The Dirty Book Murder (17 page)

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to critique your living quarters.”

Her face softened.

“Forget it, Mike. I’ve had a bad day, that’s all. Nothing like yours though.”

She arched her head toward another room. “My office is in there, but don’t get any ideas.”

I followed her into the bedroom, which wasn’t much of an improvement over the living room.

A card table with a laptop computer on it stood in the corner; the king-size bed was covered by a sheet but no bedspread; another three-legged table was crowned by a lamp with a cracked plastic shade. On the windowsill behind the bed was an ashtray full of cigarette butts.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.

“I don’t.”

She picked up the laptop and sat on the edge of the bed, then looked up at me with a tired, expressionless gaze.

“I like you, Mike. Maybe even more than that. But I’m an out-of-town girl with a shitty-paying job and little chance of advancement. I’ll be leaving one of these days, probably sooner than later. I’m willing to help you, but you must realize I have my own life, such as it is, and I’m not looking for advice on housekeeping or anything else. And let’s get it out of the way before you ask: You aren’t the only boy I’ve kissed.”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted our happy talk. Josie rushed into the living room to answer it, mumbled a few words, and returned with her cheeks looking rosier than before.

“Who was that?”

“My editor. I can’t stay long.”

“How did he know you were home?”

“I work from here a lot of the time. Any more questions?”

“No. Sorry. I’m getting paranoid.”

“Given the circumstances, that’s understandable,” she said quietly.

I looked at our reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the ceiling above the
bed.

“Your office is, uh, unique.”

Josie managed a smile. “The landlord evicted the previous occupant for soliciting male prostitutes. He never got around to taking the mirror down and now I’m used to it. Take off your shoes and relax.”

She sat next to me again.

I told her about going over to Richard Chezik’s house, seeing his mother, poking around the cluttered library, and taking the books he had stolen from my shop.

“Do you think his body was upstairs while you were there?”

“Looking back on it, I’m pretty sure it was. I smelled just a hint of something cloyingly sweet. Bodies beginning to putrefy smell that way.”

“How do you know that?”

“First Iraq War.”

“I thought you were just a military lawyer.”

“Every Marine’s considered a rifleman, even JAGs. I handled my share of patrols outside the Green Zone.”

“Tell me about Gareth Hughes,” she said, opening the laptop. “Who was he?”

“A colleague of mine in the book trade. He grew up in Wales, worked on a sheep station in Australia, then as a forester in New Zealand before coming to the States. While knocking about the country working odd construction jobs, he would buy books from thrift stores in his off hours and sell them to local bookshops for a profit. By the time he settled in Kansas City, he’d become knowledgeable enough about rare books to make a living at it.”

“Who were his friends, his enemies?”

“None that I can recall; except for me. I was a bit of both.”

“Great. Now we’re getting nowhere.”

“Thanks for taking me in.”

“You’re welcome. Please concentrate.”

“That’s easy for you to say with that damn mirror above us.”

She put the computer aside and stood up. Just as quickly I pulled her down.

“Okay,” I said, handing the laptop back to her. “Gareth stole two books that collectors would pay a great deal for. One was by a sexual pioneering French woman named Colette that contained a very personal inscription to Sylvia Beach and another from Ernest Hemingway. It’s the kind of thing to keep members of the literary tea society hot in the britches. He also took an extremely rare Hemingway first edition titled
in our time
.”

“What are they worth?”

“Together, maybe half a million dollars. If the economy ever improves, possibly more. I suppose that’s plenty enough for certain people to kill for, but murder isn’t the means one expects from bibliophiles.”

“Well?” she demanded, tapping her fingers on the laptop. “Go on.”

“I don’t think Gareth died because of a book, but for what was concealed in one. The killer wanted a list in order to blackmail some of the most powerful people in this town.”

“Where were the names written?”

“Not sure. According to George Land’s widow, who put the books up for auction, they might have been written in the margins of the Colette, where her husband had described the sexual preferences of their friends. But Beatrice Land also mentioned that he had kept a much more detailed list, one that included compromising photos.”

“Were these ‘friends’ also business acquaintances?”

“I suppose so. Probably a politician or two as well. And let us not forget the clergy.”

“Hughes must have had the book when he was attacked,” Josie said. She removed a shoe to rub her right foot.

“Perhaps. He was wearing an overcoat even though it was a warm evening. It had deep inside pockets, handy for concealing stolen books. I always made him take it off when he was in my shop. But I can’t believe Hughes would walk into a bar in that condition lugging something that rare.”

“Do you think he left them at his apartment?”

She kept rubbing that foot. It was small and delicate and the toenails were painted a bright pink.

“He didn’t have anywhere else to put them.”

“Sounds reasonable. Tell me about Weston Preston and Violet Trenche. Loyal to the firm, are they?”

I leaned back on the bed and stared up at the mirror. Noticing that my widow’s peak seemed more defined, I added male-pattern baldness to my list of worries.

“They helped to put my life back together,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “They work for next to nothing to make my bookstore a success.”

“I think you had something to do with that, too, Mike. Just tell me a bit more about them.”

“After getting out of the Merchant Marine, Weston raced motorcycles, worked as a mechanic at a used-car dealership, did other odd jobs, and learned to make coffee. He
tends to live in an alternative universe at times, but I can’t complain about his work ethic. Kids enjoy his goofiness and so do most of the mothers. When there are no coffee customers he shelves books, cleans the bathroom, answers the phone, helps my customers, and lends an occasional hand to little old ladies trying to cross Brookside Boulevard. The place is as much Weston’s life as it is mine.”

“He lives alone?”

“He’s divorced with two grown daughters whom he never sees. Their mother’s been in once or twice to harangue him. He’s always looking for love, but plays the forlorn fool too much to find anyone who takes him seriously.”

“Then there’s Violet.”

“Right. She could run the place and probably thinks she should. Her husband was an architect and apparently quite accomplished. After he died of a heart attack, she used his life insurance to open an antiquarian bookstore. She traveled the country and Europe buying fine books and solidified her reputation by becoming an officer in the Antiquarian Booksellers’ Association of America. Then she lost everything in a fire. She’s not a happy person these days. George Land had been a customer of hers. According to Beatrice, Violet and George were lovers. Violet denies it.”

“Naturally. Do you think she and Weston have anything going between them?”

“Get serious, Josie.”

I got up from the bed, walked over to the windowsill, and dumped the cigarette ashes into a wastebasket. Stuff like that bothers me. Without turning around, I said, “I saw you interviewing Edward Worth at the shop not long ago. How well do you know the guy?”

When I looked back, she was standing by the bedroom door with hands on hips and a half-smile that wasn’t a smile.

“Enough to wish he didn’t smoke.”

I looked at the ashtray.

“Does that mean what I think it does?”

“As long as we’re concerned, Michael, it’s none of your business what I do outside that bookstore of yours.”

“If you say so.
Uisce fe talamh
.”

“What?”

“It’s an old Irish phrase meaning ‘water under the ground.’ My grandfather was fond of using it to describe secret currents, hidden matters. But it really is absurd to think that goofball barista and Violet could be involved.”

“Every peach has a stone,” she said, slipping her shoe back on. “A favorite phrase
of
my
grandfather.”

“Ahh, the wisdom of our elders. You planning to go somewhere?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to go down to the
Gumbo
to finish a story.”

“Does that mean I can stay here?”

She picked up her notebook. “For another day, but only if you behave.”

“Thanks, Josie. I have another favor to ask. I need to know how my daughter is doing. A production assistant on the set named Laura Dowell may have heard from her. Would you check for me?”

“You can’t call Anne yourself?”

“She and Langston are Quist’s houseguests. We’re not communicating these days.”

I gave her Laura’s telephone number.

“I’ll check it out,” she promised. “Now, get some sleep.”

“Okay, but first why don’t you tell me what your editor really told you on the telephone.”

She looked at me warily.

“It wasn’t my editor, but a confidential source. It doesn’t matter who.”

“And what did this person have to say that made you blush?”

“It’s why I have to go now and find more information. It’s also why I’ve decided to let you hide out here another day.”

She checked the top button to her blouse, then looked back at me. “He said the police found Gareth Hughes’s wallet. It was in a bag under the passenger seat of your jeep Cherokee.”

“You didn’t plan on telling me?” I asked, once I’d unrolled my tongue from my throat.

“There’s nothing you can do right now. Just get some sleep. You’re going to need it. I’ll find out what I can and get back to you.”

“Jesus.”

“You poor guy,” she said after a chaste kiss. “I’m not going to let you down. And somehow, some way, I’m going to bring you and Anne together again.”

After she left, I slept for about two hours before the nightmares caught up with me.

I stepped into the living room, grabbed a paperback by Hermann Hesse off the radiator, sat on the sofa, and started to read about a man who thinks he’s a wolf. Seven pages later the narrator was getting right to the heart of all humanity. That’s when I reached for what was left of my beer and saw a notepad lying next to the telephone.

Obviously, Josie had an artistic bent. The pad was covered with charming drawings of fairies, goblins, and flowers along with telephone numbers and cryptic notes. Intrigued by the doodles, I flipped the pages and saw what I wasn’t supposed to see. Next to a willowy drawing of an Arthurian knight was the name “Eddie Worth.” Below it were the initials “M.Q.,” followed by a telephone number. It was time to improvise.

I called the number and a woman who identified herself as the housekeeper said that Mr. Quist was not in at the moment.

“I was hoping to get a message to him or Ms. Majansik.”

There was no hesitation at the other end at the mention of the names. The woman’s voice even lost its matter-of-fact, frigid tone.

“We don’t expect her back until tomorrow’s party. If you care to leave your name and number I’ll be happy to tell Mr. Quist.”

“The name’s Toby Bing,” I lied. “I’m from out of town and can’t leave a number, but I’ll see them at the party. Is it set for eight
P.M.
still?”

“Some guests will be arriving earlier, Mr. Bing, but, you know, things never heat up before ten.”

“Right! How could I forget? And the real action doesn’t start until midnight.”

The maid giggled. “I guess you’ve been to one of these before.”

“Only once and it was a while ago. On second thought, I think I’ll surprise Martin and Josie. Would you mind not mentioning that I called?”

“Sure. And don’t forget your mask, Mr. Bing.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, for the black-and-white masked ball. It’s going to be awfully exciting with Mr. Langston being here.”

“Will you be wearing a mask as well?”

“Oh, no. I’ll be serving the guests. But I get to wear a costume.”

“What might that be?”

“A French maid’s outfit.”

“Lovely,” I said. “Can’t wait to see it.”

“Oh, Mr. Bing.” She giggled. “There won’t be much of it to see.”

Well, well, well. Caesar may have had Brutus, but Josephine Majansik had to rank right up there in the treachery department. Trusting soul that I am, how was I to know that the object of my affections was sharpening her claws the whole time? Just when I was getting used to falling in love again, too.

My nerves settled down after a few minutes, morphing into a cold calm enhanced by an edge of sharp bitterness and aroused curiosity. Looking at the seedy apartment with clearer eyes, I saw it as nothing more than a hooker’s playpen; a place for a few drinks followed by a roll in the hay and a wad of twenty-dollar bills discreetly dropped in a basket by the front door.

In her bedroom closet I discovered a stack of hard-core videos under a pile of
People
magazines. One of the tapes had no label and wasn’t marked, as if it were an amateur homemade job. I put it in the VCR and watched with sick apprehension as grainy black-and-white images crackled across the screen. The opening shot presented the back of a woman with short dark hair walking into a dimly lit room where she casually disrobed. The compact body seemed achingly familiar as she lay facedown on a bed.

Any hope I’d held that the performer wasn’t Josie evaporated when her face filled the screen with an absurd expression that slowly morphed from complacent restfulness to fear. I couldn’t help noticing that her talent as an actress matched her inability to carry a tune.

Possibly the only thing worse than the subject matter and Josie’s role in it was the abysmal editing that changed focus and even color tone with every scene shift. It was bad,
Plan 9 from Outer Space
bad, and when the camera focused on two men standing at the door in white cotton briefs, I would have laughed if I’d been watching this travesty at a fraternity house a quarter century earlier.