The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) (42 page)

“We can begin the restructuring of thought by declaring legitimate what we have denied for so long. Le
t’s
us declare Nature to be legitimate. The notion of illegal plants is obnoxious and ridiculous in the first place.”

Terence McKenna, “Food of the Gods:
The Search for the Original Tree of Knowledge”

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Deep in the Nevada desert, in a hidden mansion full of old books and vintage clothes, guarded by five anthropomorphic cats and a family of Attack Roadrunners, Vin Suprynowicz went cold turkey from a 40-year newspaper career. They said he’d never write anything over a thousand words, again. But with the help and encouragement of the Brunette and a few close friends, he came back. With
The Testament of James
, he proved them wrong. Before his recovery, Vin wrote
Send in the Waco Killers
,
The Ballad of Carl Drega
, and the freedom novel
The Black Arrow
.

Did you enjoy this book? If so, you can write an
Amazon review
.

Want to find more books by Vin Suprynowicz? Visit
Vin's author page on Amazon
or
VinSuprynowicz.com
.

Praise for
The Testament of James
:

“The characters who populate the book are quirky, literate, cunning and engage in snappy, irreverent and amusing dialogue — from book dealer Matthew, who must keep patiently explaining why certain books cost more than they did when new, to pink pistol packing Chantal …” —
Tom Mitchell

“By the way,
Testament
’s pace is anything but slow, proceeding like clever dinner conversation amongst your brightest friends.” —
Doug French

If you enjoyed this book, keep reading for a preview of
The Testament of James
.

Matthew heard the front door to the shop open behind him, though he could have sworn he’d locked it. A gust of cool air swirled in, followed by an imposing figure in a black cape. He wasn’t more than six-foot-four, which meant technically he shouldn’t have had to duck his head to get in. But he did.

Matthew didn’t know the face, long and square-jawed, though he felt maybe he should. In fact, the first thing that occurred to him was that the Theatre Department had brought in a ringer, some professional curtain-chewer past his prime to play the lead in the latest student production of “Dracula,” since the casting of some pimply undergraduate with a voice not yet settled was the standard Achilles heel of such offerings.

“I’m sorry, we’re closed today,” Matthew said. “There’s been a death.”

“Your unfortunate employee. You have my condolences. Natural causes, I believe?”

The giant had the deep, resonant voice to match his stature, and spoke precise British English — upper class British English, though he was actually Mediterranean. The family had retained the best of tutors.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” asked the big guy.

“There was some kind of event here a few evenings ago. I don’t know all the details myself, Mr. . . .”

“Penitente. Dominic Penitente.”

“So if you’d be willing to come back tomorrow . . .”

“You have a certain book, Mr. Hunter.” He really did have that James Earl Jones kind of voice, would probably have sounded just as great reading
Green Eggs and Ham
, or the advertising copy off the back of some cereal box. “Your employee took delivery of this book several days ago, perhaps even the day he died, which I do regret. I represent a buyer who is willing to pay a substantial price for this book. Discreetly, of course. Whatever the Californian with his mail-order Divinity degree is offering, I assure you my employer can do better.”

“What book are we talking about?”

“It’s not necessary to be coy, Mr. Hunter. You understand my employer is willing to deal in cash, if you prefer. Reporting transactions to your revenue authorities, that sort of detail, is of no interest to him. Nor can we be made to answer any questions about such a transaction. Diplomatic immunity, you understand. . . .”

“You have the advantage of me, Mr. . . . Penitente? I’ve been away for more than a week. If this book arrived here in the meantime, I’m not aware of it. You’ll have to give us a week or so to get back up to speed. At that point, we’ll see if Robert left us any record. Although I have to tell you books that come in here get priced and put on the shelves, they don’t go in the computer unless we’re listing them for sale online, which depends on a number of factors. The easiest way to find out if we have it is to just leave me the author and title. . . .”

“You’ve dealt in the past, I believe, with Mr. Rashid al-Adar.”

“Look, sir, I don’t want to be impolite, but we’re closed. I have people coming from the funeral. So unless you can tell me exactly what it is you want, I’ll have to ask you to come back when we’re open.”

“Mr. al-Adar brought a book here. He brought it to your late associate. He wanted you to sell the book for him. I want to buy it.”

“In that case, if such a book turns up, I’ll get in touch with Mr. al-Adar to find out his instructions for a sale. Then I’d be glad to contact you. You have a card, something with a phone number or an e-mail address?”

“I do.” The dapper giant produced a glossy white business card, in raised type so it felt like braille when you rubbed your thumb across it, mysterious for the absence of the usual corporate name and logo, but elegant.

It said “Dominic Penitente / rare manuscripts,” under which was centered a 10-digit phone number.

“Boston,” Matthew noted.

“A cellular telephone,” Penitente explained. “I’ll be staying here in your fair city for a few days. You may call at any hour.”

“I’ll keep it handy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

They shook hands. The big guy looked almost sad, as though he regretted whatever he’d have to do next. His hand was dry but at least he didn’t try to apply one of those Vulcan death grips like the characters who spent too much time at the gym, guzzling protein shakes. Dominic Penitente looked around the store briefly, sizing it up. Matthew almost expected him to ask if he could browse for a minute, hunt for
The Chronicles of Narnia
or the
Malleus Maleficarum
. But instead the big Dracula look-alike left after nodding briefly, whatever that meant.

* * *

Skeezix stepped aside to let Dominic Penitente, if that really was his name, sweep down the front walk. His black cape flared behind him as he turned the corner. Skeezix immediately disliked the guy, found himself growling softly. As the man in the cape turned down the sidewalk, he also passed Chantal, who seemed to be hesitating about coming up the walk. Skeezix smiled at her; she gave him a thumbs-up.

Then Skeezix turned to peer in the glass panels of the front door, past the hand-lettered sign that read “Closed: Death in the Family.”

He rapped quietly, cracked the door, tilted his head inside. “Is it OK?” he asked.

“Come on in, Skeezix. Drinks are in the cooler; you could help set out the food on the table.”

It never would have occurred to Skeezix to be a fashionable 10 minutes late. But since he was family, it really wasn’t necessary for him to knock, either.

The bookstore had been a private home, long ago. The front dining room was now lined with bookshelves, but they’d kept the good-sized dark wooden table and a motley assemblage of user-friendly armchairs, not to mention a few of the traditional overstuffed red leather variety over by the fireplace. During the day customers were welcome to sit and read, but it had long been the custom for some of the town’s small bookish fraternity to gather there at closing, 6 o’clock of a Sunday, to share take-out food.

“She’s outside,” Skeezix said.

“Chantal?”

“She’s walking back and forth.”

“I’ll go out. Do me a favor and lay out the food, Skeezix. Some’s still in the fridge in the kitchen. Including the vegetable stuff. Ask the cats to please not walk in it.”

She was indeed hesitating on the sidewalk. Slightly below medium height, Chantal was one of those unusually pretty brunettes with blue eyes. She was self-conscious about her lower body, though, which was not as slim as called for by the current arbiters of emaciated cadaver fashion. Not that Chantal carried extra body fat, at least not anywhere that men tended to find it unattractive. Chantal’s problem was that she favored strenuous outdoor pastimes, including hiking, running, and actual mountain-climbing, with the result that her calves, thighs, and butt were muscular and prominent. The problem — if anyone other than Chantal actually considered it a problem — wasn’t much helped by her favoring short plaid pleated skirts, which had the effect of making her look like she was late for some high school field-hockey scrum. She got carded when ordering wine in restaurants with tedious frequency.

“Chantal.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was welcome.”

“Come in out of the wind.”

“It was such a shock about Robert. You must have had to drop things to come back. We probably could have handled things for you, here.”

He took both her hands. “Your friends have missed you,” he said. “Come in.”

Others who had known Bob, either booksellers or librarians or members of one English Department or another, were putting in an appearance now, some of them puffing from the steep walk up the hill from the memorial service. There was genuine warmth in the welcomes for Chantal, the circumstances of whose absence had generated much speculation. Serafina, she of the green eyes and the long black fur, seemed particularly anxious to renew Chantal’s acquaintance, though the cat’s nervousness increased as more and more people arrived, till finally she scampered for the sanctuary of the back stairs.

Books On Benefit occupied the street level of a late 19th century brick structure in the Second Empire style, which is to say it was a big block of a multi-colored thing with gables and bay windows and fairly ornate trim. Since the structure was built into the western side of College Hill, said hill dropping away steeply behind the house toward the modern downtown to the west, it appeared from the eastern or “street” entrance to be your standard old three-story house. A relatively small sign, illuminated by a couple of small white spotlights in the evening hours or on a rainy day, announced

B
OOKS ON
B
ENEFIT
F
INE
& C
OLLECTIBLE
B
OOKS
B
OUGHT
& S
OLD

But from the steeply ascending side street up which Matthew’s late afternoon visitors were now puffing their way, the house clearly had two more “basement” stories with partial western exposures below. It was a mostly residential neighborhood, so parking was along the streets, except for two precariously perched spaces nestled around the windows that peeked out from the building’s second basement, reachable from the side street if you knew they were there.

At the front of the house, facing historic Benefit Street with its Federalist and Greek revival captains’ houses, there were manicured rectangles of neatly trimmed grass to either side of the front walk. In a larger, fenced side yard, well shielded from the street and shaded by several trees, one an ancient maple, grew a plethora of tall plants popular during the warmer months with butterflies and hummingbirds, including hollyhocks, foxglove, and giant poppies, though most were only beginning to bud, this early in the year.