The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

CHAPTER 8

Literary Treasure

It was a type of letter well calculated to cause uneasiness…

—Erle Stanley Gardner, “Hell’s Kettle,” 1930

SADIE LED RENE Montour to the register, where a simple credit-card transaction more than doubled Buy the Book’s bank account (not counting sales tax, of course).

I stayed behind in the storage room and wrapped up the Poe volume in a sheath of protective, acid-free Mylar, then packed it in its own small box, surrounding it with a blizzard of foam peanuts, which I dumped from a fifty-gallon bag.

Sadie came back to see if I needed any help.

And that’s when my conscience kicked in again.

“Aunt Sadie, are you sure we’re doing the right thing, selling off Mr. Chesley’s books?”

“Dear, I knew Peter very well at one time, and I remember every word he said to me last night. He called us to his place to take these books and sell them. Now that he’s gone, they’re ours.”

My aunt wasn’t wrong. The old man’s last wishes had been clear enough when we’d taken possession of the lot: “And if my illness should overtake me, please consider them yours. Willed to you. A gift.”

“He wanted us to have them,” Sadie declared. “He loved this store, Pen, and these books will help to keep it financially viable. That’s a wonderful legacy for Peter, and I’m committed to seeing it happen.”

I sighed and nodded, promising not to fret anymore—at least, not in front of Sadie. When I carried the box to the front, everyone had gathered at the counter, including Seymour Tarnish. By now, he’d finished his mail route and had come to the store, hunting down Brainert.

I handed the box to Garfield. He laid it atop the box that held the Chandler first editions. With Rene Montour in the lead, he hauled the lot out to the man’s maroon rental car parked at the curb. They returned a few minutes later.

“Well, this has been a very profitable day for us both, has it not?” Rene said, exhibiting what was, as far as I could tell, his first smile of the day. Then he addressed us all. “I wonder…Can anyone recommend a local hotel? Perhaps one with a decent restaurant nearby.”

“The Finch Inn,” Aunt Sadie replied. “It’s a beautiful Victorian mansion on Quindicott Pond that’s been converted into a bed and breakfast. The owner, Fiona Finch, takes great pride in her establishment, and there’s a brand-new restaurant on the grounds that is absolutely fabulous.”

“Fiona’s place is fine if you’ve got money to burn,” our newly arrived mailman piped up. “But there’s also Comfy Time Motel on the highway. The place is dirt-cheap and you have your choice of eats. There’s a McDonald’s and Wendy’s at the next rest stop. I’d avoid The House of Pizza, though. It’s a pesthole.”

Rene Montour grimaced in absolute horror.

So did Sadie.

“I’ll call Fiona right away, Mr. Montour,” she promised, pushing Seymour none too gently out of the way as she lunged for the phone behind the counter. “I’m sure she’ll have a beautiful room waiting.”

A few minutes later, Rene Montour left the store with directions to the Finch Inn. When he was gone, Sadie let out a long breath and collapsed against the counter. I knew how she felt. It wasn’t every day our store raked in a month’s grosses on one customer!

You had your chance and folded, Jack Shepard cracked. Nanook of the North just paid eight grand for a penny’s worth of scrap paper. With a brain that dusty, you could have probably peddled the sappy shill the deed to the Brooklyn Bridge!

“Quiet, Jack!” I thought. Out loud I said, “Not a bad day’s work.”

“A very lucrative sale,” Brainert observed. “But it was a shame you had to break up the Phelps editions. That’s the first time I’ve seen all thirteen volumes together. Not even the university collection has a complete set.”

Brainert’s observation brought Sadie and I down to earth. Again I felt a little trepidation over the Chesley consignment.

“It was a shame to break up the set,” Sadie said with a sigh. “But Mr. Montour’s offer was too good to pass up. Believe me, I know the market. And that offer was thousands above the book’s current value.”

“Perhaps he was too eager,” Brainert said.

Seymour scoffed. “If I had the dough-rey-mee, I’d pay two grand for that issue of Oriental Stories I’ve been looking for. What’s money good for, except to buy the stuff you need?”

Brainert sniffed. “Who needs a crumbling pulp magazine?”

“You don’t know collectors,” Seymour shot back. “Some of them would kill for a hot collectable.”

Seymour’s comment gave me pause. And I began to wonder about Peter Chesley again. But not about whether we should sell his books.

Chesley hadn’t seen Sadie in ten years, yet he’d urgently insisted that we make the drive to his mansion last night, despite the weather—as if the consignment were a matter of life and…

I frowned, not wanting to agonize about Peter Chesley’s fate anymore. Last night, I had made the decision to stay out of it. But questions kept pricking my conscience; and, like the proverbial dog with a bone, I couldn’t stop myself from gnawing away—

Chesley had inherited the vast old Prospero House library years ago, yet he’d suddenly decided to sell a particular part of it. Why?

The old man demanded, almost to the point of rudeness, that we take the rare books with us last night rather than send Garfield to pick them up in the morning. As frail and exhausted as he was, he even helped Sadie pack them all up. What was the urgency?

And the way he’d reacted to that crash upstairs still bothered me. Chesley seemed alarmed at first, but he’d blocked my path the moment I’d moved to investigate the sound. Now I wondered whether Chesley truly feared I would have an accident in the unstable upper floors. Or was he worried I’d run into the person that he’d known was up there already, the very person who may have murdered him?

I closed my eyes a moment, realizing how my train of thought would sound to the authorities. I had an old friend on the Quindicott police force. But as nice a guy as Officer Eddie Franzetti was, he’d probably treat me just like Detective Kroll. He’d think I was paranoid, overly imaginative, or even a little bit crazy—

But you’re not, Jack whispered.

“Excuse me, Mrs. McClure. I don’t want to bother you, but what about these old papers?” Garfield asked.

“Oh, yes. I almost forgot.”

Sadie turned to Garfield. “What old papers?”

Our part-time clerk reached under the register and produced the yellowing bundle. There were several identical envelopes stuffed with handwritten pages, the whole thing tied together by a strip of faded black ribbon.

“I found them with those old Poe books,” Garfield explained. “They were sandwiched between two of the volumes. I figured they’d been there a long time, because the ribbon was stuck to the cover of one volume like glue.”

“Yes,” Brainert said, fingering the ribbon. “There’s sealing wax on the knot. It must have melted and adhered to the book.”

Brainert took the bundle and gently set it down on the counter. He very carefully crumbled away the rest of the wax with his fingers. Then Brainert untied the single knot and separated the bundle. There were three muslin envelopes of high-quality stock. The paper crinkled as Brainert pulled the handwritten pages out of one envelope and carefully unfolded the first page.

The papers themselves were on personal stationery, a name and address spelled out in gilded letters on top: “Miles Milton Chesley, Roderick Road, Newport.” The scribbling underneath, rendered in fading black ink, appeared small and tight, and it filled both sides of each sheet of paper.