I knew the way, had been there many times before, but I nodded and let him lead me to a library straight out of a British historical drama. The walls – where you could see them behind the bookcases – had been painted a deep burgundy. A rolling ladder stood against one wall. Three arched windows, blocked by ivy, faced Alba’s house. Opposite was a fireplace.
“Is this part of his rare book collection?” I asked.
“We’ll have to check his inventory, but I believe everything here is from Mike’s personal collection. That would now belong to his nephew, Mr. Gallin.” He walked to a shelf and pulled a book forward. There was a snick, and the bookcase opened inward. A light flickered on automatically.
I gaped at the secret door.
He grinned, enjoying my reaction. “Mike never showed you this?”
“No, he didn’t.” And how Mike must have enjoyed his secret.
“Mike was a generous man, but he did enjoy his privacy.” He gestured to the open door. “Come and see.”
Hesitant, I walked through the bookcase. The small, octagonal room was lined with glass-fronted bookshelves. I scanned the spines. A hardback with its cover intact – black with a white skeleton – American Ghost Stories, 1928. A slim volume with a pebble-gray cloth cover – Secret Symbols of the Rosicrucians. A blue volume the size of a hymnal– The Magician, by William Somerset Maughan.
“Notice a theme?” Mr. Pivens asked.
“These are all occult books,” I said, stunned. What had Mike been up to? “I had no idea he was interested in the paranormal.”
Mr. Pivens sniffed. “I don’t know about interested. He said it was a profitable sideline.”
I rubbed my forehead. That didn’t track with what I knew about rare bookdealers. They were usually scruffy, down-at-the-heels types. But my knowledge of that world was limited. I pointed to the Somerset Maugham. “Is this a first edition?”
“Possibly. You’ll have to check his records.” Mr. Pivens nodded toward a Wooton Desk over six feet tall. Its three hinged sections hung open – a center piece with a fold-down writing desk, and a deep door on each side. Cubbies lined the doors, filled with ledgers and journals and loose papers.
I grasped one side and pulled. It hinged inward smoothly, and I whistled. The entire desk could be folded up like a tall box.
“The desk is yours as well as the contents, of course. But I’m afraid going through his records will be a bit of a challenge,” he said. “Mike had his own organizational system, and he kept everything.” He shut the bookcase behind us, and the room was suddenly too small, stifling.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I picked up a book lying on the open desk. The Works of Geber. I opened the cover. It took me a moment to process the date in roman numerals: 1678. I whistled and put the book down quickly. I’d need to wear gloves to handle any volumes that old.
I pulled a wide ledger from the back of his desk. Mike’s neat script filled the lined, sand-colored pages. I blinked. The Works of Geber was worth eighteen thousand dollars.
Slowly, I scanned the shelves. There were hundreds of books. Not all would be worth that much money, but... “Oh, my God.”
“Indeed,” he said.
“I don’t know anything about rare books!”
“I doubt that matters much. Even if you simply sell the rare book inventory and abandon that side of the business, you will be left with quite a tidy sum.”
I choked. Tidy sum?
“I understand you write poetry?” he asked.
My face heated. “Mike told you.” It wasn’t something I advertised.
“He was quite proud of you. I do hope you keep writing. Perhaps this extra funding will allow you to continue, even self-publish. I hear self-publishing has become respectable.”
“I don’t think I can stop writing even if I wanted to.” The poems came, flowing out of me. If I didn’t write them down, the words and images kept me awake at night.
“I suggest you take that ledger with you, and any other records you can find which will provide you an accurate inventory.”
My forehead scrunched. “Take it with me?”
“For now, the books will have to remain here. You and I are the only two people who know about this room, so they’ll be safe.” He walked to a glass case. Taking a key from his vest, he unlocked it and pulled out a hardback with a blue and gold cover.
I winced at his bare fingers on the leather.
“The Sword of Song, by Aleister Crowley. First edition, one of only three copies printed on vellum for Crowley’s personal use. It’s worth over fifty-thousand dollars.”
I swayed, the ledger clasped to my chest. How was I supposed to manage such a bequest? Why had Mike left something so precious to me? “You seem to know something of rare editions,” I choked out.
“Only this one.” He slid it back onto the bookshelf and locked the case. “Mike wouldn’t stop crowing over this acquisition. It really will be safer here.”
“I’m fine with keeping the books at Mike’s.” I couldn’t imagine anything so valuable in my home.
“Fortunately, Mike had a trust, so we can avoid probate. That will make settling his estate much smoother.” He turned to peruse the books.
Taking that as a hint, I rummaged Mike’s desk. “Aren’t you worried I’ll take something I shouldn’t?” I asked.
“Everything in this room belongs to his rare books business, and that now all belongs to you. There’s nothing here you can take that you shouldn’t.”
Except for the books themselves. I sat down hard on the rolling chair and it skidded a few inches from the desk. I rolled closer and studied the ledger more intently. Each entry described a book – its title, a description, the seller and price paid, the estimated resale value, the date Mike had sold it and for how much. My finger paused over a name – Heath Van Oss.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. Hadn’t the man in the crosswalk been called Van Oss? That would explain why he’d been in Mike’s bookstore. Two years ago, he’d sold Mike a book of American folktales for three hundred dollars. Mike had left a question mark by the estimated value, and he hadn’t resold it yet.
I flipped the pages, wishing Mike had entered the computer era. He’d put lines through books that were no longer a part of the inventory, so they were fairly easy to pick out. But there were a lot of pages. Still, this ledger couldn’t contain all the books in the room. There had to be other records. I longed to be alone, to dig through his notebooks and papers for the evidence the police weren’t bothering to gather. But I couldn’t do that with the lawyer looming over me, so I stuck with the ledger.
I froze, staring blankly at a yellowish page. A poem had been scrawled across it.
The Queen Vanishes
Dread drives my pulse, a ragged rhythm.
Her absence blights the trees, their trunks paper cutouts, their twisted leaves dying slugs. Her absence cracks the fountain, its brackish waters a seeping wound that drip, drip, drips to the paving stones. Her absence dims the sun, a cheerless, painted disk. I cannot say how long she has been gone. Long, I worry, for the world to feel her disappearance and fold in on itself, a wilted lover.
I slip through the seam to the Otherworld of nightmares and hard lines and hunger. Man and magic rustles the tall, red trees, the scent acrid, searing.
My Queen crouches beside the spring. Her hands fist. The babble of water drowns her muttering, ripples off her lank hair, raises the flesh on my scalp. She turns, her expression a diamond grotesque on a burning castle wall.
Silent, I extend my hand. Silent, she takes it, follows me through the glass spring. I do not see the heart she’s left behind, fractured into three. But dread drives my pulse, a ragged rhythm.
My ears rang, my head aching. It was a poem I’d written.
“How lovely,” he said. “Though I never got the hang of poems that don’t rhyme. What is it called? A prose poem?”
“Yes,” I whispered and shut the book. “It’s one of mine.”
&nb
sp; “Mike must have kept it as a tribute to you.”
Knowing he hadn’t, I stood quickly, gripping the ledger. “This seems to be his most recent book of accounts.”
“Yes, I believe it is, but there may be others. There are so many books, you see.”
“I think I’d like to start with this one.”
“Yes, I imagine you have a lot of research to do. Well, then. Monday at the bank? We can get the bookstore account put into your name?”
“Won’t they need a death certificate?” I asked.
He waved aside my concern. “You let me worry about that.” He opened the bookcase and paused beside it, waiting for me.
I walked into the library, and he shut the door behind us. “Well, then. You have your homework, and I will see you–”
Peter and Gretel walked into the library and stopped short.
Peter’s baby face flushed. “Where did you two come from?” Though we were over a hundred miles from the ocean, he wore his usual board shorts and a gray t-shirt stained with what I guessed was ketchup. His wife’s army-green shorts and khaki tank displayed every curve and angle.
Guilt struck me dumb. I held the ledger to my chest like a shield.
The lawyer folded his arms. “I could ask you the same thing. We hadn’t scheduled a visit.”
“It’s my house, isn’t it?” Peter asked.
“Mike was quite specific,” the lawyer said. “The house was to be sold, and you were to be given the proceeds.”
“But the stuff in it belongs to us,” Gretel said. “You’re not going to sell that.”
“Not all the contents are yours,” Mr. Pivens said. “Some belong to his business, and others have been bequeathed to friends.”
Her face contorted. “How do we know you’re not giving away what’s rightfully ours?”
“You have a copy of the trust and of his list of bequests.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a sheaf of folded papers. “And here is a copy for you, Miss Bonheim.”
“He wasn’t in his right mind.” Gretel pointed a long finger at me. “She influenced the old man.”
“In my opinion,” Mr. Pivens said, “he was of sound mind. This house is valuable. Your husband will receive a handsome settlement.”
“We should have gotten the bookstore,” Gretel snarled. “You haven’t heard the last of this.” She turned and stormed out.
Peter hurried after her.
“I wouldn’t worry, Miss Bonheim,” the lawyer said. “Mike was no more addled than I am, and I can assure you, everything is clear and in order.”
Numb, I stared at him. Because everything was not clear nor in order.
It had been a week since I’d composed the poem we’d found in Mike’s ledger, but I hadn’t written it for Mike. No one had seen the poem, kept folded and secret inside my notebook at home. And the poem in the ledger was in my handwriting.
CHAPTER TEN
The lawyer was as good as his word. On Monday, he talked the bank manager into putting my name on the bookstore’s accounts in spite of the lack of a death certificate.
“The advantage of community banks, Ms. Bonheim,” the lawyer said as we strolled onto the bright sidewalk. He shot his cuffs and blinked in the sun. “They’ll do the right thing, even if it’s not quite by the book. A pity we no longer have any like that where I live, but Doyle is a world unto itself, isn’t it?”
Startled, I glanced at him. “You noticed?”
A pickup drove past on the street. The morning was already warm, and I unpeeled my white blouse from my back. I’d worn a cream-colored, linen skirt today in honor of the elegant Mr. Pivens. The blouse was already rumpled.
“Doyle doesn’t have any fast food restaurants or chain stores,” he said. “Every business is charming and unique.” He motioned toward the false fronts of the old west buildings – boutiques and tasting rooms and restaurants. “I don’t know how your town council manages it, but I’m envious. I know one can’t stop progress, but Doyle has made a valiant effort.”
In the distance, a bell tolled, empty and echoing, and the skin prickled on the back of my neck. Along the street, people missed a step, glanced over their shoulders, ducked their heads.
He smiled. “Church bells. Lovely.”
It was Monday morning, and that was no church bell.
Mrs. Reynolds walked past pushing a stroller, and we stepped aside. Her shoulders hunched, her expression haunted. Her husband had vanished with the Bell and Thistle.
“Now,” he said, “you will let me know if you need anything. I’d like to do a complete inventory of the rare book business at his house before I officially turn that over to you. I want to make sure there is no confusion between his personal and business collection. There must be no misunderstandings among the heirs.”
I nodded.
“The bookstore is simpler. It’s separate from his home. But with Mike’s personal library so close to his work space... I doubt things were mingled, but you never know.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I understand.”
“You have my card. And one more thing.” He handed me a key ring. “This key is to the store. I know you already have one set, but now you have Mike’s set as well.” He frowned. “Have you got young Peter’s set back?”
“Not yet.” I’d been avoiding the chore.
“Don’t put it off.” He nodded to me and strolled down the road.
I watched his straight back, until he disappeared around a corner. Then I turned and walked to the bookstore. My bookstore. Ye Olde Bookstore, because Mike had never been able to think of a better name. I wouldn’t change it now.
Unlocking the door, I stepped inside. The bookstore was stuffy, and I toed down the door’s kickstand and left it open. We were normally closed on Mondays, but if someone wanted to buy a book, I was ready to sell.
I slid open the window behind the counter, creating a cross-breeze, and turned on the electric fan. Mike had been too cheap for air conditioning. I thought I’d figured him out – frugal and honest, funny and kind. But that had only been the surface Mike, hiding an interest in rare occult books. What else had I missed?
The thin soles of my caramel-colored shoes were soft on the carpet. I unlocked the cash register and turned the key. The register hummed to life.
I traced one finger over the keyhole in the locked drawer beneath the counter. Mike had given me my own set of keys, but never a key to this drawer. He’d told me it was only for junk, and I hadn’t pursued the issue. But junk didn’t need a lock. I sifted through the small key ring the lawyer had given me, smiling with relief when I found a tiny key.
I held my breath. It fitted neatly into the lock. “What are you hiding?” I whispered.
“Ms. Bonheim?” a man asked.
My muscles spasmed, and the key fell to the gray carpet.
The man from the crosswalk stood on the other side of the counter. Why hadn’t I heard him come inside? The front door had been open only a minute or two. Had he been following me?
Stomach knotting, I stooped and grabbed the key, pocketing it. “Mr. Van Oss, isn’t it?”
“I wanted to apologize for the other day,” he said, towering over the counter. He looked as sleek as a seal with his slicked-back hair and pressed white shirt. The top buttons were undone, hinting at a muscular chest, and I felt myself flush. “Anyone can make a mistake,” he said, “and I may have overreacted.”
“No,” I said. “I should have been paying more attention. I’m sorry I gave you a scare.”
“I wasn’t scared,” he said sharply, then smiled. “And you can call me Heath.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. His grip ground my bones, and I struggled not to wince. “I’m a rare bookdealer.”
Which explained why he’d sold a book to Mike. But he was awfully well dressed for a bookdealer. Karin’s fiancée favored Armani, so I knew what designer menswear looked like. Van Oss was wearing expensive threads.
A coyote trotted into the bookstore, and I dre
w a quick breath, forced my gaze to the man. The animal was a spirit with a message. Coyotes were tricksters, teaching us the balance of wisdom and folly. What was it trying to tell me?
“I’m Lenore.” I retrieved my hand. Dropping it to my side, I clenched and unclenched it to restore the circulation.
He edged around the counter and casually braced his arm on the top of the register. “The fair Lenore from The Raven?” His gaze raked me from my flats to the top of my blond hair.
The coyote’s head swiveled, as if scanning for the proper section of the bookshop to browse.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so, since that Lenore died young.” My sisters and I might be doomed, but my parents wouldn’t slap that sort of label on me. They’d never got the chance to explain their choice of names though.
“But we’re all going to die,” he said. “Life only has one exit.”
“So I’ve heard. You said you’re a rare bookdealer? Is that why you were meeting with Mike?”
“I’d asked him to appraise a book for me. I doubt it’s of much value. I probably shouldn’t have bothered him.”
My eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realize he did book appraisals.”
“Not officially,” he said, “but all rare bookdealers are appraisers to some degree. We have to be in order to know what to buy and sell the books for.” He smiled, leaning closer.
If I had whiskers, they’d be twitching. “What was the title of the book?” I asked, raising my voice.
“You know Mike was a specialist in occult books?”
“Is that what you asked him to appraise?”
“A book of American folktales. Vanity published. The author thought he was going to be America’s version of the Grimm brothers. It’s likely only worth a thousand or two, but I need it back.”
The coyote sniffed at the cuffs of the man’s trousers.
I gave the man a fake smile. There had been a book of folktales from Van Oss, but according to Mike’s ledger, he’d paid three hundred dollars for it. Was it a different book, or was Van Oss up to no good? “I suppose folktales would fall into the occult category,” I said. “Who was the author?”
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