The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

Coney Island, Brooklyn. Guys like my VP client don’t cross the East River. Bridges and tunnels scare them worse than dwindling dividends.

“What happened, Jack? Did you exchange the money for the photos?”

Nope.

“You didn’t get the photos.”

No, baby, I got the photos, the negatives, and without giving up one leaf of the client’s green. They weren’t too happy, but then they didn’t have much choice after I got through with them.

“They?”

Sure, you think some cheap floozie would have worked out that blackmailing con on her own? Naw, she had muscle. Three Brunos were waiting for me the day I showed. Only I didn’t go in the front door of that crumbling wreck of a tenement. I went in the back—got the drop on them. The element of surprise; usually works like a charm, key word being usually.

“Got it…going in the back door when they expect you in the front. I’ll have to remember that.”

Great, doll, but it’s too late for that now. You’re already inside this musty mausoleum. How does gramps pass the time in this crypt, anyway? Watching mold grow?

“Jack, have a heart. Think how old you’d be now if you’d lived.”

Baby, you ought to know me by now. I don’t truck with sentiment.

“I’ll alert the media.”

So why not put some egg on your shoes and beat it?

“We can’t leave yet. Not until our business is through.”

Just then, I noticed a large, thick-legged table in the center of the mansion’s library. It was stacked high with old books, some of them folio sized, all of them, I was certain, rare collector’s items.

My eyes forgot to blink, and I knew how Veruca Salt felt the moment she’d stepped into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. But as I began to move toward that table, Peter Chesley put a hand on my shoulder and asked Sadie and I to take a seat by the fireplace.

I nodded politely and forced myself to turn toward the warmth and light. Unfortunately, both came from an oversized, smoke-stained hearth carved to resemble the gaping, fanged mouth of a gigantic gargoyle. I tried to pretend my shudders were from a chill and not the creepy maw I was walking toward.

Chesley gestured for us to sit. Then, in a touching gesture of chivalry, stood patiently waiting for us to take off our coats, drape them on leather armchairs, and settle into our seats before he sank slowly into his own—a bamboo wheelchair.

On a wide mahogany coffee table sat a silver tea service. Steam rose from a pot of Earl Gray, its aroma competing with the scent of wood smoke. I wondered if Peter Chesley had any servants.

“Forgive the sparse amenities,” he said. “It’s Sunday, the butler’s night off.” Chesley laid his cane across his lap. “Shall I pour?”

Sadie leaned forward. “Allow me.”

She filled one of the bone china cups and passed it to me, along with a few tiny cakes delivered that morning, according to Sadie’s old beau, in honor of our visit.

I thought that was odd, considering we hadn’t consented to come until late afternoon. But then Chesley had known Sadie pretty well at one time. Maybe he knew her well enough to know she’d come to him, no matter what.

“Thank you, Sadie,” said Peter as she passed him his tea. “You remembered how I liked it.”

Sadie smiled—a little sadly, it seemed to me. “Two sugars, no cream, no lemon.”

Chesley gazed openly at my aunt. “You haven’t changed, my love, not one bit.”

Sadie waved her hand. “Get those eyes checked, Peter.”

“Not one bit.”

Sadie shook her head and turned her attention to pouring her own cup of tea, but I could tell she was pleased. And I recalled her taking extra care getting ready for our trip this evening. Over her best pleated brown slacks, she’d worn her new deep green V-neck sweater, which went beautifully with her shoulder-length red-gold hair—dyed and highlighted regularly at Colleen’s Beauty Shop. And, though she wasn’t a fan of makeup, she’d taken pains to put on a bit of blush, lipstick, and gloss, and fasten a cherished gold cross around her neck.

“I seldom partake of such fare these days,” Chesley said with a sigh. “My condition, you see…”

The man’s nervousness seemed to recede as the conversation continued. Sadie and Peter chatted nonstop, catching up on missed years, on the lives and fates of mutual friends, collectors, and their collections.

I only half listened, preferring to sip my tea and watch the lightning flash through the tall leaded windows. The saucer that rested on my lap was easily as old as this mansion—well over a century. It felt as though we were having a late-night tea party in a museum.

“I’ll tell you frankly, Sadie, when I became the patriarch of the Chesley family, no one was more surprised than me. Given the declining fortunes of the family trust over the past few years, it has become my passion to fairly and justly discharge the family legacy—this four-story mansion, the grounds around it, the treasures in this library…”

Chesley paused to take in the portraits and photos on the far wall. Then he gestured to a stack of notebooks on a small desk. They were composition books, the kind college students used. There must have been at least fifty.

“Are those notebooks from your academic days?” I asked. “Research for your scholarly papers?”

“Heavens, no. My work is archived with the university library. No, those notebooks”—he pointed a bony finger—“are the complete catalog of this entire estate. Every painting, antique, sculpture, trophy, and piece of furniture, as well as every book in this library has been accounted for, its history described as best as I could research it. I thought the process would never end, but I’m nearly through now. I merely have the photos and portraits in this room to catalog and I’ll be finished at last.”

“My goodness, Peter.” Sadie shook her head. “That’s what you’ve been up to all these years?”

“It’s been quite consuming, I must admit. Some days, I’d take down a book and then find it of interest and spend half the day reading it!” Chesley cackled and shook his head. “In any event, while I do not wish to part with any items in my family’s collection, I know now is the time. I set aside some particular gems you may wish to sell. Some of these items are treasures and should be possessed by someone who will cherish them. I realize many of these books are quite valuable, so I am willing to offer you the lot on commission.”

Sadie blinked. “That’s very fair, Peter, but certainly we can advance you a sum—”

“I am not starving,” Chesley quickly interrupted. “I shall wait for the sale to take place, and accept fifty percent of the gross.”

“Peter! That’s far too generous!” Sadie cried.

“Ah, but you’re forgetting, fifteen years ago you sold me that beautifully preserved, eighteenth-century edition of Poor Richard’s Almanac for a mere two hundred dollars—”

“Did I?” Sadie replied. “I don’t recall—”

“Don’t say you don’t remember. I know perfectly well that physician in Boston offered you over a thousand dollars for the very same copy. You cheated yourself out of eight hundred dollars. That was far too generous.”

Sadie blushed. “You wanted the book much more than Dr. Mellors, Peter. Money isn’t everything.”

“Exactly. Which is why this argument is over.”

Chesley swung his wheelchair around and rolled across the faded Oriental rug. The wheels wobbled and squeaked. Sadie and I rose and followed the man to the goodies table. I felt like a child on Christmas morning, staring at a stack of ribbons and bows wrapped around boxes of possibilities.

But as I stood up, I could swear I heard the sound of footsteps over my head—heavy footfalls, too, as if someone were walking the corridor upstairs. I glanced at Sadie, but she seemed to have missed the sound. Telling myself I’d been mistaken, I followed the pair to the table.

Peter gestured to a large folio tied with silk ribbon.

“As you see, I have an edition of American birds by naturalist John James Audubon. I believe they were published in 1838.”

I held my breath. The Audubon folios I’d seen before this were relegated to library collections or museums.