“Probably it was him and Jeremy, although who did what is something we still have to figure out. But I can tell you that they certainly aren’t afraid to turn on each other. I guess with the recording and so much evidence, they want each of them to take a share in the blame and not go down alone.”
“Just one big happy crime family.” Addie chuckled, staring down at the floor lost in thought, coiling a lock of hair around her finger.
“And we found Serena’s phone in Sheila’s purse. She must have been the one who sent you the text, and then sent Elizabeth and Gwen over to get the box and key.”
Her head snapped up. “That’s why she was hanging around the front counter chatting Serena up for so long—waiting for a chance to grab her cell phone.” Addie frowned and rubbed her temples. “But how did they all meet and get together?”
“That is a mystery. Probably Andrew met Sheila when he was in Europe. He had already been on a crime path here, so I guess it all followed from there. Once Sheila married Andrew, she was related to Blain and they were both rare book experts—and, well, everything else, the thefts and smuggling, just fell into place after that.”
“And the murders.” Addie glanced sideways at him. “Was Roger involved in all this, too?”
“No, it seems they just used him tonight, because everything else they’d tried had failed to get to you and the box with the book. They thought that’s why he was meeting you here, to make a deal for it with the British Museum.”
“Did they say what the book is, or why the set of three books is more valuable than a diamond- and gold-covered box?” She rubbed her hands over her knees.
“No, Jeremy hasn’t said yet, and Roger still isn’t awake.”
“I guess the big question is, what’s the book and where is it?” Addie threw her head back on the chair and moaned.
“I don’t know. It all sounds pretty far-fetched to me, this mystery book and why it’s worth so many people’s lives, and maybe we’ll never know.”
“What?” She leaned forward. “We can’t stop searching for it now, not after all these people died because of it.”
“My thought is it burned up in your father’s crash and it’s gone.”
“But then why did they keep looking for it?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Addie pursed her lips, looked at the clock on the wall behind Marc’s desk, and stood up. “It’s late, and I’m exhausted and need time to think. This is just so much to take in.” She rubbed her tired eyes, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. “Besides, I’m sure you still have paperwork to do. Serena told me you had a family dinner tonight. Sorry you had to miss it.”
“The paperwork can wait, but you missed dinner, too. We can still grab a late-night bite and talk this through. Maybe we can figure this whole book thing out.”
She paused. “But there’s nothing open.”
“I know a great little place.”
“Not that awful greasy spoon up by the highway.” She shuddered at the thought.
“No, but the kitchen’s open all night, and it serves the best food in town, or so I’m told. Want to join me?”
“Um, no.” Her face grew warm. “I’d better not. It’s so late, and . . . thanks anyway though.” She opened the door and blew out a deep breath.
“It serves wine, coffee, tea, anything you like.”
She paused and rested her hand on the doorframe. “And does this chef make a good burger by chance?” she asked without turning around.
“The best homemade ones in town.”
“You’re pretty cocky about your cooking skills, aren’t you? I mean, I’m only guessing but assume you mean your kitchen?”
“Hey, when you’re good you’re good.”
“Well, I suppose I could be persuaded then.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Just dinner though, right? I’m still not ready.”
“I promise, just dinner.” He leapt to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the coatrack. “I’ll drive. You’ve had a tough day. Two guns waved in your face and a down-and-out struggle for your life.” He turned toward the back staircase.
“Do you mind if I drive?”
“I guess not. I just thought—”
“Actually, would you mind if we went to my house instead?”
He frowned. “Sure, if you’d rather.”
“It’s just that I don’t feel like it’s over yet, and there’s something I want to check out.”
“Are you parked out front?”
“Yes, by the door.” She turned and walked across the waiting room, her mind and heart fluttering with anticipation and unanswered questions.
* * *
Addie walked into the living room and dropped her purse on the side table. “I’ll start some food in a minute. There’s been something gnawing at me since we talked about it in your office.”
“What’s that?” Marc tossed his jacket on the sofa.
“The book. I can’t leave this hanging. I don’t believe it was lost in the crash, and they all knew it somehow, too, which is why they kept looking for it. So, obviously, it was inside the box at one time—or why would my aunt have gone to the trouble of disguising the weight of it with some useless newspaper clippings from the day after my father was killed? She was trying to throw someone off. So it has to still be here.” She gazed around the room, trying to find the slightest nook or cranny where a secret lever or button could be hidden.
Marc stood behind her, his eyes following her gaze. “I don’t even know where to begin tonight. The suspects have searched several times that we know of, and they never found it.”
“I know, but I just have a feeling.”
He laughed. “You and your feelings.”
“They’ve been pretty right on so far.” She glanced sideways at him.
“You’re right. So, what are you thinking?”
She looked at the desk. “That’s it. Here—help me move it.” Marc went to one side, and she grabbed the other. “Try to keep it right on the scratches that are already on the floor. Line them up exactly.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
“I have a hunch.”
When it was out far enough and the scratch marks lined up, she dropped to her knees behind it. “Do you have a pen knife on you?”
“Yes.” He pulled a small one out of his pocket and handed it to her. He leaned over her shoulder. “Mind telling me what you’re doing?”
“It’s something Catherine said.”
“What was that?”
She looked up and smiled. “It’s all in the floorboards.”
He scratched his head. “Okay.”
“Yes,” she cried. “Look at this.” She pulled a brown paper package out from its hiding place and stood up. “This has to be it.”
He slipped off the paper wrapping. She flipped the cover open to the title page and gasped. “Look at that.”
“What is it? Is it valuable?”
“Well, it’s a first print run edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.”
“Then being a first run makes it worth more?”
“Yes, especially since only two thousand of them were ever printed. That run got held back to make print quality changes to the illustrations. As far as anyone knows, only six are still surviving.”
“And you’re certain this is one of them and not a later printed copy?”
“No, it’s a first run. The next edition was printed after the illustrator, John Tenniel, raised issues with the first one and had an 1866 print date. This one says 1865.”
“So it is one of the six original copies still around.”
“Yes, but this isn’t just any one of them. Look, it’s signed by Charles Dodgson, Lewis Carroll’s real name.”
“And that’s what makes it worth so much?”
“Not only is it a signed copy.” She flipped through the pages. “Look at the handwritten notations in the margins. This was Dodgson’s personal copy.”
A loo
se page fluttered to the floor. “Oh dear, I think it’s falling apart.” Marc bent down and picked it up. He started to hand it to Addie, glanced at it, stopped, and sucked in a sharp breath. “You’d better look at this.”
“Why? Is it a letter or note he wrote and tucked into the book?” She reached for it.
“Not him.” He handed it to her.
“It’s from my aunt.” She frowned, staring at it. “Oh my God.” She wavered as her knees turned to jelly. “Look at this. It was written the day after my father was killed.”
Marc took the letter from her quivering hand and began reading aloud.
April 4
If you are reading this, you have discovered my secret—one I have been in possession of for over fifty years. I came across this book enclosed in its beautiful case at a small market in England. The family was clearing out their grandmother’s house after her passing and only too happy to get rid of everything they could to save them from having to pack it all up again and dispose of at a charity shop. I assumed the set had little value considering the meager price I paid for it. When I returned to the States, thinking the box was a mere trinket, I displayed it prominently in my home for many years. It was lovely to look at, and family and friends had such fun trying to solve the puzzle of opening it. I knew the book was old by the publication date, and it made a nice addition to my collection in the study.
Eventually, at the urging on my dear friend and lawyer, Raymond James, I had it appraised. Much to my delight, Raymond informed me that the box was actually covered in genuine diamonds and the book wasn’t just old, but rare. He convinced me to lock up the book and box for safekeeping. Feeling only the jeweled case was the possession of value, and that it would be a tidy inheritance one day for my nephew, Michael, and his beautiful baby daughter, Addison, I agreed.
I forgot about it completely until a week or so ago, when Raymond came to me inquiring as to whether I still had the book. He said a collector had come across two books that were related to the one I had. He went on to say that if mine were added to those, and then sold as a three-book set, with the box as a nice bonus, it would be priceless. I told him to tell the collector I didn’t intend to sell anything.
When he relayed that story to me, he grew increasingly nervous and afraid. He said the book I had made this one-of-a-kind collection extremely valuable, and some very bad people had been trying to find it. I needed to get rid of it immediately, as I was in danger now.
I offered to give it to him for safekeeping, but he said that would place him in grave danger, too. He advised me to get it out of town. Then he suggested that perhaps my nephew could take it for the time being to keep it and me safe. I called Michael and asked him to come, and when he arrived, I told him the story. He was well versed in these areas because of his work, and he said he had heard about the book possibly being somewhere in the States and knew that people had been hunting for it. He was shocked to discover that I had the book.
Michael became very nervous, not even wanting to use the telephone to call and report it to authorities in Boston. He said he would have to go to them, as it would be safer to speak to them in person. He warned me not to talk to anyone about this. I begged him to take the book with him, as Raymond had made me very anxious about keeping it, but he said no. He didn’t want to take the risk of anyone else getting their hands on it, just in case he was followed when he left. He reminded me that it had been safe here for all these years, and another day wouldn’t hurt. However, if I was nervous, then I should separate the box from the book and hide them in different places, so that if someone searched for them before he managed to return, at least the book or the box would remain hidden and not as valuable. The thief would then be forced to return for the missing part, but the authorities would be aware by then and be able to catch them in the act. I must say that if I were forty years younger, I would find this adventure rather exciting, but at this time, it only places a greater stress on my heart.
I was disappointed that he left without the book. I called Raymond immediately to let him know but it reassured him somewhat to know that Michael had taken the key. His thinking had been that if the thief did search the house in the meantime he wouldn’t be able to open the box without it. So before he left we opened the jeweled box and left it open, in case I decided to do what he had suggested. Raymond was frantic, but I reminded him that my nurses were here with me. I told him not to worry, as Michael would be back the next day.
Hours later, Michael was killed in a horrible accident. I don’t know if that was connected with the book, but as a precaution, I am taking his advice and separating the book from the jeweled case. As my health is failing me rapidly now, I felt obligated to write this so whoever finds this book will make certain that my beloved Addison receives what belongs to her.
Anita Greyborne
Addie faltered and leaned against the desk for support. “I could hear her reading that.” She sniffled. “It brought back a memory flash. She used to read me stories when I was little. I do remember her now, and how she made me feel loved.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Marc’s voice cracked.
“I know. I’m numb.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “But it does sound like Raymond did know that my dad didn’t have the book. He must have told Jeremy, or at least let it slip.”
“Yeah, that’s how they knew to keep looking for it.” Marc cleared his throat. “You were right not to give up.”
She chuckled. “What have I told you about gut instinct? It’s not always about the facts and the evidence.”
“You proved that again.” He scratched his head. “And it helped you find the last piece to this crazy puzzle.”
“I think there’s one or two things left for me to teach you, Chief.” She glanced sideways at him, a coquettish grin on her face.
“Now, now, don’t get carried away. But I guess working in a small town like Greyborne Harbor hasn’t taught me much about the world of antique book theft.”
“See?” She smirked. “There’s something else you can learn from me.”
“Okay, teach. Then explain this.” He playfully tapped his finger on the tip of her upturned nose. “If this book is considered to be part of a priceless collection, then who besides a museum could buy it? Especially since the first two books are known to have been stolen from the British Library? Wouldn’t Jeremy, or Raymond, or anyone trying to sell it, show up somewhere on a list, alerting authorities that it was being traded on the black market?”
“Yes.” She rubbed her neck. “There’s an Art Retrieval Registry that looks out for things like this hitting the market. My dad and David worked with them a lot. Probably how David knew about the broker who had the lead on Auntie’s book in the first place.”
“Which,” Marc said, snapping his fingers, “originally must have come from Raymond making inquiries about it—he did have the appraisal.”
“Yes. Jeremy did say it was in her file. But”—she chewed her lip—“it sounds like Raymond may have first agreed to work with them but then got more than he bargained for with Jeremy and his crew.”
“Well, Jeremy is ruthless, and he’s proven that a few times.”
“He is, and I think Raymond may have been getting cold feet by the end and was trying to make things right again, by the sound of this letter, but it was too late; it had gone too far.”
“Yeah, Jeremy and his bunch were in too deep to give up, and Raymond knew too much.” Marc scratched his chin. “I wonder if that’s why he never gave you the key your dad got to him? He wanted to keep it as insurance.”
“Hmmm, maybe. But it didn’t work, did it?”
“No, it certainly didn’t.” He rubbed his neck. “How much actual money could someone get for selling this? Enough to kill that many people for?”
“Well, not in my book, but yes, there are some who would think it was worth it. It could fetch millions. Sure, the British Library would pay a hefty finder’s fee, but on the b
lack market, there are some collectors who would pay anything, because just possessing something this rare is their payoff. Plus, there are lots of disreputable collectors who use antiquities as currency for drugs, arms, or whatever else.”
“I guess I’d better brush up on my art history skills and get in touch with some bigger law enforcement agencies to find out how to look out for these kinds of things.”
“That’s a whole specialized field, I think. They also track down brokers who find buyers, like the ones who would give anything to get their hands on something like this. Are you thinking of making a career change?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Not right now, but if the short time that you’ve been in town is any indication of what it’s going to be like in the future, I might have to.”
“Don’t worry about that.” She smiled up at him. “My crime-fighting days are officially over.” She closed the book.
“So, after we turn this over to the authorities, you’re not going to join the Harbor police force?” His brow rose. “You’d be a perfect fit.”
She laughed. “Thanks anyway.” She tucked the book into a compartment in the desk. “I think from now on I’ll stick to solving the murder mysteries in my books.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
“But you have to admit,” she said, turning to him and clasping his collar with both hands, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “we did make a pretty good crime-solving team.”
His thumb traced the outline of her jaw, and his breath wafted across her cheek, stirring the remembrance of his velvety lips caressing hers. She arched upward, tugging at his collar, urging his face closer. She stopped when their eyes locked. He kissed the tip of her nose. His silky lips swept across her cheek, to her mouth. A shrill alarm sounded. “What was that?” She jerked away, glancing around the room.
“Damn it.” He pressed his damp forehead against hers and pulled his phone from his pocket. “It’s from the desk sergeant—an all points alert.”
“But I thought you were off duty now?” Her hands dropped to her sides.
Murder by the Book Page 24