Murder at Teatime (8 page)

“Tommyrot,” muttered Thornhill, rising to the bait.

“I’m sorry,” said John. “I don’t hold with your view of American pharmaceutical companies as shining examples of capitalistic achievement.”

Thornhill laid down his pipe. “Look, young man. Maybe we should just nationalize the drug companies,” he said, his face reddening. “I bet that would keep all you pinkos happy.”

“I didn’t say that,” protested John.

“After the revolution, the country would be in need of scholars of your caliber. Let’s see. You could computerize the contents of the
Physicians Desk Reference
. Now, that would be a real piece of scholarship. For a piece of work like that, you might even be granted tenure. Maybe someone would even be willing to publish it. That would be a change, wouldn’t it?”

Wherever the line of propriety was, Thornhill had crossed it. Not only had he made it clear that he didn’t think much of John’s politics, he had also made it clear that he didn’t think much of his scholarship.

But John took it good-naturedly. “But after the revolution, we wouldn’t have old fossils like you in charge who don’t understand the first thing about computers, either,” he said with a smile. He rose to pour himself more coffee, but remained silent. After a few minutes, he excused himself.

“Pardon my manners,” said Thornhill after he had gone. “But these parlor pinks get my goat. He sits there eating my food, drinking my liquor, to say nothing of using my library, and has the nerve to criticize me for not donating my books to the public. John L. Lewis—he certainly lives up to his name.”

“The idealism of the young,” said Felix, who was picking the crumbs out of the bottom of the pie plate.

“The arrogance of the young is more like it. Not that he’s all that young. Of course,” Thornhill continued, changing his tone, “I’m all for putting my collection on computers if it will help someone, but to want academic recognition for it? That’s not scholarship—it’s secretarial work.”

“I think there’s a lot more to it than that,” said Daria, coming to John’s defense. “Not that I understand it myself. But I know he has to develop the computer programs and all that.”

“Well, maybe I’m a bit behind the times,” said Thornhill conciliatingly. “Bit of an old fossil, I guess, just like John said.” He turned to Charlotte. “Would you like more coffee, Miss Graham?”

“No thank you. I have to get back to the Saunders’ while the tide is still out. I promised Kitty I’d go shopping in town with her. Besides,” she added, “I wouldn’t want to keep two devoted bibliophiles—or is it bibliomaniacs—from their work.”

“For bibliomaniacs, books are not work, they are pleasure,” said Felix. He turned back the lapel of his jacket to reveal a series of half a dozen pockets, each containing a catalogue. He pulled several out. “You see, Miss Graham, I am a bookseller who is always ready to do business.”

“So I see.”

“In addition to bibliomania, bibliophiles are subject to another addiction, catalogue-mania,” he continued. “For us, there is no greater pleasure in life than to spend hours poring over book catalogues. My tailor has allowed me the maximum indulgence in this vice.”

“And in another vice as well,” said Thornhill.

“Ja,”
replied Felix. Turning back the other lapel, he revealed another series of pockets. He withdrew two cigars from one of the pockets and handed one to Thornhill. “Cuban. Aged a full year. You can’t buy them legally in the United States. But”—he raised a forefinger—“I have a connection.”

“I’ve had a wonderful time,” Charlotte said as she rose to leave. “I’d like very much to see some of the books in your collection some day.”

“I’d be delighted,” replied Thornhill, who also rose. “How about tomorrow? There’s no time like the present, as they say.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’d be happy to give you a tour of the bindery too,” said Daria. After setting a time, Charlotte and Daria thanked Thornhill for the meal and went through the hand-kissing routine with Felix once again.

As they left, the two men were hunched over their catalogues, cigars in hand. Looking back, Charlotte thought they looked more like bettors consulting tout sheets than bibliophiles deciding what rare books to buy.

5

Charlotte was struck by the smell the minute she entered the Ledge House parlor the next day. It might have been called eau de summer house: a combination of must from years of being closed up during the winters, rubber from the boots and slickers stored in the hall closet, and lemon oil from the freshly polished furniture—all overlaid by the sweet, salty smell of the sea breeze and the resiny smell of the balsam firs. It reminded her of the many happy summers she’d spent at her second husband’s summer house in Connecticut. Had he lived—he had died suddenly of a heart attack when he was only forty-two—she would probably still be happily married. Her first marriage had been the product of a teenage romance—a common enough mistake and one for which she felt no remorse—but her third and fourth marriages had been ill-fated attempts to recapture the happiness of her second. But maybe she was deceiving herself. Maybe she would have tired of Will in time, or he of her. It had been a marriage of shared ideals and mutual respect, which many contend is the best kind, but it had never been a marriage of passion.

She had been attracted to Will and his family by their sober Yankee values, values that had given her the sense of order and security that she needed to offset the craziness of Hollywood. They belonged to a disappearing breed of New England aristocrat that invests its faith in honesty, brains, and good manners. She had once heard a pundit remark, in a paraphrase of Plato, that for the affluent Wasp, the unexamined life
is
worth living. It was true—introspection wasn’t their strong point. Nor was there much uncertainty in their secure little world: they were shielded from unpleasantness by a cocoon of money and tradition. But their lack of doubt made them confident and fearless; they wore a patina of grace and simplicity that it took others a lifetime of achievement to acquire. If that grace sometimes carried an element of smugness, it was easily overlooked in favor of their loyalty and generosity. And if they were sometimes a bit stuffy, they were also unfailingly kind, unassuming, and cultured. In general, as nice a bunch as you could find anywhere.

Judging from Ledge House, Thornhill was cut from the same mold.

The parlor was furnished with the comfortable elegance that is the mark of old wealth. Thornhill’s Boston antecedents had been in the China trade, and the room was decorated with the precious cargo of the great clipper ships. A round table with a quartet of wicker chairs cushioned in faded chintz stood in the center of the room. On it rested a large
famille rose
bowl heaped to overflowing with Fran’s potpourri, which added a spicy note to the room’s other smells. An antique mahogany sideboard topped by a pair of ginger jars decorated with a blue and white dragon design stood against one wall, and a pair of tall Chinese coromandel screens flanked the door on the other wall. At the rear, a stretch of French doors opened onto the screened veranda, where a somnolent Felix reclined on a chaise longue, his head slumped over the book in his hands. Beyond the veranda, the blue sky was cloudless.

Once again Charlotte had walked up Broadway to Ledge House, this time for a tour of the bindery and library. The door had been answered by Grace, who had gone off to announce Charlotte’s arrival. As Charlotte awaited her return, a silver Mercedes Benz with a license plate reading
CHUCK D
pulled into the driveway and parked just beyond the front door. Charlotte assumed the driver was Chuck Donahue. As he got out of the car she noticed that he bore a strong resemblance to his father-in-law, supporting the popular wisdom that women tend to marry men who look like their fathers. His hair was more blond than red and he was much beefier, but he had the same cold blue-gray eyes and the same bushy mustache. Unlike Thornhill, however, Chuck was a flashy dresser. He wore a double-breasted navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, accented by white patent leather loafers and a red silk handkerchief. His clothes made him look more like a racetrack habituè than an insurance broker. “An overdressed jerk” was how Stan had described him, with his usual caustic accuracy.

He strode briskly up the front steps and through the door, only to be brought up short by the presence of a stranger in the parlor.

“Mr. Donahue?” said Charlotte. She stood up and extended her hand. “Charlotte Graham. I’m staying with Stan and Kitty Saunders.”

Spreading his lips in what she presumed was meant to be a smile, he strode across the room to greet her. “Pleasure,” he muttered. He spoke out of the side of his mouth, as if a cigar was clenched between his teeth. Glancing at the door to the adjacent room, he asked: “Are you here to see Thornhill?”

“Yes, but not at the moment,” she replied. “Daria Henderson’s going to give me a tour of the bindery in a moment. Then Dr. Thornhill’s going to show me some of the books in his collection.”

“Oh,” he answered, looking relieved. He pushed oily strands of blond hair away from his forehead with a nervous gesture. “Well,” he said, turning away, “nice to have met you.” He entered the library, closing the door behind him.

Charlotte turned back to find Daria descending one of the twin staircases that flanked the front door. They exchanged greetings, and Daria escorted her upstairs to the bindery, which had been set up in a sunny, spacious bedroom at the back of the house. In the center stood a long counter, at which John sat on a stool, hunched over a book. He was wearing a black turtleneck that made him look like a bohemian poet. The strong odor of his French cigarette filled the air. As they entered, Charlotte noticed him eyeing Daria admiringly. She was dressed in blue jeans and a V-neck sweater that showed off her perfect figure.

“Welcome to the Ledge House bindery,” said Daria. “You remember John.”

Charlotte said hello, and took a seat opposite him at the counter.

“I’ve been trying to remember the title of one of your pictures,” he said. “You played a vamp who lures a rich man away from his wife.”

“
The Bitter Wife
,” said Charlotte. It was one picture in which she thought she got what she deserved at the end. In a sense, she had. She had married her leading man, which had been punishment enough indeed.

“It’s one of my favorites,” John continued. “You were the epitome of the scheming gold digger. Why is it that we always remember the heroes, and never the villains? It seems to me that the villains are short-changed.”

“Because the Hollywood villains aren’t memorable. Hollywood would never take the risk of offering the public a villain whose motives stemmed from anything more complicated than material gain; it would be bad for the box office.”

The thinking was that villains with grandeur and imagination like Lady Macbeth or Iago were too complex for the movie-going public to understand. Which was one reason Charlotte preferred the stage.

“I guess you’re right,” said John. “But you didn’t come here to discuss films,” he added. “I’ll shut up so that Daria can talk to you about bookbinding.” With that, he picked up his book and began to read.

Charlotte looked around the room. “I feel like I’m in a medieval torture chamber,” she said. The large presses with iron-toothed wheels looked more like devices for stretching limbs on a rack than devices for restoring old books.

Daria smiled, her brown eyes flecked with specks of gold. “They’re medieval instruments, but only for torturing bindings into shape. The tools we use today are almost identical to the tools used five centuries ago.”

Leading Charlotte around the room, she explained the function of each of the tools: a frame for stitching the bindings; a miniature oven for heating the stamping tools; a paper cutter for cutting the boards, or covers. The earliest books, she explained, were luxury items, affordable only to the very rich. Unlike modern books, they were purchased unbound and unillustrated. The binding and illustration often took a year or more and cost more than the book itself.

Charlotte was impressed by her professionalism. She was only in her twenties, but she was already running her own business. She had never been led to assume, as had so many women of Charlotte’s generation, that someone else would be responsible for her economic security. It was an assumption that often failed, and when it did, its victims played a game of self-deceit that Charlotte thought of as
Until:
they would work
until
they got married,
until
the baby came,
until
they had saved enough for the down payment on a house,
until
the kids got through college. Until the
untils
had added up to a lifetime of temporary work with nothing to show for it.

“How did you get into this business?” asked Charlotte as they resumed their seats. “Does one aspire to become a bookbinder?”

“No. I think it’s something most people get into by accident. Suffice it to say that once I got into it, I was hooked.”

She had learned her trade from a New York bookbinder named Carolyn Freeman who had since retired, designating Daria the unofficial heir to her business, she explained. Besides restoration work for museums and libraries, she also did private work—doctoral dissertations, family Bibles, and, as she put it, “Great Aunt Fannie’s recipe book sort of stuff.” She had gotten her present job through Mrs. Freeman, who was a friend of Dr. Thornhill’s. Mrs. Freeman had worked with him on the MacMillan collection.

Charlotte was confused. Why would Daria’s mentor have been working with Thornhill on the Macmillan collection? “Would you say that again, please?”

John, who had been engrossed in his book, perked up his ears at the mention of the famous botanical collection.

Daria smiled. “Dr. Thornhill was a trustee of the botanical society. He still is, for that matter. When MacMillan left his collection to the society, Dr. Thornhill was asked to oversee the transfer. He was the only trustee who knew anything about botanical books. Some of the books needed repair, so he called in Mrs. Freeman. She’d done some work for MacMillan before he died. On
Der Gart
, for instance. Felix talked about its being in immaculate condition, which is true, but when a book is five centuries old, it’s bound to experience some wear and tear. I have a bit more work to do on it myself.”