The Bookwoman's Last Fling (8 page)

“What does that mean, the way she was?”

“All I can do is tell you how she was raised. She never had what you and I would consider a normal childhood. Her adolescence wasn't normal, and when she became a woman that wasn't normal either. She had no friends her own age; she was never courted as a kid or taken to the homecoming dance. But who am I to talk? I never was either.”

“Stupid boys.” I shook my head. “That was their loss.”

“Well, thank you. I mean thanks and all but don't get the wrong idea. I haven't led a monastic life here or anything like that; I've had friends, I just don't put marriage and society anywhere near the top of my list of things to do with my life. What about you?”

“I have a friend.”

“Back in Denver?”

I nodded.

“What's her name?”

“Erin.”

“So what does Erin do?”

“She's a lawyer. We're also partners in the book business.”

There was a brief awkward moment, then she got on track again. “I don't know how much of this was actually the fault of the boys she knew. I think it was her, she just wasn't interested. She was her daddy's girl; she moved through an adults' world and was bored silly by kids and kid-games. When her father died she would have been lost if my dad hadn't come back into her life. Then she was safe, she had that father figure again. That's what I think.”

“So you're saying he had known her earlier?”

“They had what you'd probably call an explosive first meeting.”

“To a stranger like me that seems unlikely. Sounds like their worlds were far apart.”

“Her father knew some racing people in New York, and later they met some others on trips out to the Coast. Mostly they were rich owners, in it on a much higher level than HR was. But when it came down to what he knew, he took a backseat to nobody. You could ask anyone there at that time and they'd tell you. H. R. Geiger knew exactly what a horse's leg should look like. He could trot one down the shedrow and tell you what ailed it. And that's how she met him, way back when she was a young woman and her daddy took her to the races on Saturday afternoons. They came west on a trip and someone introduced her to HR in the clubhouse at Santa Anita, and the rest as they say was history. It was the first day of racing that year, the day after Christmas 1954.”

“Did she tell you about all this herself?”

“I missed knowing a lot by being a kid—you don't ask questions like that when you're young. She once told me rockets went off in her head, that's all. And apparently it was the same for him. People meet, they ignite something in each other; sometimes it doesn't matter about differences in age. My dad was striking then, very virile and sure of himself. Even her father's money and power didn't inhibit him.”

“Still, he didn't just show up on her doorstep with flowers in his hand. Or did he?”

“No, but they did write to each other. I found the letters in her stuff a few years ago. The first one was dated mid-January 1955, three weeks after they'd met. When old Grandpa Ritchey died, HR stepped right in: off one treadmill and onto another, so to speak. They had some happy times; then she died and he never recovered. At some point he began getting senile, and that's one reason I've stayed here. I figured somebody had to keep an eye on him, and that would be me. But hey, he didn't care. In the end I just left him alone and that's what he wanted anyway. I didn't have it in me to put him away, so maybe that was the best thing I could do for him: just leave him alone with Junior.”

She shook her head. “What a pair they've made. All these years, just the two of 'em, training their horses for what? Just like they always did, they'd get up in the morning and take 'em to the track, have 'em galloped two or three days and then they'd get worked, then walked for a day. He kept 'em in top shape, don't ask me why, because if old HR ever raced a horse in the last twenty years, I don't know about it.” She craned her neck and looked at the clock. “Sorry, I've got to go pick up a horse. If I can tell you anything else, speak now.”

“Anything you know that might help me understand Junior better.”

“Ha! Lots of luck.”

But I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. Suddenly she said, “Did he tell you any details about the will?”

“A little.”

“Did he tell you a new will was written after we found the books were missing? This delays everything, the horses, the books, everything.”

“But the books don't lose their value with age, like the horses.”

“Exactly. Junior's got to satisfy the executor that he's put in a good-faith effort to find and recover them. Now he's charged with doing that. And the old lawyer knew HR for years; he's like a piranha, he trusts none of us and he's taking it as a personal cause to turn over every rock. This could tie up the estate long enough to make the racehorses irrelevant. Unless someone like you comes along and figures something out.”

“So now, unless they try to challenge HR's state of mind…”

“…everything's in limbo, at least for the moment. Tell you what, Cliff, there were some angry old men when that was read. My own thought is, this may have been my father's last real testament. If they want to challenge him on it, they may have to fight me as well.”

“So you would wade in as a friend of Junior's.”

“Sure. Junior's been with Daddy when the rest of us couldn't get close, so I'm not going to sit on my hands and let Damon and Bax screw him around if that's not what the old man intended. I want to see that HR's final intent is carried out. So if they want a fight, they'll get more than they bargained for.”

“Bet you never thought you'd be taking up for Junior.”

“Not in this lifetime. He can make it difficult.”

“So what happens if the books never are found? Eventually something's got to be done with all that money and property.”

“It'll all go to us anyway. At least the three of us.”

“Leaving Junior out in the cold.”

“That's a possibility. Junior's only covered in the new will if he tries to find the books. I don't know, I'm not a lawyer. There may be questions that can be raised about HR's mental state.”

“So it's in Junior's interest to get me to do a quick assessment of what's missing…”

“…and turn over some rocks, whatever the executor will accept…”

“…tell them the books are impossible to find, and rubber-stamp my report.”

This was far more complicated than Junior had said. Candice had traded away some of the books from her childhood, scattering those with the bookplates far and wide and leaving any potential dealer or appraiser with a mountain of difficulty getting them straight.

Slowly her eyes came up to meet mine and again I could see new trouble and doubt there.

“She'd be so easy to kill,” she said. “She was born with what killed her. You could kill her with a peanut.”

I got into the truck and headed back along the road to the farm. I knew I had come to the fish-or-cut-bait point with Junior: I needed some straight talk and the freedom to dig without the threat of a sudden temper tantrum or an ultimatum to do it his way. I wondered how far I could push him as I drove along the road between the two farms and there was no clear answer. As the house came into view through the trees I made the decision to push him hard, to the wall if I had to, and that always means living with the consequences.

He was sitting on the porch with his glasses in his lap when I pulled into the yard. I got out and walked up the steps through a light rain. He didn't move. There was something about the way he watched me, he had a kind of madness in his eyes as if he knew and had been enraged by everything Sharon had told me. I stopped at the top of the steps and we looked at each other.

“So what's goin' on?” he said. “How long's it gonna take you to figure this out?”

“I don't know yet.” I glared at him and said, “I'll see if I can wrap it up before lunch.”

“Don't you use that smart-ass tone with me.
Answer me!
”

I smiled sadly and shook my head. “That's really a nasty temper you've got, Mr. Willis.”

“Never mind my temper. You've done nothing since you got here but impugn my motives with your slick talk. What did Sharon tell you?”

“She explained what the will requires you to do.”

“Hell, I could have told you that, but it's not germane to your job. The will's a personal matter, it's got nothing to do with you finding those books. To put it bluntly, it's none of your damn business.”

A moment of silence followed.

“I'm paying your freight,” he said. “I've got a right to expect accountability.”

“You've got a right to expect a result, or my best effort to get you one.”

“Well, I can't wait forever. My horses are gettin' older every day.” He gestured with his hands. “I would think you could wind this up in a week, tops.”

“Surely you realize I can't just sign off on something till I look into it.”

“Go ahead, look your ass off.”

“And then what?”

“Give me a paper saying what you did, you've either got the books or they're lost.”

“Come on, Mr. Willis, I've only been here a few hours, I haven't even talked to Damon or the servants yet, I don't know what Cameron might have done, and there's no telling how long it will take to exhaust all the leads. And every little argument we get into along the way lengthens the process.”

“Meaning, you'd like me to butt out.”

“Meaning, yes, I need a free hand and I need certain things understood.”

“What things?”

“I think it's going to take some time.”

“How much time?”

“First we've got to know exactly what's missing. That could take a week or more, and the real job just begins then. If you want these books appraised, that could take weeks. Then I need to find out if the missing books have been bought or sold in the book trade in the last twenty years. Not just these titles, Mr. Willis, these copies. Then we can try to trace them, see where they are now.”

He looked at me coldly and I said, “A month would be lucky.”

Into his silence, I said, “Could be twice that. Even then we might not know anything definite. We might never know.”

“You don't want much, do you?”

“I believe in telling you up front what you're facing. If you don't agree, you don't need me. Many good, competent booksellers can do an appraisal. I can give you some names, people whose opinions have been accepted in court cases.”

“Who says this is going to court?”

“Let's just say in case.”

“Why can't you just shut up and do what you're told?”

Now I felt my own temper rising. “That's your answer for everything, isn't it? You're the boss, I'm just here to jump up and salute when you bark. Come on, Junior, I don't tell you how to train a horse, it would be presumptuous of me to try.”

A long stretch of sullen silence threatened to extend into the afternoon. I waited but he wasn't inclined to elaborate. Softly, I said, “You want me to give you my word I did my best, and in fact I haven't even started yet. You want me to be an expert, but one you could hire over fast food at McDonald's or Burger King. I've got to tell you, that sounds a little suspicious. I don't know the executor of the will, but I wouldn't like it much if I were him.”

His face was a mask.

“I think you're a control freak, Junior,” I said. “You want control, fine, give me a pitchfork and a pile of muck and you can tell me just how to move it. But you can't control how this goes.”

I told him under the circumstances I would not be willing to go into that book room again. I'd want something in writing from the executor acknowledging my right to be there. Now I was going back to the hotel. I'd be here a few days, and if he should have a change of heart I'd be happy to revisit him. I appreciated the offer; I would rethink the money and he might have some kind of refund coming after all. But I promised nothing.

This was at least in part a calculated bluff. In fact, I didn't like Junior much and now I didn't trust him. As a bookman I was intrigued by his case and I still didn't want to lose it, but I let him drive me back to town without another word.

 

Alone in my hotel room I thought about Harold Ray Geiger and his wife, frozen forever in her dead youth. That's how I saw her, the eternal daddy's girl, even at her death in early middle age.

But now what I had done seemed hasty and half-baked. If it had been a bluff, so far it had backfired. I had learned long ago not to bluff with an empty hand, and it looked like I had learned it again. But you can't work for a man you don't trust. Etch that in stone.

He'll call me, I thought: he'll think it over and back down. One minute I was sure of this, a minute later I was full of doubt. Noon came and I had a light lunch. Back in my room I made a call to Carroll Shaw at the Blakely Library, hoping he could fill in some gaps on Junior and the Geigers and maybe even on Candice. This was a longshot, but I was in a down time, time perhaps for playing the odds. Carroll got around, he had interviewed many collectors in the field and had written a descriptive bibliography on juvenilia that had become part of every good bookman's reference section. It was a thick doorstop that contained detailed points and gorgeous color facsimile title pages, on books that were truly rare and a few that had long been assumed extinct. Its two-volume slipcased limited edition had sold out immediately, even at $250 a set, and these days when it turned up, at book fairs and in glass cases, the asking price was at least $500.

Carroll was out when I called, but I left word with the woman who answered the phone: If he knew anything at all about the Geigers, especially Candice Geiger née Ritchey, would he please call me back in Idaho Falls?

I sat on my bed and watched part of a boring football game. At three o'clock I did some simple arithmetic on the money Junior had paid me and I decided if he didn't call again I'd refund him two thousand. That would still give me a good payday after expenses, not bad for getting on an airplane and flying home again. But I knew that deal would leave a sour taste in my mouth. I have never liked being paid for doing nothing, and by the time I ordered my second drink in the bar I had decided screw it, I would send back almost four thousand, take the high road out of here and let him cover only my expenses. I didn't like that either. This whole trip was a failure, and that lingered in my mind through the long afternoon and into the gray dusk. Now I told myself I only wanted to be rid of it, but this too was false. Wherever I looked, there they were: If I stared into a dark place I saw Junior peering out of it. I saw Sharon with her horses and the old man on his deathbed with only Junior standing by. In one of my bleaker moments I saw Candice, not the striking young woman behind the winner's circle, but a grinning corpse in an immaculate white dress, standing beside a hooded man, clutching at something under his rain slicker.

At four o'clock I called my bookstore in Denver. Erin had just come in after a long day in her law office on Seventeenth Street. “Just the voice I need to hear for a quick pickup,” I said. “How are things in Glocca Morra?”

“Just splendid.”

“Is that little brook still leaping there?”

“Oh, please! If you go all the way through that cockamamie song I swear I will scream your eardrum out and fall straight into catatonic arrest. So how's it going on your end of the stick?”

“Not so good. The only good news is, I saw some truly fabulous books this morning. The library of a lifetime.”

“I can remember a day when that would have been enough. What's the bad news?”

“I may not be able to help this guy after all. He's very difficult. He wants something I don't think I can do. Probably have to give him his money back if it comes to that.”

I told her all about Junior Willis, Sharon, the books, and the horses. She sat quietly on her end while I related both the facts and my impressions of the case. It was a case now, more than a job, less than a full investigation, but still a case. But I had no employer at the moment, and I was floundering in self-doubt.

“You are wallowing in self-doubt,” Erin said, six hundred miles away.

“Floundering, perhaps.”

“You're splitting hairs, Janeway. Whenever you do that, I know you've been wallowing.”

“I needed to talk to a voice of reason and for some goofy reason, yours came to mind.”

“You want guidance.”

“I would settle for that.”

“I'm afraid it's all you'll get from six hundred miles away.”

“How'd we do in the store today?”

“Don't ask. It's a good thing one of us has a day job.”

“That's the book biz for you. Feast one day, famine the next.”

“It's been famine all week. So what can I tell you? Your choices seem to be, come on home, stay there for another day or two and see what happens, or go crawling back to this Junior jerk on your knees, begging his forgiveness.”

“I never could sell a begging act. Then they know they've got you by the, ah…”

“I should be there instead of you, I wouldn't have to worry about getting squeezed in those particular places. I can be just as tough and I don't wallow afterward.”

“If you wanted to fly up here and check old Junior out, I could bill him for both of us.”

“You should've gone to law school. You've already got the billing part down pat.”

This went on for at least another fifteen minutes, nonsense guaranteed to make me sleep better. “In case you don't know,” I said, “I miss the hell out of you.”

“I know you do. Same here. You keep in touch. I like to know where you are.”

The day's rain had turned to snow and my mood was as cold and dark as the night. I wished I had never heard of Geiger or his wife: I especially wished I had never made the acquaintance of the spooky Mr. Junior Willis. At eight o'clock I went to the first decent-looking restaurant I could find nearby and had dinner, but my troubled mind continued poking through the ashes of Geiger's life and death, and afterward I couldn't remember what I'd had or how it had tasted. I lingered over coffee, thinking now about Sharon. I sensed more trouble than I could imagine, and I didn't like the notion that I was walking out on something extraordinary without having any idea what it really was or more than a glimmer of what it might be.

I got back to the hotel before ten o'clock. As I walked in, the desk clerk said, “Mr. Janeway, there's been a gentleman asking about you.”

“What kind of gentleman?”

“Elderly African-American. He waited here for more than an hour.”

“He didn't say where he was going?”

“I thought he was still here. Maybe he just stepped out for a minute.”

“Well, if he comes back in the next two hours or so, have him call upstairs.”

I sat in my room and looked at the telephone. This was it, I thought: this had to be about the Geigers; no one else knew I was here. I read some of the local paper that the hotel had left outside my room that morning and I learned again how small cities have most of the same problems that Denver has. You can't go far enough today to escape murder, rape, global warming, mayhem, and the troubles of fools. I waited and read, but when the phone rang again it wasn't my African-American. Immediately I recognized the deep voice: Carroll Shaw at the Blakely Library.

“Hey, Cliff, we haven't heard from you in a while.”

“Way too long. I haven't seen anything lately that's got your name on it.”

“If you do, I'm always buying.”

“So I take it you got my message about the Geigers.”