The Grim Reader

by Kate Carlisle

  “I did see it,” I said carefully, not wanting to say too much. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but I thought she seemed cold. I didn’t trust her. “You sent him the book?”

  “Well, not for free,” she was quick to explain. “It was a business transaction.”

  “Of course. Would you mind telling me how much he paid for it?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No.”

  She scowled. “The money shouldn’t matter.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” I said, not certain what tack to take with her. She was so unpleasant, but since I wanted information, I kept going. “It’s simply an intellectual question. In working with rare books, I’m often asked to track the provenance of a book. Where was it made, who owned it first, what their occupation was, where they lived, who they gave it to next, and down the line. For me, the cost of a book plays a part as well in creating an overall picture of a book’s life.”

  “Well,” she said. She seemed mollified, if not completely sold on my explanation. “For Lawson, the cost truly didn’t matter. He was willing to pay any amount, so I quoted him what I thought was an extremely reasonable price of ten thousand dollars. As soon as I received his check, I sent him the book.”

  I nodded. “He certainly was a big fan of Little Women.”

  “I should say so. He literally begged me to sell it to him.” She frowned again. “He’s always been a bit obsessive.”

  “A bit,” I agreed.

  “And he was truly obsessed with obtaining the book. Wanted it for his mother. He called her Marmee, you know.” She rolled her eyes at that. “Apparently she was a big fan, too.”

  “That’s nice,” I said weakly. Marmee? Who knew? But still, Trimble didn’t have to be so rude!

  She continued, “He was quite proud that he’d convinced the festival committee to honor Louisa May Alcott and Little Women.”

  “I did hear that the choice of Little Women was his idea.” I tried a smile. “So can you tell me more about the book?”

  “If you’ve seen it, you know.” She huffed impatiently. “But all right. It’s very old, a first edition, with a delightful illustration of the four sisters on the cover. The paper is good quality and with a few nips and tucks, it could be worth even more. I happen to believe that Lawson got quite a bargain.”

  “It will take more than a few nips and tucks,” I said. “The book was in very poor condition.”

  “I wouldn’t call it poor,” she said, with a disapproving sniff. “It might need a few pieces of tape here and there, but that’s the sign of a well-read book.”

  I stifled a gasp. “Yes. Well, enjoy your visit.” I walked away in a daze. A few pieces of tape? The woman was a barbarian! She might know all about Louisa May, I thought, but she knows very little about caring for books.

  But now I knew where Lawson had found that book. I also knew that Lawson didn’t have a lot of money. In fact, he lived on social security. But if his obsession had kicked in and he absolutely had to have the book, as Professor Trimble claimed, he certainly might’ve stolen the festival funds to buy it. Except he only would’ve needed ten thousand dollars, so why was the entire amount of seventy thousand dollars missing?

  I crossed the room and slipped my arm through Derek’s. I couldn’t wait to tell him what I’d found out, but I couldn’t do it here.

  “Have a nice chat with the guest of honor?” he asked.

  “It was enlightening,” I murmured. “Isn’t this a nice party?”

  “I don’t see any beer,” Derek whispered.

  I laughed, just as Gabriel walked up and shook hands with Derek. He turned and gave me a warm hug. “Babe,” he said.

  “Hi, Gabriel. Thanks for watching out for Mom.”

  “Not a problem. Your mom’s a kick in the pants.”

  “She likes you, too.” I pulled him off to the side of the room and Derek followed. “Have you talked to the police about Jacob Banyan’s death?”

  “We had a conversation,” he said cryptically.

  “Well? How was he killed?”

  “Why do you ask?” he responded, his tone suspicious. Then he grinned. “Just kidding, Babe. Banyan was killed by a knife across the throat. He bled out.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Derek said cynically.

  “Yeah,” Gabriel muttered. “There’s a pattern for sure.”

  “Was it a different kind of knife?” I looked at Derek and frowned. “Because I told Detective Willoughby that I thought Banyan was killed with a knife to the throat and he gave me grief. So what gives?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t enjoy having civilians come up with their own theories,” Derek surmised.

  “I don’t see why not,” I said. “Inspector Lee always enjoys my input.”

  Both men laughed until I had to elbow them. “People are staring.”

  “Can’t help it, babe,” Gabriel said. “You’re a laugh riot.”

  “Did they leave the knife at the scene?” I asked, ignoring the comment.

  Gabriel grinned. “Not very proper tea party conversation.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No knife was found at the scene.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  Gabriel looked at Derek. “You want a beer?”

  “Why, yes.” He shot me a look. “But not right now.”

  “I can’t believe you aren’t excited about Darjeeling,” I said.

  “Be right back,” Gabriel said, giving us another glance. “You guys stay here and watch your mom.”

  I knew Derek was dying to go with him, but he made the heroic sacrifice to stay with me and my mother.

  “Let us know what you find,” I whispered, knowing he was actually going to go out and do a perimeter check.

  He gave a quick lift of his chin in agreement. “Be back soon. Enjoy the crumpets.”

  I laughed as he dashed out of the room. Slipping my arm through Derek’s, I leaned my head against his shoulder. “My hero. Thanks for hanging in.”

  “Darling, I wouldn’t want to hang anywhere else.”

  “Sure.” I had to laugh. “So. You want a crumpet?”

  Now it was his turn to laugh.

  “I have something to tell you,” I murmured.

  Derek was still smiling. “Is it related to that woman I saw you talking with?”

  “Yes. I found out that she sold Lawson the book for ten thousand dollars.”

  “What?” he almost yelled.

  I would’ve told him the details but his mother walked in at that moment and we greeted her with happy hugs.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered. “Mom will be thrilled to see you.”

  “I’m thrilled as well,” Meg said. “I’ll just pop over to say hello.”

  After everyone had mingled and had their fill of finger food, cookies, and tea, Mom stepped to the head of the table. With one deep breath in and out to center herself, she spoke, “I’m so pleased to introduce Bettina Trimble, our very special guest from New Jersey. As most of you know, Professor Trimble is a distinguished professor of American literature at Princeton and a renowned scholar of Louisa May Alcott’s life and literary works. She is the current president of the Alcott Collective and travels the country on its behalf.”

  Mom extended her arm toward the visitor. “Professor Trimble, would you say a few words? Let’s give her a warm welcome.” Mom began to applaud and everyone joined her as Bettina Trimble walked over to stand by my mother.

  Professor Trimble stood with her hands clasped together tightly as she peered out at the crowd. Her short hair was a nondescript shade of brown and she wore no makeup. She frankly looked worn out, as though she’d been traveling across the country for the past month in a covered wagon. But who was I to judge her appearance, just because she didn’t know how to take care of books?
r />   Yes, I was holding a grudge.

  I thought she looked a bit like one of Louisa May Alcott’s war-weary characters from Little Women. Perhaps that was the world she aspired to live in.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wainwright, for the warm welcome,” she said, bowing slightly toward my mother. “I’m so pleased to be here in your wine country.”

  “And we’re so pleased to have you,” Mom said. “I hope you’ve had a chance to look over the short list of festival events we’ve scheduled for you.”

  “Yes, of course. The panels and workshop subjects sound fascinating. I hope to do them justice.”

  “Of course you will,” Mom said jovially. “And we can’t wait for you to see our musical production based on Louisa May Alcott’s major work, Little Women.”

  The crowd burst into spontaneous applause and Professor Trimble was taken aback. “Oh my.” She patted her chest nervously.

  “I do think you’ll enjoy the musical,” Mom said with even more than her usual perkiness in order to cover up the professor’s awkward reaction to our excitement. “I’ve seen the rehearsals and they are doing a wonderful job.”

  I moved a little closer to the woman. “Are you all right, Professor? Can I get you some water?”

  “I-I was just a bit thrown off,” she said. “I hadn’t heard that you were performing a musical version of Louisa’s master work.”

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” I said quickly.

  “It’s very clever,” Mom added. “The costumes are authentic to the time period and the cast is so talented. I believe their work would make Louisa May Alcott proud.”

  “Oh please.” The woman sniffed again, then made a tsk-tsk sound of disapproval. “Ever since they performed the work on Broadway, we’ve had nothing but problems with these backwoods small-town performances.”

  There was utter silence in the room.

  “I’m not sure I understand your point,” Mom said, though it sounded as if she understood all too well.

  The professor twisted her lips into a tight frown of annoyance. “The Alcott Collective has set up very strict guidelines for the theatrical use of Ms. Alcott’s works. I’m going to have to view your musical presentation of Little Women to make sure it is deemed acceptable by the Collective. I’ll let you know my findings.”

  I exchanged a look of concern with Mom, then glanced up at Derek, who was obviously irritated by the woman. A quick scan of the room showed me that almost everyone was feeling the same.

  Mom cleared her throat. “I don’t quite get what you’re talking about, Professor.”

  “It’s very simple, really.” Her tone implied that as simple as it might be, we wouldn’t understand because we were all too dumb to breathe. “Unless supervised by a member of a scholarly organization such as mine, the common person will rarely give the work the proper respect and reverence it deserves. A small town like this, with your little community-theater types cast in the roles of Ms. Alcott’s beloved characters?” She threw up her hands. “It simply never ends well.”

  Mom straightened her shoulders and smiled at the professor. “You’re right. This won’t end well.”

  “But—”

  “Nevertheless,” Mom continued quickly, “we would love to have you view our small-town performance. However, we have no interest in hearing your opinion of our quaint little theater group, nor do we wish to win your organization’s acceptance. Frankly, we’re all just here to have a good time and maybe learn a little something. If you’d like to be a part of that, you’re more than welcome to stay. But if you’re here to critique and judge us—which, I must admit, it’s pretty obvious that you are—then you should probably call a cab and head on back home.”

  The room was silent again, except for the professor’s loud “Harrumph!”

  I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. Suddenly the entire room joined me, laughing and applauding Mom’s words as she gently took hold of the woman’s arm and led her out the door and down the hall.

  Naturally, Derek and I followed them out of the building, not knowing what might happen out there.

  Standing out in front of the town hall, Mom pointed toward the Lane and Professor Trimble clomped away.

  “Mom?” I said. “Where is she going?”

  “She’s going back to her hotel, packing up and leaving.”

  “Didn’t you pay for her flight out here and her hotel room?”

  “Sure did,” she said bluntly. “Don’t care.”

  I frowned at the uptight professor and her sensible shoes as she hobbled down the brick sidewalk toward the Lane. “Did she just expect to show up and automatically be put in charge of everything?”

  “Apparently so.” Mom shrugged. “And I just couldn’t let that happen. I know I’m going to have to apologize to the committee, but I’m over it. They’ll just have to deal.”

  “Yay, Mom,” I said. “But I really don’t think they’ll mind.”

  “No.” She sighed. “And I sure don’t care. Maybe it’s because someone tried to kill me the other day, but I figure life’s too short to put up with overbearing people like that.”

  “You’ve got the right of it, Rebecca,” Derek said.

  Meg had followed us out and now she wrapped her arms around my mother in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Mom said. “Don’t you know I’m just a country bumpkin?”

  “Then so are we all,” Derek said, using his most erudite tone.

  Our moms laughed and suddenly aware of the target we all made, I said, “Let’s go back inside where it’s a little less wide open.”

  “Excellent idea,” Derek said.

  “Besides,” Meg said, locking arms with Mom. “I want another biscuit.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Back in the conference room, Mom made the announcement that the Alcott scholar wouldn’t be attending the festival.

  “She was right,” Clyde grumbled. “That did not end well.”

  “Well, hip hip hooray,” Winston Laurie said.

  “Right on!” Sue yelled.

  And once again, most of the group began to cheer and applaud.

  “She was dreadful,” Derek whispered, “but at least her presence served some purpose. We now know where Lawson got the book.”

  “And we also know why he stole the festival money,” I said. “At least, part of the money. I’m guessing that someone found out about it and blackmailed him for the rest.”

  “It’s quite possible,” he murmured. “Perhaps we should look more closely at the committee members who assisted Lawson with the finances. They would be first to notice that the funds had been depleted.”

  “Are you thinking that Winston might be involved?”

  “Or the others.” He thought for a moment. “There were four hands raised when your mother asked who else had helped Lawson with his various duties.”

  “Yes.” I stared at him. “Winston, Ryan, Saffron, and Marybeth. Guess we’ll move them all up on the suspect list.”

  “Indeed.”

  Derek and I watched the way everyone in the group interacted with my mother and Meg as well as each other. We had talked about how anyone could kill under the right circumstance, but I couldn’t see how these committee meetings and the book festival were the right circumstance.

  Saffron was avoiding my mother, a good thing since I was ready to punch her if she said one word against her.

  The woman was definitely capable of murder and the most likely suspect, simply because she hated everybody and everything. It was ironic that she had accused my mother of murder, but maybe that was just a ruse. We had to figure out what her motives were and how she, as a woman of about five feet four inches tall, had managed to cut the throats of two much taller, very heavyset men. I didn’t see how she could’ve done it, but str
anger things had happened.

  “Who’s in charge here?” a woman’s voice demanded from the doorway.

  Ryan perked up. “Shandi!”

  Mom looked at me with wide eyes, but recovered quickly. “Come in, Shandi. Help yourself to a cup of tea and a snack.”

  Derek and I exchanged looks, and then I turned to study the woman walking into the room.

  From across the room, Shandi Patrick looked beautiful, with a clear peaches-and-cream complexion and thick blonde hair with lustrous waves tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a lovely formfitting black jacket over tan stretch pants fitted into knee-high brown boots.

  She was stunning. But as she walked closer, I started to see the flaws. Not that I minded flaws, personally. But Shandi knew how to work a room just the right way so that people didn’t notice the imperfections. She knew where every lamp and light was and how to angle her face to show off her best attributes. It was amazing to watch. She’d had a nose job somewhere along the line and probably some augmentation here and there. Not that I cared about that, either. She was simply fascinating and a little bizarre.

  She didn’t lead with her left side, I noticed, instead keeping her right side toward the crowd. I strolled over to the tea kettle to fill up my cup and that’s when I saw why she turned her left side away.

  Her left cheek had a barely discernable vertical scar from her eye to the curve of her mouth, but you had to be in the right light to see it. And her left eye was slightly droopy. I wondered if she had been in an accident or if she had always been able to work it out so that only her best features were accentuated.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Shandi,” Mom said. “Can I introduce you to some people?”

  “I’m not here to socialize,” she said sharply.

  Mom didn’t flinch despite the woman’s rudeness. And now I knew I could happily hate her. She was definitely on the suspect list because she had a mean streak and I didn’t like it. It didn’t seem fair that Mom had had to deal with a frumpy know-it-all and now, a glamorous one.

  Shandi strutted farther into the room. “I want to know what happened to Lawson Schmidt.”