Since Mom and Dad weren’t scheduled to leave until Tuesday morning, I’d arranged to take Monday off. Sunny was happy to work some extra hours to fill in, claiming that her duties as mayor could wait one day. “The former mayor didn’t do anything for years,” she told me with a smile. “What’s a missed day or two on my watch?”
Although I’d planned to spend the day with Scott and my parents, touring a few of the wineries in the surrounding area, my nagging curiosity got the better of me and I begged off the excursion. I was anxious to do some research on the Kelmscott Chaucer and knew that online searching would yield only so much.
“There’s something I’m researching that requires a little extra digging,” I said at breakfast. “For work, you know. Anyway, I think I’ll check out the resources at the Clarion library.” I met Scott’s inquisitive gaze and gave a little shake of my head. He’d obviously guessed my true intention, but as always, he kept his opinions to himself.
Aunt Lydia set another plate of her famous pancakes on the dining room table. “Please, eat up, everyone. These aren’t as good reheated.”
I eyed her with concern, noting the shadows under her eyes. Hugh had left after dinner the evening before. That was significant, as he always stayed over until Monday morning during his weekend visits. I knew this signaled some rift between him and my aunt and suspected it had to do with his bringing in a PI to investigate Kurt—a choice he’d staunchly defended throughout the previous day.
My dad waved his fork at me. “Work? Admit it—you just want an excuse to have lunch with Richard. I remember you telling us that he has another rehearsal tonight and you probably wouldn’t get to see him today.”
“Guilty,” I said, although this wasn’t quite true. Of course, I’d be happy to see Richard, but what I really wanted was to find more information on the rare Kelmscott edition that both Kurt and Oscar Selvaggio had hoped to buy. I didn’t clarify that point, as I wasn’t sure my parents would approve of my obsession with such research, especially since it was connected with yet another suspicious death. They would, on the other hand, understand me ditching them to spend time with my fiancé.
I sent all of them off after extracting a promise that they’d bring back a few bottles of wine that we could taste test for possible use at the wedding reception. Dad drove, leaving me the car I shared with my aunt.
Fortunately, Clarion University was only a thirty-minute drive, a fact that made Richard’s daily commute bearable. I parked in one of the visitor lots and hiked across campus to the library, where I’d worked before taking the director position in Taylorsford.
I stopped by a few offices to say hello to some of the librarians I’d known during my tenure at Clarion. They all seemed happy to see me and to hear updates about my new job and the wedding.
Not even one disapproving look, I thought as I took the elevator to the reference department. Ironically, I’d fled my job at Clarion because I’d thought I’d made a fool of myself over my cheating former boyfriend. But it appeared that no one had actually cared about my childish actions. Honestly, it seemed I could’ve stayed at Clarion and everything would’ve simply blown over.
But if I’d stayed, perhaps my life wouldn’t have turned out so well, I thought. I might not have met Richard in a setting where we could really get to know each other. I wouldn’t have been able to spend as much time with Sunny, or become so deeply involved in the life of my new hometown either. I smiled as I walked off the elevator. I’m glad I’m a stronger, more confident person now, but leaving Clarion was a hidden blessing. My past behavior might’ve been foolish, but in the end, its result was the best thing that ever happened to me.
I chose a seat at one of the wooden carrels that lined one wall of the reference department, draping my jacket over the chair to reserve it while I perused the stacks. After a short search, I tottered back to my carrel, my arms laden with books, including a facsimile copy of the original Kelmscott Chaucer. Settling into the armless task chair, I opened my laptop to take notes.
The story of the Kelmscott Press, founded in 1891 by William Morris, was a fascinating one, and I was soon lost in my research, oblivious to the passing of time and anything happening around me. So oblivious, in fact, that I didn’t hear my name being spoken until someone tapped my shoulder and repeated it.
“Amy, so nice to see you again,” said Emily Moore, a celebrated poet I’d met when she’d moved to Taylorsford the previous autumn.
I spun around in the chair and looked up into her square-jawed face. Her dark eyes blinked owlishly behind the round frames of her glasses.
“Emily, hello.” I motioned toward the chair at the next carrel. “Please, have a seat. If you have a minute, I mean.”
“I have all the time in the world.” Emily’s smile illuminated her strong-featured face. “I just finished teaching a class and that was it for the day, so I thought I’d do a little digging for a new project.” She pointed at my pile of books. “I see you’re also engaged in research. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Not at all.” I brushed a lock of dark hair away from my face. “I just had a free day, and thought I’d look into something for work.”
Scooting closer, Emily peered at the spines of my books. “The Kelmscott Press?” She sat back in her chair and looked me over. “That’s not something I’d expect one of your patrons to be asking about.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said lightly. I didn’t want to go into my reasons for this research. Particularly not with Emily Moore, who was savvy enough to make connections, given any hints.
“It’s a fascinating period. I studied some of the Pre-Raphaelite poets once upon a time.” She smiled. “Many of them led such tumultuous lives—even put some of the antics of my hippie generation to shame.”
“It is interesting. I have an undergrad degree in art history, so I knew about William Morris’s design influence. Father of the Arts and Crafts movement and all that. But I didn’t know much about his work as a publisher.”
Emily shrugged. “That was just an extension of his design work, though, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Definitely the Chaucer, with the Burne-Jones woodcuts and Morris’s elegant designs for the borders and initial words, is as much a work of art as it is a printed book.” I pulled the facsimile copy from the stack of books and passed it over to Emily. “Only four hundred and twenty-five copies were printed. On handmade paper, no less.”
“And typeset by Morris, I believe.” Emily flipped through the facsimile. “The originals would be stunning, wouldn’t they?”
“I’m sure. I haven’t seen a real one, although my research turned up a copy at the University of Maryland, so maybe”—I met Emily’s interested gaze with a smile—“a road trip is in order.”
“You probably need an appointment,” Emily said absently, her eyes fixed on one of the illustrated pages of the facsimile. “You know, this reminds me of something. Some conversation I was involved in once. What was that?” She tapped her chin with one finger. “Oh yes, I remember now. It’s a funny coincidence, really, because it involved someone whose name I heard again recently.”
“Who might that be?” I asked, leaning forward to take the book from her hands.
“That poor man who died out at that art dealer’s house. You know, he collapsed and died at some party …” Emily covered her mouth with one hand for a moment before speaking again. “Oh dear, you were there, weren’t you? I remember hearing your name mentioned in the news.”
“Actually, my fiancé Richard and I discovered Selvaggio’s body,” I said grimly. “The party was in honor of our upcoming wedding. Kurt Kendrick hosted it for us.”
“That’s right, Kendrick. The art dealer. Which was what Selvaggio was too, you know.”
“I’m aware.” I twisted the hem of my cotton tunic between my fingers. I wasn’t sure if Emily had actually forgotten Kurt’s name or was just trying to pretend she’d never met him when they were both much younger. In any case, that wasn’t the mystery I wanted to pursue. “What did you hear about Selvaggio in the past? I’m just curious, having been thoroughly interrogated by the sheriff’s department about the man.”
Emily rolled her shoulders in a mock shiver, reminding me that she was almost as well-known for her dramatic readings as for her poetry. “Oh dear, I know how dreadful that can be. To be honest, it was so long ago. I was still in New York at the time, so it must be more than forty-five years.” Emily lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. “But I remembered the name, because I thought it had a poetic ring to it. Sel-vag-gio,” she said, drawing out each syllable.
“He was already an art dealer at the time?”
“Oh yes. He apparently dropped by the Factory to speak with Warhol once or twice, although Andy never sold him anything. Didn’t like the look of him, or so I heard.” Emily shrugged. “I’d left the Factory by then, so this is all hearsay.”
“Why did his name come up in a conversation then?”
“Because there was a scandal, and if there was anything my artsy New York pals liked better than shocking the public, it was a scandal involving someone else in the arts scene.” Emily adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses and fixed me with her slightly myopic stare. “Oscar Selvaggio apparently sold someone a stolen Kelmscott Chaucer, and when the poor fellow tried to subsequently insure it, the truth came out. He was investigated, and even though it was eventually proven that he had nothing to do with the theft and no knowledge of receiving stolen goods, it affected him so adversely that he died from a heart attack. Or so his children claimed.”
“Really? Was Selvaggio ever arrested?”
“No. Strangely, he was cleared, or at least never prosecuted. No one knew why at the time, and one of the dead man’s children—his daughter, I believe—was absolutely furious over the whole affair. Made a big noise in art circles, but her accusations never seemed to affect Selvaggio, at least from what I know.” Emily shrugged. “At any rate, the last thing I heard was that he continued to buy and sell art without any interference from the authorities.”
“That is interesting,” I said, filing away this information to consider later. “It sounds like Mr. Selvaggio wasn’t exactly the most honest of individuals.”
“Apparently not. Just like …” Emily closed her lips over whatever words she’d meant to say next and simply lifted her hands. “But that’s not such an unusual thing in the art world, I’m afraid.”
“No, it isn’t, as I sadly found out not too long ago,” I said, thinking about my own run-in with forgers and thieves.
“Well, now that I’ve bent your ear about some ancient history, I should go and let you get on with your research.” Emily rose to her feet. “We should get together sometime. I’ve discovered a few nice little restaurants not too far from Taylorsford. Maybe we can meet up when you can get away from the library for a longer lunch?”
“That would be nice,” I said, adding with a smile, “But not at the Heapin’ Plate, I take it?”
“Heavens no.” Emily flung one dangling end of her paisley scarf over her shoulder. “The diner’s good for a quick bite, but hardly haute cuisine.”
“True, although I don’t think Bethany is aiming for that.” I held out my hand. “Good to see you again, Emily.”
“You too.” Clasping my fingers tightly for a moment, she stared directly into my eyes. “I didn’t realize you were such close friends with that Kendrick fellow. I’d be careful there. I mean, I don’t really know the man, but I’ve … heard things. Just a word to the wise.” Dropping my hand, Emily scurried off before I could reply.
I stared after her for a moment before turning back to my pile of books. Everyone’s heard things, I thought with a sardonic smile. But I can do better than that, Ms. Moore. I actually know a few things.
Enough to always be careful in my dealings with Kurt Kendrick, no matter how much he seemed to care about me, Richard, or the rest of my family. Enough to believe he could’ve had a hand in Oscar Selvaggio’s death, if anyone had.
I checked my watch and realized I needed to leave soon if I hoped to make it across campus to meet Richard at his studio by noon. But before I deposited the books I’d pulled on a reshelving cart, I opened the Kelmscott Chaucer facsimile one more time. Staring at the beautifully decorated title page reminded me of something I’d just typed into my notes—a quote from a letter Edward Burne-Jones had sent to Charles Eliot Norton in 1894:
Indeed when the book is done, if we live to finish it, it will be like a pocket cathedral …
And it had been exactly that—a magnificent edifice captured on paper, a work that captured the soul of two great artists. Something rare and wonderful.
And sadly, I thought, as I closed down my laptop, perhaps something worth killing for.