Classified as Murder (28 page)

To be completely certain, I read through the description in the inventory book again. Signed, near mint. No mention of foxed pages.

The book Sean held was an impostor. We had finally turned up an item stolen from the collection.

I instructed Sean to put the inferior copy of
Soldiers’ Pay
on the desk, and I walked over to Officer Williams near the door.

“Could you get in touch with Deputy Berry and let her know that we’ve made a discovery?” I asked. “We’ve identified one item stolen from the collection, and we’re going to continue looking for others.”

“Sure thing,” Williams said. He pulled out a cell phone and started punching numbers as I went back to work with Sean.

I quickly scanned the succeeding entries in the book. The next twelve consisted of Faulkner novels, all signed and in near-mint condition. I checked the dates of purchase, and they were the same for all thirteen Faulkners. Mr. Delacorte had purchased them as a collection about twelve years ago. No price was listed, but I suspected he had paid a hefty amount for the thirteen signed books.

The second Faulkner listed was his second published novel,
Mosquitoes
, from 1927. Sean pulled it from the shelf as I read the description aloud.

“Deputy Berry’s on her way.” Williams spoke from right behind me, startling me.

“Good,” I said. “Thanks for calling her.”

“Just doing my job.” Williams flashed a brief smile before he returned to his chair.

I focused again on Sean and the book in his hands.

“This one’s bad, too,” Sean said, indicating the copy of
Mosquitoes
. “No signature, loose binding, spots.”

“I suspect we’ll find that all the Faulkners have been replaced with inferior copies,” I said. “Let’s keep checking.”

Sean and I examined the remaining eleven. An inferior copy had been substituted for each one. The one consistent factor with all thirteen was the dust jacket. They were all in remarkably good condition for books that were in such bad shape.

On a hunch I took the jacket of
Mosquitoes
out of its clear archival cover and examined it closely under the light of the desk lamp. After only a brief study, I confirmed my suspicions. I was sure this was a laser-printed copy of the dust jacket, perhaps taken from Mr. Delacorte’s authentic, near-mint copy of the book.

Kanesha entered the library as I was explaining my opinion of the dust jackets to Sean. She didn’t bother with preliminaries.

“Tell me.” She stood with arms folded and stared at me while I recounted the tale of the thirteen Faulkner novels replaced with inferior, unsigned copies. She didn’t interrupt, and I kept my narrative brief and precise.

When I finished, Kanesha didn’t speak for a moment. Her first question was one I was expecting. “How much are they worth?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “A collection of signed Faulkner novels like that would go for a lot. At auction, perhaps as much as $750,000, maybe even more. A group like this doesn’t go up for sale every day.”

“But would whoever stole them be able to sell them in a public auction?” Sean asked. “That would leave a very visible trail.”

“Excellent point,” Kanesha said. “How would somebody go about selling them without attracting attention?”

“Depends on the kind of connections the thief has,” I said. “If they’re sold directly to a private collector, no one would know. Or the thief could sell them one at a time to different dealers. He’d probably get less overall for them that way, though.”

“How would you go about tracing them?” Kanesha asked. Her expression betrayed her discomfort. This was clearly something outside her realm of experience.

“My guess is that you’d get the FBI involved,” Sean said.

“Yes. There have been some highly publicized cases in recent years of rare book thefts, usually from libraries,” I said. “The FBI gets called in on those. This case is probably no different, because I suspect the books probably will have been sold outside the state.”

“I’ll talk to a guy I know in the MBI,” Kanesha said. When she noticed Sean’s puzzled look, she elaborated. “Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. They work with the FBI on a regular basis.”

A cell phone rang. The sound emanated from a holster attached to Kanesha’s belt. “Excuse me,” she said. She stepped away from us as she answered the call.

I glanced at my watch—eight-forty-five. “What say we do as much as we can by ten, and then head home? I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel pretty wiped out.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Sean said. He flexed his shoulders. “My neck’s feeling a little stiff.”

I picked up the inventory book, but Kanesha spoke before I could look up the next entry after the Faulkners.

“Looks like I’m heading over to your house,” Kanesha said. “Your new boarder wants to talk to me. Says he has some information for me.” She regarded me, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, he did mention talking to you over dinner,” I said. I kept my expression bland.

“Yeah, he sure did,” Sean said.

Kanesha stared at both of us for a moment. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” I said, and Sean echoed my words.

Kanesha offered a curt nod as she left.

Sean and I turned back to our work.

“Next entry,” I said as I picked up the book. “William Alexander Percy’s
Lanterns on the Levee
. Knopf, 1941. Fine in dust jacket. Signed on the title page.”

“It’s here,” Sean said as he pulled it off the shelf. He opened it to examine it further. After a moment he nodded. “Present and accounted for.” He slipped the book back into place.

So it went for the next hour. We didn’t find any other books that had been replaced with inferior copies. Perhaps the thief had taken only the set of signed Faulkner first editions. Those alone would account for a hefty sum of money, one way or another.

But there was another item potentially worth as much as all the Faulkners put together—Poe’s
Tamerlane
. I had not forgotten it, though there had been plenty of distractions. Tomorrow we might know more, if Kanesha was able to get in touch with the rare book dealer.

If a copy of
Tamerlane
came up for auction anytime soon, there would be questions. A book like that was a definite candidate for a private sale. If the thief had any sense, he—or she—would try to find someone willing to pay for it under the table and not risk publicity of any kind. But how would the thief go about finding a private buyer? There would have to be a trail, and that’s where the FBI would come in. They had experience with thefts of this kind and would know where to start looking.

By ten o’clock Sean and I finished the second inventory book. “Two down, two to go,” I said as I pulled off my cotton gloves and stuffed them in my pants pocket. “We really have accomplished a lot, and it’s gone much faster with you here.”

“Glad I could help,” Sean said. I held out my hand for his gloves, and he passed them over. “I’ve never seen so many amazing books in one place before.” He shook his head. “This collection is awesome.”

“It certainly is.” All of a sudden I remembered the terms of Mr. Delacorte’s will. I almost went weak at the knees. “And it’s going to belong to Athena College now.”

Sean grinned. “Guess that means you can play with the books whenever you want. You being the rare book guru and all.”

“It’s an amazing gift to the college,” I said. My mind was hopping from one idea to the next, like where we would house the collection. There was no space at present in the rare book room to accommodate it. Wait till Peter Vanderkeller, the head of the Athena College library, heard about the Delacorte collection. He would be beside himself with joy.

“Come on, Dad,” Sean said, placing a gentle arm on my shoulder. “Watch where you’re going. You’re going to run into something.”

I had been so lost in thought I almost walked straight into the closed library door.

Officer Williams chuckled as he opened the door for us to exit. “Good night, gentlemen.”

We bade him good night, and I followed Sean to the front door. There was no sign of Truesdale, and I remembered belatedly that we were supposed to ring the bell for him when we were ready to leave.

“The bell,” I said, and Sean knew what I meant. He glanced about.

“Guess there isn’t one in the hall,” he said. “We could just leave, I guess. The door will probably lock behind us.”

I was tempted to follow Sean’s suggestion, but I decided that would be rude. Truesdale had made rather a point of my ringing for him when we were ready to leave. We were guests in his house, after all.

“How about if I stick my head in the kitchen and see if I can find him?” Sean said. “Point me in the right direction.”

I gestured down the left side of the grand staircase, and Sean headed off.

While I waited, I looked about me. The stairs were dimly lit, the second floor fading into the shadows as I gazed up. The house was also eerily silent. For a moment I fancied that, if I listened hard enough, I could hear whispers from long-silent voices.

Sean’s footsteps rang on the marble as he returned, and that brought me out of my reverie.

“He’s on his way,” Sean said. “I yoo-hooed when I reached the kitchen, and he popped out of some room at the back.”

Sure enough, Truesdale appeared then, and he strode past us to the front door. Sean and I turned to follow him.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Truesdale said as he opened the door. “At what time will you return tomorrow morning?”

“Nine,” I said, “if that’s not too early.”

“Not at all, Mr. Harris,” he responded.

I stared at him for a moment in the dimly lit entranceway but averted my eyes when he started to frown.

“Good night,” I said as we walked out into the cool of the evening.

“Did you notice anything on his face?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Little smudge near one corner of his mouth. Lipstick, you think?”

“Probably,” I said. “I wonder whose?”
Daphne’s or Anita’s?

“He could have had company with him, wherever he was when I called out,” Sean said. “But I didn’t see or hear anyone.”

“No way to find out now,” I said.

During the ride home, neither of us spoke again. I think we were both far too tired. I knew I couldn’t wait to climb into bed, Diesel at my side, and try to get some sleep. I was too tired even to speculate much about the source of the lipstick on Truesdale’s mouth. Tomorrow, I decided in good Scarlett O’Hara fashion. I’d think about it tomorrow.

I halfway feared that Kanesha might still be there, listening to Stewart talking about the Delacorte family. But if anyone could persuade Stewart to get to the point, Kanesha could.

Only Stewart’s car was in evidence when we arrived home. I found to my great satisfaction that Stewart had put everything away. The kitchen looked like it did when Azalea cleaned.

There was no sign of either animal as Sean and I made our way upstairs.

“I guess they’re both with Stewart,” Sean said as we reached the second-floor landing. “Want me to go up and see?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t feel like climbing any more stairs.” I turned toward my room as Sean continued up to the third floor.

As I came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, dressed for bed, Diesel strolled into the room and hopped up onto the bed. I climbed in beside him, and we regarded each other.

“I trust you had a good evening with Stewart.”

Diesel meowed, and I took that to be an affirmative. I reached over and started scratching his head. His purr rumbled out, and I smiled.

We “chatted,” as I liked to call it, for a few minutes. These chats consisted of my talking to Diesel and rubbing or scratching him, and of Diesel meowing or chirping in return. Then I was ready to turn off the light and try to get some sleep.

Diesel stretched out, his head on the other pillow, and I snuggled down to get comfortable.

I think I drifted off to sleep pretty soon, but at some point I was awakened by loud knocks on my door.

“What on earth?” I came bolt upright in bed and threw off the covers. Diesel stayed where he was, afraid of the noise.

I stumbled to the door and opened it.

Stewart Delacorte stood there, tears streaming down his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed by his appearance.

“Eloise,” Stewart said, almost choking on the word. “Poor, sad little Eloise. She’s dead.”