Light in Shadow (13 page)

A bell tinkled
somewhere in the veils of darkness that hung from the ceiling of Single-Minded Books. Ethan closed the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He had known the proprietor, Singleton Cobb, for only three weeks. He had not yet figured out if Cobb was passionately devoted to the cause of saving a couple of bucks on his electricity bill or if he thought the dingy decor added atmosphere. This was an antiquarian bookstore, after all.

The place was so crammed that he could hardly move. If Zoe ever saw the interior, she'd probably advise Singleton to get rid of all the bookcases. They no doubt messed up the energy flow.

The collection was impressive, especially given the relatively small size of the shop. Out-of-print and rare volumes of all shapes and descriptions filled row after row of shelves that extended from floor to ceiling. The pleasant, slightly musty smell of old books and aged leather permeated the space.

There was a shifting of the shadows at the back of the
shop. Singleton materialized, silhouetted against the blue-green glow cast by his computer screen.

If you saw him on the street and did not know what he did for a living, Ethan thought, you would never guess that the guy was an antiquarian book dealer. On the surface, there was nothing of the academic or the scholar about him.

Singleton was built like a rock. Not just any rock, a large chunk of granite. He was the size of a small mountain. He appeared to be in his fifties. Like stone that has been exposed to the elements for a few eons, he had weathered some but he sure as hell had not softened.

His skull was completely shaved. It gleamed, as if it had been oiled. The tendrils of elaborate tattoos peeked out from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of a faded denim shirt. He had the face of a really bad-news pro wrestler.

Singleton peered at him through the lenses of a pair of round, gold-rimmed spectacles. “Got my message, I see.”

“It was waiting for me when I arrived at the office this morning.”

Singleton snorted. “Heard you come in half an hour ago. Running a little late today, aren't you?”

“Didn't know you were paying such close attention to my schedule.”

“Hard to avoid it, seeing as how we're the only two tenants in the building at the moment and your office is right overhead. I hear everyone who goes up or down those stairs.”

“I was a little busy yesterday. Out late with a client last night.”

Singleton leaned his elbows on the counter and looked interested. “About you being busy yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

“I read about Mason and the blood-stained bed and the shootout in the papers. Pretty exciting stuff. By any chance was that you ducking bullets?”

“How did you guess?”

“Not a lot to do around here,” Singleton said. “So I sit around and speculate. I remembered your little lady client
going up and down the stairs and the paper mentioned an unnamed woman at the scene. Also, I recall you going out early yesterday morning and not coming back all day. And then you've got the fact that Radnor is more into corporate security and such. Can't see any of his people turning up a blood-stained bed. I sort of put two and two together.”

“You should have been a detective.”

“Don't think so. Guy could get himself killed with the kind of detecting work you did yesterday.”

“It was the client's fault.” Ethan crossed to the glass counter. “Personally, I prefer to avoid that kind of exercise whenever possible.”

“Blame it on the client, huh?”

“Sure.”

Singleton looked knowing. “So you were out late explaining your point of view on the subject of reckless endangerment to your client?”

“Something along those lines.” Ethan shrugged. “The good news is that my client's name didn't appear in print. She'll be happy about that.”

“I don't blame her. Probably not good for her business to have it going around that she was involved in a situation that got her client's newly decorated house shot up.”

“Probably not.”

“On the other hand, it would have been a nice bit of advertising for your business if your name had made it into the article.”

“Win some, lose some.” Ethan braced both hands on the wooden edge of the counter. “Where's my journal?”

“Got it right here.” Singleton turned partway around and plucked a large envelope off the desk behind him. He handed the package to Ethan. “Located it through an online dealer I know who specializes in private journals and diaries of the twentieth century. I paid extra and had it shipped overnight.”

“I'm impressed.” Ethan opened the envelope and removed the slender, leather-bound volume. “I did a search
online myself before I came to you. Found some leads to the newspaper coverage of the murder but no trace of the journal.”

“The Internet has done a lot for the antiquarian trade,” Singleton said. “But like any other business, you've still got to have connections to find the good stuff.”

Ethan examined the book. The leather was cracked but the pages were in excellent condition. He examined the first words in the journal. They had been written down in a strong, flowing script.

The Journal of Abner Bennett Foote

Anticipation whispered through him. He turned to an entry at random and read the first few lines.

“. . . Nightwinds is finished at last. My beloved Camelia now has a setting that befits her extraordinary beauty. . . .”

Ethan closed the journal. “I'm in luck. Foote's handwriting is clear and legible.”

Singleton's brow wrinkled. “Mind if I ask why you wanted his journal? Is it because you're living in that old house he built?”

“Indirectly.” Ethan slipped the book into the envelope. “It's the death of Camelia Foote that really interests me.”

“Why's that?”

“I research old murder cases.” Ethan pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “It's a hobby.”

“Huh. Didn't know she was murdered. The story is that she got real drunk at a big party out at Nightwinds years ago and died in a fall in the canyon.”

“That was the official verdict. But the old newspaper accounts imply that there were plenty of rumors of murder at the time. A lot of people, including the local chief of police, apparently suspected that her husband killed her in a jealous rage.”

“Unusual hobby,” Singleton said. “But when you get right down to it, I guess it's not that much different from playing chess online.”

“You do that?” Ethan handed over his credit card.

“Among other things.” Singleton swiped the credit card through a machine. “Once upon a time, I used to work for a think tank. Specialized in cryptography. I'm out of the business now, but the chess games are a way of keeping my hand in, so to speak.”

“Cryptography? As in computer security and encryption?”

“Yeah.”

“You must be good.”

“Used to be. I pretty much burned out.”

“But you can still find your way around on the Net?”

“Sure.”

Ethan took the credit slip and signed it. He picked up the book and paused.

“You ever do any freelance consulting?” he asked.

“Not for a long time. What did you have in mind?”

“I sometimes need the kind of deep background information that it takes a real expert to pull off the Net. I can get the standard info from the usual sources, but I'm not what you'd call a computer whiz. There are times when I need someone who can dig deeper and faster. I can't afford the guy I used to use in L.A. You interested?”

Singleton pondered that. “You can't afford the other guy? That doesn't sound so good.”

“Truax Investigations is a small business. Still in the start-up phase. You know how it is.”

“Hell, why not?” Singleton grinned. “Might make for a break now and again. The book trade is interesting and I've got my chess games, but I don't mind telling you that it gets a little dull around here from time to time. My social life has been sort of nonexistent since my wife left.”

“I know the feeling. Why'd she split?”

“She said I did not show a sufficient interest in upward
mobility. Something to do with my refusing to join the Desert View golf club, I think.”

Ethan nodded. “My third wife said something along those lines, too.”

“Yeah? What did the other two say?”

“First one said she'd married me by mistake. The second one said I was not good at communicating. I think maybe she was trying to be polite.”

“What'd she really mean?”

“That I was boring.”

 

The phone rang
just before noon. Zoe grabbed it.

“Enhanced Interiors.”

“I see you finally made it into to work,” Ethan said.

The tiny knot of tension, which had settled in the pit of her stomach and which she had been determined to ignore, eased.

“You should have awakened me before you left,” she said crisply.

“Figured you needed your sleep. The nightmare you had seemed to take a lot out of you.”

“Mmm.”

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Fine, thanks.” Time to change the topic. “By the way, I saw the newspaper. Nelson Radnor is a sneaky bastard, isn't he? Imagine him letting that reporter think his company was involved in solving the murder of Jennifer Mason. Talk about nerve.”

“I'd rather talk about your bill.”

She glared at the photo of Nightwinds on the wall. “You're supposed to be a little more diplomatic and suave when you bring up the subject of money. You sound a trifle mercenary.”

“Only a trifle? I'll have to work on that. Look, you operate a small business. You know how important it is to keep up with accounts receivable. You want to come to my
office this afternoon after you close for the day? We can go over the details together.”

Be still my beating heart.
“Why don't you just put the bill in the mail?”

“It's sort of complicated, what with our little agreement to take it out in trade.” Ethan paused a beat. “You do remember that part, don't you?”

“I remember.”

“Good. I've been thinking it over and I've decided which room I want you to redecorate.”

“How big is it?” she asked cautiously.

“Big enough. It's my bedroom. I'll take you out there so you can have a look at it.”

His bedroom. Oh, gee.

“I don't know if I've got time this evening,” she said uneasily.

“Afterward I'm going to take my nephews and their mother for pizza. You're welcome to come along.”

So very casual, she thought. Just a throwaway invitation. But it left her temporarily speechless. Going out for pizza with the family. It sounded so
normal,
the sort of thing that real people, living real lives did.

“I'd like that,” she finally said. “I'd like that very much.”

 

At five-o'clock that
afternoon, she sat in the jaws of Ethan's outsized client chair, the copy of her bill from Truax Investigations on her lap, and fumed.

“Five hundred dollars in miscellaneous expenses?” She raised the neatly itemized bill and waved it in the air. “That's ridiculous.”

Ethan lounged back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, fingers together. His feet, shod in running shoes, were stacked on the corner of his desk. He made a what-can-you-do sound with his tongue.

“Cost of bribes, like everything else, has gone up,” he said.

“You should have cleared the amounts with me before you handed five hundred dollars over to that guard and the man at the storage facility.”

“Wasn't time to call you. In both instances, I had to make executive decisions on the spot.”

“Executive decisions, my big toe. I'll bet you would have been a lot more economical about it if it was your own money you were throwing around.”

He tapped his fingertips together and looked authoritative. “The information and access I obtained with the bribes were vital to the successful closure of the case.”

“Something tells me you could have obtained that information for a lot less money.” She spotted another item on the bill and was immediately consumed with fresh outrage. “What's this about travel expenses? You told me you would cover your own travel expenses.”

“Only within the local area. I had to drive outside the city limits of Whispering Springs to investigate the storage locker facility.”

“Meals?” She stabbed a finger at another item on the bill. “You're billing me for the sandwich and coffee you had while you were out of town?”