The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
—Lord Byron
HOURS LATER, I was back in our stockroom, surrounded by Walt’s paintings and work I should have been doing. Instead I sat back in my desk chair, half listening to the girlish laughter echoing from the event space.
The day had been long and harrowing, and despite the fact that Buy the Book closed its doors at nine p.m., my work would not end for another hour, though, to be honest, I was already slacking off. Usually, I sat in on Tracy Mahoney’s book-group meetings.
Ever since Bonnie Franzetti convinced me to include young adult fiction in our store, Tracy’s gatherings had become a handy resource to learn about the appeal of new authors and hear about emerging trends. And ever since the coming of crossover hits like The Hunger Games, Twilight, The Fault in Our Stars, and Thirteen Reasons Why, plenty of adults were now enjoying young adult and “new adult” fiction, which is why adding select titles and series proved profitable for our store.
Tonight, however, after two straight days of the postman and the professor, I needed a peaceful break from humanity. I was nearly caught up on processing our online special orders when I was jarred by what sounded like the anguished outcry of a young woman.
“No! Oh, noooo!”
The plaintive howl came from the event space, where Tracy Mahoney’s reading group was meeting.
Careful not to stumble over all the borrowed artwork and easels, I moved to the open stockroom door in time to see five members of Tracy’s group moving toward the store’s exit. Next came a pair of student members from St. Francis University. Shoulders slumped and faces grim, they kept their eyes locked on their phone screens as they departed.
It was clear the gathering had broken up, but not on its usual cheery, high-spirited note. I found Tracy sitting alone in the event space, the circle of chairs now empty.
“You guys broke up early. Is something wrong?”
Staring with a tormented expression at her smartphone, Tracy swiped tears from her cheeks. “It’s nothing, Mrs. McClure. Just some ugly comments on our Facebook page about my fantasy art, that’s all.”
“Can I help?”
She quickly shook her head. “It’s probably just an Internet troll.”
I could tell the poor girl was rattled. “Why don’t you come upstairs for some tea? You’ll feel better if you talk things out.”
She just shook her head. “Thanks. That’s nice of you, but I need to get going. Good night.”
I followed Tracy to the door and stood watching as she pulled on her motorcycle helmet, threw a leg over her blue Yamaha, and sped down Cranberry Street. For the space of a breath, I wanted to join her.
Youth was exhilarating, but it was a lot of other things, too.
When you’re still struggling to discover who you are and what your place is in this world, every barb, every slight (real or imagined), feels like a cut to the bone, and every unkind voice takes the volume of a deafening chorus, echoing through your head with reverberating ridicule.
On a sigh of regret (and relief) I turned the key in the shop’s front door. With everyone gone, I was finally off duty. I dimmed the lights. But before I could head upstairs, I had to perform one last task—the nightly hide-and-seek ritual of catching Bookmark and carrying the complaining kitty upstairs.
I sympathized with our grumpy marmalade-striped feline, who was used to roaming the store in search of the occasional unsuspecting mouse. But I had no choice. With our recent security upgrade—including motion detectors in our event space and stockroom—our cat’s nocturnal wanderings had to be curtailed. We’d learned this after one too many sleep-depriving false alarms in the wee hours of the night.
I appeased the disgruntled furball in our upstairs kitchen with a tasty bowl of gourmet cat food. As she licked her little cat lips, I heard the sound of the evening news going on, and I knew my aunt was still awake.
Steeling myself for an unhappy but necessary duty, I brewed us a pot of chamomile-honey tea and opened a fresh box of shortbread cookies. I loaded a tray and brought it to the living room.
“Pen! I didn’t hear you come in,” Sadie said, making room for me on the couch. “Sit, and you can tell me about your trip.”
As gently as I could, I finally broke the news of her colleague’s death to my aunt. She took Walter Waverly’s demise harder than I’d anticipated.
She asked how it happened, of course, and I decided not to complicate an already terrible situation, telling her what Sheriff Taft came to believe—that Old Walt’s death was a tragic accident.
The next thirty minutes were tearful enough to bring out the sympathetic side of the usually indifferent Bookmark. Hearing Sadie’s distress, the cat curled up on my aunt’s lap to purr comfortingly.
“Walt is going to be missed.” Sadie sniffed, stroking Bookmark’s marmalade fur. “He was a memorable fixture on the convention circuit.”
“Which one?”
“You name it. Antiquarian fairs, antiques conventions, rare book shows, art sales, he went to them all. Walt was always on the go.”
“Did he have many competitors?”
“No more than anyone else at those events. Walt was a big, jovial teddy bear who would drop everything to help a customer, or even a fellow vendor.”
“No serious rivals that you know of? No enemies?”
“Of course not, Pen. Everybody loved him. Why would you ask such a thing? Did Walt mention a threat of some kind?”
I shook my head, deliberately holding my tongue on Walt’s late-night mystery visitor. I didn’t want to upset Sadie, but I did need to fill in more blanks on Walt’s background.
“Did you ever meet Walt’s wife?”
“No, never did,” Sadie said. “God rest her soul. Walt said she had no interest in traveling. Only his son, Neil, came with him on the road—until he moved.”
“His son moved?”
“Yes, Walt was grooming Neil to take over his business. The last time I saw Walt, I asked where his son was. He said Neil was living in Los Angeles. This wasn’t long after Mrs. Waverly died, so I assumed the two of them were dealing with their grief by throwing themselves into their work and expanding to cover both coasts.”
That seemed wrong to me, and I said so. “If there was a West Coast contingent to Walt’s business, then why was he trying to push his entire collection on us in one rushed deal?”
“Maybe he wanted to move to Los Angeles to be with his son, and he didn’t want to move the collection.”
“Walt only said he wanted out. He never once mentioned Los Angeles or his son.”
“How odd. Do you think they had a falling-out?”
“Maybe.”
We both fell silent after that, drinking our tea and watching the news. Finally, my aunt excused herself, heading off to bed with a drowsy Bookmark in her arms.
As for me, I was far too agitated to sleep. I felt as though I’d learned a bit of useful background information for Sheriff Taft. It was late, but I didn’t see any harm in leaving a message.
Turned out I didn’t have to. Augusta Taft answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Sheriff. This is Penelope McClure. I didn’t know you were on duty.”
“I’m always on duty, Mrs. McClure. What can I do for you?”
“It’s more what I can do for you, Sheriff.”
I informed her that Walt’s son, Neil Waverly, had moved to Los Angeles. “If the man’s whereabouts prove elusive, you might check with the contemporary art galleries in the LA area. He sold collectable art before; maybe he still does.”
“That’s very helpful,” Taft admitted. “Not even Walt’s semiretired lawyer knew Neil’s current whereabouts.”
“That’s odd.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
After a pause, I took a chance. “May I ask: What did you learn from Walt’s notebooks?”
“Nothing. I couldn’t find the notebooks you described, even after a thorough search of the premises. There’s so much junk, it’s possible they’re in the house, somewhere, but there are other factors that lead me to believe—”
“That they were taken?” I sat up straighter.
“I believe so,” said the sheriff. “The state police—”
The buzz of another phone drowned out her words. Then I was put on hold, and after a short silence, Augusta Taft ended our conversation.
“I apologize, Mrs. McClure, but I have to go now. Duty calls. Thanks for the tip. We’ll speak again.”