An Illustrated Death (13 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
E
IGHT

N
EARLY A WEEK
after the memorial I was still not in the mood to think about Colin and what he had said at dinner that Saturday night. How could I consider moving back in with someone who wouldn’t promise that we would grow old together? Someone who wouldn’t assure me that if I gave up the life I had made for myself he wouldn’t change his mind again? I turned it around. Suppose he had promised undying love: Was I really ready to give up my independent life and the bookselling that I loved and step into the pages of
Gracious Living
?

The sense of alarm I felt when I came through the back door into the kitchen and saw the message light blinking gave me the answer to that.

My faithful cats, Raj and Miss T, came running to greet me. I scooped Raj up, burying my face in his fur. I gave Miss T her turn, then snapped open a can of Fancy Feast for them. Finally I pushed the play button on the machine. There was a blank buzzing that meant a robocall from a charity, and then my daughter Jane in Manhattan. I was surprised. She rarely used the landline.

“Hi Mom, it’s me. I wanted to ask you something. Anyway, call me on my cell, I don’t know where I’ll be by the time you get this.”

I picked up the cordless phone and went into the living room. Despite a struggling economy, Jane, at twenty-four, had managed to hang on to her financial services job. And why not? She was beautiful, engaging, and a wizard with money. I had tried to keep her from turning into Patience, though I hadn’t succeeded. She had the same sense of how people of a certain class should behave, and the same desire for an astronomical income.

It wasn’t until I sat down in Colin’s suede wingback chair, which, surprisingly, he hadn’t taken with him, that I wondered with a sudden flare of dread if Jane had called because she had been fired. That would be unthinkable, yet things like that happened even to superwomen like my daughter.

Her phone rang several times and I waited for it to go to voice mail.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hey love. How are you?”

“Great. How are
you
?” She cut to the chase. “Have you talked to Dad recently?”

“Last Saturday we went to dinner and a concert in the Hamptons. Has something—”

“Did he say anything about leaving the condo?”

“Well, he talked about buying a mansion, and installing me as his hostess.”

She snorted. “But what about your books? Your books are what you do. I told him if he forced you to give up the barn, I would never speak to him again. And I won’t.”

“What? When?”

“Last night.”

I was stunned. She was the only one of the children who could give Colin such an ultimatum and have it stick. She was his amazing daughter, the relationship he would never jeopardize. Her gesture brought me close to tears. “Thanks, babe.”

“So what’s all this about a mansion?”

I reminded her about Colin’s promotion and added that he felt his new position warranted a suitable home to entertain in—as well as someone to keep the silver polished. I knew I was being unfair. He was older than I was, fifty-five to be exact, and I understood that after all the temporary housing we had lived in that he might want the security of his own home. Perhaps in ten years I would feel that way too.

“Now he’s becoming conventional? After all these years of dragging us all over the globe? Are you considering it?”

I hesitated. How much of your personal life do you share with your kids? They were there for a lot of the drama, but saw it through the filter of what they needed from you. Unless you deliberately made them your confidants, they didn’t know everything that went on in the dark. “Let me say this,” I began.

But then I stopped. Children believed, deep down, their parents belonged together. How else could they ever enjoy a family Christmas again?

“We’re still sorting it out.” That was certainly true.

“He talked about moving. But I told him there’s nothing wrong with the farmhouse. You could fix it up and entertain there.”

“He wants to own something.” The idea of Colin, the
size
of him, back in the space I had gotten used to as my own, felt like someone shoving me into a corner.

“Listen, Daddy doesn’t need a grand manor any more than my boss needs a red Bugatti. As I keep telling him. Men of a certain age . . .” She let her voice trail off.

I laughed. “Men of a certain age are men of a certain age.”
Deal with it
. “While I have you on the phone, I want to ask you something. Do you remember when we were in Stratford-upon-Avon?”

“A little. We’ve been so many different places.”

“Do you remember anything particular that happened there?”

“Mom, I was a baby.”

“You were four.”

“That’s where Shakespeare lived, right? Anne Hathaway’s cottage?”

“That’s right, but—”

“Whatever. Gotta run. Meeting Bryce in ten minutes.”

“Bryce? What happened to Lance?”

“History. Tell you later. Love you.”

“You too.” But I was talking to a dial tone.

So Jane didn’t remember. She
hadn’t
been scarred for life by repressed memories. Even though she didn’t love books the way I did, even though she was as ambitious as Patience, she had a life that made her happy. Jason, the child who was struggling the most, hadn’t even been born when we lost Caitlin. Maybe we had been right to bury the tragedy and move on.

And yet—I replayed our conversation, chasing down the nuance that kept evading me. After I brought up Stratford, Jane had sounded different, slangy and breezy, her answers clipped. And then she had quickly ended the conversation. I knew she was telling the truth about not consciously remembering anything. But something still frightened her.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
N
INE

F
RIDAY M
ORNING
I
didn’t take the train to Manhattan and attend the Phillips auction. Charles Tremaine was right. Who was I kidding? Maybe ten years from now . . . I had thought it would be an education, seeing rare books that I could never afford to buy even as investments. But now taking the time seemed foolhardy when I had so much to do. What difference did it make to me if a first edition went for eighteen thousand dollars instead of twenty thousand dollars?
I
wouldn’t be bidding on it. Instead I went to a large library sale in Nassau County and came away with a satisfying collection of art books and children’s series.

On Saturday, though the season was nearly over, I left the house early to attend a smattering of sales. The first one seemed to be a wash, oversized toddler toys and ugly china, but when I examined the table of books and CDs, I spied an early copy of Howard Garis. Grabbing the book, I saw it was a first edition of
Uncle Wiggily on the Farm
. I flipped through to look at the illustrations— my pleasure plummeting when I saw that a juvenile artist had decorated the pages with a green crayon. I started to put the book back down, then decided that the six color plates might be salvageable.

It’s a better practice to buy several books instead of one—otherwise sellers tend to be suspicious that you have discovered something priceless—but I couldn’t honestly see any other books that I could bear to carry home. So I brought
Uncle Wiggly
up to the card table where a man about my age was engrossed in conversation on a tiny cell phone. While I waited, I studied his graying buzz cut and a paunch that stretched out the Marine insignia on his shirt. He ended his conversation and snapped the phone shut.

“Ya want that?”

“How much is it?” Most books at yard sales aren’t marked. There is usually a blanket price of fifty cents or a dollar.

He took the book and flipped through it. “Thirty-five dollars.”

“What?”

“Thirty-five dollars.”

“But it’s got crayon scribbling all over it!”

“I know. It’s mine.”

Don’t insult him, Delhi.
“That’s a little high for me.”

“Okay then, thirty. But I can get more than that on eBay.”

Just try it.

“So? Take it or leave it.”

I left it.

I drove away, thinking evil thoughts about ex-Marines.

A
T THE NEXT
sale, I was walking up the driveway when I saw the Hoovers, Susie and Paul Pevney. They were loaded down with several cartons each. They hadn’t been nicknamed the Hoovers by other booksellers for nothing. Unfortunately, the books they vacuumed up at the end of sales were worth about that.

The Pevneys saw me and waved.

Paul was tall and rail-thin, with brown curly hair and granny glasses. He was delightful to talk to, though I disagreed with his book-buying philosophy. Paul believed that any book was a good investment and would appreciate in value, and that the more books Susie sold on eBay, the better off they would be.

“Wow,” I said. “Looks like you got the prizes.”

They smiled at each other and Paul said, “New stuff mostly. But hey, there’s always a market.”

Susie was wearing a gray sweatshirt with a blue-and-orange New York Mets insignia, though she was originally a South Dakota girl and chubby in a wholesome, farm-raised way. Her light brown hair was scraped back in a ponytail and she blinked nearsightedly through pink-framed glasses. Her sweatshirt triggered the memory of a conversation we had had at a thrift shop in Bridgehampton recently. I’d told her about my new book appraisal job.

“Gee, why can’t I find something like that? Something steady, that didn’t make me feel like a gerbil in a cage? I’m already thirty-one, Delhi. The way things are, I don’t know when I’ll be able to have kids.” She had looked at me like a doleful little girl denied birthday cake at her own party. “Paul’s working at Home Depot to pay the mortgage, but he doesn’t want to do that forever. He loves books, and he’s better at finding good ones than I am. You either have it or you don’t, I guess.”

So she knew how hopeless she was. Her current life gave her no time to learn the difference between early John Updike and late Judith Krantz. Uploading book listings to eBay and mailing out sold books had to take all day and night.

Then I thought of a way that she could have the kind of income she needed and learn about books at the same time. It was a perfect solution.

“Got a minute?” I asked.

“If
you
do.” Paul looked back at the ranch house that I was sure held nothing that I wanted.

“I don’t know if you know it, but Marty Campagna’s bought the Old Frigate. He wants to sell his books there, and maybe some paintings.”

“He bought Margaret’s store?”

“Well, it’s a beautiful place. He doesn’t want to work there himself, he only wants to use the shop as a venue. He asked me if I wanted to run it, but I was thinking that Susie would be perfect instead. It’s good money.”

The Pevneys exchanged a quick, surprised look.

Susie responded first. “Gee, Delhi, I don’t know. I mean, Marty’s up there in the stratosphere compared to us. Would he even want me touching his books?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re a bookseller. He’s the one supplying the books for the shop anyway, not you.” Realizing how condescending that sounded, I added, “He didn’t offer to sell my books there either.”

“But when would you list our books on eBay?” Paul asked Susie. “You’ve got plenty to keep you busy.”

“She’d be making more money at the shop, and not have to work so hard,” I told him. I didn’t add that she’d be able to get on with her life.

“Yeah, but what about weekends? She couldn’t work weekends, we have to go to sales.”

So you can pick up crap?
I’d thought that they would jump at the opportunity.

“She’s got her own career to think about,” Paul said loftily.

That was it? My irritation bubbled over. “Okay, fine. I thought it would be an easy eighteen dollars an hour. But I see now that it wouldn’t work. Forget I said anything.”

“Delhi, wait—” Susie called.

But I had already started back down the driveway. I was halfway down the street in my van before I realized who was being unreasonable. I was turning into Bianca. If people didn’t do what I wanted, I wouldn’t play.
Uncle Wiggily
’s owner may have honestly thought his book was worth a fortune. Paul Pevney was only responding the way I had when Marty dismissed
my
book business with a wave of his hand.

Time to give up and go home.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

I
WASN’T SURPRISED
to find a phone message from Susie when I pressed play on my answering machine.

“Hi, Delhi! I’m sorry we acted so dumb. It was such a surprise! Paul still isn’t sure, but
I
think it’s a great idea. Maybe you can call me tomorrow when he’s working?”

I would do that. In the meantime I had to check with Marty to make sure hiring Susie was okay with him. I didn’t know if he’d be back from sales yet, so I tried him on his cell phone.

“Campagna,” he barked.

“Marty? It’s Delhi. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve been busy assessing books.”

“Anything good?” He was ready to forgive me immediately for the right stuff.

“Actually, yes. It’s Nate Erikson’s private library. All his own books, and a lot signed to him from other writers.”

“No shit! How’d you manage that?”

“Long story. But that’s not why I’m calling. It’s about the Old Frigate.”

“And?”

“I think I have a solution. You know Susie Pevney?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do. The Hoovers?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Susie’s looking for something steady, so I thought—”

“Susie Hoover? She’s dumb as a stop sign.”

“No, she’s not!”

“You ever see the books she picks?”

“She can be taught.”

“Not on my dime.”

“It wouldn’t only be Susie. I mean, I’d oversee things until she got settled in.” A concession I had not planned on making. “She’s really very organized.”

“No.
You’re
the one I want.” His voice was as implacable as it would have been with a line crasher at a book sale.

“Think about it. I’m sure we can work something out.”

He snorted and hung up.

While I was on a roll, I decided to call Marselli.

He was not in his office, but got back to me within the hour.

“Marselli. What’s up?”

“Hi. I was wondering what you’d found out about Gretchen Erikson.”

He seemed to be considering what he felt like telling me. “Definite asphyxiation. The signs were there from the first, cotton fibers, bloodshot eyes. She may have been drugged, but we won’t know that until the tox comes back. How’s the family?”

“A little cranky.”

“No one acting suspiciously?” Marselli’s way of making a joke.

“Did you talk to Regan Erikson?”

“The one upstate? No, but she’s on the list.”

“She seemed closer to Gretchen than the others. But ask her where she was when her father drowned.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. There’s something weird about that whole thing.”

“Autopsy report, two drownings. Water in the airways. He had a contusion, consistent with striking his head on the side of the pool.”

What else was there to say?