn’t going any farther though. I’d seen someone who looked like Brian O’Malley enter. Where had he gone? As I took a step to turn around, a back door not far from The Rescued Word’s back door bounced open with a sharp noise. I saw it as it propelled out and then shut again.
Had Brian gone in through that door?
I hurried out of the walkway and ran around the corner to Bygone, continuing to move quickly as I looked in windows. I saw familiar store owners and employees—some of them waved—but I didn’t see Brian.
I stopped in front of the empty store and put my face to the window to better inspect the inside of the shadowed space. I didn’t see anyone, but I saw evidence that someone had been there, or something. Among construction equipment, a white bucket on its side rolled slowly toward a wall. Either someone had just knocked it over or the building had become home to critters or ghosts.
In a flash, I saw the light change toward the back of the space. There was a counter with a saw on it blocking the back door, but the light flickered just like it would if the back door had opened and then closed.
I took off in a sprint to get back around the corner, but I wasn’t quick enough. As I came out to Main Street, I saw a figure I thought was the person in the alley running down the hill, darting around a now slightly larger group of tourists and light poles. If he was running, he must have known someone was watching him, or trying to watch him.
I debated following him down the hill, but I didn’t have it in me. I probably couldn’t catch up to him, and he’d already been enough of a disturbance. I’d tell Jodie about him though, right away if possible.
It was as I stood there, telling myself it was okay to give up the chase, that something else occurred to me, something completely unrelated to the man running down the hill. That thing that had been trying to rise from my subconscious when I’d watched Mirabelle sip her coffee suddenly became crystal clear. It was as if the adrenaline shooting through my system knocked stuff back into place, stuff that my time in the police station had temporarily scared away.
Mirabelle had told me that she’d gotten the typewriter from the old newspaper editor, Homer Mayfair.
Mayfair. When Jodie and I had visited the bikers and the goats, I’d seen the name “Mayfair” on the back of a jacket—denim or leather, I was pretty sure. I thought I’d written the name on one of the cards I’d taken. Where had I put those cards? Hopefully I’d find them somewhere in Little Blue.
Oh, I had lots to tell Jodie.
I hurried back to The Rescued Word, glancing inside the future chocolate shop on the way but seeing nothing new. I was going to call Jodie from the privacy of my office. Even though I knew she was currently busy, I’d leave a message for her to call me as soon as possible.
However, I was diverted again, but this time it was a good diversion.
13
A new customer with an old book was always a welcome sight.
She sat on a chair next to the counter. Like Mirabelle had, she held a cup of coffee on her knees as Chester sat in another chair facing her. I hadn’t noticed that I was still breathing heavily, but when I saw her, I tried to calm down, and I used my hands to smooth my hair that was undoubtedly a wild multi-directional mess after the chase I’d just participated in. The envelope was in one pocket, so I put the wrapped-up almonds in the other pocket before I opened the door.
“Clare! You were released. I was just telling Olive here about our recent adventures. I thought you might return soon, and she didn’t want to have to make another trip up from Salt Lake just to talk to you if she didn’t have to. I told her about the murder and the man after the typewriter. I believe she’s found it all quite delightful,” Chester explained.
“I have,” she said sincerely.
“Hi, Olive,” I said as I approached them both, briefly wondering how Chester had managed to go from concerned about me handling a police interrogation to making me a main character in one of his stories. Maybe he’d talked to Dan.
It seemed as though it hurt her to bend her neck enough to look up at me. She was older than Chester, or at least she looked it. Her back was hunched even as she sat, and her rheumy eyes registered what I interpreted as pain. I glanced at the fingers around the book she held on her lap. They were bent almost all the way sideways. Our new customer was crippled by arthritis. No wonder Chester had brought some chairs up front. And no wonder she didn’t want to make another trip from Salt Lake. I wondered how she’d made this trip up on her own.
“You the Clare Henry I’ve been hearing about?” she asked with a twinkle in her watery eyes and a small nod toward Chester.
“I am.”
“My granddaughter is so very talented, and I have no doubt I’m leaving you in good hands.” Chester smiled and then stood to leave me the chair. I took a seat and saw relief wash over Olive’s face. She didn’t need to look up to see me any longer. Chester patted my shoulder. “Wait until you see what Olive’s brought you to rescue. Once in a lifetime. I’ve tried to tell her, but I’ll let you give her the details.”
Chester excused himself and went to the back.
“I’ve brought a book for you to fix. What do you think?” She lifted it from her lap. I reached forward to take it from her before she had to go too far.
“Let’s see,” I said as I set the book on my lap. “Oh my, Olive. Oh my.”
It was a first edition of Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs, a book published in 1914. With its dust jacket—its almost perfect dust jacket.
“Olive, this is a very valuable book,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Are you aware of its worth?”
“What would you say?”
“I’m a restorer, not a dealer or appraiser, but give me a second and I’ll give you my best guess.”
The dust jacket was simple. A black figure, like a silhouette, of Tarzan sitting on a tree limb, a white background, and some green leaves. The edges of the jacket were bent slightly in, but only slightly. I about cried as I gently removed it and placed it on the counter. I lifted the simple maroon cover emblazoned with the title in black lettering and looked through the pages, using my knuckles more than my fingertips. I found nothing wrong with the book. It was as close to perfect as I’d ever seen.
“What needs to be restored?” I asked.
“Go to page seventy-six. There, you’ll see some pencil writing. I did that when I was a child. The book was my father’s.”
I turned to the page and saw the writing. It said: “Jonny is a booger.” I laughed.
“Jonny a relative?” I said.
“My brother. He was being a booger, but I should have never written that in the book. I wish I wouldn’t have. Now I need to sell it, but it has to be in the best condition possible. What can you do?”
“I see. Well, I can clean the page with the pencil markings. You’re smart that you didn’t just try to erase it yourself. That might have damaged the page. The binding is beautiful and doesn’t need any attention. But I have to be honest with you, I think you can sell it for quite a bit of money even if you leave Jonny’s behavior issue on the page.”
“Would fixing it lessen the value?”
“No.”
“What would you do?”
I looked at the penciled words again. They would not be difficult to erase.
“I can erase the pencil right now if you’d like. I just need a few minutes.”
“That would be lovely, Clare. What is the book worth?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I had never held or worked on a book worth so much before. “Olive, you can probably get a lot for this book. A lot. But I’d like to do a little research if you wouldn’t mind. Give me a couple days to look up some things. I’ll get back to you quickly.” I wasn’t an appraiser and I didn’t want to set her expectations too high. “But it’s about the dust jacket, Olive. Dust jackets are rare, well-preserved dust jackets even more so. And a dust jacket along with a first edition book being in such great condition is as rare as a unicorn. Rare is what gets the big bucks. This is a big-bucks book.”
Olive’s eyes got big and her hunched back straightened as much as I thought it could.
“Holy . . .” she said.
“Yeah.” I laughed. “You want me to run back and take care of the pencil?”
Olive nodded slowly. “Yes, please.” She looked at her coffee cup. “You don’t by chance have anything
stronger?”
We didn’t, but I did top off her coffee before I carried the book to the back—as if it were a crown on a pillow.
I cleared off my desk and wiped it down before I set a protective film over it and the book on top of the film. I washed my hands and donned gloves and a surgical mask. I didn’t use gloves all the time, but today I wanted total protection. First I used my phone to take some pictures of different parts of the book: the copyright page, the title page, the spine.
“How about that book?” Chester said as he came around the wall that hid the stairs.
“Chester, it’s Tarzan,” I said.
“I know, my dear. Good memories. It’s also pretty valuable, huh?”
“I’ve never . . .” I said.
“I know. I once printed a title page for a first edition Gone with the Wind with an only slightly mauled dust jacket. I thought I was going to have to seek therapy afterward, but I didn’t. What are you doing to it?”
“Just removing the pencil marks. It’s an easy fix, really.”
“Fabulous. The torment will be over quickly. Good luck. I’ll keep Olive company while you work.”
I got to the task at hand.
I unwrapped a new art gum eraser. Slowly and gently, I ran it over the pencil marks, removing “booger” first. I dragged the eraser from the inside to the outside of the page. Then I used a fine brush to move the eraser pieces off the page.
When Olive had written the words, she hadn’t pressed very hard. It only took about two minutes to remove the pencil marks. When I was done, I hadn’t changed the color of the paper, and there were no telltale indentations on the page. It looked as good as new. Easiest job I’d ever had, except for the stress involved.
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