Читать книгу The Beastly Island Murder - Carol W. Hazelwood - Страница 9

Despite the drizzle the following day, Jennifer took Lydia for an early walk in the woods behind the house. Afterward, she showered and had a quick breakfast of a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of black coffee. A damp Lydia jumped into the rear seat of the jeep for the short ride to the store. Jennifer parked and hurried inside to be greeted by the mischievous cats. While Lydia made a halfhearted attempt to chase Crabapple and Maxie, Jennifer wrote a note for Emma Mae.

I fed Lydia an extra ration this morning, so she should be good until I return. I hope to get back before dark. Jennifer taped the note to the fridge, knowing Emma Mae’s first task was to give the cats their breakfast. Lydia settled onto her pad in the office with the cats sitting on the bookcase above her, ready to bedevil Lydia. “Don’t be mean,” Jennifer said to the cats, who ignored her. “Sorry, Lydia. You’ll have to fend them off without my help.” With those parting words, Jennifer rushed out the back door, locking it behind her

Due to slow traffic on the slick roads, the drive to the Wedgeworth’s took longer than she’d expected. To pass the time, she turned on the radio, heard nothing but bad news, and flicked it off in disgust. The weather was depressing enough without adding the world’s problems to her mindset. The rain increased and the distant thunderheads hid the pristine beauty of Mount Rainier. When she turned off the main highway, the road wound deeper into the forest. After following the curvy road for twenty minutes, the estate, tucked into the hills, appeared.

At the private gate, she stopped and pressed the intercom button located in the mouth of a large bronze statue of a lion at the side of the entrance. After a few moments, a deep voice said, “Wedgeworth estate.”

“I’m Jennifer Frost. I’m expected.”

“Park under the porte-cochere and ring the door bell,” the disembodied voice said.

The wrought-iron gate swung open and she drove up the long drive. Nearing the house, she passed a copse of spruce before coming to an expanse of manicured emerald-green lawn. “Home” was not a word Jennifer would have used for the French-style stone mansion with its gables and arched stained-glass windows below the mansard roof.

She’d researched the seventy-year-old Clifford Wedgeworth and learned that his money had come from the logging industry. Although now the wealthy owner and president of his own lumber company, he had worked as a mill hand. He’d recently married a young woman in her mid forties, dubbed a trophy wife by the local tabloids.

Jennifer parked her car as directed, picked up her laptop, briefcase, purse, and walked up the slate stone steps to the door. When she pressed the doorbell, deep-toned chimes resounded from inside. She shivered from the damp chill despite her wool pantsuit, turtleneck sweater and stylish boots lined with faux fur.

A heavy-set man opened the door. “Mrs. Wedgeworth told me to expect you today, Miss Frost. Please, come in.” Wisps of white hair protruded from under a beret placed at a jaunty angle on his head. His brown cords and well-worn leather jacket over a plaid wool shirt were not what she’d expected from an estate manager of the well-heeled.

As they stood in the dimly lit hall, he introduced himself. “I’m Harold McBain, the groundskeeper.”

“Oh, I expected a Mr. Peabody to meet me,” she said.

“Mr. Wedgeworth’s secretary is on vacation. However, Mrs. Wedgeworth gave me detailed instructions concerning your visit.”

The temperature was only slightly warmer inside, and she drew her jacket closer about her.

With a hint of a smile playing on his lips, Harold said, “It’s chilly inside, but Mr. Wedgeworth wants to conserve energy when he’s away. Please follow me.”

The large tapestries hanging on the walls did little to muffle the echo of their footsteps as they crossed the pink terrazzo floor. He walked with a slight limp, and Jennifer wondered how he managed the expanse of grounds at his age. Of course, he most likely had help. She gaped at the paintings and the French provincial furniture in the expansive sunken living room. Skylights, high in the domed ceiling, brightened the room despite the cloudy day.

Harold stopped in front of a door and turned to her. “Mr. Wedgeworth keeps this room secured. He’s very particular and insists the humidity be at fifty percent and the temperature at sixty-five degrees. I’ll lock the door behind me, but there’s an intercom on the desk, and you can contact me when you wish to leave.” His gnarled hands fumbled with the key he inserted in the lock. When he swung open the door, the lights came on automatically.

She took three steps and stopped, stunned by the floor to ceiling bookcases wrapping the room. Two large tan leather chairs sat on a cream-colored rug, laid on top of dark red Brazilian wood floors. The massive scale of the ornately carved mahogany desk, as well as a table with an old world globe, lent an aura of rich antiquity.

My God, all these books couldn’t be part of his collection. She turned to Harold. “He wrote there were twenty-three books to be appraised.”

Harold pointed to the desk. “Perhaps those will answer your question.”

She walked over and put her laptop, briefcase and purse on a chair upholstered in a jade color. A key, thin white gloves, a sealed letter and a note were on the desk. She picked up the note. In flowing script, it read:“The books in question are in the locked glass case behind the desk. When you’re finished, give the key to Harold. Per our agreement, deliver your report to the post office box and your payment in cash will be delivered to your house. C.W.”

Harold remained standing by the entrance; his brown eyes curious and alert. Jennifer turned around and studied the bookcase, then reached for the ivory letter opener and slit the sealed envelope. This message was typed on Wedgeworth’s letterhead. “My books are sorted according to their acquisition date; do not change their order. Wear gloves. Harold will check your belongings when you leave. Clifford Wedgeworth.”

Odd that he left two separate notes in such different styles, she thought.

“How long will you be, Miss?” Harold asked.

Jennifer looked at her watch. “I’m hoping to get all the information transcribed today so I won’t have to return, but I’m not sure how long it will take.”

“You can call me,” he nodded toward the intercom. “There’s a bathroom off to your right. Mrs. Wedgeworth suggested you might like hot tea or coffee now and some refreshments later.”

“Tea would be lovely. Black, unless you have lemon.”

He nodded and walked out, shutting the doors behind him.

The unnerving sound of the lock click made her think of the character imprisoned in a room for years with access only to books in Anton Chekov’s, The Bet. She shivered and it wasn’t just from the cold. There were no windows. Despite having the world of literature at her fingertips, the room felt claustrophobic.

Before investigating the designated bookcase, she wandered around and marveled at the various tomes. Most were leather bound collections of authors like Dumas, Whittier, Burroughs and Emerson, but she doubted if they were first editions. These seemed to be decorator books meant to impress. Yet there were other titles that intrigued her. One section had post World War II books: On The Road by Jack Kerouac, Hangman’s Holiday by Judith Sayer, Imaginary Letters by Ezra Pound. If these were in fine to very fine condition, they were worth a great deal. She remembered an alert from the Antiquarian Booksellers Association that a copy of On The Road had been stolen.

Intrigued, she donned the white gloves before pulling out the book even though she realized she wouldn’t be able to identify it as the stolen copy. It was a first edition and perhaps valued in the thousands in today’s market. She wondered if Wedgeworth ever sold some of his books or merely collected them, or was he one of the few who believed by collecting books he was saving knowledge for future generations? From what she knew about him, money was not an issue. He was a collector, not a dealer. She returned the book to the shelf.

Pacing on farther, she noted a book by Flaubert from a collection titled A Century of French Romance with fine leather, well-dressed and supple. Either Wedgeworth, or his secretary, probably used British Museum Leather Dressing to maintain their condition, an unpleasant, but necessary chore.

The room held an astounding array of literature, probably worth millions. He definitely had catholic taste. Many collectors specialized in one area, but Wedgeworth’s ran the gamut of children, art, and history from various centuries.

Surely, he must have had all his books appraised for insurance purposes. If so, why hadn’t he had this other collection appraised until now? Were they new additions or did their value need updating? As her gloved hand stroked several of the leather bindings, something caught her eye.

Above the entry door, an oil painting of a mournful clown gave her a jolt. It elicited feelings of nostalgic sorrow with its tilted head, down-turned mouth, and a teardrop on one cheek. It was out of place among the antique tomes and classical writings. Clifford Wedgeworth was obviously a man of many interests and most likely a complex individual.

Refocusing her attention on the books, she noted two insets with locked glass doors. She peered into one and gasped. They were incunabula books, written before 1501. She had no expertise in the field, but figured them to be priceless. One was an early bible she had never seen, but the other caused her to stand transfixed. The American Bible, known as the “Natick Bible,” had been put up for sale and obviously Wedgeworth had bought it. Printed in 1663 it was an Indian Language translation. She couldn’t even estimate its worth in today’s market.

Her stomach fluttered. What would she find in the bookcase she was to appraise? She circled the desk, admiring the carvings on its side panels and removed the gloves. As she laid her things out on the desk, the entrance door lock clicked and Harold entered carrying a small tray with a tea pot under a cozy and a china cup and saucer.

“The lack of humidity makes it feel colder,” he said, nodding at how she was rubbing her hands together. He was about to set the tray on the desk, but she stopped him.

“Please, no. I’ll be working here. Set it over there.” She pointed across the room and smiled at his perplexed look. “It’s safer in case of a spill.”

“I usually have nothing to do with this room,” he said and followed her directive. I’m unfamiliar with the proper etiquette.” As he set the tray down, a clap of thunder resounded through the house. “Thunder and lightning were forecast, but the storm’s moving off to the east. It should let up by late afternoon.” He smiled as he exited the room, locking the door behind him. He had a gentleman’s demeanor which seemed at odds with his position as groundskeeper.

She poured a small amount of tea into the china cup and held it in both hands to savor the warmth before she took a sip. Setting the cup down, she walked over and unlocked the glass doors to the bookcase. After donning the white gloves, she began her work, starting at the top row to keep them in the order of Wedgeworth’s acquisition dates. With meticulous care, she removed the first book, The Blackboard Jungle by Evan Hunter. She placed it on the desk, careful not to crack its spine back too far.

Inspecting the copyright page to see if it was a first edition was more difficult than people thought. Different publishers used different numbering systems and stating that the book was a first edition didn’t make it true. In this case Simon & Schuster had printed it as a first with a date of 1954. She checked the numbering system to be sure. Publishers used a set of numbers 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 and the lowest number in the series dictated whether it was a first edition. In this case the number 1 was present and that helped verify the edition as a first. She transcribed the data into her computer before perusing the book to determine its condition. Checking for foxing or spots showing water damage or age was her first priority. It was a hardback with a pristine dust jacket, which upped its value. When she was finished inspecting it, she typed in VF to F next to the title, meaning the book was in very fine or fine condition. There was no crumpling at the head of the spine, no sign of binding repair; the jacket price had not been clipped off, but it had no other defects that she could determine.

Returning the book to the shelf she continued the same process with each book. Most were in fine condition although two had to be listed as VG, meaning very good. In one the previous owner had signed the back end paper and the other had a small spot in the center page, probably from an insect stuck between the pages. That could be repaired. The hours ticked by and she stopped occasionally to stretch and walk around.

She was transcribing data from Life of George Washington by John Corry published in London in 1800, when she heard the lock turn, but continued to log into her computer the long title: Late President and Commander in chief of the Armies of the United States of America – Interspersed with Biographical Anecdotes of the most Eminent Men who effected the American Revolution. By the time she’d finished, Harold had put a tray on the table with another pot of tea and a plate of round cheese biscuits with nuts on top.

She looked up, noticed the time on the wall clock, and said, “You came at a good time. I was getting hungry.” She leaned back and took off the gloves.

“These biscuits are Mr. Wedgeworth’s favorites. They’re rather spicy. I’m afraid there isn’t much else to eat.” He took away the pot of cold tea and replaced it with the hot one. Steam drifted from its spout.

“I only have nine books to go, so it shouldn’t be much longer. Do I just hit this button?” She pointed to the one that said intercom, “or pick up the phone?”

“Push the button and I’ll respond. The rain’s letting up, so your drive home should be pleasant.”

“Glad of that.” She watched him leave, then poured a fresh cup of tea and picked up one of the biscuits. As she bit into it, her eyes watered at the sharp tang of the cayenne-laced cheddar. Clifford Wedgeworth’s taste in food was as sharp as his eye for collectable books. Warmed by the hot tea and the spicy food, she returned to her work.

Once again she donned the gloves and studied the book she’d been working on. The cover was new, as it had been rebound. That plus the discoloration and tattered pages devalued its worth. Still, it was a handsome little piece and could bring a good price to the right buyer. She returned the book to its proper place and took out the next one. Swiveling around in the chair to face the desk, she laid the book next to her laptop, then stared at the cover.

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler! Carla’s book?

Her fingers trembled as she opened the cover. Holding her breath, she turned the page—a first edition published by Alfred A Knopf 1939 with the author’s signature. Of course there were many copies, but how many autographed first editions? She squinted as if to bring the book into focus and stroked the signature. Was it authentic?

From research she’d done on Chandler, she knew that if the book was in near fine or fine condition it could bring over eighteen thousand. That wasn’t enough to kill for, was it? Jennifer knew there were many book collectors who stole books, but had never heard of anyone committing murder to obtain one.

Alex had notified the American Antiquarian Bookseller’s Association that the book was missing and they in turn made book collectors aware if it turned up for sale. Jennifer had no information about any copies of The Big Sleep up for sale in the past two years. Some collectors never sold their rare books, but kept them for the pleasure of owning them.

Her gloved fingers hovered over the title page. Could this be Carla’s copy? If so, could she prove it? Carla’s had come from the Helen Jacobi estate that had donated books to the Friends of the Library. Inspecting the dust cover, she found the initials H. J. clearly written in script on the flyleaf.

“My God. This has to be it. I found it!” Her words bounced off the walls. The initials would devalue the book, but she didn’t care. This book was gold to her. Without thinking, she picked up the book and held it to her chest.

How had Wedgeworth acquired it? From whom? When? Questions rolled through her mind. If she knew how to contact him, she’d call him this minute. Her shoulders slumped. She’d have to wait till he returned. She’d waited two years. Two weeks longer shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Slowly she placed the book back on the desk. Her stomach churned. Carla had held this book, valued it, and it had been wrenched from her dead body. Jennifer’s heart swelled. She stood and paced around the room unable to contain her feelings and her excitement. Now what? What was so important about this book that someone would kill for it? It’s worth alone could not explain murder.

Sitting again at the desk, she caressed the cover. She thought a moment, before removing a soft bristled brush from her briefcase and placed a colored sheet of paper under the book. Anything dislodged would fall onto the paper. With meticulous care, she began to scrutinize every page and brushed the crease near the binding. Three quarters of the way through, her effort yielded a few grains of sand. She closed her eyes and exhaled, then continued page by page. There was a smudge at the bottom of one page—a blood stain? Only a special light could determine that. The stain would devalue the book, but her sole concern was finding anything that would solidify the identify of this book as Carla’s.

She continued her meticulous search through to the back cover. At first she thought pen scratches had marred the end page. She brought the desk lamp closer. The markings were faint black letters scrawled backward at an angle. Through her magnifying glass, she studied the smeared ink. The spacing was odd; the script difficult to read. The handwritten entries seemed to be notations on the margins of a piece of paper that had been wedged between the pages. More letters in block print were in the center of the page. These must have been smears from an old typewriter. The carbon from the ribbon allowed some words and letters to leach onto the book’s paper. Due to the transfer, all these read backward.

There were a few legible words and in other places there were only imprints of letters with spaces in between. She remained hunched over the book, scrutinizing every line. At the bottom of the page there was an incomplete signature. She took out a mirror and placed it at an angle to the writing, puzzling over it. When she at last made out the signature, her hand flew to her mouth. A. Einstein. “My God, could it be? Albert Einstein.”

She leaned back and gave a triumphant smile, and almost yelled, “Yes!”

Her heart pounded. Awed by her discovery, she squinted over the page again with the magnifying glass. On a separate sheet of paper, she wrote the words she could decipher: “Lotti … Presi … en … S … ilar … ucl … ar … chai ... r … sorr … writ … future … respo … confe … A … Einstein.”

For a time, she sat frowning at this new mystery. A letter or a document must have been set between an end page and the back cover. Was this the actual signature of Albert Einstein? Who was Lotti? What did S … ilar mean? Or any of the rest of it for that matter? She folded her notes and put them in her wallet.

If there’d been a letter or a document of Einstein’s in the book, then his words could have been worth a great deal. Enough to kill for? What did the paper with Einstein’s signature say and where was it now? Had Carla known about it? Surely, she would have said something if she had.

Alex said he’d gotten a look at the book and the author’s signature. Had he seen more than that? Had he known about an inserted document? Had he taken it? Impossible. Carla had stood next to Alex, and knowing her, she never would have allowed him to remove anything.

After Carla had acquired the book, she’d acted aloof, even mysterious. The family had shrugged, believing Carla was in one of her moods, something that seemed to occur every time she became involved with another man.

Now that Jennifer had at last found the book, continuing her task with the remaining books became a grinding task. Her thoughts roamed. Her head ached. She picked up the letter Wedgeworth had left for her and reread it. “My books have been sorted by their acquisition date.”

If she could find out the dates of the book in front of The Big Sleep and the one behind it, she’d have an approximate date of when he’d acquired it. She turned back to the shelf. A 1925 signed edition of Goethe’s Faust came before Chandler’s book and it was followed by an edition of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hounds of the Baskerville. She noted the order on a sheet of paper. She guessed from the conditions of both that Doyle’s book was probably worth more than Goethe’s Faust in the present market.

Wedgeworth must have a ledger with the data about his acquisitions. She slid the chair back and pulled out the top desk drawer finding the usual office pens, notepads and other paraphernalia. She closed it and tried the other drawers—locked. She sighed. It galled her that she’d have to wait until she could speak to Wedgeworth to find out more information.

Trying to set aside her emotions over her find, she returned to the mundane task of cataloguing the remaining books. She had set aside Chandler’s book and was loathe to return it to the shelf, yet she had no choice. The desire to take it was overwhelming, but her things were going to be searched when she left. Maybe she’d be able to come back. She pushed the intercom button and told Harold she was ready to leave.

“I’ll be right there,” he said. True to his word he came after a few minutes. As he inspected her things and took back the key to the bookcase, she said. “I might have to return for additional information. Shall I call the house number?”

“No, you’ll have to call me at my cottage. It’s located on the estate.” He wrote the number on a card and handed it to her. “I’ll have to get authorization to allow you to return. I’m sorry for all the security, but those are Mr. Wedgeworth’s orders.”

He escorted her down the long hall and waited in the doorway as she got into her car. The rain had abated as Harold had predicted, but heavy clouds blotted out the moon. Her headlights stabbed through the blackness as she drove down the private drive. The gate swung open and she left the estate behind. She turned the heat on high and concentrated on the winding road. After she was on the main highway to Brandon, her thoughts turned toward the Einstein signature.

“I know I’m onto something,” she said. “But what?”

She itched to get started on researching Einstein to find out what would connect him to a book owned by Helen Jacobi. She’d already researched Helen Jacobi, knowing that’s who donated Carla’s book to the library and had found nothing of import. She’d review her notes and inquire anew.

She blinked at oncoming headlights and realized she’d been driving in a trance-like state. She sat up straighter, opened the side window and concentrated on the road. But her thoughts continued to swirl back to the strange afternoon she’d spent at the Wedgeworth house. He must have had the rest of his collection catalogued and appraised for insurance purposes. Those in the small case were recent acquisitions. She thought of the clown painting juxtaposed against the antique setting. What kind of a man was he? More important—when had he purchased this book and from whom? Had he gotten it by some nefarious means?

When she returned to Brandon, she drove into the alley behind Books & Tea and parked. Emma Mae had already closed up, leaving the back room light on. Lydia’s bark welcomed her arrival and the cats circled Jennifer, rubbing up against her legs. Although they were used to being left alone at night, they liked company during their night forays through the store. When Jennifer snapped on Lydia’s leash, the cats skulked off. Their long-suffering playmate was being taken away.

Upon returning home, despite the late hour, she changed clothes and jogged with Lydia at her heels through the dimly lit streets. The exercise calmed her and she returned with a fresh outlook. She took a hot shower then poured herself a glass of merlot and nibbled on crackers spread with hummus. Excitement dulled her appetite. As Lydia lay by the front door, she put her massive head between her paws and eyed her mistress.

“Different routine tonight,” Jennifer told her dog. Bundled in a flannel robe and wool socks, she made a list of possible leads on a yellow pad, then went to her desk and turned on her computer.

On the Internet, she searched for Einstein on Sotheby’s web site, thinking a book or papers might have recently come up for auction. Nothing. She googled the name Jacobi and found several. Just as she’d found earlier there was no data on a Helen Jacobi. But she found a Lotti Jacobi, 1896 to 1990, well-known photographer, born in Berlin immigrated to the United States in 1930. She was famous for her casual photos of Robert Frost, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Albert Einstein.

Jennifer leaned back and rubbed her hands together. If Helen Jacobi was related to Lotti Jacobi, a realistic probability, then the impressions left in the book from some documents may have related to Einstein. If so, who had taken it and what did it say? And how much was it worth?

“Carla, I’m getting closer,” she said to the quiet room.