Booked to die

“So?”

“They weren’t exactly the kind of books everyone thought.”

“I don’t mean to be short, but why should I care? They’re gone now. Ancient history. None of my business anymore.”

“You might decide to change your mind about that.”

“You’re talking in riddles, Detective.”

“I think you people screwed up. Or maybe just one of you screwed up.”

“You’ll have to make it plainer than that.”

I watched her eyes particularly. Liars usually look away unless they’re very accomplished. She was meeting me head-on.

“I think somebody pulled a scam,” I said. “I think those books were worth a helluva lot more than anybody ever knew.”

“Who pulled a scam? Are you talking about that little man that got killed?”

“He was just a tool. Somebody else was the main guy.”

“And you think it was one of us?”

“Coulda been. The question is, which one?”

“I don’t even know what was supposed to’ve been done.”

“I think you’re brighter than that, Mrs. Davis.”

“Ms. Davis, please. There is no Mr. Davis: never was, never will be. It’s my mother’s maiden name.”

I didn’t say anything. I could see by the color in her cheeks that she was getting a glimmer.

“That son of a bitch,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

“Somebody’s a son of a bitch,” I said.

She got up, walked to the window, and came back.

“Let me get this straight. You think one of us found out what the books were really worth, hired somebody to buy them, and…is that what’s going through your head? Is that what he did to me?”

I shrugged.

“So tell me, how much did the bastard take me for?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her that yet.

“How much?” she pressed.

I finished off my drink.

She lit another cigarette. “Can we get a straight answer here? Christ, you men are all alike.”

“If I had a straight answer I’d give it to you. Like I told you, I’ve only seen two hundred books.”

“Then let’s start with that. How much would those two hundred books be worth?”

“There’s no guarantee they even came from here. It’s just my hunch.”

“What’s your hunch? Talk straight, please. How much are those two hundred books worth?”

“In a bookstore, at retail… twenty grand. Maybe as much as thirty.”

Her nostrils flared, blowing smoke. She looked ready to erupt.

Then she did erupt.

“Thirty thousand dollars! Thirty thousand dollars for two hundred books!” She leaped up and spilled her drink. “Son of a fucking bitch!” she screamed. “Do you have any idea how many books there were in that goddamn house?”

“Books are funny things,” I said calmly. “Just because one’s worth a lot, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything as far as the others are concerned.”

She was trembling now as, she faced me. “What it means, Detective, is that old Stan wasn’t quite the klutz that everybody thought. What it means is that Stan knew exactly what he was doing. And what that means, Mr. Janeway, is that there’s an excellent possibility that all those books were worth money. Christ, we could be talking a million dollars here! Even the house is nothing compared with that!”

I didn’t say anything.