“Yeah,” he agreed. “That much, at least, seems clear.”
We finished our conversation, neither of us revealing anything that the other one didn’t already know, and he left.
Stepping into the living room, I found Sasha on the floor, using a flashlight to examine the underside of the inlaid chess table Mrs. Grant had bought in Boston half a century ago.
“You’re okay?” I asked.
“This is incredible workmanship,” she said reverentially.
“Yeah,” I agreed. She started to slide out from under. “Don’t get up. I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking off.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding fretful.
“You have your cell phone, right?”
“Yes.”
“Call if you need me,” I said, sounding chipper. “And a police officer will be around. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Keep your phone nearby. I’ll call in a while.”
“Okay.”
At the front door, I looked back, and she was already absorbed by her task, examining the table’s dovetail joints, searching for a Maker’s Mark, and as always, alert for telltale signs of refinishing.
I called Gretchen on my way back to Portsmouth. Knowing her penchant for gossip-celebrity and otherwise-I wasn’t surprised at her prodding questions about the Grant situation, and deflected them easily. All I told her was that I had left Sasha hard at work. Neither Andi nor Alverez’s names came up. I asked what was going on and she told me that she hadn’t reached Don, the recruiter I was counting on to send us a research assistant, but had left an urgent message with his secretary. Other than that, all was well. She was busy reconciling the receipts from the auction and the tag sale, and had just confirmed my appointment with the professor.
An English literature professor from the University of New Hampshire was retiring and wanted to sell his collection of books. Roy, the picker who’d called on Saturday with an offer of rare books, had let us down. He’d never shown up, and we didn’t have a clue why. Probably another dealer had nabbed him en route. It happened all the time. So another lead on books, even if they weren’t particularly valuable, was good news. Inventory was low. And buyers expected to see fresh stock every time they came to shop. If they didn’t see new goods, they stopped coming.
At the warehouse, I said hello to Gretchen on the fly, grabbed the keys to the company van, and left. The van was old and blue, and clean and serviceable. I’d bought it for $3,000 when I’d first arrived in Portsmouth, a bargain at the time, and now, 110,000 miles later, an unbelievable find. It took us to book and antique fairs and buys without complaint, but it was a struggle to drive because it lacked power steering and was an absolute bear to park.
I found the professor’s address on Ceres Street without a problem. There was even a space available pretty close to the single-family row house where he lived. It took me ten minutes to inch my way into the spot. It was a nightmare, but I did it.
The professor greeted me cordially and led me straight into his den. A brief conversation and quick perusal revealed that there were no leather-bound volumes or first editions of note. It wasn’t a collection of rare books, it was a book-lover’s assortment of what are referred to as reading copies, undistinguished volumes of no particular value.
I randomly checked several books’ title pages to confirm that there were no book club volumes, which, except on rare occasions, have no resale value. Finding none, I was ready to make an offer. I did a quick estimate by counting ten volumes to a shelf, six shelves to a unit, and fourteen units; 840 books. None of which would sell for more than a few dollars, most of which wouldn’t sell at all.
The professor stood nearby, watching me work, his hands latched behind him. He looked sad. I needed to gauge his mood before I could begin to negotiate.
“Are you looking forward to retiring?” I asked. “North Carolina, right?”
“Well, young lady,” he said, “it’s one thing to think about retiring and plan for it, and another thing altogether to sort through thirty-five years of possessions, donate clothes that haven’t fit you for a decade, or sell books you love to a stranger. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” I said, and smiled. “I think moving is the hardest thing in the world under the best of circumstances, and it’s harder still when you have mixed feelings about doing it.”
“Exactly.” He sighed.
“I think you’re going to be disappointed in my offer, but as an expert in English lit, you know there’s nothing special here. That doesn’t mean you don’t love the books, but there’s nothing that has a lot of resale value.”
“Really?” he said, surprised. “What do you mean by value?” he asked.
I shrugged. “There are very few books here that would retail for more than a dollar or so.”
“There are a lot of Civil War books there.” He pointed to a shelf on the right, near the door. “They’re worth more than that. I know because I bought them at a used bookstore myself. The prices are still in the front.” He reached for a volume and showed me the pencil mark that read twelve dollars.
I flipped through it. “It’s not in good enough condition to fetch a price like that anymore. Do you see?” I pointed to the gap in the binding. “The spine is broken, and here, several pages are dog-eared.”
He began to get irritated. “That’s because it’s been read. It’s still a wonderful book.”
“I understand.” I gestured toward the shelves, sweeping my hand to indicate all volumes. “They’re all reading copies.” I smiled. “I have shelves of books like that myself. But as a businesswoman, I can’t offer you more than two hundred dollars for the lot.”
“What?” he asked, looking and sounding outraged, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“I know you love them,” I said, meeting his eyes and speaking softly, “and I’m sorry I can’t offer more. Try other places, if you want. That’s what they’re worth to me.”
He paused, calming down, shaking his head, resigned. “It’s a shock, that’s all, to learn that something you cherish has such limited market value.”
I nodded. “It hurts.”
“You can have them for three hundred dollars,” he said, recovering from his disappointment enough to negotiate. Fancy that. I suspected mine wasn’t the first bid he’d received.
I paused, as if I was thinking hard. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. The best I can do is, maybe, okay, two hundred and ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars more! That’s an insult.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew my margins. I certainly didn’t intend to insult you. I came up five percent from my original, fair offer.” I met his eyes and watched him think it over.
“Two-fifty, then.”
I smiled and headed for the door. “Try other places if you want, but two hundred and ten dollars, here and now, cash on the barrelhead, that’s all I can do.”
As I crossed the threshold, he called out, “Wait.”
I turned. “Okay,” he said. “Take ’em away.”
He was a good guy. He might not know anything about the resale value of used books, but he agreed to let me send Eric to collect them in the morning, and he waved cheerfully as I drove away.
As I headed back to the warehouse, I allowed myself a grin. Those 840 books would flesh out our dwindling inventory of used books nicely, and I’d kept to the price limit I’d set of twenty-five cents a volume. All in all, a job well done.
I decided on impulse to go to Mr. Grant’s funeral. On the one hand, I wasn’t a friend, or family, and I was a little afraid it might seem intrusive for me to show up. On the other hand, I wanted to show respect to Mrs. Cabot, who was, I thought, fighting the good fight alone. Also, from a business perspective, I knew that it wouldn’t hurt my reputation to be seen at a church event.
I hadn’t planned well, though. I was wearing jeans and a flannel plaid big shirt over an ordinary tee. Hardly a proper outfit for a church funeral. I decided to go and at least make an appearance. Arriving at the church after
