My aunt and I exchanged glances.
“Have you ever worked retail? Do you have experience dealing with the public?” Sadie asked.
Garfield stared blankly. “None at all.”
“Can you use a cash register?” I asked.
For a moment Garfield had that look of a deer before it ends up on the hood of a fast-moving car. Then he cleared his throat.
“Look,” he said. “I have no useful skills—beyond computers, which are kind of like my hobby. I know my prospects don’t seem bright at the moment. In fact, I probably look like a total loser to you and everybody else. Even my parents aren’t proud of me, although, compared to my ex-con brother, I’m golden. But I’ll learn fast, show up on time, and won’t bug you for a raise once a month, so what do you think?”
Sadie and I burst out laughing—and hired the guy on the spot.
“These books smell old,” Garfield observed as he lifted the final box. “Do you think they could be older than the Apple Mac I use for a doorstop?”
“Yes,” I replied. “But, unlike your doorstop, I’m betting books will never become an obsolete tool; otherwise, we’re both out of a job.”
“Do you want me to unpack them?”
“Sure, Garfield. That would be great. Just stack them on Sadie’s desk. But—”
“I know, I know. I’ll be real careful.”
Garfield was only gone a moment when I heard the chimes ringing over the front door. My oldest friend, J. Brainert Parker, rushed to the counter where I stood.
“Pen! I understand you’ve got a Phelps Poe in the store. Why didn’t you inform me at once?” His voice was practically shrill with excitement.
“Ah,” I said calmly, “so your mail was delivered.” J. Brainert Parker (the J. was for Jarvis, a name no one dared call him on pain of a polysyllabic tongue-lashing) was an assistant professor of English Literature at St. Francis College. Like me, he was in his early thirties. He was also exceedingly well read.
Today his slight build was clad in one of his typical preppy ensembles—a salmon-colored V-neck over a pressed white button-down, brown corduroy slacks, and polished penny loafers, with a heavily lined J. Crew windbreaker tossed on to combat the fall chill. I could see he wasn’t teaching today because he was sans tie (bow or any other kind). His straight brown hair was neatly trimmed, the bangs, which he could never decide what to do with, were today slicked back off the forehead of his patrician face.
“Yes, yes, it’s true,” Brainert conceded. “Seymour delivered the news with the gas bill. So which volume is it? Or do you have more than one.”
“I believe it’s a complete set.”
“Gad! Now I
“A lot, I suspect. But the problem is…” I sighed. “Well, I feel a little funny about the whole deal now.”
Brainert blinked. “Whatever do you mean, Pen? You are
“Well—”
I was about to tell Brainert all about last night, when Garfield flew out of the storage room, interrupting us.
“Mrs. McClure! Mrs. McClure!” he cried, waving around a bundle of yellowed papers. “I found these in one of those boxes of books. Letters, or papers, or something. The stuff ’s really old, too.”
Brainert’s eyes widened. “Is he speaking about the Phelps editions?”
I nodded, opened my mouth to speak, and the chimes rang over the front door once again.
The man who entered was such a striking figure, we all stared for a long rude moment. Tall as Lincoln and rail thin, the man’s short-cropped hair was completely silver, a stark contrast against his black suit and overcoat. He strode across the store and up to the counter, carrying a shiny black attache case in one pale, long-fingered hand.
“Madame. Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”
His French accent was somewhat pronounced, but I had no trouble understanding him.
“Yes, I am. May I help—”
“I am Rene Montour. You are certainly familiar with my name, are you not?”
“Hello, Rene. I, um…w-well—”
He did not smile, nor did he acknowledge my clumsy stammering. Instead, the man frowned down at me, cutting me off with his even baritone. “I believe you have some property that belongs to my client. I am here to retrieve it posthaste.”
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“I am referring, of course, to a certain consignment of rare and valuable books.”
CHAPTER 7
He was a guy who talked with commas, like a heavy novel.
—Raymond Chandler,
WHILE I STOOD flabbergasted in front of the stranger, looking less than brilliant, my aunt arrived, looking sharp as a tack in a navy pantsuit, her reading glasses dangling from a sterling silver chain.
“Mr. Montour! I’m so happy to meet you at last.”
She crossed the selling floor with her hand extended, her features appearing rested despite our harrowing evening. “I’m Sadie Thornton. You and I have exchanged so many e-mails, I feel as if I know you.”
Unfortunately, my aunt’s welcoming smile did little to thaw Mr. Montour’s chilly countenance. He ignored her proffered hand, bowed stiffly instead. Unperturbed, Sadie gracefully withdrew her hand.
While Montour did cut a striking figure—from a distance—he was not particularly attractive up close, unless your taste ran toward ghouls. His flesh was pale pink against the night-black clothing, his face narrow with high cheekbones. Under a pair of circular, black-rimmed glasses his eyes were dark pits. Pencil-thin sideburns—white like his hair—reached from his ears to the hollow of his cheeks.
“I see you’ve met my niece, Penelope,” Sadie said. “And this fellow here is J. Brainert Parker, a professor at St. Francis College.”
The man jerked his head in a curt gesture I assumed to be a nod of acknowledgment.
“Mr. Montour has come from Montreal, Canada,” she informed me, “to accept delivery of a set of very valuable first editions. Isn’t that right?”
“Correct,” he replied.
Recovering from my shock, I realized Rene Montour’s arrival had absolutely nothing to do with Peter Chesley’s consignment. Montour was actually expected—just early. I quickly remembered that a pickup was scheduled for later this week, but not under the name of
Rene was obviously representing his uncle, Jacques Montour, a Quebec-based, French-Canadian investment banker and collector of twentieth-century first editions—and I mentally kicked myself for not making the connection faster. As his uncle’s representative, Rene was here to take possession of a cache of Raymond Chandler rarities assembled by Sadie over the past several years.
“The arrangements were finalized months ago,” Mr. Montour said. “The books were to be made ready for my arrival this week, as I understood it; and, all the details have been worked out, therefore, I, of course, trust there will be no problem.”
It was Jack Shepard, intruding into my thoughts for the first time today.
“Good morning, Jack.”
“Fortunately my business in New York City ended prematurely,” Mr. Montour continued. “So I rented an
