As I scrutinized every inch of the rich leather and thick, soft vellum, I had to admit that I was starting to feel guilty for keeping the book when I knew that Rod wanted it back so badly. Clearly, Sara had had no business giving it to me, but she had, and now that she was gone, I was determined to keep the book as her last treasured gift to me.
Was that wrong? Was I just getting back at Rod for screwing up our lives all those years ago? Probably. But I wasn’t about to tell him that, no matter how guilt-ridden I might feel about keeping it. Because frankly, the book didn’t mean anything to him—except a hefty amount of cash. But to me The Three Musketeers was a symbol of a happy time in my life when Sara and Heather and I were the best of friends and inseparable. Those days were gone, of course, but the memories were still vivid.
Didn’t friendship weigh more than money in the greater scheme of things? Of course it did. That was my story, anyway, and I was sticking to it.
I opened up the book and gazed at the endpapers, which featured a fascinating, colorful illustration of Paris in the 1600s. In those days, the government and much of the town centered in and around the Île de la Cité, the island in the middle of the Seine. It showed a heavily fortified drawbridge and high-walled buildings along the shores of the river.
Turning to the title page, I studied the information listed there.
I hadn’t noticed it last time, but the title page felt slightly thicker than the page before it. That happened once in a while with old books that contained illustrations. The illustration page might be slightly more fragile than the pages with print on them, depending on the type of picture and the method used to transfer it to the page.
I stared more closely at the title page through the magnifying glass. Frowning, I removed the cotton gloves and walked over to my workshop sink to wash my hands. I wanted to actually feel the pages and I couldn’t do that while wearing the gloves. Returning to the book, I stared at the page again, then ran my fingers over the paper, comparing the thickness of the title page to the ones on either side.
“Something’s wrong.” I set the book down on the table, still open to the title page. Lifting the magnifying glass again, I examined the inside margin, or gutter. Without taking the book apart, this was as close as I could get to where the pages were sewn together.
And then I saw it.
My cell phone rang suddenly and I checked the number before answering. “Inspector Lee. Just the person I was about to call.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I’ve got some questions for you, but you go first.”
“Okay. I was just examining my copy of The Three Musketeers, the book I showed you last night.”
“What about it?”
“It’s a fake.”
Chapter Nine
“What?” Inspector Lee shouted into the phone.
“A forgery,” I repeated, praying that my hearing would return soon. I couldn’t blame Janice for being shocked. So was I. “A fake. They did a really good job and the book is beautiful regardless, but it’s been altered to show an earlier date.”
“Which would make it more valuable.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re sure?”
I frowned. “Uh, yes.”
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I should know better than to question you. But damn, Brooklyn.”
“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too.” And now I wondered if Sara had done the forgery work herself or if Rod had paid to have it done. Or had they purchased it that way? Had the two of them been duped as well? Maybe Sara didn’t realize it was fake when she gave it to me.
I hoped that was the case because I hated to think that she had deliberately altered a nearly impeccable work of art, just to raise the price even more. Never mind that it was a criminal offense.
I quickly calculated how much the book would be worth, given that it was a forgery. Everything about it was still beautiful, and if I had enough time, I could track down the provenance of the book and determine its actual value. Off the top of my head, I guessed it would be closer to the forty- to fifty-thousand-dollar range, maybe less. Since I couldn’t be sure and since I was leaving on my honeymoon in a few days, I decided that the best thing to do would be to leave the book with Ian McCullough at the Covington Library. He would be able to arrange an appraisal faster than I could.
Another question occurred to me an instant later. Was this the reason Rod had tried to get the book back? Had he known it was fake all along? Had he lied to Sara about it?
An additional thought chilled me to my bones. Was the forged book the motive for Sara’s murder?
I shook off the chills and came back to the conversation with Inspector Lee. “So why were you calling me?”
“Oh, yeah,” Inspector Lee said, apparently just as sidetracked as I was. “Not sure it’s still relevant now, but it’s important that we investigate every possibility.”
“Of course.”
“So I’d like you to tell me everything you know about Heather Babcock.”
“Heather? So you think she’s—”
“A suspect,” she said flatly. “Everyone is until further notice. I promise I’ll try to clear her as soon as possible, but for now, I’ve got to do the groundwork.”
“I know, I know.” I rolled my shoulders to shake off the tension. “I think I’ve already told you everything I know about her. She works for the city library in Valley Heart, Wisconsin. She does everything for them. Preservation and conservation, book restoration, collections, archiving. She probably reads stories to the children on Saturday mornings.”
“Did she ever mention anything about an anonymous donor?”
I felt the lines on my forehead furrow in confusion and quickly changed expressions. My mother’s warning from a few days ago was still hanging over me. “No. She’s never said anything about a donor, anonymous or otherwise.”
“Apparently they’ve got someone sending anonymous cashier’s checks directly to Heather.”
I stared at the phone for a moment. “I have no idea what that means.”
“An anonymous donor is someone who donates money anonymously.”
I smiled. Inspector Lee could be such a smart-ass sometimes, but it was part of her charm. “I know what it means in terms of an organization, but what you’re saying is that Heather herself has an anonymous donor. All her own?”
“She doesn’t keep the money,” Janice explained. “But she gets credit for it, which translates to a small check to Heather at the end of each year. The donor has told the city that the only reason she’s giving them money is because of Heather, so this person insists that Heather gets a piece of the action.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah. Except that a while back, the city was concerned enough to call in the local cops. They looked into it for a while, but finally closed the case. Couldn’t see any evidence of her stealing money.”
“But they had to make a point of telling you,” I muttered.
“Hey, we cops stick together.”
“Yeah, yeah. Meanwhile, Heather’s under suspicion until proven innocent.” But I was getting ahead of myself. Heather was still under suspicion until we figured out who killed Sara.
“Everyone’s under suspicion at this point,” Janice said, echoing what I’d just been thinking.
Something still bothered me about Heather’s situation back home. “Don’t you think it’s weird that her city library would call in the cops? Maybe Heather was simply helping this donor person on the side and they took a liking to her.”
“What kind of stuff would she be doing?”
“I don’t know.” I waved one hand in the air as if she could see me groping for an explanation. “Maybe she was repairing their books. Or calling them whenever a new book came in so they could get first dibs. Heck, maybe she was mowing their lawn.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, maybe. But . . . Just a sec, Brooklyn,” she said as someone in the background spoke to her for a minute. Finally she said, “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. When will we talk again?”
“Yeah, I’ll miss you, too.”
“You know you’re crazy, right?”
“Funny. I wasn’t before I met you.” She chuckled, obviously cracking herself up. “I’ll call you in a while. I want to see that book again.”
We hung up and I went back to work on the book, where my resentment over the forgery began to fester all over again. But before I could begin to deal with it, my phone buzzed. It was Heather texting me back. “Finally,” I whispered.
“I can meet you at the coffee kiosk in fifteen minutes,” she texted.
I replied, “I’ll see you there.”
I quickly cleaned off my table, then grabbed the books and returned them to the safe. I ran to get dressed and was out the door in under ten minutes.
* * *
• • •
Heather took a sip of her vanilla latte and slowly shook her head. “I still can’t believe she’s gone. It’s just surreal, isn’t it?”
“That’s a good word for it,” I agreed. Heather had begged to hear more about how Derek and I had found Sara under the books in the basement. I hadn’t given her all the gory details but it was enough for her to realize how awful it was.
She rubbed her arms. “Thinking of her in that cold dark room. It gives me the chills.”
“Yeah, me, too.” But I forced a smile, more than ready to change the subject. “So how did you and Rod find each other the other day?”
“I literally ran into him inside the book room. I was browsing, walking up and down the aisles, and suddenly he was standing in front of me. It was such a shock.”
“That’s amazing. You keep running into people by accident. That’s how we found each other.”
“I’m so glad we did,” she said.
“Yeah, me, too.” I took a sip of my decaf latte. I didn’t dare order more caffeine after all the agitation I’d gone through earlier today. “So anyway, I’m dying to hear more about your conversation with Rod.”
She smiled and I could tell she was in a reminiscing mood. “It was great, Brooklyn. He’s been really successful as a book dealer.”
“That’s what I understand.”
“He said that he fumbled around with different jobs for a few years. Worked in a couple of libraries. You know how it is.”
“I sure do,” I said with a grin.
“But as soon as he started buying and selling books, he found his calling. So that’s nice.”
“I’ll say. Did you talk about the old days?”
“Only enough to give him grief for dumping me the way he did.” She glanced around, then lowered her voice. “He told me that he and Sara almost got a divorce more than once. She was very suspicious and jealous of anyone he was friends with, especially women. Obviously.”
“Right. Can’t blame her for that.”
“I know, right? I call it poetic justice. I mean, because she was constantly jealous. It’s only fair that she would mistrust every other woman since she was so untrustworthy back then.” She frowned guiltily. “But now that she’s dead, I feel bad for thinking that about her.”
“I know.” I sighed. “I have those same sorts of thoughts about her, too. Basically, I blamed her for everything that happened. Don’t get me wrong; I blamed Rod, too. But she’s the one who destroyed our friendship and she hurt you so badly. The entire thing was really painful.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Heather said. “For years I dreamed of running into her and smacking her right across the face. And then we’d have this knock-down, drag-out fight, and finally we’d start laughing and end up friends again. Now that’ll never happen. And that makes me really sad.”
My own eyes were tearing up and I was having a hard time picturing Heather as a killer. Still, it would be smart to keep some perspective. Nevertheless, I reached out and squeezed her hand. “That is so sweet. Not the part about smacking her, but about being friends again.”
She sniffled, then gave a short chuckle. “I know. I’m really bummed.”
“Yeah.”
She gazed at me. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Agreed.” We sipped our drinks for a long moment, then I said, “So. Have you heard from Gus yet?”
“I have.” And just like that, her expression changed completely. She was radiant. “I saw him for breakfast this morning.”
“Breakfast.” I smiled. “The guy moves fast.”
“He does. I can hardly believe it’s happening so quickly, but it’s wonderful. He told me he’s never felt like this before.”
“After one day? Wow. What about you?”
Heather took a deep breath as if trying to settle herself. “Honestly, Brooklyn, I’ve never felt this way before, either. We’re going out again tonight and spending Saturday morning together. Saturday night he has a thing with his parents so I won’t be able to see him. But he’s promised to call me.”
“That’s really nice, Heather. He seems like a good guy.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “Brooklyn, he wants to visit me and see what Valley Heart is like.”
“Whoa. Forget about moving fast, this guy is moving at warp speed.” Maybe a little too fast? I wondered.
“I know.” Heather looked as concerned as I felt. But she deserved to meet someone fabulous and have some happiness in her life. Unless of course she was guilty of murder, in which case she deserved to spend her life in prison.
“He’s a great guy,” she continued, “but I’m a little scared. Mainly because I feel the same way. I just want to spend all my time with him.”
“I know exactly how that feels,” I said, thinking of Derek. “It’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it?”
“The best in the world.” She flashed a shy smile. “He says he doesn’t mind moving to Wisconsin if it means he can be with me. He says he can work anywhere and make a good living.”
“That’s true enough.” Paramedics would be welcomed into any town.
She laughed. “So in case it didn’t sink in, let me repeat that I’m free tomorrow night. What are you doing? Can you get together?”
“Oh, Heather, I’m so sorry,” I moaned. “It’s the rehearsal dinner.”
“Oh, no, I’m a space cadet. I totally forgot about your wedding. Sorry.” She laughed. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Why don’t you come to the dinner? You know some of my family and I would love to introduce you to the rest of them. And it would give you something to do while you pine away for Gus.”
She swatted my arm. “It’s not so bad that I’m pining. Oh, all right, it is that bad. But I would love to come if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I’ll text you the directions and we’ll see you at six o’clock.”
“Thank you so much, Brooklyn.” Heather jumped up from the table and grabbed me in a warm hug. “Can you believe how much our lives are changing? I’m so happy I came to the conference and found you. And Gus.”
“Me, too.” And I would be a lot happier when I was certain she wasn’t Sara’s killer.
* * *
• • •
As I walked home, my phone dinged, indicating a new email. At the stoplight I checked and found a group message from the Librarians Association announcing that there would be a memorial service for Sara in the conference center at three o’clock that afternoon.
What a nice idea, I thought, and picked up my pace. I had almost two hours before I had to be back for the service and I wanted to take a shower and dress nicely.
On a whim, I called Inspector Lee back to tell her about the service, just in case she wanted to observe any buggy behavior.
“You know,” I said. “People get buggy when they’re guilty, haven’t you noticed? It’s possible that the murderer could show up and completely flip out after hearing Sara’s eulogy.”
“You’re the only one acting buggy,” she said, snickering. “But that’s part of your charm.”
Smiling to myself, I said, “I know there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
She laughed, and after we agreed to meet at the designated time, I disconnected the call.
I arrived home just as Derek drove into the garage. We road in the elevator together and I told him about the service. He offered to go with me.
“I would love that,” I said. “You’re my hero.”
I dashed off to take a shower and was ready in record time. But while I’d been showering, Derek had gotten caught up in a conference call with his office. As I waited for him to finish, I strolled back to my studio to spend a few minutes on my computer, checking out all the photos that my bookbinding students and tour participants had sent me.
There were some great shots of the bookbinding class I’d taught and a few of me during my speech on book conservation. I must admit I looked quite professorial. There were some selfies taken by the Purple Sweater Woman on the bus tour, who also took a beautiful shot of my mom and Meg laughing. I caught myself sniffling sentimentally at the two of them looking so happy and so pretty. I copied that photo to another file and wrote myself a note to make copies for both of them. I wouldn’t have time to do it myself and also frame the shots before the wedding, but I would send one to each of them after the honeymoon. I knew they would love it.
I began arranging the pictures in chronological order, and as I opened up more photos and lined them up on my screen, a strange pattern began to emerge. Or maybe I was just too suspicious for my own good.
Wherever the wariness came from, the fact was that I kept seeing the same two men show up in the background. I probably wouldn’t have noticed them, except that they were in so many shots, and more importantly, they just didn’t look like librarians. To be honest, they looked more like thugs.
Buried in Books Page 14
