Chapter Twelve
“Where is it?” Josh Brown laughs. We drive around a huge loop in a business park filled with warehouses.
“George said it’s number four-A.” I search for numbers on the buildings. “Look that’s number fifteen-B, so we passed it. I bet this road will circle back, and we’ll find it.”
We drive on. “It looks nice in the day time, but it would be kind of spooky if you were here alone working late,” I comment. “Wonder how often George does that?”
“He’s in the city most days, so probably not a lot.” Josh slows down and parks. “That’s George’s car over there.” He refers to the only other parked vehicle on this late Sunday morning.
We press the bell at four-A several times, as well as knock. Finally, we just go ahead and open the unlocked door, entering a front office with several chairs and a desk covered with disorganized piles of papers.
“George,” Josh calls out in a booming voice. No answer, except banging sounds coming from the back of the building. “Come on.”
We head down a short hallway leading to a cavernous warehouse with a fifty foot ceiling. Row after row of towering book cases fill the vast space. The sound of boxes being pushed and tossed comes from somewhere toward the other end of the building.
“George!” Josh calls again.
We hear a sudden crashing sound of what could be books falling to the floor, and then, “Damn! Damn! Shit!” That’s followed by some loud huffing and the sound of boxes being pushed across a floor. Then a loud noise of something knocking into a bookcase. “Damn! Mother Mary…”
“George,” I call out. “Are you alright?”
“Ronnie, is that you?” he calls back, making a racket as he moves through the stacks.
“Yes, and Josh, too.” I walk down the long center aisle asking, “What on earth are you doing?”
George peers around a corner looking a bit flustered. “I was on a ladder and lost my balance trying to lift a few stacks of books onto an empty shelf. The books crashed down, and I almost fell off the ladder.” He’s out of breath. “Close call.”
“I didn’t know a rare book warehouse could be such a dangerous place.” Josh cracks up.
Eager to change the subject, George turns down another aisle and signals us to follow. “Hey, you two, come see Win’s damaged prize!”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Josh says.
Once we reach an open area in the warehouse, George leads us to a desk and several large tables piled with books and files. Behind the desk is an open wall safe. He reaches in and pulls out a small green Moroccan leather slipcase. The container leaves one side open to reveal the hardcover’s binding with its title. He carries it to a table, where he pushes things aside to make space for the container. Josh and I move closer. Even I, who knows almost nothing about book collecting, can hardly wait to see what he has.
George carefully removes the book from its case, and I ask, “Is that really Win’s book?” He holds it up to show us the mint-condition front of the dust jacket covering the little book. The jacket itself is encased in its own protective clear Mylar cover.
“Here it is.” He holds it up.
“What in the world makes this book worth almost half a million dollars?” I ask. “It’s unbelievable that someone would pay that much.”
“Well, the fact that it probably has the most famous dust jacket of all time goes a long way,” Josh says. “This cover with the woman’s eyes staring out of a dark cobalt sky is iconic. The illustrator Francis Cugat created it…the brother of the drummer, by the way.” He looks at the small volume, his eyes filled with yearning. “And it looks like this book’s in perfect condition.”
“Well, it was.” George flips the book to the back side to show us an ugly gash torn through the plastic cover and the paper dust jacket. “And check out this bruised corner.” He points to one of the book’s hard cover corners that looks crushed. “The thief may have dropped it, and on its way down it could have slammed up against a sharp object or edge and then bounced on the floor.”
“What a shame,” I say. “Can it be repaired?”
“We’ll see. It’s going to my restoration guy later in the week.”
All of us look quietly at the no-longer-as-priceless volume until the phone rings. George almost jumps when he grabs it. “Give me a sec.” He looks at the display. “I’ve got to take this.”
He turns his back on us and nervously walks down an aisle. All we can hear when he picks up is a tense, “Why are you calling me here?” and then his voice turns into mumbles.
“Ronnie, take a look at the back of the dust jacket.” Josh points to the blurb on the back. “See, line fourteen has a lower case j in the name jay Gatsby, and it’s been corrected by hand with a capital J in ink.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “How do you know all of this?”
“I’ve been collecting twentieth century American lit since college, and you learn along the way,” he says.
“Do you own this particular book?”
“I have a first edition of The Great Gatsby that I bought right after law school, thirty years ago when the prices were much lower. And mine has no dust jacket.” Josh smiles. “If I were starting out today, I could not afford a first edition Gatsby.”
“Oh, come on, Josh.” George chuckles as he returns to us, more relaxed than when he took the call.
“Okay, back to this once-perfect dust jacket,” I say. “How does that make this book worth almost five-hundred-thousand?”
“It’s one part of the total equation.” George carefully opens it to the title page. “And the book itself is in perfect condition. It contains all the verifiable first edition errors in the text.”
“Such as?”
“Well, Josh described the mistake on the back of the dust jacket,” George answers, and then he quickly checks off the others verbally.
“There’s got to be more to this exorbitant price than those mistakes,” I say. “I mean, come on, this isn’t the Gutenberg Bible.” I look at my two friends. “Right?”
“Many experts consider it the great American novel.” George turns back to a flyleaf. “What takes this volume over the top is a handwritten inscription inside the book from F. Scott Fitzgerald himself. He wrote it to the recipient, and stated that he served as a partial model for Jay Gatsby. Take a look at it.”
“Given the way Fitzgerald wrote that character,” I add as I study his precise and looping handwriting, “I’m not sure I’d take that as a compliment.”
“Nonetheless, it makes the book unique and very special,” Josh answers.
“Does Win hope to sell the book at a profit—so it has to be perfect—or does he own it for sentimental reasons?” I ask.
“Win inherited some old books from his father,” Josh says. “That’s what got him started collecting. That, and he’s a voracious reader.”
“Whatever the reason, I’ve been trying to talk him into selling for some time.” George puts the book back in its slipcase. “I’ve got someone who’s been looking to fill in an excellent F. Scott Fitzgerald collection with a Gatsby volume of this quality and importance.”
Josh and I stare at George as he quietly places the box inside the open safe without saying another word.
“Come on, George,” I plead. “You can’t leave us hanging. Who is it? Do we know him or her?”
“That must stay confidential, my dear!” the dealer answers, an air of mystery in his voice. “Now take a look at this.”
George picks up an old leather-bound book from a pile on his desk and turns it every which-way. “At first glance, this looks like?”
“A very old book?” I offer.
“A beautiful, well-preserved old book,” Josh adds. “With gilt edged pages.”
The book dealer’s face lights up, and he uses his fingers to separate the hard cover from the gilt pages. He holds the book up like a tray, and Josh and I stand next to him as he slightly bends the entire body of interior
pages. That bending causes them to fan slightly. The solid gold edges turn into a beautiful painted landscape of buildings along the water. He lets go of the pages, causing the scene to disappear.
“That is magical,” I say. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
George closes the book. “It’s called fore-edge painting. This picture is not actually on the surface of the book’s edge when you see it closed.” He gives the book to Josh, who repeats the slight bending of the gilt pages to reveal the scene once again.
“What’s the process to create the painting?” I ask, amazed.
“Well, the artist starts with a book that already has all edges gilt,” George says. “Then he puts the book in a vice that fans out the pages so that he can paint the scene. Unless you fan the pages, you don’t see the painting, as with this book.”
Josh gives the book back to George, who continues, “This one is going to a college library with a substantial collection of these fore-edge painted books.”
“Do you have any more of these?” I ask. “This is much more fun that looking at The Great Gatsby.”
Chapter Thirteen
As I zip up my dress, I almost trip over a small, furry ball of energy spinning around my feet, carrying one of my shoes in her mouth. “No, Peach.” The terrier freezes and stares at me.
I lean down to encourage her to release the shoe. “Not these. They’re a gift from Juliana.” She lets go, and I slip that shoe and its nearby mate onto my feet.
“How do I look, Warrior?” I twirl once in my black cocktail dress. Warrior, in his attentive sit-position, woofs twice, and I laugh. It’s part of our regular routine before I go out for the evening. Peach, sitting next to the German shepherd and now holding onto her squirrel-toy, eyes me as I check my outfit one final time in the full-length mirror inside my closet.
The closet is the size of a small bedroom, because that’s what it was before I remodeled. It was my big splurge when I renovated my guest cottage almost two years ago. After all, I’m a downsizing-empty-nester.
It’s not that I own a boatload of clothes—I gave most of them away when I was laid off from my corporate job at a cable network a couple of years ago. But I like being able to actually see the clothes I’ve kept, instead of having them stuffed inside a small closet where they hang forgotten most of the time. This bedroom-into-closet redo was my answer to the eternal complaint of almost all women—not enough closet space!
I’ve had this dress for years. It’s a classic form-fitting, but not too tight, sleeveless sheath. I check the modest off-center slit at the hem. It’s just enough to show off the lovely sheer black stockings leading down to the even lovelier black pumps on my feet.
I turn profile to the mirror to get a look at the iconic red soles of these Christian Louboutin shoes. Even though I’m a confirmed admirer of Juliana’s out-of-sight shoe wardrobe, I would never have indulged in a pair myself, always joking about my achy fifty-something feet. Then my wonderful sister-in-law took me shoe shopping for my most recent birthday.
I remember a moment of disappointment upon first entering the Madison Avenue store in Manhattan, reminding myself that my feet would never tolerate the mile-high heels usually associated with Louboutins. Juliana saved the day when she spotted just the right pair at a more realistic, almost kitten-heel height. The sling-backs were love at first sight.
Channeling the elegant Audrey Hepburn in her classic black Breakfast at Tiffany’s cocktail dress, I grab my black cashmere shawl, a small clutch, and head out the door.
~~~~~
On the way to Jamie’s party, I pick up Juliana since Frank is out of town. During the drive over, I click on “Smooth Operator” by Sade, a favorite of mine from the 1980s.
Juliana and I sing along with Sade’s smoky voice as we cross a small bridge and the view opens up. There above the treetops, we glimpse the silhouette of an imposing mansion at the top of the hill. A Gilded Age financier constructed the stately home at the beginning of the twentieth century.
The jazzy sound of Sade accompanies us as the Mustang drives up to Sheffield Hall.
As my car approaches the hilltop, I feel unfamiliar butterflies at the thought of seeing him. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt goose bumps on my arms because of a man. I laugh.
“What?” Juliana asks.
“Oh, nothing.” It’s nice to be my age and still feel like a twenty-something over a man.
I turn the car into the long u-shaped entrance with a pool running up the middle. Spotlights feature water splashing from six fountains in the pool. Even if this were considered a McMansion back in its day, a century later this beautiful entry is definitely working its magic on me.
I give the car to valet parking while Juliana hands over our shawls. “You’re expecting a big crowd?” I ask, distractedly, putting my valet ticket in a small pocket.
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl with our shawls answers. When I look up, I first notice long hair the same shade of red as my niece, Laura, and just as wild, too. I do a double-take as she rotates back to me.
“I know you,” I exclaim to the petite, young woman. “Sally from Alessandro Rare Books, right?”
We both smile, and Sally gives me a ticket for my shawl. “Good to see you, Mrs. Lake.” There’s a twinge of sadness in her voice, and I detect circles under her eyes that I didn’t see the other day.
“Are you alright?” I ask in a quiet voice. I suppose she could be a student working multiple jobs to pay her way through college.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she answers. “I’m just reeeeally worried about Casey. I still don’t know what’s happened to him.” Her voice quivers. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course you’re worried,” I say. “He’s your friend. I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.” Juliana looks on sympathetically, and she and I turn to walk away.
“What was that about?” she whispers.
“Tell you later,” I whisper back.
We walk down an enormous grand hall leading to equally enormous rooms where other guests float in and out, many visibly gawking at the elegant surroundings. On the walls, ancient tapestries alternate with massive paintings, some showing bloody battle scenes and others populated with mythical figures. Massive porcelain animals and vases sit on oversized tables placed against the walls.
The loud sound of voices coming from the end of the hall draws Juliana and me toward the largest room of all. We look through colossal double doors at what was perhaps once a gigantic ballroom. We step inside and find ourselves on a landing at the top of a grand stairway that swoops down both left and right to a crowd of perhaps a hundred-and-fifty people. I scan the lengthy room and imagine myself waltzing its entire length.
We walk down the long marble steps and at the bottom a waiter offers us either a glass of champagne or bubbly water. We both opt for the water.
Juliana nudges my arm. “I hear some wonderful jazz. Come on, let’s find it.”
As we walk down the length of the room toward the music, both of us scan the crowd. “Do you see anyone you know?” my sister-in-law asks.
“Not a soul.”
“But you grew up here. You and Frank know everyone in town.”
“Not anymore. A lot of people have moved into the area, and Jamie told me that he encourages the people he invites to bring friends. He’s the host, but even he may not know all of these people.”
“How odd.” Juliana links her arm in mine and guides me toward the musicians playing in one corner of the room. We manage to politely work our way close to the trio and enjoy an up-tempo number played by a keyboardist, bass player, and guitarist. Soon, more people drift over to listen and watch. The music features each of the musicians’ improvisational solos, and we can’t help but catch snippets of conversation coming from several people further back in the crowd.
“Where’d he get all the dough to buy this place?” a gravelly voice asks.
“I heard he made it in tech,” a nasally female voice ans
wers.
Juliana and I give each other a sideways glance. I mouth, Don’t look. We stare straight ahead, smiling.
“Must cost a lot of dough to run this joint,” the gravelly voice says. “What do you figure his overhead is?” His long, deep smoker’s cough jars us, and we grimace in unison.
The woman answers, “I betcha it’s a million bucks a year to take care of this place, pay for all the parties, hire all these people. Think about what we spend, Vito. Our house is huge, but not this huge.”
A different female voice, this one husky, pipes up. “Russians.”
“Russians what?” Vito asks.
“Freddy says Jamie Gordon went into business with some Russians.” the husky voice answers.
“Mob-type guys?”
“Maybe,” she says. “Anyway, that’s where he made his dough.”
“Have you met him?”
“No, but Freddy knows him a little, I think,” the woman says. “Hey, enough with this music. I need a smoke.”
“Yeah,” Vito agrees. “Let’s find a place.”
Juliana and I watch the trio leave. We do the same, but in a different direction.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” Juliana says as we cross the room.
“What do you mean?”
“What those people were saying about how Jamie Gordon made his money. You know, the Russian mob and all that.”
“Any time someone has made a lot of money and lives like this…” I sweep my arm around the room, “…the stories are bound to swirl. Most of the time it’s all rumors.”
“I’m glad you see it that way,” Juliana says as we walk through an immense arched doorway into a banquet-sized dining room.
We stare at an old, mammoth, dark wood table that anchors the center of the room and is laden with food. “Perfect to seat thirty,” Juliana quips.
A line forms at one corner of the antique table where people pick up forks, napkins, and small plates, before they make their way around to choose from endless platters of hors d’oevres. We walk up to the line and stand behind three non-stop chattering women who are about Juliana’s age.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 8
