Chapter Sixteen
Scott never returned Thursday evening, which left Aunt Lydia and me stirring food around our dinner plates, pretending not to worry.
“He’s a grown man,” my aunt said. “If he wants to go off somewhere without telling us, I suppose that’s his prerogative.”
“But it isn’t like him not to call. I mean, I’m not around him much these days, but I never remember him being impolite. Especially not to someone who’s housing and feeding him, free of charge.” I recognized the sharp tone that had crept into my voice and cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m done eating. If you are as well, let me help you clean up, and then maybe we can watch that music program you recorded from PBS. We shouldn’t let this ruin our evening.”
Of course, it did anyway. To the point where we both went to bed early. Not that I slept much—I sat up in bed every time I heard anything that sounded like a car.
Friday morning, with Scott still absent and no messages on either of our phones, my concern turned to anger. Observing the strain on Aunt Lydia’s face, I decided to give my brother a good talking to the next time I saw him.
“The least he could do would be to leave a message, just saying he’s okay,” I told Sunny as we stood behind the library circulation desk later that morning.
“I agree, but what can you do?” Sunny flicked her long golden braid behind her shoulder. “Young men tend to be thoughtless when it comes to stuff like that.”
“Scott isn’t that young. He’s thirty-three, for heaven’s sake.”
“For a guy, that’s still early on the ‘how to be a decent human’ learning curve,” Sunny said, her smile fading as she added, “And some apparently never learn. Take Fred, for example. Or rather, don’t.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, turning to examine her face. “Did you guys have a fight?”
“No. Not yet, anyway,” Sunny said grimly. “But we probably will next time I run into him.” She inhaled an audible breath. “I found out he’s the one who put the sheriff’s department on Scott’s trail. I mean, he actually told me that he’d uncovered some information that linked Scott to Oscar Selvaggio. Can you imagine?”
“When was this?”
“Just last night. I guess he’d already shared the discovery with the authorities, and that’s why Brad showed up yesterday evening asking you and Lydia for information on Scott’s whereabouts.”
“Well, to play devil’s advocate, it is Fred’s job.”
Sunny’s blue eyes flashed. “But it’s your brother. Fred knows you’re my best friend, so he should’ve waited before spilling that info to Brad and his team. At least, that’s my humble opinion.”
I laid my hand on her bare forearm. “And I love you for that. But if Scott has hidden secrets tying him to Selvaggio, it was bound to come out sooner or later. He probably should’ve told Brad everything up front.” I pulled my hand back and looked her over. “My point is that you shouldn’t throw Fred under the bus for doing what he was hired to do.”
Sunny sighed. “If it doesn’t bother you, I guess I can get past it. But I’m not sure I like the work that Fred does. All this snooping into other people’s lives … You know what my grandparents would say—better to focus on your own affairs than meddle in other people’s business.”
“That’s because they were part of the counterculture,” I said mildly. “They’ve always lived outside society’s rules and still don’t trust authority.”
“True.” Sunny grabbed her braid and fiddled with the elastic band tying it off. “Maybe I’ll return Fred’s calls. If you aren’t really angry about him sharing that info on Scott.”
“Has he called often, then?” I asked, with a lift of my eyebrows.
“Oh, a few times.” Sunny grinned. “Like every hour. Not to mention the texts.”
“Seems he’s a tiny bit invested,” I said. Looking up as the front doors opened, I nudged her. “Speak of the devil.”
Fred Nash strode over to the desk. “Listen, Sunny, I want to clear this up right now.”
“Not here,” I said, pointing over Sunny’s head. “Workroom. That is, if Sunny agrees to talk with you.”
Sunny rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure, why not,” she said, before flouncing off into the back room.
Fred held up his hands. “I do want to apologize; I guess I got your brother in trouble. But facts are facts. There was nothing I could do, not if I wanted to retain my integrity as well as my job.”
“I know.” I motioned for him to step around behind the desk. “Go talk to her. I think she may be more receptive now that she knows I’m not terribly upset.”
As Fred slipped past me, I stopped him with one hand on his wrist. “Can you tell me what you discovered that connected Scott with Oscar Selvaggio, or is that privileged information?”
He paused, his brown eyes narrowing as he met my inquisitive gaze. “It’s no secret. Not anymore. I found out that your brother was assigned to shadow Selvaggio. Something to do with the art dealer’s connection to organized crime. From what I can tell, Scott was trying to catch Selvaggio in a secret convo with some mysterious leader of a criminal organization. A big fish. Someone who’s evaded capture for years.”
“Oh, really?” I tossed this off with a little smile, although inside I was fuming. “Does that mean you no longer think Kurt Kendrick has any connection to Selvaggio’s death?”
“Honestly, we aren’t really sure one way or the other. We haven’t cleared Kendrick of that or … a few other things.” Fred massaged the back of his neck with one hand. “It simply means that there could be someone else with just as much of a motive. In a nutshell, it doesn’t appear that his bid to acquire the Kelmscott Chaucer was the only thing that would’ve put a target on Selvaggio’s back.”
“Right. It could’ve been his connection to illegal activities,” I said. Or perhaps a vendetta from the past, I thought, remembering Adele’s connection to the art dealer. But I wasn’t about to share that with a private investigator. Let the sheriff’s department follow that lead first. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. “So you’re saying that Scott was sent here to track Selvaggio to help apprehend someone? That’s odd. He’s always told us that he was a security expert. I assumed he had a desk job. Maybe classified, but not anything out in the field.”
Fred’s gaze flitted to the half-open door to the workroom. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. My investigation turned up something quite different. Yes, Scott Webber is a computer expert. But he also does a few other things.”
“Apparently,” I said, my smile tightening into a grimace. So my brother had not come to Taylorsford for a long-delayed visit as he’d told Aunt Lydia. Or even because his superiors had asked him to pretend he’d been put on suspension. No, he’d come to town tracking a man who was likely to be connected to a criminal network.
He’s brought that danger into my aunt’s house, I thought, clenching my fingernails into my palm. I was so angry with my brother that if he’d walked into the library at that moment, I would probably have thrown him out. But I simply forced another smile and urged Fred to head into the workroom and talk to Sunny.
As I stared blankly out over the quiet library, I considered Fred’s description of my brother’s work. He’s a field agent, I thought. Something he’s never admitted to. Not to me or, to my knowledge, to our parents. A field agent who’s now gone missing. Why? If it’s connected to his mission to track down a dangerous criminal, it’s possible he’s in serious trouble. Fred actually did us a favor, telling the authorities what he knew. At least now they know that my brother could be in danger. I glanced at the closed door of the workroom. I’d have to share this revelation with Sunny. It might change how she looked at Fred if his words didn’t do the trick.
For now, I decided to call someone who might have additional information, or at least a few contacts, and could be of assistance. Because if anyone outside law enforcement knew who my brother might be tracking now, it would be Kurt.
&
nbsp; I pulled out my cell phone and texted the art dealer. I knew he often left Georgetown early on Friday to spend the weekend at Highview, so there was a chance he was already in town.
After asking Kurt to meet me later, I laid my phone facedown on the counter and knocked on the workroom door. “If you guys are done talking, could you please come out? I need Sunny to watch the desk while I do some shelving,” I said.
Sunny strolled out of the workroom looking like a cat who’d finished off a bowl of cream. Fred, following her, appeared rather pleased too.
“Seems like you sorted things out,” I said, reaching over to tug Sunny’s sleeve back over her shoulder.
“We did.” Sunny made a shooing motion. “Now go and get back to work, Fred, so I can do my own job.”
He gave her a mock salute. “At your command,” he said, walking around the desk. As he turned to face Sunny and me, his merry expression melted into something more serious. “But as I said, Sunny, be careful. And warn your friend here to stay safe as well.”
“I will do my best.” Sunny blew him a kiss. “See you later.”
After Fred left, I picked up my cell phone and took a quick glance, but there was no answering text from Kurt yet. Curling my fingers around the phone, I turned to my friend. “It looks like all is well again.”
“Except he thinks I’m going to prevent you from doing any more amateur sleuthing.” Sunny rolled her eyes. “As if I have that power.”
I tapped my phone against my other palm. “Not even Richard can do that.”
“Oh, I know.” Sunny pointed at my phone. “In fact, I bet you’re calling someone right now to try to track down more information.”
“Texting, but yeah.” I lifted my shoulders. “My brother could be in trouble. I have to do something,”
Sunny tipped her head and surveyed me with a critical eye. “Brad and his team can take that on. It’s what they’re trained to do.”
“Says the woman who’s helped me investigate several other cases Without keeping the sheriff’s department entirely in the loop.” I grabbed the smooth metal handle of the book cart we kept behind the desk. “I would like to shelve these items, if you don’t mind watching the desk.”
Sunny hmphed and placed her hands on her hips. “So that’s the end of the conversation? Okay, sure. I’ll stay here while you shelve and plot your next bit of sleuthing.”
I cast her a smile as I pushed the cart around the desk. “Research,” I called over my shoulder, heading into the stacks. “Just research.”
In the general fiction section I ran into Zelda, who was doing some shelf-reading as part of her volunteer duties.
“This area is such a mess.” Zelda’s blonde curls bounced as she shook her head. “And we can’t blame all of that on the Nightingale.”
“Unfortunately, many people pull books to look at the jacket info and then just shove them back any which way,” I said.
Zelda pointed at an empty cart sitting at the end of an adjacent range of shelves. “I know. Even though you put up prominent signs asking that books be returned to the carts rather than reshelved.”
“You should know by now that people don’t read signs. I mean, we still need to have them, just so we can point to them when patrons question the rules, but that’s about all they’re good for.”
“Sad but true.” Zelda paused midmotion and pressed the book she held to her chest. “By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention to you. Ever since I heard all the talk about that rare book that might’ve gotten poor Mr. Selvaggio killed.”
I leaned into the metal frame of my book cart. I knew I shouldn’t encourage Zelda’s tendency to gossip, but sometimes she provided useful information. All’s fair, I thought, before asking, “What’s that?”
Zelda’s light-brown eyes sparkled like water in a fast-moving stream. “Well, dear, I don’t want to talk out of school, and you know Lydia is my dearest friend, but this whole mess about that Chaucer book …” She laid the book she was holding on a shelf and glanced around, as if making sure no one else was listening. “That Kelmscott thing, I mean. I’ve heard that edition mentioned before, a long time ago. By your aunt, of all people. Now she’s acting like she’s never heard tell of it.”
My fingers tightened on the cart handle. “What do you mean? Aunt Lydia talked to you in the past about the Kelmscott Chaucer?”
“She did. I remembered it because I thought the phrase was so interesting. Kelmscott Chaucer,” she said, widening her eyes. “Sounds like some name for a wealthy aristocrat, don’t you think? Some fellow wearing a velvet dressing gown and smoking a pipe while his valet serves him a brandy on a silver tray. Anyway”—Zelda’s hands fluttered like butterfly wings—“years ago, Lydia shared her concern that Andrew was getting in over his head, trying to break into selling art objects as well as his own paintings. They were always a little short of money. If Lydia hadn’t had the inheritance from the family …”
“I know,” I said, cutting her off. “What was Uncle Andrew trying to do? I mean, I wouldn’t have thought he’d have had the funds to invest in purchasing items for resale.”
Zelda arched her golden brows. “He didn’t, poor lamb. This was something that someone had given him in exchange for a painting. Or so he told Lydia. Apparently, the person who did the trade didn’t know the value of the item, which was an old illustrated book.”
“A copy of the Kelmscott Chaucer? But that sounds impossible,” I said.
“Well, I guess Lydia didn’t realize what it was worth. Anyway, she didn’t seem to think much of it. She was just concerned about Andrew getting into art sales in general. She didn’t think he had the head for that sort of business.”
“I can understand her concern,” I said. “I never met my uncle, but from what I’ve heard, he was more a creative dreamer sort. Definitely not a businessman.”
“That was Andrew, all right. Darling man, but a bit … scattered. Head always in the clouds. Anyway, Lydia didn’t like him trying to sell any artworks other than his own. She felt he might get mixed up with the wrong sort.”
Sadly, he did anyway. I didn’t voice this thought, instead focusing on Zelda’s comments about Andrew acquiring a valuable book from some unknown art lover. “So he decided to sell it? Did Aunt Lydia say to whom?”
“No. She didn’t know anything except that he was working with an art dealer to broker the sale. When he collected a tidy sum, Andrew warned her not to say anything about the matter. Which she said she never did, other than mentioning it to me in a moment of weakness.” Zelda sniffed. “I know this is hard to believe, but Lydia was so besotted with that man, he could do anything and she’d just go along with it.”
I thought about my very independent, self-contained aunt. “It’s almost impossible to imagine, but she was rather young at the time. We all act a little foolish when we’re that age.”
Zelda patted her curly bob and smiled. “Don’t I know it. Anyway, I’m not sure if Lydia’s said anything to you about any connection with one of those Chaucer books, but I thought maybe it was something you should know. Just so you could ask her about it—in a roundabout way, of course. And without mentioning my name, if you don’t mind.”
“Thanks, that is interesting. I will see what I can find out,” I said absently, my thoughts on what my aunt had already told me in relation to the Kelmscott Chaucer, or at least the scandal surrounding its sale.
She said Andrew told her there was nothing to it. That she shouldn’t believe the rumors. Which now makes more sense. What if he was somehow connected to the sale of the copy that went to Adele’s father? Aunt Lydia didn’t mention anything about that, but maybe she didn’t want to discuss anything else that might tarnish Andrew’s name.
“Well, I just wanted to share, in case it sheds light on poor Mr. Selvaggio’s death. Not that Andrew or Lydia would be connected to that recent event, of course.” Zelda wrinkled her brow as if just realizing that none of this made much sense. “It probably me
ans nothing, actually. Forget I ever said anything.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you out of it. And I’m not sure it matters either, so I may not even bring it up with Aunt Lydia. For now, I’d better see to this,” I added, motioning toward the full book cart. “Books don’t shelve themselves, you know.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” Zelda said, her face brightening again. “The way they end up in such strange locations.” Her eyes twinkled. “Or maybe it’s ghosts?”
I threw up my hands. “Oh heavens, don’t say that. I have enough people trying to convince me such things are real as it is. Anyway, thanks for the info. It does give me a little more insight into the past, and that’s always interesting, even if that doesn’t have anything to do with the current murder investigation.”
“Just thought I’d share. Have fun shelving,” Zelda said as she went back to her shelf-reading.
“Sure, ’cause that’s a thing,” I said, flashing her a bright smile before I rolled the cart into another aisle.
Pausing for a moment, I allowed my mind to process the information that Zelda had just provided. She was right—it was unlikely that Uncle Andrew’s participation in the sale of a copy of the Kelmscott Chaucer had anything to do with Selvaggio’s murder.
But it could easily have had something to do with the dealer he’d used to broker the sale. I couldn’t help but suspect that that had been his longtime friend Kurt Kendrick.
All these copies of a valuable book, and one man in the middle of every sale? I shoved a book into its rightful place on the shelf. That was a little too coincidental. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and checked my messages.
Kurt had sent a text. Will meet you in the garden at Lydia’s around six, it said.
I shelved the remaining books with renewed vigor, using the time to mentally compose the questions I wanted to ask Kurt.
There was quite a list. I wasn’t afraid to ask, but whether I would get the answers I sought was another matter.
A Deadly Edition Page 16