“Mr. Beale?”
“Good morning, Morgan.”
“Good morning, sir.” His red hair was really too bright to be growing in a place so hidden from the sun. “I have an answer back from the person on eBay selling the Odyssey.”
“Yes, the hypothetical autographed first edition. What does he say?”
“He is moving and getting rid of stuff, and it was in a box.”
“So he found Attica in his attic. Does he know where the box came from?”
“It was his grandfather’s, who got it from an aunt in England as a present in the nineteen twenties, and she bought it for him at a bookstore.”
“That’s more than we usually get.”
“There’s a handwritten inscription to his grandfather inside the cover.”
“Oh. Oh, dear. That’s too bad. What about the title page?”
“Here’s a picture he took of it.”
Charles put his nose right up to the screen. “Hmm.”
“Does that tell you anything?”
“It’s not a proper title page.”
“What is it?” Morgan asked.
Charles shrugged. “Some kind of half title page. It does have the title: Homer’s Odyssey; Translated by Alexander Pope. But there’s no publisher or city or date. Why does he say it’s a first edition?”
“ ‘I believe it is a first edition because it is so old, and because the author signed it.’ End quote.”
“Of course.”
“This picture is the inside front cover, with the inscription to his grandfather and the author signature.”
“That?” A very faded smudge crawled along the top of the paper.
“I can make out sort of an A and sort of a P,” Morgan said.
“I’m sure the book is nineteenth century, so Pope would have been dead a hundred years or so.”
“Maybe that’s why his signature is so shaky.”
“Mine would be, too. Well, obviously it’s not a first edition of anything. It’s some other printing. Get the picture of the cover again.”
Morgan quickly did so.
“But it’s still interesting,” Charles said. “I haven’t seen anything just like that. It looks like very nice leather. How much longer on the auction?”
“Four and a half days. Until Monday afternoon.”
“And where is the bidding?”
“Four hundred.”
“Yes. The dealers all know it’s not specifically valuable, and they’re waiting.”
“What is it worth if it isn’t specifically valuable?”
“Three or four hundred, up to maybe fifteen if it’s sort of specific. But it all depends. I’d have to actually see the book.”
“You could fly to Denver. He wouldn’t mail it here while it’s under auction.”
Charles stared at the book on the screen. “Morgan, I’m on an odyssey of my own at the moment. So I think I’ll take a chance.”
“Yes, sir. How much of a chance?”
“Fifteen hundred. I’m young and idealistic. Or foolish, I don’t remember which. Make it two thousand.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles watched the fingers flit. “It all still amazes me.”
“I could show you how to do this.”
“I know my limitations, Morgan.”
“It isn’t hard, sir.”
“I mean that I’m already not very disciplined. If I were to start poking around eBay and all those other places, I would never escape. I’ll just use my computer for email and leave the rest to you.”
He slid around the corner to the main office. “Is Angelo’s next probation meeting this Monday or the next Monday?”
Dorothy looked at her calendar. “A week from this Monday.”
“I would like for him to learn better manners in dealing with people.”
“I don’t think we could have him wait on customers.”
“No. I’ll have to think about it.”
The morning had progressed. Charles strolled down the stairs and wandered over to the front window to inspect a newly empty space on the shelf beside it. Outside the window a man on the sidewalk was inspecting the front of the building.
A brown tweed jacket draped the man’s broad shoulders, and a fedora shaded his strong jaw and heavy forehead. He straightened his tie and strode up the steps.
The door opened. Charles still had his eye on the vacancy.
“Good morning,” the man said, coming to a stop at the counter.
“Good morning,” Alice said, accommodating as a traffic light turning green.
The conversation slowly accelerated. “Nice place you got here.”
“Thank you, sir. May I help you with anything?”
“I’m actually looking for the owner.”
Charles turned and merged in. “That would be me.”
Blue eyes beneath the hat brim smiled. “Then that would make you Charles Beale. I’m Frank Kelly. How do you do, Mr. Beale?”
“I’m quite well, thank you, Mr. Kelly.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m… um…” The blue eyes had focused on the wall behind Charles. “Well look at that!” He leaned closer to the shelves, and Charles moved aside. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Mr. Kelly stared at the books, his eyes darting side to side, up and down. Then he gingerly put his hand to one and slid it out.
Charles waited attentively. Mr. Kelly’s square jaw slipped slowly ajar; his broad forehead wrinkled.
“This is real Raymond Chandler?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Golly. First edition?”
“That one is.”
“Well, get a load of that.” He turned his intense blue stare back to Charles, and then to the shelves. “Are all of these-?”
“Not all first editions.”
“Okay.” He replaced the Chandler and pulled out a Ross Mac-Donald. “You know, I’ve seen these on the Internet. But I never really looked at one.”
“Are you familiar with antique books, Mr. Kelly?”
“Oh, sure. All kinds of antiques.” He shook his head wistfully as he put the book back. “It’s my job. Say, you got a place where we could talk?”
“What about?”
“Well…” Mr. Kelly glanced around the room. Only Alice was with them, crisply. “It’s business.”
“Please, come with me.”
Charles led him upstairs to the office.
“Mr. Kelly, this is my wife. Dorothy, this is Mr. Frank Kelly.”
Their guest doffed his hat and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Dorothy said. Bravely, she put her graceful hand into his.
“Great.” He held it for a minute, scrutinizing her, especially studying her face and hair. Then he released her hand without any damage.
“I guess I can talk with you both?”
“You might as well,” Charles said.
“Then here goes.” Faster than sight, he had a thin leather case in his hand. “I’m from the FBI,” he said, flicking the case open to show his badge.
“How interesting!” Charles said.
“Man, is it!” Mr. Kelly grinned. “You wouldn’t believe what comes up in this job.”
“I couldn’t even guess.”
“It gets pretty strange sometimes.” He shook his head. “But this isn’t.
I’ve got you on a list of dealers that Derek Bastien bought from.”
“I see. Yes, Derek bought a number of books from me.”
“That’s it. I’m with the Artifacts and Antiquities division and I’m checking up on the stuff that got stolen from Bastien’s house.”
Charles frowned. “The FBI?”
“You see, we’ve got likely interstate commerce in stolen goods, plus those being antique objects. D.C. police reported it to us so I’ve got to ask around and fill in a report.” He shrugged. “It’s just my job.”
“I only deal in books, Mr. Kelly. I wouldn’t know much about any of the items that were stolen.”
“Sure. Can I ask you some questions anyway?”
“Of course.”
“Were you ever in his house?”
“Yes. A number of times.”
“Did you talk about the things he owned? His collection.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“That’s what I want to know about.” Suddenly, Mr. Kelly realized he still had his hat on. He snatched it off, and nodded to Dorothy. “Sorry about that.”
She smiled.
“Did you ever get the feeling someone was after any of his stuff?”
“Well… no,” Charles said. “Not at all.”
“Because we got a break-in where the intruder snags a French baroque ivory dolphin, a colonial pewter candlestick and matching snuffer, an 1856 Italian mother-of-pearl dueling pistol, non-operational, et cetera, et cetera. It’s stuff that’s not easy to pawn, so the guy must either have a channel or a customer, see?”
“I don’t quite. Do you, dear?”
She smiled. “I’m afraid not.”
Frank Kelly provided light. “Either he has somebody he can fence that kind of stuff to, or he already has a customer who really wants a pewter candlestick. With a snuffer.”
“He stole the porpoise on purpose, you mean,” Charles said. “That sounds unlikely.”
“Yeah. Except there’s a difference between a dolphin and a porpoise. A porpoise in the French Baroque is for Greek myths, and a dolphin is a symbol for the French crown prince.” Mr. Kelly sneezed. “Sorry. Dust. You’d figure, you spend all your time with antiques, you should be used to dust. Anyway, it’s obvious the guy has a channel. There were four other break-ins in the neighborhood in three weeks. A rash. Most all antiques. So he has a channel. I mean, what do you do with a Limoges vase?” He had turned back to Dorothy.
“Put flowers in it,” she said.
“You could,” he said, nodding. “Or peppermints. But you don’t sell it to Mario the Fence in the back of the Italian restaurant like you do if it was jewelry or an iPod.”
“How do you sell it?” Charles asked.
“There’s ways. Fifty-fifty chance something’ll turn up on eBay in a month or two. I’ve put the list in the database, and if anything shows up, we’ll know right away.”
“Surely the burglar would be smarter than that?”
“You’d think, right? But no. You’d be surprised how stupid some of these guys are. We get the piece, we get some fingerprints or DNA off it, and then we get him.”
“I suppose you’d know.”
“Yeah, break-ins like this, they happen all the time. Except how it went wrong with Bastien.”
“Very wrong.” Charles looked away from Mr. Kelly, and the room. The street was bright with light and life. Green leaves, breezes, people. “What about Derek himself? Are you investigating his death?”
“No. That’s D.C. police. But, sure, if we find the burglar, they want him, too.”
“How can I help you?” Charles asked. “I don’t see how I can.”
“Two ways. You deal in antiques, even if it isn’t the right kind, so if you hear anything, let me know. And you knew the victim, so if you think of anything from that angle, let me know. Anything. Then I just follow the leads, it’s my job. Anything you can think of now? Anything strange?”
“What about the desk?”
Mr. Kelly frowned. “That hundred-grand bidding war? Yeah, I don’t know what that was about.”
“You know about the bidding?”
“Sure, I was at the auction. Just keeping my eyes open. But I don’t think the desk has anything to do with the break-in. You know, how could it? Somebody knew something special about the desk. The burglaries were all just smash and grabs. What, you know something about the guy who bought it?”
“No. The man who lost the bidding called me to try to find who won.”
“If it really is to do with the burglaries, I can find out who bought the desk,” Mr. Kelly said. “Who called you?”
“Edmund Cane. He is with Horton’s on Fortieth in New York.”
“Why’d he call you?”
“Apparently, just because I was there.”
“Yeah. He’s just following leads. I know all about it, that’s my life. But that desk.” He nodded, thinking. “That’s a good point. I really don’t think it has anything to do with the break-in, but I suppose it is kind of interesting. I might follow that. So you don’t know anything about it?”
“Not the buyer. I know about the desk.”
“I guess it was antique, right?”
“The desk was 1875; it was owned by President Taft’s father.”
“Right… and probably hard for a burglar to throw into his bag and run off with. But somebody did want it.” He shrugged. “But you don’t know why.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay. It’s a lead.”
“Who else have you talked to?” Charles asked. “Or may I ask?”
“Sure, I’ll tell you. I talked to dealers I know, to tell them to be on the watch for the stuff. I talked to a couple lowlifes that let me know things sometimes. I talked to the neighbors who had break-ins so they’d feel like someone cared, and his wife, too, so she’d feel like someone cared. None of that means anything; it’s just for their feelings. It’ll all come up on the Internet if it comes up anywhere. That’s what’ll actually mean anything. Or maybe we find the stuff somewhere, or else maybe we’ll never see any of it again.”
“You spoke with Derek’s wife?”
“Lucy Bastien. I figured she’d like to know that someone cares, but she doesn’t care. She could care less.”
“I never met her.”
“She’s there in the house. Anyway, here’s my card. Call my cell phone if you do think of anything.”
“I certainly will.”
“Anyway-thank you. Ma’am.” He lifted his hand to tip his hat and it wasn’t there. He grabbed it off his lap where he’d set it. Then he stopped, and looked at her again. “Do you mind if I ask? That’s a real nice silver in your hair. It’s natural, isn’t it?”
“I don’t color it,” Dorothy said, somewhere between indignant and flattered.
“You see, I have this theory,” Mr. Kelly said. “About that shade of silver. Not just any gray, but that real bright silver, I’ve seen that passed down mother to daughter. It’s like blue eyes. Did your mother have that same silver hair? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Charles coughed.
Dorothy smiled, thinly.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Kelly said. “You do mind. I shouldn’t ask personal questions.”
“I never met my mother,” Dorothy said.
“Oh. Okay, I’m sorry. Never mind, shouldn’t have asked. Anyway, I’ll find my way out.”
“I’m going down,” Charles said. He held open the office door and followed the broad shoulders down the stairs, and he and Alice received one more tip of the hat as the front door closed.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Dorothy said as Charles returned to his desk.
“Notice what?”
“You didn’t tell him what you found in the John Locke.”
“He didn’t ask.”
“Charles, that’s ridiculous. All right, what if he had asked?”
“I don’t answer rhetorical questions. And, I doubt the papers have anything to do with his burglaries.”
“They have to do with something. I think you’re making a mistake.”
“I’m trying not to make a mistake. And I couldn’t help but notice,” Charles said.
“Notice what?”
“How he noticed you.”
“Oh… well…” Dorothy’s cheeks blushed a delicate pink.
“Anyone would, of course. It’s quite understandable.”
“Don’t be silly, Charles.”
“When I am with you, it is everything else that seems silly. But I will try to attend to prosaic life.”
Dorothy already had. “And what will that be?”
“I think I know another doorknob to try my key in.” He found his telephone book.
“Who are you pestering now?”
“The wind is blowing toward Lucy Bastien.”
“You should not pester her, Charles.”
“I don’t believe I will be. Apparently, she could care less.”
“You know I have never liked that expression,” Dorothy said.
“You know that I haven’t either. Why is it supposed to mean the exact opposite of what it means?” He pushed buttons.
“It is a symptom of the hopeless state of our nation.”
“Exactly.” He waited as the telephone rang.
“Lucy,” a voice said.
“Charles,” he said.
“Charles?” The voice sounded puzzled, but amused. “What do you want?”
“To come see you.”
“You do? Why?”
“I thought it would be interesting.”
That was enough. “It sounds like it might be. Who are you, anyway?”
“Charles Beale. I knew Derek Bastien.”
“Then maybe I’m not interested. I’m not going to buy anything. What do you sell?”
“Books. Antique books.”
“Right. I hate antiques, and I don’t like books either.”
“I paid you twenty-seven thousand dollars for thirteen antique books last Monday. Isn’t that worth letting me in?”
“Maybe. Okay, come on, I don’t care.”
“Thank you. Would this morning be all right?”
“Anytime you want. If I’m here, I’ll answer the door.”
“Thank you. Very much.”
Charles looked at Dorothy.
“Just go,” she said. “I will not discuss it.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Except that I can’t believe you would say such things on the telephone to someone you’ve never met. Angelo isn’t the one who needs to learn manners.”
“Yes, dear.”
Charles stood for a moment at the weighty oak door. There would be no chess game this time.
He rang the bell. The door opened.
There was no granite foyer table. No oval mirror on the wall above it.
He smiled. “Hello. I’m Charles Beale.”
“Come in. I’m Lucy.”
The foyer walls weren’t gray-green. They were light yellowish tan.
“Thank you.”
The floor wasn’t white and black marble. It was bleached pine. It was the only wood in sight. There was no mahogany, no cherry, maple or even oak; there was no Chippendale, no Hitchcock or Windsor; there was no inlay or carving; no pediments, corbels, medallions, ball and claw, egg and dart, or any molding; the rococo trace work was gone; there was no dark blue or burgundy or umber or ebony; no silk, velvet, leather, tapestry; no statuary, nothing framed, no crystal-the list of what there was not was too long.
“Make yourself at home,” she said.
Rattan. Everything. Yellow and white. The House of Bastien had become a Florida beach rental.
A poster of a palm tree hung where the mirror had been.
“I will.”
He followed her into the front room and sat with a scrunch on the yellow cushion of a whitewashed wicker chair.
“Lemonade?”
“No, thank you.”
Lucy perched on her own chair. “It looks like you’ve been here before.”
“Yes.” He forced his eyes back toward her. “A few times. It’s quite different.”
“That’s what I wanted.” She was not tall or thin. She was wrapped in beige and her long, dark, rough, graying brown hair was tied with a yellow ribbon.
“It’s very light,” he said.
“Finally. I can finally breathe.” She took a deep breath to prove it. “You sold him books?”
“Antique books.”
“Everything was antique around here. Fourteen books for twenty-seven grand?”
“Thirteen.”
“I looked at the list. It said fourteen.”
“The list?”
“He kept a list of everything he owned. He kept lists on everything. It had fourteen old books on it.”
“I only bought thirteen. I’ll need to check my computer.”
“Whatever. Did you come here often?”
“Ten or twelve times over the years. I’m surprised I’ve never met you.”
“Nobody’s met me. I saw precious little of Derek, let alone his precious friends.”
“I’m sorry I never had the pleasure.”
“Blame Derek. That’s what I do.”
Charles took in his own breath, and nodded, and made a show of looking again around the bright room. “Well, then, thank you for letting me meet you now. I really didn’t have a specific reason to come, even. I think I just wanted to see what you were like.”
“Just like this. This is what Derek’s wife looks like in her natural state. Released from captivity and readjusting to the wild.”
“I’m sure it must be an adjustment.”
“I’ve done it before. It’s not hard.”
“Done it before?”
“Derek wasn’t the first husband I’ve buried. He was number two, not that he tried any harder.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“It doesn’t matter. I married for love the first time, and money the second. What’s left?”
“I’m still on love,” Charles said.
“Marrying for money gives you a lot more time to watch television. The shopping’s better, too.” There was a sigh in her cynicism that rang it hollow. “What’s it like to sell old books?”
“It’s wonderful.”
“Do you have a store, or do you just call on rich widows?”
“I have a shop. I’d be honored to show it to you sometime.”
“Not likely, Charles. I don’t ever want to see another antique as long as I live. So are you getting what you want out of meeting me?”
“Oh, yes. I couldn’t even imagine what Derek’s wife would be like.”
“I sure couldn’t,” Derek’s wife said. “Or him either.”
“Yes. Quite a failing on his part. Why was that, do you think?”
“Well, you know, I just don’t collect dust very well, and that was sort of a requirement of anything he had.”
“He had quite a few friends, and they weren’t the dust-collecting types either.”
“You’re about the first one I’ve met.”
“And the strange thing is,” Charles said, “you seem like just the interesting type of person he would have collected. Did you ever talk with him?”
“Not in years. I’d just see him around the house once in a while, and he’d say hello. Maybe I should have introduced myself.”
“I am just amazed,” Charles said. “It seems so unlike the Derek I knew.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell me about him sometime.”
“Really?”
“No. I don’t really care. And I’m just starting to get tired of talking now, if you get my drift.”
“Of course. I do appreciate your time. You’re a very interesting person, Mrs. Bastien.”
“Cloverdale.”
“Cloverdale?”
“Forget the Bastien. I made a mistake, so why should I be stuck with it the rest of my life?”
“I agree,” Charles said. “Why be stuck with an old mistake for a whole life? Mrs… Cloverdale.” Charles stood and Lucy didn’t. “I hope we have another opportunity sometime.”
“Why would you want that?” she said.
“Because I think I deserve a second chance.”
She had still not thought of an answer as he left the yellow world for the multihued one outside.