Down

by Kirsten Weiss

  My life. And people wondered why I kept quiet.

  I collected the ledger from my house and drove to Mike’s Victorian.

  Alba was thankfully absent, and Mr. Pivens rocked on the front porch’s swing. He rose when he saw me park on the side of the road. “Good morning again.” He checked his watch and frowned. “Or should I say good afternoon? Have you had lunch?”

  “No, but I’m not hungry.” I shut the car door, leaving the window cracked open, and walked into the garden. “Are you? We don’t have to do this now.”

  “I grabbed a bite earlier, but I should have planned better,” he fretted. “We can order something, if you like. There must be some restaurants in Doyle which deliver.”

  “Really, I’m not hungry,” I said, climbing the porch steps.

  He opened the front door for me. “Very well, but if you change your mind or feel faint, please let me know.”

  Feel faint? I bit back a chuckle. Mr. Pivens was old school.

  The old house smelled of Mike – pipe tobacco and wood polish – and unwanted emotion surged through me. Silent, I followed the lawyer into the library and through the bookcase into the secret room. It was cooler in the octagonal space. Up high, an air conditioner hummed. I looked up and spotted vents high on the walls.

  The lawyer noticed my glance. “This is the only room with air conditioning. I assumed it was because there are no windows, but perhaps Mike wished to keep the books temperature controlled.”

  “Makes sense.” But I’d never dealt with old books, so I really had little idea. Another bullet of insecurity tunneled through me. There was so much I didn’t know. I handed him the ledger. “How do you want to do this?”

  “Why don’t I comb through his desk again?” He nodded to the three-piece Wooton desk. “You can check the ledger against the books on the shelves.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Cradling the open ledger in one arm, I traced my finger beneath the entry for the book at the top of the yellow page, the Aleister Crowley. Fortunately, the books were alphabetized by author, so the work went quickly. I paced in front of the glass shelves, resisting the temptation to open them and thumb through the books. Mr. Pivens shuffled papers at the desk.

  After two hours, I’d reached the bottom of the last entry. “All the books except one are accounted for,” I said.

  He gazed at me over his reading glasses. “Which one?”

  “A book of American folktales Mike bought for three-hundred dollars.”

  “Not our million-dollar book then,” he said. “Did you find anything that might fit the bill?”

  “There are three books in the ledger that don’t have estimated prices listed. A third edition set of The Golden Bough, a first edition of something Latin by Richard Argentine, and an illustrated William Blake.”

  He smiled and leaned back in the cane chair. “Ah, Blake, the great mystic poet and artist. Did you know he had very little formal education? The son of a stocking seller, he was looked down upon by the establishment all his life. It really irritated him.”

  “I like the idea of Blake – he was a real mystic poet, a poet who had visions and wrote about them. But I never was able to get into his poetry.”

  “It’s an acquired taste,” he said. “But what is this Latin text?”

  “De Praestigiis et Incantationibus Daemonum et Necromanticorum.” I read the words slowly, certain I was mangling the pronunciation, and a shiver crawled up my spine.

  “Of witchcraft and spells of the demons and necromancers,” he intoned. “How intriguingly creepy.”

  “You speak Latin?”

  “We had to learn it in my day,” he said dryly, “the benefits of a classical legal education. I assume it’s old?”

  “From 1568.”

  He swiveled the chair to better peer over his spectacles at me. “Good Lord. It’s hard to imagine a book surviving that long.”

  “It was printed on vellum. That lasts longer than our modern paper.”

  “It would have to. Where is it?”

  I guided him to the shelf.

  He gazed through the glass at the stained and warped cover. “I found some gloves in the desk, but I won’t touch it. Not something that old. I wouldn’t dare. Could that be our mystery book?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Age doesn’t necessarily correlate with value. Rare books are like anything else. Their value is determined by supply and demand.”

  He tilted his head, and for a moment he looked like an elegant vulture. “For someone who claims to know little about rare books, you seem to know a great deal.”

  I flushed. “I’ve picked things up here and there, but I’m no expert. And there is another mystery I forgot to mention.”

  “Oh?”

  “A man came to the bookstore this morning, Mr. Heath Van Oss. He said he was a rare bookdealer, he’d given Mike a book to value, and he wanted it back. When I asked for details, he said he’d speak with you.”

  “If he has a receipt, and we find the book, then of course we’ll return it. But he hasn’t contacted me yet.”

  “And if he doesn’t have a receipt?” I asked.

  “Then he’s a liar or a fool. Mike would never have accepted valuable property without delivering some sort of receipt. Did he tell you he didn’t have one?”

  “No, not exactly. I just got the feeling he wasn’t being entirely honest. According to the ledger, Mike bought a book of folk tales from Van Oss for three-hundred dollars.”

  “The book that’s missing.” His reflection wavered in the clear glass.

  “Yes.”

  “And now Mr. Van Oss wants it back for free.” He chuckled, a dry sound. “I may not know much about rare books, but I heard an earful from Mike. Not entirely honest is practically the definition of rare bookdealers. But I suppose there could be a second book of folktales, particularly if this fellow, Van Oss, specialized in them. And as professionals, we all have occasion to consult others in areas that aren’t within our expertise. You’re certain there isn’t a second book in the ledger?”

  “Not that I saw, but Mike’s descriptions were sometimes a little too brief.” He’d left me with so many mysteries.

  “Well, we’ll have to wait and see what this fellow has to say for himself.”

  “There’s something else.”

  His white brows rose. “More? My dear girl, you have had an eventful morning.”

  “Someone vandalized the bookshop’s storeroom.”

  “What?” His expression turned thunderous.

  “At first I thought it was Peter or Gretel. But then I noticed scratches around the lock on the rear door and on one of the locked drawers beneath the cash register.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “Nothing from the register. A policeman will meet me later this afternoon to look at the place.”

  “This afternoon?” He bristled. “Making you wait that long is outrageous! I shall have words with your sheriff.”

  “No,” I said quickly, “he offered to come sooner. I asked him to wait. Since nothing was stolen, I didn’t want to delay our meeting.”

  “These books aren’t going anywhere, but I understand your rationale. Mike’s strange death, and now a break-in. It beggars belief.”

  “So you think it’s strange too?” The tension I didn’t know I was carrying, released.

  “Perhaps I’m simply in denial at the loss of another friend. But I saw Mike scamper up and down ladders more times than I can count. And now with so much money at stake and all these odd occurrences, I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t more to Mike’s death than it appears.”

  I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t crazy. Mr. Pivens thought something was off too, and I grasped his hand.

  Lightly, he squeezed, his skin cool to the touch.

  “We shall speak to the sheriff about this together,” he said. “Today.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful. Maybe the sheriff would listen to a lawyer if she wouldn’t listen to me.
<
br />   “What time was this policeman due to arrive?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “Then we should go now to speak with him together. I did find a notebook which may help us.” He returned to the desk and plucked a small, black, leather-bound journal from it. “It seems Mike made his initial notes in this when he acquired a book. Later, he transcribed and fleshed them out or corrected them in his ledger. There may be something in here which didn’t make it into the ledger.” He handed it to me. “I’ll allow you to make the comparison. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “I know you will. And now?” He pressed the latch in the wall, and the bookcase glided silently open.

  We walked into the library, and he shut the bookcase behind us.

  “We have just enough time to–” He straightened, his eyes blazing. “What the devil?”

  I turned.

  A man in a black ski mask and gloves stood beside one of the tall bookcases. He grasped a book in one hand.

  I sucked in a quick breath, too startled to move.

  “This is a citizen’s arrest,” Mr. Pivens thundered, he strode toward the man. “Don’t move!”

  The man in black rushed forward.

  “Look out!” I shouted, frozen in place. But I was too late.

  The burglar drove his shoulder into the lawyer’s midsection.

  With a gasp, the elderly man flew backward and sprawled on the parquet floor.

  The man in black raced from the room, his footsteps heavy. A door slammed.

  Swearing, Mr. Pivens rolled to his side, his hand stretched outward. And then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Stomach churning, I dropped the notebook and knelt beside the lawyer. His face had gone gray, his breath coming in shallow gasps. A triangle of sunlight found its way through the ivy-covered windows and crossed his chest, knifing to a point over his heart.

  “I’ve called nine-one-one,” I said and took his hand. “They’ll be here soon.”

  Eyes closed, he squeezed my hand.

  I glanced toward the entryway to the foyer. I was alone. Safe. The burglar was long gone. Returning my attention to the lawyer, I relaxed my gaze. A short, inky snake wriggled into the lawyer’s chest.

  “Come to me, my helping spirits,” I murmured. “Spirits who are here in this man’s greatest and highest good, come.”

  A presence filled the space behind me, a tingle of magic at my back, but I didn’t turn. With my astral hand, I grasped the snake. It writhed, cold as ice, in my grip. And then it bit me.

  Its venom coursed up my arm. I pulled, clinging to the serpent, trying to wrench it from the lawyer’s chest. Sweat beaded my brow.

  A shuffling sound, a footstep.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  A man stood in the foyer. Battered and bruised, scars crossed his face. His golden hair gleamed in the light from the foyer’s stained glass window. A beam of sunlight caught in red glass turned his white t-shirt pink. His jeans were too large and his t-shirt too small, straining against his muscles. He watched me, an intent expression on his face.

  I should have been startled, scared, angry. But his presence seemed… right.

  Then the venom reached my heart, and a sharp pain split my chest, jerking me from my drifting. I gasped. “Don’t just stand there,” I said. “Help me.”

  The man vanished.

  Dammit! Another stupid spirit. Gritting my teeth, I wrenched back my arm.

  The snake popped free. Flying into the air, it dissolved in a beam of sunlight.

  I dropped to all fours, panting. Shadows from the ivy rippled across the hardwood floor, stretched over the bookshelves.

  A siren wailed in the distance.

  I sat on my heels and held the lawyer’s hand. He seemed to breathe more easily now, his chest rising and falling beneath his suit.

  The man with the scars – I’d recognized him, but from where?

  Heavy footsteps clunked and clattered up the porch steps.

  “In here,” I shouted and scrambled to my feet.

  Two paramedics, a man and a woman, hurried into the library.

  I moved aside and they dropped to their knees, checking the lawyer’s pulse, emptying tackle boxes full of medical equipment.

  “Lenore?” Connor strode into the room and grasped my shoulders.

  A gasp of relief broke from my lips.

  His olive-black eyes sparked with emotion. “What’s happened?”

  “There was someone in the house,” I said. “He wore a mask–”

  “An intruder? That wasn’t in the dispatcher’s call.”

  “Mr. Pivens had a heart attack, I think, and whoever broke in ran off. I was more worried about the lawyer than the burglar.” I glanced at the paramedics. They’d strapped an oxygen mask to Mr. Pivens’s face.

  “All right,” Connor said. “Wait here.” He strode into the foyer.

  Uselessly, I watched the paramedics. The male paramedic ran past me and out the front door.

  I blinked rapidly. “Is he–?”

  “He’s going for the stretcher,” the woman said. Her broad, sympathetic face was spattered with freckles. She tossed her short, curly brown hair. “We’re taking your friend to the hospital.”

  “How is he?”

  “I don’t like making predictions,” she said, “but he seems to have stabilized for now. But we need to get him to the hospital. Are you a relation?”

  “No, I’m a client. His name is Harold Pivens. He’s from Angels Camp. I don’t know if he has any relatives there.” I didn’t know much about him at all outside of his friendship with Mike, and I raked my hand through my hair.

  “It was a good thing you were here and able to get him help so fast,” she said.

  Her partner lurched into the room. He set the stretcher on its side next to Mr. Pivens and flipped it flat.

  “One, two...” They nodded and lifted the lawyer onto the stretcher, then unfolded its legs with him upon it. They wheeled him from the room.

  I stood, dazed. Half a dozen books lay tumbled from their shelf. I walked to them and knelt, picking up one bound in red leather with gilt lettering. Zamboni, by Edward Bulwer Litton. An early edition of the occult gothic novel, but not the first. I took another off the floor. The Californians, by Gertrude Atherton. This was a gothic, and not at all occult that I could remember.

  “What are you doing?” Connor asked behind me.

  I started, nearly dropping the books. “These were on the floor.” I rose. “They were on the shelf earlier.”

  “You mean the intruder pulled them from the shelves?” His chin lowered, his brow furrowing. “And now you’re getting your fingerprints all over them?”

  “Sorry.” I should have known better, and I handed the book to him. “But the intruder was wearing gloves.”

  Connor stepped away, his broad hands raised. “Put it where you found it.”

  I did.

  “Now tell me what happened,” he said.

  “We were in the secret room–”

  His eyes bulged. “What? There’s a secret room? Where?”

  “Connor, there’s something I have to tell you. I found a letter from an auction house. Mike has a book worth at least a million dollars. The auction house wouldn’t tell me which book–”

  “You called them?”

  “Mr. Pivens and I are trying to inventory the estate.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Show me,” he said, grim.

  I found the hidden latch, and the bookcase swiveled open.

  Connor whistled. “Holy Hardy Boys.”

  In spite of everything, I gasped a laugh.

  His hand on the butt of his gun, he prowled inside, his movements fluid and powerful and alert. I knew there was nothing to fear inside that strange room, and the feline gracefulness of his steps fascinated me
.

  Connor scanned the glass-covered cases and went to stand beside the open desk. “So which of these books is it?”

  “We’re not sure,” I said. “We’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities.”

  “All right. Even if the burglar wasn’t after the million-dollar book, you need to get all three of them somewhere safe. Do you have a safe deposit box?”

  “Yes.” The room seemed smaller with Connor in it, and I looked away, too aware of his appeal.

  “Get the books. I’ll take you to the bank.”

  He watched while I slipped on the white cotton gloves from Mike’s desk. I removed the three books from the cases. When I picked up the sixteenth century tome on witchcraft, its warped cover crackled, and I winced. “Could you grab the ledger?”

  He tucked it under his arm, and we left the room. Connor made me show him how to find the hidden latch and wouldn’t leave until he’d practiced opening and closing the door several times. While he played with the mechanism, I retrieved the black, leather-bound notebook I’d dropped.

  “What’s that?” Connor asked.

  “One of Mike’s notebooks,” I said. “He used it for notes when he first acquired a book, then he’d transcribe it into the ledger you’re holding.”

  “You think the ledger’s incomplete?”

  “I’m not sure. A man came into the bookstore. You met him, Mr. Van Oss. He said he’d given a book of American folktales to Mike to value. There’s no borrowed book listed in the ledger.”

  “But it wouldn’t be if Mike didn’t own the book, would it?”

  The shadow of the ivy twined around his neck, as if strangling him, and I shivered. “No, but there is a listing for a book on American folktales that Mike bought from Van Oss. We can’t find it on the shelves.” Was it here, in the library?

  “Does this guy have a receipt?”

  “If he does, he’s waiting to give it to the lawyer, not to me.”

  The pattern of the ivy shifted across his face. “But you inherited Mike’s business. It was in trust. It’s yours. You’re the one to talk to.”

  “I don’t care who Van Oss talks to. If the book belongs to him, I’ll return it.”