“So where is this leading?” Annabelle asked. “You seem to be saying two different things. It was the gas but it wasn’t the gas. Which is it?” she demanded.
Stone took up the discussion. “One element of the suppressant being engaged is the lowering of the temperature in the room. Caleb said he saw Jonathan’s body, got an immediate chill and fainted. I believe the chill came from the gas, which led to the nurse’s comment in the hospital about Caleb’s temperature coming up. And I think Caleb fainted because the oxygen levels in the room were low, but not low enough to kill him, because he’d come into the room about a half hour after Jonathan.”
Annabelle said, “So it obviously wasn’t this halon 1301 stuff. So something else?”
“Exactly. We just have to find out what.”
Annabelle stood. “Okay, I need to start doing some serious prep work.”
Stone rose and faced her. “Susan, before you really become involved, you need to know that there are some very dangerous people tied up in this. I’ve already had evidence of that personally. It could be very risky for you.”
“Oliver, let me put it this way. If it’s any more dangerous than what I was involved in last week, I’d be floored.”
Stone looked stunned by this comment and stepped back.
Annabelle hooked an arm through Milton’s. “Okay, Milton, we need to spend some time together.”
Reuben looked crushed. “Why Milton?”
“Because he’s my little Xerox machine.” She pinched Milton’s cheek and he immediately turned red. “But first, we have to get him the right clothes, the right style.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Milton said, looking down at his red sweater and jeans, both of which were impeccably cleaned and pressed.
“Absolutely nothing,” she said. “Except they’re all wrong for what I need.” She pointed at Caleb. “Call Milton with the name of the firm as soon as you get it.” She snapped her fingers. “Let’s go, Miltie.”
She strode out the door. A shocked Milton looked helplessly at the others and hissed, “Miltie?”
“Milton!” Annabelle called from outside the cottage. “Now!”
Milton shot out of the door. Reuben immediately whirled on Stone. “Are you just going to let her take him?”
“What exactly would you suggest I do, Reuben?” Stone said bluntly. “That woman is a hurricane and earthquake all rolled into one.”
“I don’t know, you could . . . I mean . . .” He plopped down in a chair and growled, “Damn it, why couldn’t I have a photographic memory!”
“Thank God you don’t,” Caleb exclaimed in a disgusted tone.
“What makes you say that?” Reuben demanded hotly.
“Because then she’d be calling you Ruby, and I’d have to be sick to my stomach.”
CHAPTER 32
LATER THAT DAY AT THE LIBRARY Caleb sent an e-mail to the administrative offices. An hour later he found out the name of the private architectural firm that had helped with the Jefferson Building’s renovation. He telephoned Milton with that information.
“How’s it going with that woman?” he said in a low voice.
Milton whispered back, “She just bought me a black suit and a really bright tie, and she wants to restyle my hair. You know, jazz me up.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“Not yet.” He paused, then added, “Caleb, she sort of scares me. She’s so, she’s so confident.” Milton had no way of knowing, but he had never uttered a truer statement.
“Well, you just hang in there, Miltie.” Caleb hung up, chuckling.
He next phoned Vincent Pearl, knowing that he would get the answering machine, since the rare book shop wasn’t open until later in the evening. The fact was he didn’t want to talk to the man because he hadn’t made up his mind what to do about the sale of Jonathan’s collection yet, but most of all he didn’t know what to do about the Psalm Book. When its existence was revealed, there would be a positive uproar in the rare book world. And he would be at the center of this maelstrom, a thought that terrified but also intrigued him. A little time in the spotlight wasn’t such a bad thing, particularly for a person used to operating in the obscurity of a library.
The only thing that stopped him from going full bore ahead was a nagging thought. What if Jonathan had gotten the Psalm Book somehow illegally? That might account for his secrecy about the book. Caleb didn’t want to do anything to besmirch his friend’s memory.
Caleb put these unsettling thoughts aside and walked over to speak to Jewell English, who, like the Hemingway lover, Norman Janklow, had been a regular in the reading room over the last few years.
As he walked toward her, Jewell took off her glasses, tucked her pages of carefully written notes inside a small manila folder and motioned for him to sit down next to her. When he did, she clutched his arm and said excitedly, “Caleb, I got a line on a mint Beadle. Maleska, the Indian Wife of the White Hunter. It’s a number one, Caleb.”
“I think we have a copy of that volume,” he said thoughtfully. “Make sure it’s in true mint condition, Jewell. The Beadles were cheaply put together.”
Jewell English clapped her hands together. “Oh, but, Caleb, isn’t it exciting, though? A number one.”
“Yes, it’s very exciting. And if you want me to look at it first, I’d be glad to.”
“Oh, you are a dear. I need to have you come over sometime for a drink. We have so much in common.” She patted his arm and raised her carefully penciled-in eyebrows suggestively.
Caught off guard, Caleb said hurriedly, “Yes, well, that would be nice. Someday. Maybe. In the future. Sometime. Perhaps.” He tried not to run back to his desk. Being hit on by a septuagenarian didn’t really do much for his ego. He quickly recovered his good mood and surveyed the room. It was actually comforting to see bibliophiles like Jewell and Norman Janklow perched at the beautiful tables perusing old books. It made the world seem far saner than it actually was. Caleb loved giving in to such an illusion, at least for a few hours each day. Oh, to be back in the world of foolscap and quill pen, if only for a little while.
He was working at his desk about twenty minutes later when he heard the door to the reading room open. He glanced up and froze. Cornelius Behan was walking toward the reference desk when he spotted Caleb. He said something to the woman stationed at the desk, and she pointed to Caleb. He rose from his desk as Behan walked over, his hand out. He didn’t have his bodyguards with him, Caleb noted. Perhaps security wouldn’t let them through with their guns.
“Mr. Behan?” he said. Caleb had a sudden vision of Behan with a pair of panties flapping from his privates. He had to choke back a laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “Air went down the wrong way.”
“Please, just call me CB.” They shook hands. Behan looked around the room. “I didn’t even know this place existed. You should advertise better.”
“We could do a better job of public awareness,” Caleb conceded. “But with shrinking budgets it’s hard to find the money.”
“Trust me, I know all about government pecuniary shortfalls.”
“Well, you’ve done very well dealing with Washington,” Caleb commented, and then instantly regretted having said it as Behan looked at him with heightened scrutiny.
“It was a nice funeral,” Behan said, abruptly changing the subject. “As far as funerals can be nice, of course.”
“Yes, it was. It was good meeting your wife.”
“Right. Anyway, I was downtown meeting with some folks on the Hill and thought I’d drop by. All this time I was Jonathan’s neighbor, and never once have I seen where he worked.”
“Well, better late than never.”
“I guess Jonathan really loved his work here?”
“He did. Always the first one in.”
“Lots of friends here. I’m sure everyone liked him.” He looked at Caleb questioningly.
“I think Jonathan got along well with everyone here.”
“I understand
you were at Jonathan’s house last night with a woman?”
Caleb took this second abrupt change in subject in stride. “You should’ve come by if you saw us.”
“I was busy.”
I bet you were, Caleb thought.
“But some of my people saw you, they keep a tight lookout. So, this woman?”
“She’s an expert in rare books. I had her come by to take a look at some of Jonathan’s holdings as part of the appraisal process.” Caleb was very proud of himself for coming up with that lie so quickly.
“So what’ll happen to Jonathan’s house?”
“I’m assuming it’ll be sold. I’m not really involved in that part at all.”
“I was thinking about buying the place and turning it into a guesthouse.”
“Yours isn’t big enough?” Caleb blurted out without really thinking.
Thankfully, Behan laughed. “Yeah, I know. You’d think it would be, but we have lots of guests. I thought you might have an inside track on what they’re going to do with it. Maybe you’ve looked all through the place,” he added in a casual tone.
“No. I’ve just confined myself to the vault.”
Behan studied Caleb closely for a long moment. “I’ll just call the lawyers then, let them earn their money.” He hesitated and added, “So can you give me a tour of the place while I’m here? You keep really rare books here, I understand.”
“Hence the name Rare Books reading room.” Caleb had a sudden thought. It was against certain library protocols, but what the hell, it could be important in finding out who killed Jonathan. He said, “Would you like to go into the vaults?”
“Yes,” Behan said almost too quickly.
Caleb gave him the standard tour, which he ended near the spot where Jonathan DeHaven had been killed. Was it Caleb’s imagination, or did Behan’s gaze linger just a beat too long on the fire suppressant gas nozzle sticking out of the wall. His suspicion was confirmed when Behan pointed at it.
“What’s that?”
Caleb explained about the system. “We’re actually going to replace the gas we use with another one that’s more ozone-friendly.”
Behan nodded. “Well, thanks for the tour.”
After Behan had left, Caleb called Stone and told him about this encounter.
Stone remarked, “His roundabout way of asking if Jonathan had any enemies is very curious unless he’s looking into the possibility of pinning the murder on someone else. And the fact that he wanted to know if you’ve looked all through Jonathan’s house is very telling. I wonder if he knew about his neighbor’s voyeuristic tendencies?”
After he had hung up with Stone, Caleb picked up the book he’d brought from DeHaven’s vault and walked through a series of underground tunnels to the Madison Building where the Conservation and Preservation Division was located. The division was split into two large rooms, one for books and the other for everything else. Here almost one hundred conservators labored at restoring rare and not-so-rare items to better condition. Caleb went into the book room and headed to a table where a thin man wearing a green apron was carefully turning the pages of an incunabulum work from Germany. Around him was an assortment of tools, ranging from ultrasonic welders and Teflon spatulas to old-fashioned manual screw presses and X-acto knives.
“Hello, Monty,” Caleb said.
Monty Chambers looked up from behind thick black glasses and rubbed his bald head with a gloved hand. He was clean-shaven and had a weak chin that seemed to melt into his face. He didn’t speak but merely nodded at Caleb. Well into his sixties now, Monty had been the library’s top book conservator for decades. He was given all the toughest assignments and had never failed to get the job done. It was said that he could coax even the most damaged and neglected books back to life. He was prized for the dexterity and sensitivity of his hands, his cleverness and creativity in restoring old works and his vast knowledge of book conservation and preservation techniques.
“Got a freelance job for you, Monty, if you have time.” Caleb held up the book. “The Sound and the Fury. It has some water damage to the boards. It belonged to Jonathan DeHaven. I’m handling the sale of his collection.”
Monty examined the novel and said in a high-pitched voice, “How soon?”
“Oh, you have plenty of time. We’re in the early stages yet.”
Conservators at Monty’s level often worked on several major and smaller projects at a time. They worked late and also came in over some weekends when they wouldn’t be interrupted as much. Caleb also knew that Monty had a fully equipped workshop at his home in D.C. where he did outside jobs on occasion.
“Reversible?” Monty asked.
Standard protocols in the field now demanded that every repair on a book be “reversible.” In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries book conservationists were in a decided “gussy-up” phase. Unfortunately, that had led to many old books being totally rebuilt, with their original covers discarded and the pages rebound in bright, tooled leather and sometimes fancy custom latches. It looked nice but completely destroyed the historical integrity of the article with no way to reverse the damage.
“Yes,” Caleb answered. “And would you please write up what work you propose to do? We’ll provide that documentation with the book when it’s sold.”
Monty nodded and returned to his current project.
Caleb headed back to the reading room. In the tunnels he found himself chuckling. “Miltie,” he said under his breath. “And his new hairdo.” It would be the last good laugh he would have in a long time.
CHAPTER 33
"REGINACOLLINS,” ANNABELLE said in a brisk manner, handing the woman her card. “I called ahead for an appointment with Mr. Keller.” She and Milton were standing in the reception area of Keller & Mahoney, Architects, located in a towering brownstone near the White House. She was dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that beautifully offset her now red-highlighted hair. Milton stood behind her, alternating between self-consciously adjusting his orange tie and fingering the chic ponytail that Annabelle had styled his long hair in.
A minute later a tall man in his fifties with wavy gray hair strode out to meet them. He wore a monogrammed striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and green braces held up his trousers. “Ms. Collins?” he said. They shook hands, and she handed him one of her business cards.
“Mr. Keller, what a pleasure. Thank you for taking the time to see us on such short notice. My assistant was supposed to call you before we left France. Suffice it to say, I’m getting a new assistant.” She indicated Milton. “My associate, Leslie Haynes.”
Milton managed to say both hello and shake the man’s hand, though he didn’t look very comfortable doing either.
“Forgive the jet lag,” Annabelle said quickly, noting his awkwardness. “We usually take the afternoon flight here, but it was booked. We had to get up before dawn Paris time. A real killer.”
“Not to worry, I can relate. Please, come on back,” Keller said amiably.
In his office they all sat at a small conference table.
“I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. As I said in my call, I’m the managing director with a start-up architectural magazine for the trade in Europe.”
Keller glanced at the business card that Annabelle had just had run off that morning. “La Balustrade. Clever name.”
“Thanks. The ad agency spent a lot of time and our money developing it. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Keller laughed. “Oh, yes. We went that route initially and then decided to just name the company after ourselves.”
“I wish we’d had that option.”
“But you’re not French?”
“An old story. I’m a transplanted American who fell in love with Paris while I was in college on an exchange program. I can speak the language just well enough to order dinner, a nice bottle of wine, and get into trouble on occasion.” She said a few words in French.
Keller laughed embarr
assingly. “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.
She opened a leather briefcase she’d brought with her and pulled out a notebook. “Well, for the inaugural issue we wanted to do a story on the renovation of the Jefferson Building that was undertaken by your firm in partnership with the Architect of the Capitol.”
Keller nodded. “That was a great honor for us.”
“And a long job. From 1984 until 1995, correct?”
“You’ve done your homework. That also included redoing the Adams Building across the street as well as cleaning and conservation of the murals in the Jefferson Building. I can tell you it dominated my life for ten years.”
“And you did a brilliant job. From what I understand it was a Herculean task simply to rework the main reading area. There were a lot of structural integrity issues, load-bearing column problems, particularly with the challenge of the dome, and I heard that the original truss work left a lot to be desired?” These were items Milton had pulled off the Internet for her just that morning. She’d distilled a hundred pages of information down so smoothly, and spun it out so glibly, that Milton looked at her in amazement.
“It did have its challenges, although you’re looking at a building that was constructed over a hundred years ago. Given that, they did a helluva job back then.”
“I have to say the regilding of the Torch of Learning’s flame at the apex of the dome with twenty-three-and-a-half-carat gold leaf was an inspired touch.”
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