Ghost Image (9 page)

8

N
o one followed me out of the museum to the bike rack where I'd parked the Vespa. Years ago when I began working for International Press Service in London, Perry DiNardo, my boss, sent me and two colleagues to a hunting lodge on the grounds of a semiruined castle in the Scottish Highlands for a week-long intensive training program called Surviving Hostile Environments. The British ex–Special Forces team that taught the course made us work our tails off with endless drills, sending us on excursions to hauntingly beautiful lochs and steep-sided glens where we were ambushed by terrorists, caught up in gunfights, or told that our driver or security guard or a buddy was bleeding to death and help wasn't coming.

What they wanted us to take away from that week was not a set of learned skills but how to keep our wits about us and think fast. “In the military you don't learn, you train,” one of them said to me. “Training is what you fall back on in combat.”

The habits I developed because of that indelible week were still with me and, on one memorable occasion in Islamabad,
saved my life. I put my camera bag with Kevin's seventeenth-century catalog of plants in the hard-shell case on the back of my scooter and checked one more time to see if anyone was paying attention. Then I called Max.

“Sophie, darlin', how are you? Everything all right?” Max had a voice like honey poured over gravel and the faintest hint of an aristocratic Southern drawl. He called every woman he met by some endearment—darling or sweetheart or sugar—and you knew it was just part of his charm.

“I'm fine, Max,” I said. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Ask away.”

A couple of yellow school buses lumbered past me on Madison Drive and I had to raise my voice. “I was wondering if you'd be willing to take a look at a very old book I've come across? From 1657.”

“Of course I would, though you know rare books aren't my specialty. I can certainly help you get it to someone who could give you an appraisal, if that's what you want. Where are you, by the way? It sounded like a couple of tanks just rolled by.”

“Close. School buses. I'm on the Mall by the Natural History Museum.”

“I see. And where is this book?”

“In my camera bag carefully stowed away in the Vespa.”

“Good Lord. I hope it's not under your seat. The heat of your engine could do some serious damage.”

“Come on, you know I know better. It's in the top case.” There were only certain things I could leave under the seat—my helmet, gloves, a rain jacket, items like that. No groceries, unless I wanted the meat and produce to be precooked and the cheese melted when I got home. “Do you think I could stop by now?”

“Sure you can. I'm just catching up on paperwork. What's going on, sugar? Is this something urgent?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Would I be correct in assuming the book's not yours?”

“You would, but the owner, or the person I think is the owner, can't ask you about it himself. It's a long story.”

“I see. Well, in that case, come on over. I'll make tea.”

• • •

M. Katzer Fine Antiques was located on upper Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, in a historic district known as Book Hill. A neighborhood of wide brick sidewalks lined with art galleries, antiques shops, and home-furnishing boutiques, the long block between Q and R Streets had been the home of the late, lamented French Market until twenty years ago. But the Gallic charm lingered, along with the pleasant, unrushed feeling that you'd somehow left frenetic Washington behind and wandered into the Latin Quarter of Paris. The name Book Hill came from the nearby Georgetown Neighborhood Library, as well as a pretty hilly patch of green on Reservoir Road called, not surprisingly, Book Hill Park.

Max's upscale gallery at 1605½ Wisconsin specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century English and continental antiques and decorative arts, Oriental carpets, and an eclectic collection of art. I liked the fact that he wasn't a snob or a purist, and every now and then he'd display something offbeat like a retro 1950s sofa upholstered in loud avocado and tangerine stripes or, once, a chandelier made of red, yellow, and green Murano glass gummy bears.

The gallery was a secondary business, opened to appease his many admirers who clamored for it. But he'd made his reputation and his fortune as one of D.C.'s top interior designers, thanks to a client list that included diplomats, politicians, wealthy socialites, and even the First Family.

The Tibetan wind chimes hanging on the front door of his gallery tinkled as I walked in half an hour later cradling my camera bag with Kevin's book inside. Max's business partner—and,
if you believed the rumors, a former lover—glanced up from a catalog she was reading behind an antique walnut-and-glass display cabinet.

She smiled. “Sophie, how nice to see you. Go on through, he's in his office.”

Max was sitting at a mahogany desk that dated from one of the Louises—fourteenth or sixteenth, I could never remember—frowning at something on his computer screen. When he saw me in the doorway, the frown vanished and he switched off the display and came around, smiling, to give me a kiss.

He was dressed as though he'd just come from a meeting at the White House: impeccable charcoal suit, pale blue dress shirt, blue-and-yellow silk tie, and black wingtips polished to a military shine. He was tall and slim, with an air of erudition and seriousness and the bearing of someone who grew up surrounded by privilege and luxury on a grand estate or a historic plantation, a first-class private education, summer holidays abroad. The truth—and he was proud of it—was that he was the only child of a single mother who worked in a school cafeteria in rural Kentucky. The military paid for his college education.

“Sweetheart, do come in. Let me take that from you.” He set my camera bag on an English sideboard. “I made Earl Grey. And we've got macaroons from Patisserie Poupon.”

I'd completely forgotten about eating lunch. “Sounds wonderful,” I said. “And thank you again for the note you left this morning about Kevin Boyle.”

He shook his head in dismay. “I read his book. A real shame about his passing. He wasn't that old.” He indicated a chair. “Have a seat, darlin'. Your tea's ready.”

I sat in a moss-green velvet slipper chair in front of his desk and took the bone china cup and saucer he handed me. Max sat in the matching twin chair across from me and passed me a plate piled with macaroons. When he crossed one leg over the other, I
noticed he was wearing socks with a pirate skull and crossbones on them.

“Hazelnut or raspberry?” he said. “Never mind, take one of each.”

I took one of each and said, “I love your socks.”

“I like 'em, too. Always do one thing that keeps people guessing about you. It's boring being predictable. Suit from Savile Row, socks from Target.” He grinned, and stuck out a leg, admiring his sock. “So tell me about this book. We have some time before Bram calls. He won't be free until three o'clock.”

“Bram?”

He dipped a hazelnut macaroon in his tea. “Bramwell Asquith. You must know Asquith's, the British auction house? Their Washington gallery is on Cady's Alley.”

It was one of the oldest auction houses in Britain, founded in the late 1700s.

“Of course.” The studio I briefly worked for was also located on Cady's Alley, a little cul-de-sac in lower Georgetown next to the C&O Canal. “When I lived in London I used to stop by their gallery on Bond Street.”

Max nodded. “I know it well. Bram is their senior vice president—and heir apparent to take over—but he's also Asquith's expert on rare and antiquarian books. He works here in Washington, though. I'm not sure how much he'll be able to tell us over the phone, but at least you might be able to get a rough idea of the value.” He gave me a questioning smile. “I'm presuming that's what you're after, isn't it?”

“Yes and no. I believe someone is searching for this particular book, and I want to know why.”

“Can you be any more specific?”

“I'm fairly certain it belonged to Kevin Boyle. He hid it in a locker at the Natural History Museum, or at least I think he hid it, though I don't know from whom.”

Max brushed imaginary crumbs from his perfectly creased
trousers and looked as though we were discussing something as innocuous as what fabric to choose for my living room drapes. “I see,” he said in his languid drawl. “Do you believe there's a connection between Brother Kevin's death and the book?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm so curious about it.”

Max set his cup and saucer on his desk as though I still hadn't said anything that surprised him. But in his line of work, he probably saw his share of surprises—some of them no doubt jaw-dropping—peeking into the bedrooms, offices, and private lives of his powerful and wealthy clients. I figured he had a lot of practice perfecting that poker face.

“Why don't I pour us some more tea?” he said. “And maybe you can start at the beginning.”

I told him everything, including finding Kevin's study room trashed, Thea Stavros's asking to keep the key, and Logan's suggesting it possibly opened a locker at the Natural History Museum.

Max's eyebrows went up when I mentioned Thea. “So you met La Stavros? How interesting. I haven't spoken to her in ages. In fact, I didn't realize she was still at the library.”

“You know her?” I asked, as he gave me a practiced innocent grin that fooled no one. “Why am I asking? You know everyone.”

“You flatter me. But Thea . . . a fascinating woman, to say the least. We met years ago when a client asked me to create a one-of-a-kind hand-painted wallpaper of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American botanical prints.” He picked up his teacup again and drank, his eyes crinkling as he started to laugh. “Let me tell you, Thea saved my bacon. Refused to let me use two of the prints I absolutely loved because she said they would look like we'd put big green phalluses all over the walls once they were enlarged. Lord, it was a distinguished room in a rather famous home.”

I laughed, too. “I don't suppose you'd care to tell me which rather famous home?”

He gave me a look like a cat that just drank all the cream. “Have another macaroon, Sophie, darlin'.”

I took one, and he stood up. “Let me wash my hands and we'll have a look at your book.”

I cleaned up our dishes while he disappeared into the small bathroom that adjoined his office. Then I took the book in its canvas cover out of my camera bag. Max returned holding a pair of white cotton gloves. He removed the cloth-covered box from the bag and set it on the sideboard.

“Well, the fact that it's in a Solander box already indicates that it's of some value.” He took reading glasses out of the inside pocket of his jacket and put them on.

“Why is it called a Solander box?” I asked.

“Because it was invented by Mr. Solander.” He opened the box. “I don't recall his first name, but he was a botanist, interestingly enough, who needed a sturdy container to protect a collection of prints . . . let's see what we have here.
Adam in Eden: or, Natures Paradise. The History of Plants, Fruits, Herbs and Flowers by William Coles, Herbalist.
”

He lifted the yellowed book out of the box and set it on a piece of cloth he'd laid out on the sideboard. I took a look inside the box.

“There's an envelope in here,” I said. “It must have been underneath the book. No postage stamp and it seems to be quite old. Addressed to Dr. Francis Pembroke of Leesburg, Virginia.”

“We'll have a look at that in a minute.” Max slowly began turning the pages of
Adam in Eden
. “Well, first off, there's no leather binding, no cover of any sort, just bound pages. Whoever owned this particular volume—it looks like a medical reference encyclopedia of plants and herbs—annotated it extensively. Look at the marginalia. But these beautiful plates of flowers and plants are originals . . . they're hand drawn and hand colored . . . quite unusual.”

William Coles had done his homework. The book was nearly
650 pages long, and every chapter referenced a particular plant, herb, or tree in exhaustive detail—its description, history, Greek and Latin names, and a long explanation of its medical uses, which Coles referred to as “the virtues.” Chapter one was titled “Of the Wall-nut Tree.”

“Does the writing in the margins decrease the value?” I asked.

“Depends on whose handwriting it is. We'll have to ask Bram . . . What a pity. Someone pressed a plant between the pages. Stained the paper so badly you can't read the text underneath.” He shook his head and made a
tsk-tsk
sound with his tongue. “It's called foxing when there's spotting or staining like this.”

“It's in the chapter about hyssop. Do you think someone pressed a hyssop plant and put it there?”

“Possibly, or just picked this page because there would be enough weight to press the plant flat.”

“The stain is at least twice the size of those leaves. It looks like part of the plant is missing.” I leaned over his shoulder and started reading: “
A decoction of rue and honey, being drunk doth help those that are troubled with coughs, shortness of breath, wheezings, and rheumatic distillations upon the lungs.
”

“Hyssop does seem like a cure-all for everything.” Max turned the page. “
Taken with oxymel
—I believe that's honey mixed with vinegar—
it purges gross humors of the stool, worms in the belly, expels wind, it helpeth those that are stung by serpents, the oil killeth lice
.” He turned more pages. “It appears to be the only thing preserved in these pages, so that's good. Let's have a look at that letter. It might give us a clue about the owner. It would make sense for a doctor to own a dictionary of herbal plants.”