“Maybe it’s just a mistake in the online system,” Jan said, always the optimist.
Sue frowned at Winston. “Are you sure you have the right password and account number?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Winston glanced up, and his face was a study in fear and misery. “We got into the account just fine. You can see for yourself.”
“Show me,” Sue said.
Winston moved the computer over a few inches and angled it toward Sue, who bent over, blinked a few times, and then squinted at the computer screen. The account name was right there and easy enough to read. There was no mistake.
After a few seconds, she straightened up and gulped. Her eyes were wide with incredulity. “I can’t believe it. It shows a zero balance.”
“Right,” Winston said. He clicked on one of the pull-down menus. “And if you go into the account and look up the daily transactions,” he clicked on the screen again, then pointed for everyone to see, “you’ll find that there was seventy thousand dollars in the account just four days ago.”
There were shocked cries and groans as everyone moved closer to check for themselves.
“Then you go up to the next day,” Winston continued, still pointing with his cursor. “Here. And there’s a withdrawal of six thousand dollars.”
“Right,” Mom said. She touched the screen on the next line. “And here’s another withdrawal of twenty thousand the day after that.”
“Oh my God,” Jan whispered. “It’s a nightmare.”
“Yeah,” Winston said as he scrolled down. “Day after that, there’s a twelve thousand dollar withdrawal.”
“Jeez Louise,” Ryan said.
Winston turned around and met the gazes of everyone standing behind him. “Finally, yesterday, they withdrew the rest of the money.” He looked back at the screen. “Thirty-two thousand dollars.”
“Nooo,” Marybeth moaned.
“But Winston,” Jan said, hoping against hope. “Don’t you think there could be a mistake somewhere? That kind of thing happens, right?”
Winston shrugged. “Sure.”
But everyone knew he was just placating us.
“Of course it happens,” Mom said, her voice remaining calm even though she kept sneaking glances at Derek and Meg and me. I wasn’t sure why. Did she want us to grab her and whisk her out of there? Or explain why the computer screen could be wrong? Or stand guard around her? I would be happy to do any of those things, but I doubted she needed that. What she needed were some answers. And none of us had any.
But I decided to give it a try. “Did you take a look at the spreadsheet, Mom? Does that give any clues?”
Winston glanced from me to Mom. “It might help. It’s supposed to list every single expenditure we’ve made since we first started. Maybe it’ll show that Lawson paid off a bunch of vendors at one time. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
“Let’s take a look, Winston,” Mom said, willing to try anything at this point.
He reached for the manila envelope and pulled out the stapled sheet of papers. “Do you want me to read the whole thing or pass it around or what?”
“We should all have a copy,” Jan said.
“I agree.” Mom checked her watch. “When the meeting’s over, I’ll take it over to Melissa and get enough copies made for everyone. We can all look through it tonight and meet back here tomorrow to discuss our options.”
“What options?” Saffron demanded. “We’re out of money. We’re screwed. We’ll have to cancel the festival.”
“Wow, Debbie Downer strikes again,” Sue said.
Marybeth scowled at Saffron. “Yeah, stop being such a—a negative Nelly. We’ll simply find another underwriter and keep going.”
That couldn’t be as easy as she made it sound.
Saffron seemed to agree. “There’s seventy thousand dollars missing. I’m not negative; I’m just realistic.”
“You can be both,” Winston muttered under his breath.
“There’s also a chance that we can recover the money,” Mom said, still trying for positivity. “Maybe the money was transferred to another account. Maybe Lawson used it to pay off some suppliers as Winston suggested, but . . .” That was a stretch. If Lawson had been writing checks, it would be there on the account record. But cheers to Mom for trying.
Mom sighed then. “I’ll call the police when I get home and see if they’ll help us track down the funds.”
Saffron threw up her hands. “But what if Lawson stole the money and just spent it all?”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Mom allowed. “But meanwhile, let’s all try not to freak out. We’ll find a way to fix this.”
“I’m so glad you’re in charge, Becky,” Sue said, patting Mom on the back. “You’re always so cool and calm, while I’m just about to blow a gasket.”
“I don’t know, Sue.” Jan grinned. “You’re pretty laid-back yourself.”
“Yeah,” she said, with a giggle. “But my vibe is from the drugs. Becky’s on a natural high.”
Everyone laughed, relieving some of the intense stress. For the moment anyway.
“I know it’s getting late,” Mom said, “but I have one more short agenda item to go over.”
There was some minor grousing, but everyone scrambled back to their seats, anxious to finish up the meeting and get home.
“It concerns our Louisa May Alcott scholar,” Mom said. “She’ll be here in a few days and I know Lawson wouldn’t want us to upset her, so I would appreciate if none of us would mention the murder to her. She’s a special guest in our town.”
“She’s going to hear about it one way or another,” Winston said dolefully.
“And Lawson was her contact, right?” Marybeth said. “We won’t be able to hide the facts.”
“Plus, she’s an academic,” Jan said. “They soak up information like a damn sponge.”
Mom nodded. “True. We can’t do anything about it if she reads it in the newspaper or hears it out on the street. But I don’t want our committee members feeding the fear. Agreed?”
“Sure,” Ryan said.
Sue nodded. “Yeah, okay. Let’s not be the ones to blow her mind from the get-go.”
Mom suggested that they go around the table to hear everyone’s feelings on the subject. The rest of the group agreed that the committee should only spread joy and happiness—except for Saffron who didn’t bother to weigh in. She just scowled at everyone else’s comments. The woman had no joy to spread anyway so her opinion didn’t matter. But I didn’t know how the rest of the committee could take her crappy attitude in stride.
“We done here?” Winston asked.
“Yes.” Mom banged the gavel. “We’ll meet back here tomorrow at two thirty.”
Winston held up the pages of the spreadsheet. “I’ll go get those copies made.”
Mom’s shoulders sagged in relief and I knew she’d forgotten about the spreadsheet. “Thanks, Win.”
“I’m going to take off now,” Jan said, “but I’ll stop by Win’s house later tonight and get my copy.”
“Whatever works for you,” Mom said.
A couple of others decided to do the same and the room began to clear. When the rest of the group had left, Ryan gathered his belongings and approached Mom. He looked like a college kid in a polo shirt and khakis, carrying his books. The guy was born to wear khakis, I thought, and then noticed the wiry muscles of his arms. I hadn’t realized how ripped he was. But then, he worked as Shandi’s bodyguard, so it made sense.
I glanced back at Derek and Meg. “I’m going to wait for Mom. I can meet you outside.”
“We’ll wait with you,” Meg said, and sat down again.
“Mrs. Wainwright,” Ryan said. “I was hoping I could talk to you for just a moment. It’s personal.”
I noticed he was the only committee member who addressed my mother that way. Was it because he was so much younger than her? Or was it just the way he was raised? It was sort of charming, either way.
Mom gave him a sweet smile. “Of course, Ryan. What’s going on?”
“I know it’s getting close to festival time, but I wanted to ask if you could appeal to your daughter London to recast the musical and put Shandi in another role.”
Mom stared at him for a long moment as if she didn’t comprehend what he was asking.
Frankly, I was a little mystified myself.
Mom considered for a moment. “But Shandi is playing Marmee, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” he said, clearly disheartened.
Hmm. Was this because the beautiful Shandi was annoyed that she’d been relegated to the role of mother to four teenaged girls? I remembered when Annie first told me about the casting, I’d wondered if the Diva would hate playing that role. Looked like I was right.
“But Marmee is a wonderful role,” Mom said brightly. “She’s one of the great characters in American literature. She’s highly principled, a good worker, and strong. She’s cheerful in the face of adversity and she’s unconventional in a wonderfully enlightened way.”
“Yes, yes,” Ryan said impatiently, “but she’s old.”
“She’s a . . . mother,” Mom said carefully.
He shook his head. “You don’t understand.” He took a deep breath and seemed to gather strength to continue his argument. “Shandi is practically an ingénue. She has a reputation to uphold and a huge fan base, many of whom will show up to spend money at the festival. They’re going to want to see her in a much larger role.”
“Marmee is one of the stars of the show.”
He waved off that fact. “Shandi wants to play Jo.”
Mom frowned. “Jo? I thought in the beginning she was interested in playing Meg.”
He made a sour face. “After reading the script we realized that Meg is too boring. She’s always following the rules and is just too goodie-goodie for Shandi. Whereas Jo is more fun! More full of life. And that’s Shandi to a T.”
I heard someone gasp. Turning, I saw our Meg, Derek’s mom, looking apoplectic. Was she choking? But Derek took her hand and she seemed to recover.
“I’m sorry, Ryan,” Mom said gently. “But none of the four girls would be a suitable role for Shandi. She’s a lovely woman and a delightful actress, but let’s be honest. I mean no offense, but she’s no spring chicken. And she’s definitely not an ingénue.”
He gasped. “That’s simply not true, Mrs. Wainwright,” he said quietly. “Shandi is an accomplished actress of stage and screen. She can play any role you throw at her. I know it’s late notice, but she’s a very quick study and a tremendous talent. She’s been working in movies for years.”
Mom winced. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you’ve just made my point. She’s been around for years, which makes her simply too old to play a teenager.”
“That’s just mean,” Ryan said.
“No, that’s reality. And it’s life.” Mom reached out and touched his arm. “I truly don’t want to hurt any feelings. I’m just being honest.”
“But it’s not fair,” he said, almost desperate now. “She can play anything. She’s a transformational talent. And besides, she’s a whiz with makeup. She can make it work.”
“Of course she can,” Mom said, smiling as she tried to soothe his injured spirit. “Shandi really is a wonderful talent. But on a practical note, the show opens in less than a week and it only runs for one night. I’m fairly certain London won’t be willing or able to make a change at this late date. And honestly, Shandi’s a professional. She’ll understand. And she’ll get over it.”
He looked miserable. Poor guy, I thought. I hoped Shandi wasn’t going to punish him for failing to wrangle the role of Jo from my mother or London.
“Tell you what,” Mom said. “If Shandi would like to talk about it, I’ll be happy to explain why we can’t make changes this late in the game. I’m sure she understands how complicated it would be. She’s a professional, so I think she’ll be fine. My hope is that the musical will be the joyous high note to close the festival. Any hurt feelings would ruin that moment.”
He blew out a breath. “I’ll see what Shandi wants to do.”
“All right, dear.” Mom patted his shoulder. “I must say, you’re a wonderful advocate for Shandi. I hope she appreciates all you do for her.”
“She’s very good to me,” he said earnestly. “Thank you, Mrs. Wainwright.”
But as he walked away, I could see that he was still troubled. Would Shandi give him grief over this silly issue?
As soon as Ryan left the room, Meg walked over to the table. “What nerve!”
Mom looked at her, bewildered. “What’s wrong, Meg? What happened?”
I stared up at Derek who shrugged, clearly clueless.
“That young man said horrible things about a beloved character in a wonderful book.”
Mom patted Meg’s hand. “I know just how you feel. Marmee truly is beloved in literature.”
Meg was still frowning though, so I stepped a little closer to Mom. “I think our Meg is steamed that Ryan dumped on the Little Women Meg.”
Did that make any sense at all? I had to wonder.
“Oh, sweetie.” Mom laughed and grabbed Meg in a tight hug. “Oh, my dear friend. Please don’t be offended. He’s a silly boy who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. You mustn’t take it personally.”
“Well, I did,” she groused.
Mom held her at arm’s length, met her gaze, and smiled. “They’re all crazy, didn’t you know?”
After a long moment, Meg nodded solemnly. “Ah yes. They’re all crazy, ‘except for thee and me.’”
They laughed together, tickled by the fact that they both recognized the quote. Then they hugged again and my heart skipped a little. They were truly sisters of the heart and I was so happy they’d found each other.
And I was extra happy that the crisis was over.
Well, except for the part where Ryan might get fired for failing to get Shandi the part. He’d tried hard, but it was a losing proposition. And why was Shandi forcing Ryan to fix the casting problem for her? Why was she pushing for this role? What was the big deal? That was what I wanted to know.
But more than that, I wanted to get out of there. I leaned into Derek and whispered, “Let’s go home and have a margarita.”
“Darling, that’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”
We waited with Mom until Winston came back with the copies of the spreadsheet. A quick glance told us that Lawson hadn’t listed any expenditures that totaled seventy thousand dollars. So Mom and the committee were back where they started.
After dropping off the moms, Derek and I both concluded that, sadly, it was a little too early in the day to start drinking. He had some phone calls to make and I decided it was time for me to get to work on the copy of Little Women that Clyde had asked me to fix.
I found the book where I’d left it on the end of the breakfast bar. Then I gathered up my tools and equipment in the large plastic file box and tucked my phone into my pocket.
“I’ve got my phone if you need me,” I called to Derek. Then I walked out the back door, past the lovely patio and pool, and stopped when I reached the door of Abraham’s workshop. Setting down the file box, I pulled out the key and unlocked the door.
I hadn’t been inside Abraham’s workshop in almost two years and I had no idea what I would find in there. Cobwebs? A family of rodents? Would it look the same as the last time I’d seen it? Or had Annie taken the plunge and had the entire workshop cleaned out?
“Guess I’ll find out,” I murmured to myself. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. And in an instant, I was eight years old again, tingling with excitement and awe as I prepared to explore the wondrous mysteries of the master bookbinder’s lair.
The room was almost exactly as I’d remembered it when Abraham was alive, except for the fact that, to my utter amazement, it was pristine. Annie must’ve hired a battalion of housecleaners to work in here, dusting, mopping, waxing, and straightening every inch of workspace until the entire place was fresh smelling and sparkling clean.
All of Abraham’s tools, equipment, supplies, and, yes, even his tchotchkes, were basically where he’d left them, except that now they were all dust free, laid out on spotless surfaces in neat rows, and all color coordinated.
I had to laugh. Abraham had always given me a load of grief when I tried to clean or straighten his workspace at the end of the day. “Why bother,” he’d say, “when we’re just going to mess everything up again tomorrow?”
If Abraham hadn’t been dead already, he would’ve had a heart attack to see this place now. And I thought that with supreme affection for my old mentor and friend.
“Thank you, Annie,” I whispered out loud. I couldn’t wait to get to work and set my file box on the floor next to the waist-high worktable in the middle of the room. The first thing I pulled out of the box was a bag of chocolate caramel Kisses and a smaller bag of candy corn. I rarely indulged in candy corn because it was basically pure sugar. But I liked to say that unto everything there was a season. And since it was fall, this was the season for candy corn.
Chocolate caramel Kisses, on the other hand, were appropriate eating any time of the year. They were loaded with nutrients, like milk and chocolate and caramel and, well, other nutrients. I was sticking to that story and would fight anyone who said otherwise.
Next I pulled out my handy new magnifying glasses that I’d discovered at my dentist’s office a few months ago. They made it so much easier for me to check out things using both hands instead of having to clutch the magnifying glass with one hand and joggle the book with my other.
Next, I reached for my camera to document my work. I always used my digital camera to photograph every step of the process when I was working with a rare or antiquarian book, or with any book where I needed to demonstrate my due diligence to the book’s owner.
To be honest, Abraham hadn’t often cared one way or the other about documenting the work. “I do the work,” he would say. “I don’t take pictures of the work.”
I used to tease him for being old school. “Like eighteenth-century old school,” I’d add. He usually laughed, because it was true.
But I had found that photography improved my work. It helped to go back through those pictures to learn where I’d made mistakes or, alternatively, where I’d done something particularly well.
Just thinking of Abraham conjured up a picture in my mind of him standing at his workbench, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his black leather apron tied loosely around his waist. He was a big man and a tough teacher, sometimes instructing me to take a book apart and put it back together again, over and over and over. He might have been strict, but boy, did I learn a lot.
I felt something on my cheek and realized that it was a tear. It happened sometimes when I thought of him after he died in my arms a few years ago.
“Okay, that’s enough of that,” I muttered, and grabbed a tissue to sop up my tears. “Get back to work.”
With a heavy sigh, I laid a large white cotton cloth onto the table and unwrapped the book. I always used a soft white cloth to lay out the pieces of an old book because it kept everything clean and because I found it easier to keep track of each piece that way.
I snipped the last few bits of cloth and carefully pulled the book cover from the textblock. Setting the textblock aside, I studied the front cover for a few minutes. The picture of the four girls was more vivid and multifaceted than I remembered from the previous day when I saw it for the first time. The different shades of green in the grass and leaves, the charmingly unique hairstyles of each girl, the intricate patterns of the knitted shawls, all stood out in loving detail. I wondered who the artist was and hoped I would find him or her credited somewhere inside.
I took a dozen photos of the cover from different angles and then another dozen close-up shots before I moved on to the next step. The book was so damaged that I knew I would have to take the entire thing apart and fix it in stages, then put it all back together again.
I opened the book and spread the front and back covers out, spine side up, to gauge what would have to be done to the outside. The corners and edges of the book were badly frayed, and both the front and back joints were torn and almost completely separated from the spine. All of the gilding on the spine had rubbed off to the extent that the title and author name were nonexistent.
Cautiously I turned the front and back cover over, spine side down now, and once again spread everything out to study the interior. The endpapers were badly faded and the pastedown side was partly torn away from the front board. Along the front hinge, the endpaper was ripped away completely.
The back endpapers were in slightly better condition overall, which was typical because, in general, the front cover of a book was opened and closed and touched and used more than the back. Despite that fact, the back inside cover of this book was also in terrible shape, the hinge barely held together by a worn-out bit of paper.
I set the cover aside and pulled the textblock closer. Turning to the title page, I checked the publication date: 1868.
“That can’t be right,” I muttered, but I still felt a tingle run up my spine at the outside possibility.
My preliminary research had shown me that copies of Little Women dated 1868 were the first printing, first issue. But my favorite research website had also warned me that forged title pages of the book did exist. They had also explained that the first edition version of the novel had been published in two parts. The second part was known as Little Women, Part the Second.
Clyde hadn’t given me Part the Second, so that was a drag. Still, I would be happy to refurbish this copy for Clyde and maybe someday he would come into possession of Part the Second.
But now I had to wonder about the pretty illustrated cover. The first edition copies I’d found online were shown with plain green book cloth. Obviously some well-meaning bookbinder had spruced up the cover of this book at some point in its history. The cover was now much prettier even though it might not have increased the book’s value.
Of course, it was still a first edition, so that counted for something. Once I transformed it from its sad and shabby condition into a beautifully rejuvenated version, it would shine again and hopefully go on to make lots of money for the literacy organization.
Staring at the title and publication page, I had a moment of doubt as to whether this could actually be considered a first edition. I could believe that the interior of the book was part of the original first edition, but with the cover being altered, I had to wonder if the title page had been forged. I had dealt with forgeries several times in the past and knew what signs to look for. So I looked for them now, first studying the gutter—the inside margin of the book where the pages were sewn together. An unscrupulous bookseller would simply fit the fraudulent publication page into the gutter and glue it well enough to keep it in place.
I felt the paper itself, running my fingers over the edges and the text. I noted that the title page had the same feel, same texture, thickness, and weight as the other pages in the book. Then I held it up to the light to check that it was the same color as the other pages. It was.
Still, this couldn’t possibly be a first edition, could it? First of all, it was a mess. Anyone who had ever owned this book would’ve kept it in perfect condition. Or so I wanted to believe. But I knew that people could be awful when it came to taking care of books.
And second, if this were a first edition, Clyde wouldn’t have been so blasé about handing the book over to me without an explanation. On the other hand, he had seemed awfully nervous and hadn’t been too forthcoming when I’d asked him where he’d found it. Finally he’d mumbled the answer.
“A used bookstore in Grass Valley,” he’d said. “Paid almost nothing for it.”
Seriously?
I stared long and hard at the title page, then put on my magnifying glasses and checked the gutter again. It was clean. This page was real.
I turned to my computer and consulted my rare-book online research guide—otherwise known as Google—and typed in “rare copy of Little Women,” and found an amazing first edition that was priced at twenty-five thousand dollars.
I almost laughed. There was no way this book would ever sell for that amount. First, because it was only one volume of two, and second, because I only had a few days to work a miracle. But I was an optimist and good at my job, so if I fixed it up well enough, I knew it would be worth a lot more than I had originally thought.
I popped several chocolate caramels to keep up my strength and considered my next move. I figured I would have to talk to Clyde and find out if he knew how much the book was worth. I would go ahead and repair it anyway, of course, but I had a weird feeling that he hadn’t told me the whole story. He had seemed nervous and evasive when he’d given me the book and I had to wonder why.
What was he trying to hide?
Clyde and I had always been close, or as close as anyone could get to Clyde, otherwise known as the original grumpy old man. Growing up, I has spent long hours inside his wonderful little bookstore on the Lane, and while he would yell at other customers or grouse about people who lingered too long, he was always kind to me and always seemed to appreciate that I was a true booklover.
“So what’s really going on here?” I wondered out loud.
I would figure out the answers later, maybe with a little help from Derek—and a margarita or two. For now, though, I wanted to finish up my initial examination of the book, clean up my mess, and go back to the house. I was getting thirsty. And after all, it was five o’clock somewhere.