A Bookmarked Death (4 page)

Chapter Five

W
HEN
I
GOT
home from Southampton, I crashed on the living room couch for several hours. The couch was not that comfortable, a stiff olive-and-gold striped wood-framed antique that had been passed down from Colin’s parents, but it seemed decadent to crawl back into bed. I woke up about eleven, had more coffee, then headed out to the Book Barn.

No matter what else I was preoccupied with, I could not abandon my business. Seasonal sales would begin in earnest after Memorial Day and I would be back on the hunt for treasures. It wasn’t that I didn’t have cartons of books waiting to be listed on AbeBooks.com and the other sites. They stood on the dusty Oriental rugs, waiting patiently for their turn, as humble and undemanding as soup kitchen recipients.

There was nothing
wrong
with the books in these boxes; they were mostly history, biography, and vintage novels, a few esoteric craft guides on weaving and glass-blowing, and some nautical sagas. But there were no wildcards left, nothing that collectors would fight over. No one would bid competitively on eBay for
these
books or pay a premium price on viaLibri. There were no
Tarzan
s in dust jackets, no early John Steinbecks, no signed Patrick O’Brians. I had skimmed the cream from last summer and sold off those prizes long ago.

Nevertheless I should have dragged a carton of these books over to my worktable and started describing them to sell. But I was too restless from what had happened that morning. Shirking my duty for a few hours longer, I went back out to my van and drove down into the village to the bookshop I was being paid to oversee.

Before a shocking murder last July, Port Lewis Books had been known as The Old Frigate. But once death invaded our Long Island seacoast village, the shop had stayed vacant, tributes crowding the doorway—handwritten messages, cone-wrapped flowers, and literary toys like Paddington Bear and Madeleine. Another bookseller, Marty Campagna, finally bought the property. He’d had it cleaned and fumigated and tried to hire me to sell his expensive stock.

Unfortunately he’d acted as if Secondhand Prose was my little hobby, something I could give up as easily as knitting sweaters for soldiers. I’d refused and persuaded Marty to hire a younger bookseller, Susie Pevney. To do so I’d agreed that I would supervise her.

As soon as I came into the shop that Monday morning I sensed trouble. Susie’s eyes were swollen, her normal optimism vanquished. Marty was sitting in one of the leather wing chairs, scowling down at the phone in his palm. Dressed as he was in a red Goodfella’s Bar T-shirt with a white line drawing of a pair of handcuffs, he looked as out-of-place as a mechanic who had wandered into the Harvard Club expecting to be served.

He could at least replace his black-framed glasses, which were duct-taped at the bridge, I thought, but appearance had never been Marty’s thing. He spent the money he had inherited from his grandfather’s cesspool cleaning business on books and books alone. He bought books constantly, as if he would not be satisfied until every single volume ever published had passed through his hands. I had seen him vault sofas and push aside old ladies at estate sales to get to the good stuff. Yet as soon as he owned a book, he seemed to lose interest in it. His goal became to sell the book for as much as he could.

Marty, Susie, and the bookshop. This was my everyday world.

I moved toward Susie first, inclining my head questioningly toward Marty. If he had been bullying her . . .

She shook her head quickly.

“What’s the matter?” I said, my back to Marty so that he could not hear our conversation.

“Nothing!” She gave me a quick, insincere smile, then looked back down at what she had been doing. Whatever was troubling her, she was not ready to share it.

I turned back around to Marty. “What are
you
frowning about?”

He looked up at me and shook his head, then growled, “Never trust little old lady librarians!”

“What happened?”

Marty leaned back against the leather chair, pressing his muscular arms into the armrests. “You know those books I picked up last month in Boston?”

“You mean the Mary Shelley and the Lincoln?”

“Yeah. Those were the best of the lot. This old bat, very genteel, said she was selling off her dead husband’s collection. The books were all embossed on the title page to the Melrose Library and some had ‘Discard’ stamped in red over the blind-stamp. So I thought—”

“You thought they’d be discarding a first of
Frankenstein
? That they’d deface it that way? C’mon, Marty!”

“Well, I could hope. Maybe they had too many first editions. And what she was asking for them wasn’t crazy.”

Meaning he probably thought he had slipped into the bank and found the vault unlocked. “So you didn’t check.”

Of course he hadn’t.
I
would have, which was probably why I was still getting excited over twenty-five-dollar sales. I tend to forget that everyone hasn’t been raised in a Methodist parsonage, hasn’t been taught at a young age, “If it’s doubtful, it’s
dirty
.” When I was twelve and had shoplifted a red lipstick and a Baby Ruth bar, my father had asked me how much I was willing to “sell my soul for.”

It was a question I still pondered. Would I sell my soul for a Shakespearean folio? A signed
Gone with the Wind
?

I knew I wouldn’t, though in Marty’s defense, seeing books stamped as discards made it easier to turn a blind eye.

“So how did the old lady trick you?”

He shook his head at the ugliness of humanity. “She told me her husband had been this high-rolling Boston lawyer and book collector. The house was full of antiques. But it was small. Very small.” Marty frowned. “That should have told me something.”

“She could have moved to someplace more manageable after she was widowed.”

“Right. So I buy the books and I sell a Harriet Beecher Stowe—
signed
—and the Lincoln to two of my collectors. Then the Lincoln guy actually contacts the Melrose Library to find out the book’s provenance—what an idiot—and next thing I hear, the library is claiming that the book was
stolen
from them. They have a whole list and they want them back.” Marty looked so outraged that I almost forgot he was not the true victim.

“Really? After they stamped them as discards?”

“Turns out there was no ‘husband.’ She was a clerk at the library for forty years and smuggled them out in her ‘corset.’ She had plenty of access to the official ‘Discard’ stamp. So she was all set to finance her retirement.”

“So you have to give the books back?”

“No! How can I? I bought them in good faith. My collector returned the Lincoln to that library, now he wants his money back from me. I have to give it to him. He’s a good customer, but I’m the one who’s out. I can’t take a hit on the other books she sold me. I bought around thirty.”

“Thirty! Can’t you get your money back from the librarian?”

“Naw. Turns out she has a little gambling problem too.”

I leaned on the top of the other wing chair. “Well . . .”

“Anyway, I was thinking. I’ll deny I have any other of their books, but they’ll be watching everything I do. But
you
could list them, just say they’re ex libris without giving any details. If you do one or two at a time, they won’t make the connection with you.”

“You want me to sell stolen library books.” I tried to keep my voice neutral. Didn’t he know me well enough to realize it was never going to happen? How was it any different than selling electronic goods that had “fallen off the truck” on eBay? Or offering purloined artifacts to secret collectors?

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

Our eyes locked. Marty was used to getting what he wanted, but I had a code of ethics I could not violate.

He leaned forward in the chair with a disarming humility. “You know I can’t take a hit on this, blondie, I don’t
have
it.” He gestured at the bookstore. “This goddamn money pit would be the first thing to go.”

“I’ll do it,” Susie called out from behind the counter.

We both turned to stare at her, then Marty scowled. “Do what?”

“Sell those library books on eBay.” Her wholesome face was flushed, her large brown eyes bright behind her glasses.

“Susie, they were stolen from a library in Massachusetts,” I objected.

“Marty didn’t know that when he bought them.”

“He does now.”

Marty pushed up from the wing chair, apparently too restless to stay still any longer. “It wouldn’t work,” he told us, as if I were part of Susie’s scheme. “As soon as the title came up, they’d be notified by e-mail. Everybody monitors eBay. Besides, you have to put photos on eBay, right? They’d be able to tell.”

“I wouldn’t show the library stamp,” Susie said stubbornly.

“Naw. I’ll think of something else.”

Then he was out the door.

“Were you really going to do it?” I asked her.

“Oh, probably not. I didn’t think he’d go for it. But it gives me street cred with him.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her. I knew she could not afford to have the bookstore close.

On the other hand, neither could I.

Chapter Six

B
Y
THE
TIME
I finished at the bookstore it was early afternoon and I was starving. I thought about stopping at the deli for egg salad on a roll, then decided that the bread and peanut butter I had at home would be fine. Skippy’s Smooth with a light overlay of mustard was my sandwich of choice, had been since childhood.

When I turned onto my street, I saw a dark blue sedan parked in front of my house. Frank Marselli’s unmarked police car. But what was he doing here now?

I turned the van slowly into the driveway and killed the motor, but didn’t climb out. I should have stopped for lunch. My stomach felt scooped-out and something told me I would need the strength food would have given me. I watched the navy car—a Taurus?—and waited for its door to open. Finally it did, but instead of Frank, a woman pushed herself out. Skinny legs in beige slacks. A man, rotund in a dark green windbreaker, opened the passenger side door and climbed out too.

I got out of the van then and stood by the open door, waiting until they could reach me.

The policewoman—what else could she be?—had light red hair secured in an odd arrangement on the back of her head, loose pieces dangling everywhere. When she came closer I saw that she had large green eyes in a narrow face. White shirt, a waffle-textured tan pantsuit that hung from her shoulders. A circular grease stain on one lapel appeared as permanent as a decoration.

Neither of us smiled. I was too apprehensive and she seemed to be all business.

“Mrs. Fitzhugh?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I call myself. I’m Delhi Laine.”

She sighed as if I had given her a name from a nursery rhyme. “Are you Colin Fitzhugh’s wife or not?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Ruth Carew. Suffolk County Police.” She pulled a leather holder out of her pocket as if she were used to doing it, and flipped it open to show me a badge.

“Has something happened to Colin?” Were they here to tell me that he was dead, the victim of an automobile accident or a campus shooting? In police procedurals they always sent two with bad news.

“Isn’t he here?” she demanded.

“Now? I don’t think so. His car isn’t here.” At this time of day he was always at the university.

“Can you check?”

“Sure.” I turned toward the front porch and they followed me.

Walking up the path, I tried to remember if the kitchen was presentable, if I had washed last night’s dishes. I didn’t think so. I settled us in the living room, which had books everywhere, but only my morning coffee cup. The pair sat down tentatively on the striped couch, facing me like job applicants. I made myself comfortable in Colin’s brown suede wing chair.

I wasn’t comfortable, of course. I was frantically running down reasons why they wanted to talk to Colin. When we’d stepped inside I’d called out his name but there had been no answer.

The plump man held out a perfunctory hand, as if belatedly remembering his manners. He didn’t expect me to get up and shake it. Evidently just waving it in the air satisfied the bonds of civility. “Arlen Olson, Arson Squad.”

Say that fast five times.

I forced myself to look calm and disinterested.
The Arson Squad?

I watched the policewoman take out the requisite black notebook from her suit jacket. “How well did you know Ethan Crosley?”

She might as well have punched me in the stomach. It lurched as if she had. How could she have found us so fast? “Ethan? I haven’t seen Ethan for nearly twenty years. He was my husband’s friend, not mine. But I don’t think Colin has seen him in years either. I read about the fire online.”

She peered down at her notebook as if to confirm something. “And Sheila Crosley?”

That was harder. I stared through the window at the front porch, at the green rocker that should have been taken in for the winter. “I saw her in January,” I admitted finally. “But it was only for a few minutes. Colin didn’t see her. I was alone.”

Detective Carew tilted her head. “What was your business with her?”

It was a curious way to put it. Not asking, “How did you happen to run into her?” Or “What did you talk about?”

“You really want to know? It’s a long story.”

Agent Olson sighed and looked over at the photos of my great-grandparents under rounded glass. It seemed evident that long stories bored him.

“Of course we do, Ms.—” But she couldn’t remember the name I had given her and gave up.

There was a disturbance in the doorway from the kitchen and Raj and Miss T strode in to look us over.

“Oh,
cats
,” Detective Carew said as if they were just one more annoyance in a trying day.

“Are you allergic?”

“No. It’s just—” She didn’t finish.

“They won’t bother you.” I stared back at their sweet faces, upset on their behalf. This was
their
house, not hers. “Would you like coffee or anything?”

“No. Thanks.”

I leaned forward in the wing chair that was too big for me. “Nineteen years ago we spent the summer in England, in Stratford-upon-Avon. Shakespeare’s birthplace? Colin was in an archeological program that visited different sites, and Ethan Crosley was in the program too.” Should I tell her they had been best friends since graduate school? I decided not to. “We were staying at a residence with the other visiting families, everyone except the Crosleys. They had more money than the rest of us so they stayed at an inn.

“I had three daughters, a four-year-old and two-year-old twins. I took them to the same park every day by the Avon River. This one day I was taking photographs, and the girls were playing. I—should have been watching them more closely. Suddenly Jane, my oldest, came running up and said that Caitlin had fallen in the river. I jumped into the water, everyone did, but we couldn’t find her. They never found her body.” I couldn’t believe it; my eyes were starting to water, my voice sounded choked. Hadn’t the story had a happy ending?

I put it down to too little sleep and the fact that they were here at all. I brushed a hand across one eye.

The policewoman was looking at me thoughtfully. I felt forced to go on.

“All these years we thought she was dead. Then last November I got a handprinted note from England that said, ‘Your daughter did not drown.’ I had no idea what it meant! But my daughter Jane and I went over to England to try and track it down. Long story short: The note was from the son of a woman who had been paid by the Crosleys to kidnap Caitlin from the park when Jane wasn’t looking, then tell me she had fallen in the water. Nice, right? The Crosleys called her Elisa and raised her as their own daughter. It was a miracle we ever found her again.”

Agent Olson was staring at me now, not the photos. He looked skeptical.

Sorry it’s not a better story.
“You think I’d make something like this up? She and my other daughter Hannah are twins and look identical. You can do a DNA test if you don’t believe me. Or call DCI Sampson in Stratford. He knows all about it.”

Belatedly I looked at Detective Carew. There was something in her green eyes close to sympathy. “And you never suspected they took her?”

“We never suspected anything. Everyone assumed Elisa had drowned, especially the British police. We never saw Ethan and Sheila again. Ethan kept in touch occasionally with Colin by e-mail, but they always taught at different universities. We didn’t start looking for Elisa until we got that note.”

I wasn’t going to tell her that over the years I’d fantasized other scenarios. Sometimes I’d imagined that Elisa—Caitlin then—had floated downstream—she was a resourceful little girl—and been picked up by someone in a boat. Why they had kept her instead of returning her to her family was something I didn’t spend much time thinking about. The story and her photo had been in the area papers.

Over the years there had been a few sightings here at home, people on vacation who claimed they had seen Hannah on the ski slope or on a neighboring sailboat and were shocked when I told them we hadn’t been anywhere near there. I had always tried to learn more, but never could.

“When did you suspect the Crosleys?”

Never. “Not until the trail led to an Elisa Crosley. Even then, at first I thought the last name was just a coincidence.”

“You must have been devastated.
I
would have wanted to kill them.”

Did she think that would make me confess? “What I wanted was to see them punished. Disgraced, and sent to jail. It was a little complicated because it happened in England and American authorities didn’t want to jump in. But no, I didn’t want to see them dead. I wanted them to
pay
.” I sighed. “The thing was, Elisa didn’t agree.”

“She’s the one in Boston?” Agent Olson rejoined the conversation.

How did he know anything about her? “Yes. We’re going up for her graduation Friday.”

Detective Carew shifted on the striped couch, pushed up a sleeve, then looked at her watch. “Let’s go back to Saturday night: Was your husband here with you? Did he leave the house at all?”

The uneasiness in my stomach, which I had assumed to be hunger, flared into four-alarm flames. Why were they so focused on Colin? My first instinct was to lie, to assure them we had been here together all night. After what we had been through at the hands of the Crosleys, we deserved a pass. Except that I couldn’t lie about that. Oh, sometimes I pretended to be someone other than I was in the interest of getting at the truth. But this was different.

“Colin has his own place,” I said. “His own condo where he lives most of the time. I don’t know where he was Saturday night.”

They jumped to attention like recruits faced with their commanding officer. “He doesn’t live here?” Agent Olson demanded. “This is the address the university gave us.”

“He’s been subletting a condo for the past year.”

“So who was here with you Saturday night?” Detective Carew broke in.

“Just me. But I was home all night. I wasn’t out in the Hamptons setting fires, if that’s what you’re asking. I told you, I wanted to see them arrested and made to pay. I wanted people to know that no matter how much money you have, you can’t go around stealing other people’s children!”

I stopped, aware that I was losing control.

“Did your husband feel like killing the Crosleys when he found out?” Detective Carew was like a search dog who never lost focus. “Did he ever threaten Ethan Crosley?”

That was a dangerous question. I thought back to the night I told Colin that it had been Ethan and Sheila who took Caitlin. I had come back from Boston after confronting Sheila and met him in a Port Lewis seafood bar, the Whaler’s Arms. At first he had refused to consider that someone who had been a close friend could have stolen his child. I’d seen his face gradually harden into stone as he realized it was true.

“What should we do?” I’d asked.

“You mean besides tracking him down and killing him?”

I supposed you could call that a threat. But it had been said in the heat of angry disbelief, and to me, not Ethan. So I told them, “No. He wants to move past it too. I don’t know why you’re connecting us with the fire.”

“Your daughter corroborated your kidnapping story to the Boston police.” Carew’s glance flickered to Olson, who seemed surprised that she had not shared this with him. “She showed them a letter Dr. Crosley had sent her, mailed express mail Saturday, that she got this morning. He sent her a check for a graduation present. He also warned her in case anything happened to him.” She flipped back several pages in her small notebook, then read aloud, “ ‘If anything happens to me, blame Colin Fitzhugh.’ ”

I nearly jerked out of the chair. “What? He said that? He wrote that to Elisa? That’s crazy!” If she had pulled out her service revolver and pointed it, I could not have been more shocked. “How could he even know that something was going to happen to him?”

“He could if he had had threats before.”

“But anyone could have threatened him; he had enemies all over the world. He antagonized a lot of people in his profession, archeology, and he stole artifacts from other countries.” Pure conjecture, but I hardly cared.

“You know that for a fact? Had he been convicted?”

“Not that I know of. But it was an open secret. He was known to cross a lot of lines and someone probably caught up with him. Well, boo-hoo.”

Shut up, Delhi.
It was not what you were supposed to say to the police about someone who had just been burned alive. I was exaggerating anyway, something I tended to do when I felt pushed against the wall. “I don’t mean I’m happy about the fire,” I apologized. “It’s been terrible for Elisa. But we didn’t set it.”

When Colin had driven up to Brown University to confront Ethan a few days after I told him about Elisa, Ethan and Sheila had already fled to Barbados. At least that’s what Colin had told me. He’d said the archeology department at Brown, people he had known professionally for years, had told him that Ethan had taken a sudden leave of absence for health reasons. The Crosleys’ next-door neighbor confirmed that they had left for their estate outside Bridgetown.

But what if that wasn’t true? I saw a different scenario, the former best friends, now bitter enemies, standing outside a Providence mansion screaming at each other. Colin could have threatened Ethan then. Maybe it was whatever Colin had said that night that made Ethan and Sheila leave the country.

The police did not seem to know about that trip, though. And I was not going to tell them.

I was suddenly restless, wanting to be by myself. “Why are you asking
me
questions about Colin? Why aren’t you asking him?”

“We thought we’d find him here,” Detective Carew said evenly. “Would you like to tell us where he lives?”

I gave her the address, then said, “You can always find him at the university.”

“He was not at the university.”

Of course. That was why they were here. But where else would he be on a Monday afternoon
?