Abe's laugh was not happy. "Barely!"
They both turned back to the books, having had enough of that discussion. For a few minutes, Mr. Walter discussed details and offered assessments one at a time. Finally, he swept a hand over the boxes. "I know about what I can offer you, if you'd like a rough estimate. It won't be what you'd get if you sold each piece individually, without any commission, but you also wouldn't have access to the resources and buyers that I do, and it would be a great deal of work looking up all the different items, describing and listing and shipping them safely." He named a sum that made Abe's brows rise, and made him wish he'd used better-quality boxes.
"That sounds good," he said a bit breathlessly. He'd have to speak with Edward again afterwards and make sure that he hadn't changed his mind about giving the money to charity, but if he hadn't, it would be a respectable donation.
"And I will speak with the police about the young man," said Mr. Walter. "It's the least I can do for Len."
Gregory wandered back over to the counter, gingerly holding a small, old volume in his big, callused hands. It had a yellow cover with a leaf outlined on it. He set it on the counter. "How much is this?"
Mr. Walter took Gregory's measure slowly. He took the book, which was called Tree Crops: A Permanent Agriculture, looked at it, and said, "The book is sixty-three dollars plus tax. However, it is in the public domain. You can find it online if you want the information in it rather than to buy it as a collectible."
"Oh! Thank you," said Gregory, looking surprised. He turned to Abe with an explanation. "Early permaculture research. A book about tree crops and protecting the soil."
"A valuable resource, I'm sure," agreed Mr. Walter mildly. He seemed to like Gregory. Well, Abe couldn't blame him.
"Thank you," said Gregory, reaching across to shake Mr. Walter's hand carefully. "I would rather read it than collect it. I suppose my dirty fingernails gave me away as a garden enthusiast?" His smile twinkled.
"Well, your Grow Food Not Lawns t-shirt didn't hurt," said Mr. Walter wryly.
"Ha! I forgot I was wearing it. Maybe I can bring you some tomatoes and squash next time we see you, as a thank you."
Mr. Walter arched a brow. "I prefer cucumbers to squash."
"You got it," said Gregory with his most charming wink. To Abe, he said, "You ready to go, or did you want to look around?"
"We were just settling on the payment," said Mr. Walter. "Is a check all right? I'm not sure I have this much cash in the safe. It's best not to."
"A check is fine," said Abe.
Mr. Walter walked away slowly to get his checkbook.
Gregory said, "Did you get Hannibal's book looked at? What was it worth?"
"Oh! I forgot. I left it in the car." Abe hurried out to fetch it. When he returned, Mr. Walter was slowly writing out a check for a tidy sum in spidery handwriting.
He waited till the man was finished, then set the Jack London book on the counter carefully. It was in a plastic sleeve, but he still felt like it was too fragile for him to touch. Perhaps he was a bit like Edward, scared of old books.
"This book is a bit of a mystery," Abe said by way of introduction. "It might even be related to Lenard's death." He explained about the silent auction. "The book was donated anonymously, and nobody thought it was worth too terribly much. Not world-shaking, you know? But it turns out Lenard bid a huge sum for it, and someone else bid quite a lot, too. So that leaves the organizers in a bit of a quandary. Is it worth that much? What to do now?"
Gregory watched Abe with a rather proud expression, as if to say, "There goes my Jessica Fletcher!" He didn't interrupt or add anything.
Mr. Walter listened intently, and when Abe was done, transferred his disconcertingly direct attention to the book. He handled it carefully, wearing gloves. He started paging through, then stopped.
"The autograph is a forgery," he said abruptly. "I sold this book not long ago, and it wasn't autographed at the time." He looked very stern as he spoke, as if the crime of fake-autographing a book was as bad as a murder.
"Do you remember whom you sold it to?" asked Abe breathlessly. This could be the first real break!
"Of course I do. I always remember a name and a face. And I have the receipt." He headed for the back room, presumably to fetch it.
Abe and Gregory exchanged wide-eyed looks. "Can you at least tell us who it was?" called Gregory after Mr. Walter.
"That I can." Mr. Walter's voice wafted out to them faintly, still sounding stern. "Rufus Rongst. I expected better from a man like him, a respectable if eccentric art dealer. One wonders what else he might have fabricated in his career."
Abe and Gregory exchanged looks, shocked. "Isn't it possible someone else bought it from him, autographed it, and somehow donated it?" asked Abe.
Mr. Walter emerged with a shoebox of flimsy paper receipts. "I have electronic records as well, but I still find these easier." He cleared his throat. "It seems highly unlikely there could be any extra persons involved, except that I can't imagine why he would donate a forged signature anonymously, or at all. He only bought it a month ago. Ah. Here. I think I will be calling the police right away, if you two don't mind."
"Not at all," said Gregory. He put a hand on Abe's arm as if to hold him up.
"I can't believe it," said Abe faintly. "I was right?"
"We'll see," said Gregory. "Either way, that book is evidence now. And it looks like you might have another neighbor on the wrong side of the law."
That, thought Abe, was putting it mildly.
Chapter seventeen
Gregory whistled softly. "Would you look at that!"
"What?" asked Abe, still bleary-eyed and desperately in want of coffee. He was not a late riser, but nobody compared to Gregory in the early-bird business. He was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed already, reading the papers.
Gregory obligingly held the paper up.
"Read it to me. I'd have to fetch glasses," said Abe pitifully. He helped himself to the coffee. Say what you would about early risers, they usually made excellent coffee.
"I will." Gregory cleared his throat importantly. "A book accidentally donated by his wife led to the arrest of art dealer Rufus Rongst on suspected murder of Lenard Benton. Police allege that Rongst spiked Benton's coffee with liquid nicotine, and although Benton did not consume more than a few swallows before discarding the cup's contents, he was disoriented enough to cause his car to crash, which resulted in his death."
Abe almost choked. "Nicotine! Oh, my! Why didn't I think of that?" He'd even seen his neighbor vaping once or twice. That made liquid nicotine an obvious thing for him to have on hand.
"Because everyone knows that nicotine isn't poison."
"Except for when it is," said Abe. "At least, overdoses can make people sick."
"I should have guessed, actually," said Gregory, looking sheepish. "I was just discussing nicotine as a natural insecticide option with Hannibal."
Abe smiled and patted him affectionately on the arm. "Yes, how dare you not have known everything ahead of time?"
"I could say the same to you," said Gregory. "Do you want me to go on?" He gave the paper a little crackling shake, trying to look stern.
Abe took another fortifying sip of coffee. "Yes, go on."
He stood there and leaned against the sink and listened to his boyfriend read the paper to him.
Apparently, Mrs. Rongst had been trying to clear out some things, and she'd donated to the sale anonymously. The jewelry had been hers, and she'd accidentally included the book as well as a few other things.
"He must have been furious about that," said Abe, wincing at the thought of an angry husband. "And I suppose when he saw it at the auction, he couldn't quite conceal his horror?"
"I suspect he concealed all he needed to conceal," said Gregory darkly. "I think your horrible ex pieced together what was going on, the same as Walter did. Either he'd seen the guy buy that exact book, or Walter had mentioned it to him, or something. Anyway, he de
finitely knew for sure that Rongst had bought that edition, unsigned, not long ago. It was so battered, it probably looked very distinctive in some way—a certain nick here or there. Since he was into books, he'd be more likely to remember something like that. Walter knew it in seconds.
"Anyway, he knew for sure this book wasn't autographed when he'd seen it last, and that Rongst had slipped up in his forging by letting it get there. Lenard probably taunted him about it, and that was what Mary saw. Then he bid an outrageous sum so he could win the book and expose Rongst. He knew Walter would back him up, and Rongst would get into huge trouble. Did he do it get rid of a book rival, or for some other reason?"
"He wouldn't have needed a reason to ruin someone's career," said Abe reluctantly. "Especially if they were forging things. If there was one thing that Lenard cared about, it was valuable collectibles." Probably more than he cared about most of the people in his life.
"That probably wasn't the first time Rongst faked something," Gregory went on. "The odds of the one book he's ever forged being the one his wife donated? Not likely. And nobody would trust an art dealer who's been caught forging things, even once. He might have ended up facing jail time after he was discovered."
Abe shuddered. "That could certainly be enough to make him desperate."
Gregory scanned the paper. "The rest of this is speculation." He set it aside. "My guess is that Rongst took a chance when Lenard's back was turned and dumped some vape juice into his Starbucks. It was probably a spur of the moment vengeful decision, and then he tried to bid high enough to win the book. But he underestimated how high Lenard would bid. He probably didn't know he would actually kill him—but he may have meant to."
Abe thought of that fierce anger aimed at Lenard. He felt sick thinking about it, even though Lenard hadn't been his favorite person in the world.
"I can't believe it's over. Well, at least—I suppose we'll learn more when he goes on trial, but that could be ages." He sounded wistful and sad. He looked at Gregory. "Why do I feel like I'm going to cry?"
Gregory put down the paper and took Abe's coffee cup, set it on the counter, then wrapped his arms around Abe gingerly. "Because you care," said Gregory simply, and kissed his temple, rubbing a big, strong hand on his back in comforting circles. "You always care, even when people aren't worth it."
Abe wondered if he was right. He leaned gratefully against Gregory's chest and just breathed. Lenard was dead. His murder was solved. There was nothing to figure out, or say or do, except perhaps attend the funeral. He supposed he ought to at least do that—but he wasn't going unless Gregory would go with him. That would be the only way he could stand it.
"GREGORY," SAID ABE softly, holding his sketching tablet some time later. "Do you think I'm psychic?"
"Why? Because you were worried about poison at the bake sale?" Gregory looked up from his potting table and the mess he was making with soil and seeds. He grinned wryly. "I'm not sure that's quite enough to convince me, babe."
"How about this?" Abe held up the sketch he'd done the other day, doodling after he'd been talking to Jeffries, trying to get him to tell Abe what the poison had been.
"You drew smoke," said Gregory blankly, staring at the page. He grinned. "Aw, baby! My psychic detective!" He moved towards Abe with his dirty hands, waggling his fingers in his direction.
Abe dodged him, giggling. "Would you stop? This is serious!"
"You'll have to open a consulting firm. Take on cases the police can't solve."
Abe abandoned his dignity, yelped, and dashed away as Gregory ran after him.
IT WAS HARD TO GET through the funeral. It was surprisingly difficult to hear anyone say anything nice about Lenard. He almost regretted coming.
It was also shocking to see just how few people had shown up. It looked like at least one of Lenard's siblings had attended, although Abe couldn't know for certain since the woman sat in the back, lips pressed together grimly, and didn't speak to or acknowledge anyone. She had the same profile as Lenard, though.
Edward was there, but he looked like he wanted to bolt. Only Fred's arm around his shoulders seemed to steady him. Abe was glad to see the two of them getting along.
Of the few people who attended the funeral, Abe didn't recognize most of them. He stopped and spoke with Mr. Walter, who had attended in a truly ancient-looking dark suit and tie, and one of his and Lenard's old co-workers whom he still recognized. She was not exactly a friend, but she'd cared about Lenard, and it seemed polite to say hello.
Afterwards, Abe managed to speak with Edward for a minute.
"What an awful service!" Edward shuddered. "I wouldn't wish that even on Len."
"No, me either," agreed Abe, but he wasn't sure he meant it. Being murdered was worse than a poorly turned out funeral. That was what he hadn't wished on Lenard. But either Abe was feeling curmudgeonly, or his kind wishes only went so far; he saw no reason Lenard shouldn't have an unpleasant funeral. Abe felt sorrier for himself, having to sit through the thing. "I'm glad to see Fred came with you."
"Yes, he—oh, he's been so kind." Edward looked flustered and shy, happy and a little guilty, as if he wasn't yet sure he was allowed to be happy.
"It'll get easier," said Abe. "Be kind to yourself. You're allowed to move on and have a good life. You're very young, you know—there's a lot of life left to live."
"I don't feel young," said Edward, but he looked like he wanted to believe Abe. Spontaneously, he moved in for a gentle hug. "Thanks. For your help. For everything. I'm not sure what I'd have done."
He didn't elaborate, and he didn't need to. Abe nodded and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I hope you won't think I'm a pushy old thing if I suggest therapy? I know it's helped me a lot." He smiled apologetically.
Edward nodded quickly, biting his lip and reaching up to wipe at his eyes. "I think I'm going to try that. I have a lot of mixed-up feelings."
"That's completely normal. Oh, by the way! I forgot to tell you how much the books earned." He shared the number and watched Edward's brows rise briefly in an impressed look. "Do you still want to give it to charity?"
"Oh, yes. I don't want anything to do with those awful books of his, especially now that I know he was killed over a book." He shuddered. "You pick the charity."
"You're sure?"
Edward nodded.
"All right. I wanted to pass it by you, but I'd pretty much settled on the Rainbow Railroad. You know them, right? The organization that helps LGBT people get out of countries where they can be hurt or killed just for existing."
"Oh! Yes. What a good choice." Edward looked at him with new respect. "I think Len would appreciate that, but even if he doesn't—I think it's a wonderful choice." He cleared his throat and glanced back at Fred, who was watching them with concern but staying back unless he was needed. "Thank you, Abe. I've got to go now." Edward's smile was gentle but a little cracked, and tears swam in his eyes. It had been a lot for him to deal with, this funeral and everything else that went with it.
Abe said goodbye and watched as Fred and Edward left together. Fred seemed enamored and tender, which was just the medicine Abe thought Edward needed.
Abe turned away to look for Gregory so they could get out of there, too. Somehow or other, Gregory had gotten talking to the rector, apparently about the church's flowers. Gregory probably had some great permaculture design ideas for him. Abe imagined Gregory filling the churchyard with fragrant bushes bursting with flowers to comfort grieving souls: peonies, lilacs, roses. Perhaps some bees as well. He loved the world Gregory lived in, where hard edges and cold realities could be softened with beautiful growing things, where people could change and heal. Abe believed in that world now, too.
"There you are," said Detective Jeffries.
"Oh! I didn't see you here. Were you sitting in the back?" Abe held out a hand cautiously, wondering if Jeffries had been here as a police observer or out of his own curiosity.
"You're like a bad penny," observed Detective Jeffries.
"Or maybe a lucky one." He shook Abe's hand, so he couldn't be too annoyed with him. "It's beginning to look like a habit, your helping to solve cases."
Abe couldn't help being flattered, but he hoped he didn't blush too obviously. "It was lucky, that's all. I'm glad if I was a help, not a hindrance."
"The book cracked it, and you got the book into the hands of just the right man who could identify the forgery, so, lucky or not, it helped." Jeffries seemed a lot friendlier than usual. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he hesitated.
Then Gregory was there. He put an arm around Abe's shoulders protectively. He seemed jealous, Abe thought incredulously. "He cares," said Gregory. "Abe just doesn't stop trying because he doesn't stop caring."
Abe and Gregory glanced at one another, and something intimate passed between them, a gentle understanding. Gregory saw and liked Abe for who he was, and didn't see him as a fragile worrywart; he saw him as a passionate man with a good heart.
"I wish everyone cared," said Jeffries with uncharacteristic sincerity. He gave them a nod and a rueful smile, then moved on.
"Don't be jealous," said Abe to Gregory when they were alone. "You know I couldn't be interested in him when I've got you."
Gregory pressed a kiss against Abe's temple, half affection, half marking his territory, thought Abe with amusement. "I know that. I just want him to know it."
Abe laughed, delighted. "You can't think he was interested in me. You know he isn't. He was just saying hello. Probably wanted to ask me about Ollie and couldn't get up the nerve."
"I think he's over Ollie. I think he's set his sights on someone else." Gregory sounded grim. "Well, he'll just have to look elsewhere."
"You know, I've never seen you jealous before," observed Abe. He felt quite deliciously treasured. "But I'm sure you're wrong about him. He tolerates me, that's all."
"Hm. Well, he can tolerate you from a distance."
Abe snuggled against his side as they walked to the car together slowly. He knew very well he was the sort of man people didn't look at twice, while Gregory was the one who turned heads. But it meant a lot to him, all the same.
Poison at the Bake Sale Page 15
