The Collectors

Stone looked stunned by this comment and stepped back.

Annabelle hooked an arm through Milton’s. “Okay, Milton, we need to spend some time together.”

Reuben looked crushed. “Why Milton?”

“Because he’s my little Xerox machine.” She pinched Milton’s cheek and he immediately turned red. “But first, we have to get him the right clothes, the right style.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Milton said, looking down at his red sweater and jeans, both of which were impeccably cleaned and pressed.

“Absolutely nothing,” she said. “Except they’re all wrong for what I need.” She pointed at Caleb. “Call Milton with the name of the firm as soon as you get it.” She snapped her fingers. “Let’s go, Miltie.”

She strode out the door. A shocked Milton looked helplessly at the others and hissed, “Miltie?”

“Milton!” Annabelle called from outside the cottage. “Now!”

Milton shot out of the door. Reuben immediately whirled on Stone. “Are you just going to let her take him?”

“What exactly would you suggest I do, Reuben?” Stone said bluntly. “That woman is a hurricane and earthquake all rolled into one.”

“I don’t know, you could . . . I mean . . .” He plopped down in a chair and growled, “Damn it, why couldn’t I have a photographic memory!”

“Thank God you don’t,” Caleb exclaimed in a disgusted tone.

“What makes you say that?” Reuben demanded hotly.

“Because then she’d be calling you Ruby, and I’d have to be sick to my stomach.”

CHAPTER 32

LATER THAT DAY AT THE LIBRARY Caleb sent an e-mail to the administrative offices. An hour later he found out the name of the private architectural firm that had helped with the Jefferson Building’s renovation. He telephoned Milton with that information.

“How’s it going with that woman?” he said in a low voice.

Milton whispered back, “She just bought me a black suit and a really bright tie, and she wants to restyle my hair. You know, jazz me up.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“Not yet.” He paused, then added, “Caleb, she sort of scares me. She’s so, she’s so confident.” Milton had no way of knowing, but he had never uttered a truer statement.

“Well, you just hang in there, Miltie.” Caleb hung up, chuckling.

He next phoned Vincent Pearl, knowing that he would get the answering machine, since the rare book shop wasn’t open until later in the evening. The fact was he didn’t want to talk to the man because he hadn’t made up his mind what to do about the sale of Jonathan’s collection yet, but most of all he didn’t know what to do about the Psalm Book. When its existence was revealed, there would be a positive uproar in the rare book world. And he would be at the center of this maelstrom, a thought that terrified but also intrigued him. A little time in the spotlight wasn’t such a bad thing, particularly for a person used to operating in the obscurity of a library.

The only thing that stopped him from going full bore ahead was a nagging thought. What if Jonathan had gotten the Psalm Book somehow illegally? That might account for his secrecy about the book. Caleb didn’t want to do anything to besmirch his friend’s memory.

Caleb put these unsettling thoughts aside and walked over to speak to Jewell English, who, like the Hemingway lover, Norman Janklow, had been a regular in the reading room over the last few years.

As he walked toward her, Jewell took off her glasses, tucked her pages of carefully written notes inside a small manila folder and motioned for him to sit down next to her. When he did, she clutched his arm and said excitedly, “Caleb, I got a line on a mint Beadle. Maleska, the Indian Wife of the White Hunter. It’s a number one, Caleb.”

“I think we have a copy of that volume,” he said thoughtfully. “Make sure it’s in true mint condition, Jewell. The Beadles were cheaply put together.”

Jewell English clapped her hands together. “Oh, but, Caleb, isn’t it exciting, though? A number one.”

“Yes, it’s very exciting. And if you want me to look at it first, I’d be glad to.”

“Oh, you are a dear. I need to have you come over sometime for a drink. We have so much in common.” She patted his arm and raised her carefully penciled-in eyebrows suggestively.

Caught off guard, Caleb said hurriedly, “Yes, well, that would be nice. Someday. Maybe. In the future. Sometime. Perhaps.” He tried not to run back to his desk. Being hit on by a septuagenarian didn’t really do much for his ego. He quickly recovered his good mood and surveyed the room. It was actually comforting to see bibliophiles like Jewell and Norman Janklow perched at the beautiful tables perusing old books. It made the world seem far saner than it actually was. Caleb loved giving in to such an illusion, at least for a few hours each day. Oh, to be back in the world of foolscap and quill pen, if only for a little while.

He was working at his desk about twenty minutes later when he heard the door to the reading room open. He glanced up and froze. Cornelius Behan was walking toward the reference desk when he spotted Caleb. He said something to the woman stationed at the desk, and she pointed to Caleb. He rose from his desk as Behan walked over, his hand out. He didn’t have his bodyguards with him, Caleb noted. Perhaps security wouldn’t let them through with their guns.

“Mr. Behan?” he said. Caleb had a sudden vision of Behan with a pair of panties flapping from his privates. He had to choke back a laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “Air went down the wrong way.”