by Perry, Meg
"Huh. Well, thank you for letting me know. I appreciate the follow up."
"Sure, no problem." The detectives left. I carried the copy of the fragment back into my office and tucked it into my computer bag. So the police hadn’t consulted anyone at UCLA after all. Interesting. I knew a couple of antique book dealers; I wondered which one they’d shown the paper to.
I had an idea.
November
The next Saturday, it was sunny but cool. We didn’t have anything planned, and slept in. When we woke up, we amused each other in bed for a while. Afterwards, Pete yawned and stretched. "Well, I guess we'd better get up. We could go to the farmers' market."
"I've got a better idea."
"What?"
"Field trip. How do you feel about antique books?"
There were several antique and rare book dealers in town. I knew one of them better than the others. Kendall McEwen was an Australian who had been a Rhodes Scholar a few years before me. I hadn't met him at Oxford, but at a meeting of the Oxford University Society of Los Angeles, a group for Oxford alumni. We'd hit it off, mostly due to our mutual interests in books, surfing, and rugby. He was straight as an arrow and kind of a horn dog, a big, blond guy who looked like he should be holding a can of Foster's. And he had that Aussie accent. The guy made the girls go wild, apparently. I understood the attraction.
Kendall McEwen Books was in the Palisades. When Pete and I pushed through the front door of the shop, Kendall himself was lounging on a stool behind his counter, talking on his cell phone, and drinking a bottle of water. He saw us, waved, and said to his phone, "I've got customers, mate. Gotta go." He hung up and turned to us. "Jamie! Long time! How the hell are you?"
"Doing great, K. Pete, Kendall McEwen. Kendall, Pete Ferguson, my partner."
Pete and Kendall shook hands. "Pleased to meet ya, mate." Kendall grinned at me. "Now what brings you out on a beautiful day like this?"
We pulled up stools. "I've got a story for you. See what you think." I recounted the tale of finding the dead guy with the piece of manuscript in his hand, leaving out names and details like I’d done with Conrad. Kendall listened with interest. When I finished telling him about the conversation I'd had with the police, I asked, "Was it you that they brought the page to?"
"Nope, I haven't had a visit from the cops lately. Must have been someone else. They didn't give you a name?"
"No, just said the dealer was recommended by the art theft unit."
"Hmm. Not sure who that would be." Kendall frowned. "Why would they take it there? Why not to a museum, or to your medieval scholars at the university?"
I shrugged. "I guess because the department has a relationship with whoever this dealer was, through the art theft unit. The cops like to work with people they have relationships with already, you know."
"Yeah." Kendall jumped off his stool. "Where are my manners? Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Sure, some water would be good."
"Okay." Kendall went to a back room and returned with two cold bottles of water. He sat back down. "So. How good a look did you get at this torn bit?"
"I got a very good look. It was in a plastic bag, so I couldn't feel it. But it looked old. Of course I know things can be aged to look old, but if that was the case, it was very well done. And it was definitely from an illuminated manuscript, even if it was a recently done facsimile."
Kendall mused. "I haven't heard anything about a missing page of a well-known manuscript. And that kind of news gets around in my business. Of course, from what you say, if it was missing, it's been missing for twenty or thirty years up in the old lady's attic."
"Right."
I gave Kendall the copy of the page that Belardo had given me. "This was made on a police department copier, through a plastic bag, but it's the best I could do. What do you think?"
Kendall studied the page. "The script is definitely Latin." He turned it over, then pulled out a magnifying glass and examined it more closely. "How well does the copy reproduce the colors?"
"They're a shade lighter on the copy, but the tint is pretty close."
"Huh." He kept studying it for a while. Pete got up and started browsing around the shop. I sipped my water and waited. After about five minutes, Kendall laid down the magnifying glass and straightened up. He handed the copy back to me.
"If I remember my Latin correctly, those words are from the gospel of John. The bit where Jesus is being buried in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea."
I was impressed. "I didn't know you were such a biblical scholar."
Kendall rolled his eyes. "I don't know how you managed to escape Oxford without a religious education. Anyway, the text isn't important, except that it's part of what's missing from the Book of Kells."
That got Pete's attention. "What??"
"The Book of Kells ends at John, chapter 17. This bit is from John, chapter 19. It's consistent with the section of pages that's missing from the Book of Kells."
"Consistent with. But not necessarily the actual page."
"Oh, no." But Kendall was intrigued. "This is very interesting, though. It's not a copy of the existing book, or of any of its facsimiles, like the one you've got at the university. Because this page doesn't exist in the original Book of Kells, or any of its copies. It could be that some art student took a fancy to create the rest of the book on his or her own. This could be a page from that kind of thing." He looked back at the copied page. "But the artwork and manuscript are very, very close in style to those in the original book." He handed the page back to me.
I looked at it again, lying there in my hands. "But if the cops took this to a dealer, wouldn't he have recognized the same thing?"
"Not necessarily. I don't know that any of the dealers in town are experts on illuminated manuscripts. And I very much doubt that any of them read Latin. None of the others have the benefit of an Oxford education, you know."
Pete snorted and I laughed. "Right. Well, what would you suggest that we do next?"
Kendall raised his eyebrows. "Right little detective, are you now?"
I laughed again. "No. But if this does turn out to be something extremely valuable, the police need to know that. So when they find the murderer, they won't just chuck the other section of the page. So, yeah, I'd like to find out what it is for sure, both for law enforcement purposes and to satisfy my own curiosity."
"I'd stay focused on the academic side of things. Anyone with a profit motive and a less than pristine conscience wouldn't necessarily be honest with you about this."
I grinned at him. "That's why I came here. Because your conscience is so pristine."
Kendall laughed a lot at that. "Right, mate." He sobered up a bit and pushed the copied paper back at me. "Keep me informed about what you find. If it does turn out to be something valuable, I'd love to be the one to get the commission on it."
"Absolutely."
“Have you been back to Oxford since you left?”
“No, but I’m planning to go next summer. There’s a paper I want to write, and I need to do some research in the Bodleian. And see a few friends.”
Kendall nodded. “I was back last year. Hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Are you kidding? It’s barely changed in three hundred years.”
He laughed. “True. Good to see you, mate.”
“You too.” We shook hands. "I'll be in touch."
We pushed out of the shop and walked to the car. I started the engine and turned the heat on high, then turned to Pete. "Well. Looks like we may have a bit of intrigue on our hands."
"First thing you need to do is call Belardo. Make sure he keeps that piece of evidence locked up somewhere much safer than the evidence room. If it is something worth millions of dollars, it shouldn't be that accessible."
"The evidence room is accessible?"
"Not to the general public, but you know how news gets around. And I don't know the evidence guys at Pacific Division. It's just a precaution."
"Rig
ht. As soon as we get back home."
The next morning, Pete and I picked up Kevin and Abby, and we drove down to Oceanside for my dad's birthday. We met my dad at Jeff and Val's, where Jeff already had the grill fired up. I saw Abby and Pete talking to Val for a while in the kitchen while all of us Brodie men were outside. Jeff noted it too: "All the in-laws are having a chat."
"Yeah. Probably comparing notes on the best ways to manage a Brodie."
We ate, had cake, hung out for a few hours, then headed back to LA. It was pretty late when we finally dropped into bed that night. It wasn't until then that I got a chance to ask Pete, "I saw you talking to Abby and Val in the kitchen today. We figured you must be comparing notes on the care and feeding of a Brodie boy."
Pete laughed. "Well, it started out something like that. But as it turned out, Abby wanted to ask Val and me about Jennifer."
I was surprised. "That doesn't sound like Abby. She's not jealous, is she? 'Cause she certainly has no reason to be."
"No, she's not jealous. More just curious. Kevin doesn't really say much about his past life, you know. He's the most close-mouthed of the three of you. And she hasn't ever gotten much out of him about his life during the time he was with Jennifer, and she wanted to know. So we talked about it."
“Huh. Wonder how Kevin will feel about that?”
“Dunno.” Pete had something else on his mind. I waited. Finally, he said, “Abby also said that they have until the end of the month to let the apartment manager know what you all are doing about the lease.”
“Oh. That kind of snuck up on me.”
“Yeah.” Pete looked at me. “So you need to tell them something.”
Damn. I really needed to stay. I’d been dumped so many times before…but Pete was different. I needed to trust him.
My silence wasn’t encouraging to Pete. His expression was bleak. "You're not staying."
"I didn't say that. I didn’t say anything."
"But you can't say yes, you're staying, end of story. You can't tell me that." Pete was a rock, a paragon of keeping it together, but he was starting to break down a little. It brought tears to my eyes. I sat up, facing him cross legged, and dropped my head into my hands.
"I don't know what's wrong with me. What's wrong with me?" I looked up at him in supplication. "I want to stay with you. What kind of grown man wants to go back and live with his brother instead of his boyfriend? I don't want that. But..." My voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm afraid. I'm really afraid."
I could see Pete regroup a little, moving back towards calm therapist mode. "I understand that. I do. And I know there isn't anything I can say right now that will instantly make you know that you have nothing to be afraid of. The only way you're going to believe that is by seeing it, over the coming months and years." He sat up himself, reached out and took my hands. "You've tangled with a crazy person with a gun and come out on top. You've left everything behind and moved to a foreign country." He raised my left hand and kissed my knuckles. "Have faith in yourself. And have a little faith in me. Take this next step with me. C'mon."
What other choice did I have? It was say yes, or maybe lose him forever. We looked into each other's eyes for a moment. All I saw in his was love. I took a deep breath, blew it out and nodded. "Okay."
He leaned forward; I leaned too and met him halfway. He let go of my hands and wrapped his arms around me, and buried his face in my neck. I felt tears. I rested my head on his shoulder and felt his heart pounding against mine. I wasn't much on praying, but I said one now. Please make this okay. Please make this okay.
We sat there like that for a minute, then Pete straightened up and wiped his eyes. I said, "I'm going to text Kevin." I picked up my cell off the bedside table and typed, "Going to stay here. You go for one bedroom." The reply came in about fifteen seconds. "YES!! Knew you'd do right thing. THANK YOU."
It struck me then just how unfair it would have been to Kevin and Abby to move back in with them. They'd gotten used to their privacy. They'd have to adjust to a smaller apartment, but I figured that wouldn't be a problem. Kevin hadn't said anything, but clearly he'd been hoping that I'd grow up and move out.
What had I been thinking?
Pete said, "What did Kevin say?"
"He said thank you."
Pete huffed a soft laugh. "It'll be easier for them, too, you know."
"I know. Like I said before, I really don't know what's wrong with me."
He shrugged. "You said it. You were afraid. Fear changes the chemical transmission in our brains. We don't think logically, we just run from whatever is causing the fear."
I lay down, turned on my side to face him and put my hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to try to be the best boyfriend ever. I don't want you to ever be sorry that you talked me into this."
He smiled. "Ditto, baby. Ditto." We kissed for a minute, then Pete pulled back. “You in the mood to celebrate?”
I was.
Another week went by, with no news from Belardo. One night at supper Pete said, "We've been invited to a dinner party by the co-chair of my department."
Pete was up for tenure this year. I figured that when the co-chair called, we had to go. "Who is it?"
"His name's Elliott Conklin. He teaches social psychology. He's gay, and he's getting the SMC gay crowd together for this dinner. Someone said he's got a new boyfriend to show off. Apparently he broke up with his longtime partner a few months ago, and now he's got a younger guy."
"Is Elliott an older guy?"
"He's older than us. Probably in his late forties."
"And how young is this younger guy?"
"From what I understand, he's in his early 20s."
I groaned. "Is he an actor wannabe?"
Pete laughed. "I don't know the particulars, but I'm betting yes. At least we know he's not one of our students."
I sighed. "Sure, we'll go. It's the politically correct thing to do for you right now, right?"
"Yeah, I guess. Under normal circumstances I'd think about finding an excuse to not go, but Elliott's the co-chair, and he’s on our departmental tenure committee, so..."
I held up my hand. "Say no more. I'm willing to sacrifice for your career."
Pete grinned. "Good to know."
The dinner party was a week and a half later. That evening, I looked in the closet. "What am I supposed to wear to this party? I don’t have any party clothes."
"Wear what you'd wear to work. Dockers and a dress shirt are fine."
"Will we be the most casually dressed there?"
"Probably not. I'll bet there will be a couple of guys there in jeans. Of course there will be a couple dressed like Kurt from Glee too..."
Elliott lived in Venice, in an old warehouse building that had been converted to lofts. We arrived about ten minutes late because we'd been looking for a parking space. When we got to the door, I whispered, "Any last minute instructions?"
"Nah. Just be yourself. And don't let anyone hit on you."
I looked at him in horror, but didn't get a chance to respond to that as the door opened. The man standing there was indeed in his late forties, with dark hair that had a few threads of gray and a goatee that looked like it might have met a box of Just for Men. He was dressed in an open-neck silk shirt, a linen sport coat, and lightweight slacks. His shoes were very shiny.
"Pete! So glad you could come. And this must be Jamie." He held out his hand. "Elliott Conklin. I'm delighted to finally meet you."
"My pleasure." I shook his hand; his handshake wasn't the firmest I'd ever encountered, but it wasn't too wishy washy either.
"Come in, come in. We're all upstairs. We’re just waiting for a couple more people, then we'll get seated for dinner." He waved us in and we climbed a set of metal stairs to the second floor. The space was big, high-ceilinged and industrial, with strategically placed groupings of seats and lamps. A large wall constructed of bookshelves partially concealed the bedroom from the rest of the space. A kitchen was on the far wall, and s
eemed to be under the control of a group of caterers. A huge dining table was set up between the entryway and the kitchen. There were a couple of knots of guests milling around.
Elliott led us over to one of the groups.
I scanned the room. Pete and I were nearly the most casually dressed people there, but there were a couple of guys in jeans. We were among the younger guests, if you didn't count the twenty-somethings hanging on the arms of a couple of the older men. It made me realize that the five-year age difference between me and Pete was nothing.
Something was odd, and I couldn't put my finger on it. Then I realized what it was.
There wasn't a single woman in the room. Not even among the catering staff (who all looked like they'd been hired off a Chippendales roster).
That was too bad. Women were interesting. They provided essential conversational variety.
This might be a long night.
Elliott introduced us to his boyfriend. His name was Matt Bendel. He was probably in his early to mid-twenties, about 5'8" and thin, with light brown hair cut short on the sides and long on the top so it flopped endearingly over his eyes. He barely squeezed my hand when we shook.
Oh brother.
Pete introduced me to a couple of people from the college, and we chatted a bit. In about twenty minutes, two more couples had arrived and mingled a little. Elliott moved over by the tables and clapped his hands. "Excuse me everyone, dinner is served! There are place cards at each seat."
Everyone milled around looking for their names for a few minutes, and gradually we all got seated. I had Pete to my right and an older gentleman to my left whose name card said Hugh Stamant. He proclaimed himself to be a professor of mathematics and then began to expound on Boolean logic to anyone who would listen. I wouldn't. The food was delicious so I concentrated on that, and on not spilling anything on myself. Pete was talking to the guy on his right; it sounded like they were talking about baseball. I was jealous.
After dinner, Elliott guided us all downstairs to the first floor of the loft. There was a bar set up in the corner, and music coming from somewhere. Must be speakers in the corners. I was driving, so I got a bottle of Perrier. Pete got a rum and Coke. We wandered around for a while, talking to various people, then Pete got attached to a clump of other faculty members who were up for tenure. My attention strayed a little, sorry to say, and my gaze landed on the host's boyfriend, leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand, looking a little lost. What was his name? Matt? I went over to talk to him.
