A Novel Death (20 page)

What I had not thought enough about was that whoever had been sending me messages knew where I lived. My address was on the Internet, on my bookselling page. I put it there to make it easier for buyers who wanted to mail me checks and money orders. I had never considered having a post office box. It was held as common knowledge on BookEm that people had more confidence in buying from a physical address than a box number.

But that meant that if someone suspected that I had an expensive book, they would know exactly where to look for it. If they didn't find it in the barn and then went into the basement and saw a safe... they'd find stacks of old photographs, many copies of poetry chapbooks, and a one-hundred-year-old book. Even if they didn't know it was valuable, they'd take it because of where it was.

Now I could not move quickly enough. It took me six minutes to retrieve my car and drive home from the hospital.

When I pulled into the driveway, the front yard looked neater than I had remembered. But perhaps I was just seeing it through a thief's eyes. I gave the pots of geraniums and impatiens a glance as I ran up the porch steps, but I was focused on the dark green-painted door. It was still locked. Good. But had I remembered to lock the back door?

Half-tripping back down the steps, I raced along the side of the house, crunching on ivy that had grown over the path.

The backyard still lay in its morning calm, water spilling out of the gargoyle's mouth into the pond. But when I reached the glasspaned door and twisted the knob, it gave too easily. Damn! Stepping inside I expected see kitchen drawers yanked out and papers everywhere. Instead, the room appeared undisturbed. My coffee cup and newspapers were beside the avocado refrigerator, the room lit only by daylight. When I ran into the living room, it looked the same. Yet something was different. For one thing, where were the cats?

I ran upstairs to check the bedrooms. When I came back down, Miss T, my ancient tabby, emerged huffily from beneath the striped couch, a sign that something had spooked her. But she ducked away when I went to pet her and there was no sign of Raj. Hoping that he was hiding in another spot and had not escaped outside, I went over to the basement door. And then stopped. Under normal circumstances I held my breath while descending the stairs, but now I had no idea what I might find. Or not find. After all the friendship and knowledge I had gotten from Margaret, all she had asked in return was that I keep her book safe. I had not even managed to do that.

Maybe she would never regain consciousness and find out, I thought, and then pushed that idea away-a leftover from the child Delhi, trying to wriggle her way out of trouble. If the book were gone, I would feel just as bereft. Even though I had had Sambo only a short time, reading about its history made it very real. What if I never saw it again?

Switching on the basement light, I placed my foot slowly on the first step and called out, "Hello?" Nothing. Then a sudden squeal behind me nearly jerked me out of my skin.

Raj. Scooping him up made me feel less frightened-as if a ninepound Siamese cat could protect me. "Come on," I said. "We might as well look."

But when I reached the bottom step, I reared back and nearly dropped him. The basement smelled not of the bookshop's aftershave from hell, but of gasoline. Of course. Someone had stolen the book, and then tried to burn down the house to cover the theft. I sniffed the gasoline again, and stepped onto the cement floor. At least there was not the telltale sulfur waft of matches.

The door to the safe was closed. Crossing the floor quickly, I reached for the handle, and then stopped. There might be fingerprints. Compromising, I nudged the side of the lever with my elbow and, as it gave, I pulled the door open from the top. Someone had definitely been here since this morning. The books and papers in the safe were out of kilter, different from the way I had left them. Colin's poetry volumes were now on top instead of the old photographs. Lifting a pile of Voices We Don't Want to Hear and Earthworks, I caught my breath. Sambo was resting comfortably at the bottom, still wrapped in plastic.

It didn't make sense. Why hadn't whoever it was taken the book? The only reason I could think of was that when he saw Sambo among the old family photos, he had assumed it was a sentimental childhood treasure.

Maybe out of frustration, he had kicked the gas can, although it was now upright again near the lawnmower.

Back upstairs, with Raj and Sambo firmly in hand, I worried about where to put the book. As in "The Purloined Letter," I could place it in the barn on an ordinary shelf or even in the loft with the unsorted stacks. Hide a book in the midst of other books. Then I remembered how Margaret's shop basement had been ransacked. If the next searcher knew what he was looking for, he would find it quick enough. I didn't want Sambo that far away from me anyway. Carefully I slipped the book, still in plastic, into my bright woolen purse.

But I needed to call the police. I found Detective Marselli's card and dialed.

"Marselli," he answered, and then silence.

"Hello?" I said.

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is Delhi Laine; you came here Wednesday? I just wanted to tell you that someone searched my house"

"It wasn't the police," he said immediately.

I was taken back. That hadn't crossed my mind.

"So what's missing?"

"Nothing-that I can see. But they went through the papers in the safe."

"They break in?"

"I couldn't find any sign of that," I admitted.

A grunt. "You have an ex? Or soon-to-be ex?"

How did he know that? "Sort of. But-"

"Okay, then. Check for missing bank books, property deeds, see if anything's gone. But if he still owns the house it's not trespassing. He have an Order of Protection, anything like that?"

"No!" I couldn't imagine Colin guilty of domestic violence. When you knew you had Right on your side, you didn't need to get physical.

"Well, if you find any property damage, call your local precinct. But someone going through papers, that's what it always is," Marselli was saying. "Domestic incidents can get ugly. But sometimes they just take the stuff to make photocopies."

"You don't think it has to do with what happened at the bookstore?"

"With Mr. Singh?"

"Well, I knew him. And Margaret. And I have some valuable books here."

"Call your locals. And keep your doors locked." He was off the line.

I pressed the receiver to my forehead. In one short phone call I had managed to destroy not just my image as the respectable wife of a university professor, but to sound like an idiot as well.

I knew it was not Colin breaking in to look for evidence of secret bank accounts. He knew as well as I did that there weren't any.

But I called him anyway.

"Hey-lo." His normal greeting.

"Colin? It's me. Look, I was just wondering if you'd been over to the house for anything."

"You didn't notice?"

"Notice what?"

"I mowed the grass! Honestly, Delhi, the neighbors are going to lynch you if you don't take better care of the yard. That's part of the agreement."

"Okay, thanks. Did you go in the safe?"

"Did I go in the safe? I can't get things out of my own safe?"

"Of course you can! I just thought someone might have broken in."

"Oh. No. I needed copies of my books to apply for a grant."

"Really? Good luck."

"Thanks. Speaking of the house, we need to talk."

I winced. When a man, especially a husband, says, "We need to talk," you can bet your life savings that it's not to tell you how wonderful you are.

"Listen, you could do something for me," I said quickly.

"What's that?"

"If I mailed you a book, would you keep it really safe?"

"What is it, the Gutenberg Bible?"

I get weary of Gutenberg Bible jokes. If people actually saw one, tatty pages and uneven type, they'd probably throw it in the trash. "Not quite."

"What is it?"

"Just say yes or no. I'll send it to your post office box"

Now he was interested. "I could come pick it up."

"No! I want it out of reach for a while, in the mail. You can even leave it in your post office box if you want"

He snorted at that.

"Just keep it safe. Don't give it to anyone but me. Even if they threaten to pull out your fingernails."

"Delhi."

"Just a joke. You'll be fine."

"What is this book?"

"You'll see. Will you do it?"

"Oh, I'll do it." As always, he was casting himself as the longsuffering savior of mere mortals. I hated to let Sambo go to him or anyone else. But after those weird e-mails I was afraid to keep the book with me. What if someone came to the house tonight and threatened me personally? Started burning my books, one by one, until I gave Sambo up? If they actually threatened to kill me, I would hand the book right over. You want that gift-wrapped, sir? With a nice big bow?

It was not a position I wanted to find myself in.

Even the barn felt less safe. I bolted the door securely.

I knew I had to look through the book one more time. There was a subliminal stirring, a sense that I was overlooking something. Reaching into my bag, I retrieved it, took it out of its plastic casing, and turned the pages slowly, back to front. This time I was struck by the illustration of the tiger who had wheedled Sambo's purple shoes away from him. Wearing a pointy shoe on each ear, his front paws raised menacingly so you could see their underside, he had the look of an Oriental icon. It was a skillful rendering and brought in another cultural reference. But that was not what I was looking for.

I stopped finally at the inscription and looked, not at it, but at the illustration opposite. The picture showed Sambo bowing in the direction of the words, a quick, simple sketch with his head partially shielded by the green umbrella. Bringing it close to my face, I saw that it was not lithographed the way the other illustrations were. It was actually fainter, as if it had first been drawn in black ink, then delicately tinted with watercolors. Sliding my finger across the surface, I felt a slight texture.

I tried running my fingertips across one of the book's printed pictures, which felt completely smooth, then sat back, shaken. Had Helen Bannerman created an original painting for Kipling? If they were friends ... But even if they weren't, he was already famous in 1899. She might have sent the little book to him in the hope of furthering its popularity, though the tone of the inscription indicated some personal familiarity.

Hoping that my e-mail channel was secure, I sent a message to a young woman I had met at a booksellers' workshop in Colorado Springs a year earlier. Katie's specialty was children's books and we had had several enthusiastic conversations. More than that, her father owned an eminent antiquarian bookstore in the Midwest. It was the kind that still produced beautiful color catalogs on glossy pages, with prices to match.

Hi Katie,

I'm not sure whether you'll remember me from the Colorado Seminar but we talked about children's books there. In any case, I have a theoretical question for you: What do you think a first printing of THE ADVENTURES OF LITTLE BLACK SAMBO, Grant Richards, 1899, in pristine condition might be worth? And what if, say, it had an inscription from Helen Bannerman possibly to Rudyard Kipling, and a small original illustration painted by her across the page? Also what if it had

"Author's Copy" stamped on the back inside cover?

Please answer off-list! Just a ballpark figure will do.

Thanks, and I hope things are going wonderfully for you.

Before pressing SEND, I checked twice to make sure that I had not accidentally cc'd the message to anyone else-like the entire BookEm list-and then let it go. It would perhaps be hours before Katie turned on her computer in Chicago, but whenever she did, my question would be there.

Next I called Shara. It wasn't with the compassion my mother would have shown. I wanted to know what was happening with Russell. Although I had searched Newsday and checked their website, there was nothing about an arrest in the bookstore murder.

The phone was not picked up until the fourth ring. A faint "Hello?"

"Shara?"

"Yes?"

"It's Delhi Laine. Is everything okay?"

"How can everything be okay?"

"You mean the police have charged Russell?"

"Oh. No. He's back."

"You mean he's home?" I was astonished. "They let him go without charging him?"

"I don't know." She said it dully. "He won't talk to me. But-now the police want to talk to me!"

"They have to talk to everyone who knew Amil. Just tell them the truth."

"Why?"

I closed my eyes; I had no patience for temperament this morning. "Because in this country you don't get a choice. Look, I'll be in and out. Call me if anything else happens."

Then I put Sambo in the smallest Priority Mail box and wrapped two other books to send out.

Leaving the post office, I went up the street to the Port Lewis library. According to the card catalog online, they had the biography of Helen Bannerman, Sambo Sahib. Sure enough, I found the book, by Elizabeth Hay, on the shelf among the Bs.