A Deadly Edition

by Victoria Gilbert

  Certainly not a blow to the head. It’s almost as if he’s survived plenty of those in the past, I thought with a wry smile, as I returned to the living room carrying a glass of water in one hand and a tumbler of Scotch in the other. I set them down long enough to slide a side table close to Kurt’s chair. “Here you go—water and liquor,” I said, placing the drinks on the table. “Pick your poison.”

  “Hmmm, perhaps that isn’t the best choice of words, all things considered.” Kurt grabbed the tumbler.

  I pulled another chair around so I could sit facing him. “Yeah, speaking of that …”

  “I prefer not to.” Kurt eyed me over the rim of his glass.

  “I’m sure you don’t. But I have to tell you that I heard the sheriff’s department has placed you at the top of their suspect list.”

  “Not surprising, considering that the murder happened at my house, during a party I was hosting, and the victim was a business rival.” Kurt took a slug of the Scotch.

  “You don’t seem particularly concerned.”

  “I’m not. I didn’t kill Oscar. Where would be the fun in that? Yes, I wanted to beat him out to acquire the Kelmscott Chaucer, but only if I could do it fair and square.” Kurt leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “Despite the suspicion in your eyes, I promise I don’t murder people over such things.”

  I almost asked if he’d killed anyone over other things, but decided against it. He would undoubtedly find a way to prevaricate without telling an outright lie, as he had many times before. “Speaking of criminal actions, who was that guy who knocked you down? A thief?”

  Kurt took another swallow before replying. “I have a better question—why are you here today, Amy?”

  “You aren’t going to tell me why someone attacked you and fled?”

  “Not unless you tell me what you want. You obviously drove all the way out here to satisfy that insatiable curiosity of yours.” Kurt tipped his head to one side. “What are you trying to find out?”

  “If you are somehow involved in Oscar Selvaggio’s death, of course. You’ve already told me no, so I guess that’s that.”

  “It should be, but I’m sensing that you don’t necessarily believe me.”

  “You do have a motive, and you had the opportunity.” I fixed him with an unwavering gaze. “My dad saw you hand Selvaggio a snifter of cognac, which is apparently what he drank right before he died. And Richard and I caught a glimpse of you outside the house that day, you know. You walked out of the woods and into the backyard right before we found Selvaggio’s body.”

  “Did you? And I suppose you’ve already informed the authorities about that, since they questioned my whereabouts at the time rather intensely. I told them the truth, of course.”

  “Which was?”

  “That I was out looking for Oscar, but not to harm him. Actually, I saw him right before he rushed outside—due to some text message, according to his assistant—and he looked ill to me. He was breathing irregularly. I was afraid he was having a heart attack. So I went outside to see if I could find him.” Kurt lifted his glass. “I didn’t think to check that shed, because why would he have gone there?”

  “Why indeed? Unless someone asked him to meet them there.”

  “Not me, I assure you. Anyway, as for me being outside, I wasn’t the only one. There was Adele, for one. Oscar’s mousy little assistant for another. And”—Kurt’s eyes narrowed—“your brother.”

  I stiffened my spine, pulling my back away from the chair. “True. But they don’t have a motive to murder Selvaggio. You do.”

  “Are you so sure they don’t?” Kurt swirled the remaining Scotch in the tumbler. “People can keep secrets, even from friends and family. Sometimes quite deadly ones.”

  “I know that all too well.” I rose to my feet. “Are you going to report what happened today to the authorities?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it. Are you?”

  I looked him over. Despite the dried blood darkening the white hair over his temple, he appeared totally at ease and, as always, in control. “Not immediately. I’ll give you time to reconsider and report it yourself. That could be beneficial, in terms of helping to clear your name, I mean.”

  Kurt bared his teeth in his typical wolfish grin. “Why, Amy, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

  I bit my lower lip to stifle a rather unsavory comment before replying. “I’m thinking of Richard. He considers you family. And honestly, I’d hate to see you incarcerated right before the wedding. That kind of scandal is the last thing we need.”

  Kurt set down his glass and stood to face me. “More importantly, the last thing you need is to get tangled up in another murder investigation. Leave it alone, Amy.”

  “You always tell me that.”

  “And you never listen.” Kurt held up his hands. “But this time, you must. That man today is not working alone. And, as you can see”—he touched a fingertip to his temple—“he and his cohorts are playing hardball.”

  “Is this all connected to the Kelmscott Chaucer?”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps not. But that is irrelevant. What’s crucial for you to understand is that the people involved in this situation are not amateurs.” Kurt’s rugged face could’ve been sculpted from stone. “This is not something you can fumble your way through. Walk away. Leave it alone.”

  He took a step toward me, his blue eyes cold as a glacier. I backed away but met his imperious gaze without flinching. “Are you really all right?”

  “Fine, as you can see.” Kurt moved closer.

  “Then I’ll leave. But I hope you’ll call someone to come and sit with you tonight, just in case.”

  “My chef is coming over shortly. I’m sure she’ll be happy to keep an eye on me.” Kurt reached out and took hold of my shoulder, giving me a little shake. “You haven’t promised to stay out of this investigation yet.”

  I pulled free of his grip. “I never make promises I’m likely to break,” I said as I strode off into the hall.

  A string of colorful swear words followed me out the front door.

  Chapter Twelve

  Since we were closed on Sundays, the library was always busy on Mondays. Which meant my research on the earlier scandal surrounding Oscar Selvaggio and the Kelmscott Chaucer had to wait until the next day.

  Sunny, who was working all day on Tuesday, was stationed at the circulation desk while Bill shelved books. She was equally anxious to dig into some of our research databases. “Why don’t you use the workroom computer while I do a little poking around here at the desk.” She swept her hand through the air. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to have much business today, at least not until the after-school crowd drops in.”

  “All right, but let’s divide and conquer,” I said. “I’ll check the papers that might’ve covered the incident while you look into Selvaggio’s past. I’m not sure there’ll be anything on him in the digital sphere, especially from the past, but you never know.”

  “Okay, boss.” Sunny gave me a mock salute. “By the way, where did you run off to Sunday afternoon? I stopped by the house when I was out, checking on some town properties, but no one was home.”

  “Oh, you know, just went for a walk,” I said, keeping my head down so Sunny couldn’t read the lie in my eyes. “Everyone had abandoned me, and I just didn’t feel like rattling around the house on my own.”

  “Okay, but I thought you must’ve driven somewhere because your car was gone.” Sunny shrugged. “I guess Lydia took it?”

  “Hmmmm …” I fiddled with the pamphlets in our desk display rack. “She had lunch with Walt and Zelda.” I looked up at that point. That statement, at least, was true.

  “But not with Hugh? I guess they’re still not talking?” Sunny shook her head. “Sad.”

  “It’s not quite that bad. They have talked on the phone. It’s just that”—I pushed the rack up against the side of the desk computer—“Aunt Lydia doesn’t feel like she can trust him as much as she
used to. Or so she tells me.”

  “That rack’s going to be in the way there,” Sunny said, moving the display back to its former position. “And as for Lydia, I think she’s blowing the whole thing out of proportion. Fred says that Hugh has no intention of revealing any information he might turn up on Andrew Talbot. He doesn’t want to make Lydia’s dead husband look bad; he just wants to prove Mr. Kendrick’s ties to questionable art deals.”

  “Well, Hugh should know how sensitive my aunt is to anything that might tarnish Andrew’s name.” I shot Sunny a sidelong glance. “Although maybe she has no reason to worry. It seems to me that Hugh’s bloodhound is hot on another trail at the moment.”

  Sunny whipped off the scarf tying back her locks, allowing her golden hair to spill over her shoulders. “It isn’t like that. We’re just friends.”

  “Uh-huh. Friends don’t get that dreamy look in their eyes when they talk about their pals.”

  “Behave. I do like Fred. I just don’t want to talk about him.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Which tells me that you have fallen for him, fast and hard.”

  Sunny snapped the scarf at me. “No such thing. Now, are we going to research or what? If you want to gossip, I suggest you wait until Zelda gets here this afternoon. I’m not interested.”

  “Okay, okay.” I lifted my hands in a mea culpa gesture. “Let’s do some research.”

  I left her working at the desk and slipped into the workroom, where we had another computer set up on a desk in the corner. It was where I usually conducted my behind-the-scenes work, like handling interlibrary loan requests, paying invoices, and ordering new materials.

  Settling into the task chair, I considered my search strategy. We fortunately had online subscriptions to a few major newspapers, like the New York Times, that included digitized back files. Surely, if there’d been a major scandal in the art world, the Times would’ve provided some coverage.

  But first … I glanced over my shoulder at the workroom door, which was slightly cracked open. Not enough for Sunny to peek in and see anything on my screen, though. I absently picked up a pencil and twirled it between my fingers. I was happy that Sunny had apparently embarked on a new relationship, but also a little leery. She’d had some bad luck before, and I didn’t want her embroiled in another situation that might end badly.

  Switching to the Washington Post’s digital archives, I searched on the name Frederick Nash. There were immediate hits—a full-page list, in fact. Leaning forward, I squinted at the small print on the screen.

  The most prominent headlines all referenced a major drug bust. I clicked on the most recent post, which was still six years old, and pulled up the article.

  A quick read-through confirmed my suspicions. Fred Nash had been part of a task force charged with bringing down a multistate drug ring. Unfortunately, the task force was infiltrated by a couple of corrupt officers who were in cahoots with the criminals running the drug operation. During a sting that was intended to catch the leaders of the cartel, the task force was betrayed, resulting in an ambush that killed several officers and severely injured others.

  Fred Nash was one of those seriously injured. His longtime partner, Trudy Klein, had died.

  I sat back. No wonder Fred had left the force. That sort of loss, especially brought on by betrayal, would’ve traumatized anyone. As I considered the impact this might have had on Fred’s behavior, something else I’d glimpsed in the article swam to the surface and grabbed my attention.

  Esmerelda. That was the street name of the leader of the drug ring that Fred’s team had been attempting to bring to justice. It was a nickname I’d heard before, in connection with another crime—the name of a female dealer who’d supplied drugs to people in the Taylorsford area during the 1960s.

  I gnawed on the pencil. It seemed a strange coincidence. Fred might be investigating Kurt, but it was possible he was also digging into the past of another dealer from that time. Back in the 1960s, Kurt Kendrick, whose nickname had been “The Viking,” had moved in the same circles as the dealer known as Esmerelda. Which made me wonder exactly what Fred Nash was investigating, and why.

  He might be working for Hugh, but I had a suspicion there was more to his sleuthing than that. Which didn’t make him a bad romantic partner for my best friend, but it certainly made him someone to watch.

  I sighed and switched back to the New York Times database, refocusing my thoughts on the questions surrounding the stolen Kelmscott Chaucer that Oscar Selvaggio had supposedly sold to an unsuspecting buyer.

  This was a more complicated search. I found a few references to the sale, but it wasn’t until I included the term lawsuit that more useful information surfaced. I found what appeared to be the most comprehensive article covering the matter and printed it out.

  Reading the first few paragraphs only confirmed what I already knew—Selvaggio had brokered the sale of one copy of the Kelmscott Chaucer to a collector, who later learned that the book’s provenance was suspect. An art expert who’d been called in to offer a second opinion on the book’s value for insurance purposes discovered that the chain of ownership behind the Chaucer was incomplete. The person who’d supposedly owned the book before teaming up with Selvaggio to sell it did not exist. This had raised serious questions about the legality of the sale.

  Hearing a bell, I rose to my feet. Still clutching the printed article, I hurried out to check on the circulation desk.

  As I suspected, Sunny had been called away by someone needing help in the stacks at the same time another patron approached the desk, arms laden with books. “I can get this,” I told Sunny, who’d poked her head around the end of a range of shelves.

  As I waited for Sunny’s return to the desk, I checked our integrated library system, or ILS, for any messages or email reference queries. With my gaze focused on the computer screen, I didn’t notice that another patron had approached the desk until they loudly cleared their throat.

  When I saw who it was, I took a step back. “What are you doing here?” I asked, not bothering to temper the sharpness in my tone.

  The tall, dark-haired man standing in front of the desk offered me a thin-lipped smile. “So sorry to startle you, Ms. Webber. I know we met under strained circumstances the other day, and I just wanted to stop by and offer my apologies.”

  I looked him over, noticing that he was dressed more professionally today. Although his navy suit hung loosely over his skeletal frame, it was perfectly tailored to fit his broad shoulders, and both the collar and cuffs of his white dress shirt were crisp as autumn leaves. “We weren’t really introduced Sunday, unless you call shoving me aside an introduction.”

  The man swept the fall of dark hair away from his forehead. “Again, I apologize. That was incredibly rude of me. But, you see, I was in a rather distracted state.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “After knocking down Mr. Kendrick, you mean.”

  “An unfortunate accident.” The man thrust out one bony hand. “Lance Dalbec. I’m another art dealer, or perhaps I should say broker. I tend to work as a middleman or finder rather than directly buying or selling pieces myself.”

  “So, one of Mr. Kendrick’s business acquaintances,” I said, without taking his hand. “Or rivals, perhaps?”

  “You could say that.” Dalbec flashed me a humorless smile. “We are both vying for the right to buy a particular object at the moment.”

  I shifted my weight from foot to foot. “A Kelmscott Press edition of the complete works of Chaucer? It seems everyone has an interest in that book. I heard the unfortunate Mr. Selvaggio was also looking to purchase it.”

  “That’s correct. But as you say, he is now out of the picture.” Lance Dalbec stared down at his hands, which he’d pressed against the counter top. “At any rate, I just stopped by to assure you that I mean no harm Sunday. I hope I didn’t injure you in any way.”

  “No, I’m perfectly fine. I wish I could say the same for Mr. Kendrick.”

  D
albec looked back up at me, his pale eyes clear and cool as water in a mountain stream. “I suspect you won’t believe me, but I intended my visit with Mr. Kendrick to be a friendly discussion. I thought perhaps we could work together to acquire the Chaucer. But he became enraged at the very suggestion and lunged at me. I was merely defending myself. Unfortunately, as I was pushing back against his attack, he had the misfortune to fall. I suppose I should’ve stayed with him, but he ordered me to leave in no uncertain terms.”

  “He was quite angry,” I said, examining Lance Dalbec with a critical eye. I wasn’t convinced that he was telling the truth, but it was entirely possible that Kurt had lost his temper with this man. Especially since Dalbec projected an oily insincerity that would’ve undoubtedly gotten on Kurt’s nerves.

  As it does mine, I thought, before forcing a smile. “Anyway, thank you for your apology, although it really wasn’t necessary for you to track me down to offer it. How exactly did you do that, by the way?”

  Lance Dalbec lifted his hands. “It wasn’t difficult to connect a rather unlikely visitor to Kendrick’s home with one of his local acquaintances. It’s not like he has that many friends, you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t, but then, I try not to dig too deeply into Kurt’s personal life. Which is, frankly, none of my business.” I tipped my head and looked Dalbec up and down. “Or yours either, I imagine.”

  “No, of course not.” Dalbec stepped back from the desk. “The truth is, I’m going to be staying in the Taylorsford area for a bit and might want to use your lovely library from time to time. I didn’t want you to feel the need to call the authorities on me if you spied me in the stacks, so I felt it prudent to offer my apologies for shoving you. Which was entirely unacceptable, of course. And quite out of character for me, I assure you.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said, eyeing him with distrust. Nothing he’d said had alleviated my initial negative reaction to him. But I had to admit that it wasn’t surprising that he knew Kurt, since, as Adele had said many times, Kurt had many questionable business associates. Dalbec was probably one of them, which meant that his claim to be involved in the art world might be entirely legitimate. “Anyway, I promise not to call the sheriff’s department on you simply for using the library.”