I’m the oldest antique in town.
—Norman Rockwell
WALTER WAVERLY INSISTED we call him “Old Walt.” Pushing seventy and heavyset, he clearly enjoyed the “nice old guy” persona. He even wore a long beard that was so snowy white he could have doubled as a department store Santa—but only if that Santa was a seasoned salesman, looking to unload the entire contents of his North Pole toy shop on three unsuspecting visitors.
“Everything inside is for sale!” Old Walt announced as we entered his sprawling mock Tudor home. Leading us to the library, he invited us to enjoy the spread of coffee, tea, and cookies he’d laid out in front of the roaring fire, which nicely dispelled the chill from our dark and stormy drive.
“This library is where I display a lot of my art,” Walt informed us. “What I don’t have stored in the attic, anyway.”
The expansive room occupied nearly half the ground floor of the two-story home. The decor was original, and I suspected much of the furniture was, too, because it looked antique—but not in a good way. The chairs were ratty, the upholstery on the love seat torn and crudely mended. The doorknobs and a standing lamp were forged copper yet covered with a patina of green from age and neglect.
The house itself also needed repairs. Paint and gold leaf flaked from the ornate ceiling, dust dulled the chandelier, and smoke stains blackened the marble hearth.
By contrast, Old Walt’s pristine collection of rare books appeared to be in perfect condition. As I helped myself to tea and butter cookies, Brainert pointed out one of the many gems in the old man’s glass-enclosed bookcases. “Is that a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“Yes, it is, Professor Parker.” Walt grinned with pride. “That shelf is all first editions.”
Brainert’s eyes went wide as he read the spines. “Tender Is the Night, The Old Man and the Sea, The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden—and here’s a copy of The Disappearance by Philip Wylie! That novel is a forgotten classic.”
“If you’re interested, Professor, in any of those titles, or the entire shelf for that matter, we could agree on a price.”
“Oh, my. The entire shelf?” Brainert’s eyebrows rose. “I doubt I could afford—”
Hearing the start of that sentence, Walt didn’t waste time listening to the rest. Abruptly, he turned to me.
“Mrs. McClure, the truth is, after I spoke to you about our appointment, I made the decision to offer your store my entire collection. All of it, including the paintings, if you’ll give me a fair price. What do you think?”
I was more taken aback than Brainert. I’d come here to borrow some cover art, not negotiate a major purchase. Furthermore, I was not the partner with decades of experience in the rare books market, yet even I knew, with a collection this large, a consignment deal made more sense than one large outlay of cash.
Would Walt reject consignment?
I didn’t want to commit to anything (certainly not without my aunt’s input), but I didn’t want to lose the opportunity, either.
“I have to admit, you’re taking me by surprise,” I said carefully. “Why are you in such a hurry to sell everything? I hope it’s not your health.”
“No, ma’am, I’m hearty as an ox. It’s something else . . .” An awkward pause followed. “I need to get out of here.” He shook his head, white beard swaying. “And I’m not taking any of this with me. I’m done with it. This stuff—all of it—has got to go.”
How odd, I thought. Why would a man so devoted to a lifetime of collection suddenly be “done with it”? I tried to ask (gently, of course), but Walt cut me off. And then the salesman was back.
“One fair offer for the whole collection, Mrs. McClure, what do you say? It would certainly save me time.”
“I understand,” I said, feeling the pressure, “and I’d like us to make a deal. But Sadie would have to inventory everything first, before we could even estimate an offer.”
“Oh, sure, of course!” Walt nodded, appearing relieved I hadn’t rejected him outright. “Sadie can come up anytime, and I’ll take her through everything. It’s a fine collection, let me tell you!”
And he did.
While Old Walt continued chatting me up, I helped myself to more tea and cookies. Brainert joined me. Only Seymour (uncharacteristically) ignored the treats, including the treasure trove of rare books. Instead, he eagerly took in the library’s gallery, ogling the paintings hung there as if he were a pilgrim, marveling in reverent awe at an enshrined collection of cathedral relics.
Every minute or so, he would point to a picture and cry out with excitement—less like a pilgrim (come to think of it) and more like a kid in Santa’s Toyland.
“Look! A Doc Savage paperback cover by James Bama! Did you know that Bantam Books was launched on the backs of these pulp reprints? Doc Savage kept that company in business for decades . . . Oh wow, an actual Margaret Brundage Weird Tales cover. I didn’t think any of her delicate chalk art survived!”
Finally Seymour made such a racket we couldn’t ignore him any longer. “You guys have got to see this! It’s the Nathan Brock cover painting for the June 1948 issue of Spicy High Society! His work is super rare!”
To my surprise, the ghost abruptly sounded off in my head. Nathan Brock. Yeah. Like a stopped clock, the mailman is right twice a day.
About what? I asked (silently, of course).
About Nathan Brock’s stuff being rare. And I know why.
You do?
I waited for an answer, but the ghost went quiet.
Jack? Are you still there?
I’m here, doll. The fact is . . . I got history with Nathan Brock. But it’s a long story, and you’re busy.
I’d like to know, I pressed, but the ghost wasn’t talking. He spoke only two words before going silent.
Another time.
I tried to refocus on Walt’s never-ending sales pitch, but I couldn’t stop wondering about Jack’s “history” with an obscure pulp cover artist.
The name Nathan Brock rang no bells for me, but if Jack knew the man, I wanted to check out his work. Excusing myself with Walt, I hurried to Seymour’s side.