A Deadly Edition

by Victoria Gilbert

  Fred Nash’s polite but clipped tones, along with his ramrod posture and air of quiet confidence, betrayed a background in either the military or law enforcement. I studied him with interest, puzzling over his connection to Hugh. He looked more like a body builder than anyone involved in the arts.

  But that’s a stereotype, I chided myself. With a voluptuous figure and a face that resembled a 1920s film vamp more than a nun, I didn’t present the image most people expected of a librarian either. Which could be frustrating. All the more reason for me not to stereotype others.

  Aunt Lydia waved her hand toward the table. “This is my sister, Deborah Webber, who goes by Debbie.”

  “Hello,” my mom said. “And this is my daughter, Amy.”

  “The bride-to-be?” Fred Nash turned to face Mom and me. “Hugh said there was a wedding on the horizon.”

  “That’s me,” I said, meeting his smile with a questioning gaze. “He’s never mentioned you, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Hugh swept back a lock of silky dark hair that had fallen over his forehead. “I’ve been remiss.” He shot Aunt Lydia an apologetic glance. “Fred’s actually a colleague as well as a friend. He’s assisted me with some investigations into art thefts and other criminal matters.”

  So he does have a law enforcement background, I thought, as I observed the slight sheen of perspiration beading Fred Nash’s upper lip. “You’re working a case, Hugh?”

  The art expert looked down and shuffled his feet before meeting my gaze. “Yes. An inquiry involving … someone you know.”

  Aunt Lydia stepped back to look Hugh up and down. “Not Kurt Kendrick?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Hugh said, after sharing a swift glance with Fred Nash.

  My aunt wrinkled her brow. “I thought you’d given up digging into his past.”

  Hugh frowned. “I never said that.”

  Mom sat up straighter in her chair. “What’s Kurt got to do with anything?” She shifted her gaze from her sister’s concerned face to Hugh. “I didn’t know you were investigating Mr. Kendrick.”

  “I’ve actually been doing so for a long time,” Hugh said. “There are questions about the legality of some of his art deals, among other things.”

  Aunt Lydia crossed to one of the butcher-block kitchen counters. “Can I get anyone some coffee, or tea, or anything?” she asked, keeping her back to us.

  “You’ve never found any definitive evidence to indict Kurt, though.” I shared a look with Mom. “At least, that’s what I’ve always understood.”

  Fred Nash leaned against the doorjamb and surveyed me with interest. “That’s true; Mr. Kendrick is very good at covering his tracks. But this latest feud with Oscar Selvaggio appeared to offer a way to dig a little deeper. Until Selvaggio was found dead, of course.”

  “But surely Kurt had nothing to do with that.” Mom’s brow wrinkled. “I mean, we don’t even know that Mr. Selvaggio was murdered, and even if he was, I find it hard to believe that Kurt would be involved. Don’t you agree, Amy?”

  I stared down at the table, brushing a few cake crumbs into my palm before dumping them back onto one of the plates. “I can’t imagine him murdering a visitor to his home. Even if he does tend to avoid talking about his past,” I said, remembering a few times when Kurt had refused to answer my questions about whether he’d ever killed anyone.

  “Anyway,” Mom continued, “enough shop talk. You should both pull up a chair and taste some of this amazing cake. Lydia’s testing out some recipes for the wedding reception.”

  “It does look good.” Fred Nash strolled over to the table and sat down next to my mom.

  “We’ll need extra forks,” Aunt Lydia said, with a glance toward Hugh. “Could you bring over a couple, dear?”

  “Of course, although maybe just one for Fred.” Hugh headed straight for the cutlery drawer and grabbed a fork before returning to the table. “No offense to Lydia,” he said, handing the implement to Fred. “She’s an excellent baker. It’s just that, like she said, I’m not much for sweets.”

  “It’s okay; we know you love her cooking otherwise,” I said.

  Hugh patted his flat stomach. “A little too much, I’m afraid.”

  I shot him a sarcastic smile. “Oh right, like you have to worry. You and Richard can both eat like there’s no tomorrow and never gain weight. Unlike me, who only has to look at food to add a few pounds.”

  “And me,” my mom said, although her trim figure belied this remark.

  I decided to switch the subject back to what really interested me, which was Hugh’s investigation into Kurt’s business dealings. “So you work with Hugh?” I asked Fred.

  “Sometimes,” he replied, after swallowing a bit of cake. “It’s all delicious, Ms. Talbot. I wouldn’t know how to choose between them.”

  She brushed off this compliment with a wave of one fine-boned hand. “It’s fine. We’d pretty much decided anyway. And please, call me Lydia.”

  Hugh, sitting at the head of the table, surveyed the array of cake slices. “What are you going to do with this? I don’t think we can finish them off, even with Nick and Scott’s help.”

  “I’ve already decided to take most of the leftovers to the church,” Aunt Lydia said. “They have a preteen hangout event every Sunday night. I can’t imagine those young people refusing free cake.”

  “I’m sure they won’t,” I said, before turning my attention to Fred. “What is it exactly that you do, Mr. Nash?”

  “It’s Fred, and as far as Hugh’s investigations are concerned, I just help with some of the legwork. Tracking down forgers and art thieves and that sort of thing.”

  “You’re a police detective?” Mom swiveled in her chair to study Fred more closely.

  “Not officially. I do work with the police and other authorities, but I’m not on the force.” Fred lowered his gaze and toyed with his fork. “Not anymore.”

  Hugh crossed his slender arms over his chest. “I call in Fred when I need to track the movements of certain individuals. He has the experience with fieldwork that I lack.”

  “So you’re a PI,” I said.

  Fred looked up and met my inquisitive gaze. “Basically. I hunt down information. And people, if need be.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “And you’re looking into Kurt Kendrick?”

  “And Oscar Selvaggio. Among … others.”

  “Is this connected to something called the Kelmscott Chaucer?” Aunt Lydia asked. “Kurt mentioned that both he and Oscar Selvaggio were interested in that book. They seemed to be rivals for its acquisition. Of course, that was before Mr. Selvaggio died so unexpectedly.”

  “Which is unfortunate,” Fred said, after sharing a swift glance with Hugh. “I’d hoped to question him about a few matters, but that’s obviously off the table now.”

  “Do you think the book is stolen property or something?” Mom asked.

  “Let’s just say we aren’t certain of its provenance,” Hugh replied.

  “But that wouldn’t have anything to do with Kurt, or Mr. Selvaggio, would it?” Aunt Lydia fixed Hugh with her brilliant blue gaze. “As I understand it, they were only seeking to buy the thing, not sell it. Wouldn’t the crime, if any, be connected to the seller? Even if it was stolen property, how could Kurt have known that?”

  Hugh’s thin lips twitched. “Trust me, if this Kelmscott Chaucer was illegally acquired, even years ago, Kendrick and Selvaggio would’ve known. They both have—or had, in the unfortunate Mr. Selvaggio’s case—enough contacts in the art world to at least suspect an item of having a questionable past.”

  I stared at Hugh. “I know you’ve been looking for some hard evidence to pin on Kurt for many years. Without success. Did you think this particular investigation might lead to something more damning?”

  “Possibly. It’s hard to say.” Hugh’s gaze swept around the table before landing on Aunt Lydia’s face. “There were rumors of Kendrick’s involvement with this particular item in the past. Which made me que
stion whether he was buying it to display or sell, or whether he just wanted to cover up one of his earlier indiscretions.”

  Aunt Lydia shoved back her chair and stood up. “Really, Hugh, you need to get over this obsession with Kurt. You’ve been at it for years, trying to find the evidence to put him away, and haven’t been able to make a case stick yet. So why bother? Just let it go.”

  Mom’s brown eyes widened. “I didn’t know you were that fond of Mr. Kendrick, Lydia.”

  “I’m not,” my aunt said, her tone tinged with exasperation. “I just don’t like to see Hugh wasting his time on something that will give him ulcers.”

  Hugh rose to his feet to face off with Aunt Lydia. “I think I’m the best judge as to what information I should or shouldn’t pursue.”

  “Fine. If you think it’s worth sacrificing your health to chase after nebulous rumors …”

  “Come now, Lydia, it’s a little more than that.” Hugh extended his hand. “If this is really about what we might dig up on Andrew, you know I won’t share such information with anyone.”

  My aunt’s sharp intake of breath hung in the air as my mom turned to me, holding up her hands as if to ask, What gives?

  I shook my head. My uncle, Andrew Talbot, who’d died in a tragic accident before I was born, had been an artist. He’d also been Kurt’s closest friend, staying in contact with him even after marrying my aunt. Although she’d learned that fact only recently.

  Among other things, I thought grimly. Kurt had tried to help my uncle when he’d gotten mixed up with some less-than-honest individuals. Something I suspected my aunt appreciated and resented in equal measure.

  Aunt Lydia lifted her hand, palm out, in a stop gesture. “No more,” she said, after a swift glance at Fred Nash.

  “I will protect your late husband’s good name any way I can,” Hugh said, his expression hardening into an implacable mask. “But I must reveal the truth, when I find it. If that implicates Andrew …”

  “You don’t care?” My aunt’s fine features appeared chiseled from ice. “Well then, I suppose it’s just as well I learned this now. Before our lives became more entangled.” She lifted her chin and stared at Hugh for a moment before turning on her heel and marching out of the kitchen.

  “Lydia, please wait a minute.” Hugh cast the rest of us an apologetic look before following her.

  Fred absently tapped the table with his blunt fingernails. “That took a turn.”

  “There’s some history behind it,” I said. “But it’s a little personal. If Hugh hasn’t told you anything about my late uncle …”

  “He hasn’t,” Fred said.

  “That’s good. Maybe that will be enough to mollify Aunt Lydia.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Mom said, her expression darkening. “What’s all this talk about Andrew, anyway? I thought you were helping Hugh investigate Kurt and that Selvaggio fellow.”

  “That’s what I thought too.” Fred’s thoughtful tone warned me that he might be putting two and two together.

  I decided I’d better try to refocus his attention. “Do you really believe you can catch Kurt Kendrick involved in something illegal? I’m not saying he isn’t, or at least, hasn’t been in the past, but it seems he always expertly covers his tracks.”

  “Perhaps, but in this case, with someone dying on his doorstep …”

  My mom made a derisive noise. “No offense, Fred, but I think you are jumping to some very strange conclusions. I admit Kurt can come off as mysterious, but I can’t imagine him harming anyone.” She ran her fingers through her feathery cap of dark hair. “I may not be a trained investigator, but I think I’d know if I was in the presence of a murderer.”

  I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut before speaking the words that had popped into my mind. No, you wouldn’t. I didn’t. I haven’t. More than once.

  Chapter Five

  Since Mom and Dad weren’t scheduled to leave until Tuesday morning, I’d arranged to take Monday off. Sunny was happy to work some extra hours to fill in, claiming that her duties as mayor could wait one day. “The former mayor didn’t do anything for years,” she told me with a smile. “What’s a missed day or two on my watch?”

  Although I’d planned to spend the day with Scott and my parents, touring a few of the wineries in the surrounding area, my nagging curiosity got the better of me and I begged off the excursion. I was anxious to do some research on the Kelmscott Chaucer and knew that online searching would yield only so much.

  “There’s something I’m researching that requires a little extra digging,” I said at breakfast. “For work, you know. Anyway, I think I’ll check out the resources at the Clarion library.” I met Scott’s inquisitive gaze and gave a little shake of my head. He’d obviously guessed my true intention, but as always, he kept his opinions to himself.

  Aunt Lydia set another plate of her famous pancakes on the dining room table. “Please, eat up, everyone. These aren’t as good reheated.”

  I eyed her with concern, noting the shadows under her eyes. Hugh had left after dinner the evening before. That was significant, as he always stayed over until Monday morning during his weekend visits. I knew this signaled some rift between him and my aunt and suspected it had to do with his bringing in a PI to investigate Kurt—a choice he’d staunchly defended throughout the previous day.

  My dad waved his fork at me. “Work? Admit it—you just want an excuse to have lunch with Richard. I remember you telling us that he has another rehearsal tonight and you probably wouldn’t get to see him today.”

  “Guilty,” I said, although this wasn’t quite true. Of course, I’d be happy to see Richard, but what I really wanted was to find more information on the rare Kelmscott edition that both Kurt and Oscar Selvaggio had hoped to buy. I didn’t clarify that point, as I wasn’t sure my parents would approve of my obsession with such research, especially since it was connected with yet another suspicious death. They would, on the other hand, understand me ditching them to spend time with my fiancé.

  I sent all of them off after extracting a promise that they’d bring back a few bottles of wine that we could taste test for possible use at the wedding reception. Dad drove, leaving me the car I shared with my aunt.

  Fortunately, Clarion University was only a thirty-minute drive, a fact that made Richard’s daily commute bearable. I parked in one of the visitor lots and hiked across campus to the library, where I’d worked before taking the director position in Taylorsford.

  I stopped by a few offices to say hello to some of the librarians I’d known during my tenure at Clarion. They all seemed happy to see me and to hear updates about my new job and the wedding.

  Not even one disapproving look, I thought as I took the elevator to the reference department. Ironically, I’d fled my job at Clarion because I’d thought I’d made a fool of myself over my cheating former boyfriend. But it appeared that no one had actually cared about my childish actions. Honestly, it seemed I could’ve stayed at Clarion and everything would’ve simply blown over.

  But if I’d stayed, perhaps my life wouldn’t have turned out so well, I thought. I might not have met Richard in a setting where we could really get to know each other. I wouldn’t have been able to spend as much time with Sunny, or become so deeply involved in the life of my new hometown either. I smiled as I walked off the elevator. I’m glad I’m a stronger, more confident person now, but leaving Clarion was a hidden blessing. My past behavior might’ve been foolish, but in the end, its result was the best thing that ever happened to me.

  I chose a seat at one of the wooden carrels that lined one wall of the reference department, draping my jacket over the chair to reserve it while I perused the stacks. After a short search, I tottered back to my carrel, my arms laden with books, including a facsimile copy of the original Kelmscott Chaucer. Settling into the armless task chair, I opened my laptop to take notes.

  The story of the Kelmscott Press, founded in 1891 by William Morris, was a fascinating one
, and I was soon lost in my research, oblivious to the passing of time and anything happening around me. So oblivious, in fact, that I didn’t hear my name being spoken until someone tapped my shoulder and repeated it.

  “Amy, so nice to see you again,” said Emily Moore, a celebrated poet I’d met when she’d moved to Taylorsford the previous autumn.

  I spun around in the chair and looked up into her square-jawed face. Her dark eyes blinked owlishly behind the round frames of her glasses.

  “Emily, hello.” I motioned toward the chair at the next carrel. “Please, have a seat. If you have a minute, I mean.”

  “I have all the time in the world.” Emily’s smile illuminated her strong-featured face. “I just finished teaching a class and that was it for the day, so I thought I’d do a little digging for a new project.” She pointed at my pile of books. “I see you’re also engaged in research. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “Not at all.” I brushed a lock of dark hair away from my face. “I just had a free day, and thought I’d look into something for work.”

  Scooting closer, Emily peered at the spines of my books. “The Kelmscott Press?” She sat back in her chair and looked me over. “That’s not something I’d expect one of your patrons to be asking about.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I said lightly. I didn’t want to go into my reasons for this research. Particularly not with Emily Moore, who was savvy enough to make connections, given any hints.

  “It’s a fascinating period. I studied some of the Pre-Raphaelite poets once upon a time.” She smiled. “Many of them led such tumultuous lives—even put some of the antics of my hippie generation to shame.”

  “It is interesting. I have an undergrad degree in art history, so I knew about William Morris’s design influence. Father of the Arts and Crafts movement and all that. But I didn’t know much about his work as a publisher.”

  Emily shrugged. “That was just an extension of his design work, though, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. Definitely the Chaucer, with the Burne-Jones woodcuts and Morris’s elegant designs for the borders and initial words, is as much a work of art as it is a printed book.” I pulled the facsimile copy from the stack of books and passed it over to Emily. “Only four hundred and twenty-five copies were printed. On handmade paper, no less.”