Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 05 - The Maltese Manuscript (8 page)

“Coffee,” I said. “If you have any.” I hadn’t quite recovered from my overindulgence at the reunion Saturday night. Now, after an intense Pop Fiction seminar, I felt drained. It didn’t help when I returned from class and found the message on my office voicemail from Lonnie, Avery’s administrative assistant. President Mitchell would appreciate it if I could free up a few minutes in my busy day to speak with him in person—at my earliest convenience, of course—about a matter that must remain confidential.

“Lonnie,” Avery called into the outer office, “coffee, please. For two.” We talked about the Braque exhibit at the college art museum until Lonnie came in with a tray holding an insulated carafe and a monogrammed bone china coffee service. A fire crackled in the fireplace, its light reflected in the gold rims of the cups. I could have sat there for hours in that elegant room with its jewel-toned Persian rugs and its muted Hudson River landscapes, discussing art with Avery, but that wasn’t the purpose of the summons, and it wouldn’t have been a good idea, anyhow. Again I asked, “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” he echoed, and tightened his fine lips. “Well, Karen, we find ourselves in a situation…by
we
, I mean the college, of course…we find ourselves in an unanticipated difficulty into the midst of which I understand you have been inadvertently interjected.” He measured sugar into his cup.

I translated from administratese:
The college has gotten itself into some kind of shit, and I’m involved.
“Ah,” I said.

He waited for more, then smiled. “Never one to waste words, are you, Karen?”

“Well…” I replied, playing for time. Next year I would petition Enfield College for tenure. If I had been “inadvertently interjected” into something so serious the president had to handle it personally, I’d just keep my mouth shut until I found out what it was.

“I heard, of course,” Avery said, “about your unfortunate encounter with that intruder in the library last month, and now I understand Rachel Thompson has acquainted you with our recent loss of an entire set of nineteenth-century books. Baffling! Absolutely baffling!”

I nodded, and replaced my cup in its saucer. He was finally getting to the point.

“But there have been further developments I don’t believe you know about.” A phone rang in the outer office. Through the heavy mahogany door Lonnie’s greeting was nothing more than a murmur. Avery slid his gaze toward the door and waited. When it was clear that Lonnie wasn’t about to put the call through to him, he turned back to me and let out his breath in a big huff. “Rough day,” he said. “But I’m going to try to relax. Listen, Karen, there’s more stuff missing from the library, but right now I’m not in a position to tell you precisely what. After Rachel found out that the entire dime-book collection had been stolen, the library staff conducted an in-depth inventory. They discovered additional losses.” He looked very sober. “Over the past few months the library has lost at least five hundred thousand dollars in rare books and manuscripts.”

“My God, that’s…”

“A half million. And we have no idea where—or who—the leak is. Very distressing.” He raised his eyebrows, inclined his head for emphasis, offered me more coffee. I accepted. He poured more for himself, added milk and sugar. “We’ve got to investigate these losses closely in the next few weeks, and that will require the utmost discretion.” He gave me a direct and meaningful look. “Now here’s the tricky part. According to the guidelines of something called the ACRL—”

“What’s that?”

“The Association of College and Research Libraries. They mandate prompt and full disclosure of stolen rare books and manuscripts, in part to prevent them from being purchased by unwary dealers and collectors. Now, I know this isn’t strictly kosher, but I need to buy a little time here. We’re talking to an alum about donating a major book collection. If word of these thefts got out right now…”

I got it. “Rachel asked me to keep the loss of the dime novels to myself, and I’ll keep quiet about this as well.”

“Good.” Avery sat back in his chair. “As you can imagine, anything concerning our collections, which, as you know, are exceptional, involves extremely delicate issues of public relations, such as donor confidence and perceptions of campus safety. Most likely I’m going to have to take a drastic step, a step not everyone will be comfortable with. And, oddly enough, as it turns out, I may have to request that you…” He sat immobile for a second or two, then jumped up and strode over to the fireplace to poke at the glowing logs. The iron poker had an Enfield crest wrought into the handle. He spoke with his back to me. “Anyhow, everything has to be done on the q.t. If I might ask you, for the good of the college, and as a personal favor to me—”

I held up a hand. I didn’t think I needed to hear the rest of it. “Silent as the grave,” I said. “I promise.”
Personal favor to you. You slick piece of work.…
A two-year-ago kiss hung heavy in the air between us. I could still feel its ghost on my lips. Then I thought about Charlie and rose from my chair. “Well, if that’s all—”

He turned and gave me a long, blue, hooded look, then sighed. “Yes, Karen, that’s all. For now.”

***

I pulled into the driveway later than evening, and my headlights raked over a battered grey Jetta. Amanda! What the hell? What was my daughter doing home on a weeknight in the middle of her final semester at Georgetown?

“Amanda?” I called, as I twisted the key in the kitchen door. “Honey?”

She came out of her bedroom in black leggings and a navy sweatshirt, frowsy with sleep although it was only eight o’clock. “Hey, Mom, I was worried about you. Where’ve you been?”

“Hey, Kid,” I mimicked, throwing my arms around her and squeezing. “I’m a grown-up. I stay out late.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Her short hair was sticking straight up on top. “But I was looking forward to one of your beef stews.”

I smoothed down the cowlick. “What say I throw together some bacon and eggs? I’ll tell you what I was doing at school, and you can tell me what you’re doing home.”

My daughter was uncharacteristically subdued. “I’m tired, is all. It’s been a rough semester, what with my thesis, and the course work, and the waitressing.” Amanda had worked part-time throughout her college years to help me patch together her tuition, room and board. In spite of generous scholarships, the fees for her top-of-the-line university were more than an assistant professor’s salary could handle. “I just had to take a break, Mom. Called in sick at Giorgio’s, and I’ll cut a couple of days’ classes.” She gave me a defensive look. “I haven’t missed a class yet this semester, and I’m beat.”

“You don’t have to convince me, Sweetie,” I said, giving her another hug. “A little hooky never hurt anyone. But are you sure you’re okay?”

I was worried. Amanda was pale and quiet. She picked at her eggs, and almost fell asleep at the table. And then my usually up-half-the-night daughter went to bed again at nine and immediately fell asleep.

***

The next morning Charlie and I sat on the living room floor pulling books out of the old glass-front bookcases I’d picked up years ago in a North Adams junk shop. The sun cast blocky shadows on the faded rag rug. A fire glowed in the wood stove. It was a cozy domestic scene. Although we weren’t officially living together, Charlie and I spent as much time with each other as we possibly could. We’d talked about me moving into Charlie’s small frame house on a side street in Northampton. Or, rather, Charlie had talked about it. What he really wanted, of course, was The Big Commitment, but the mere idea of another marriage freaked me out at some deep, dark level I couldn’t bear to probe.

Maybe Jill was right; maybe I did suffer from a congenital inability to commit. After our conversation at Rudolph’s, Earlene had called to apologize for being so pushy about me and Charlie.

“I’ll tell you what,” I’d said to her, “I’ll take the wedding cake. But no wedding.”

“But, really, isn’t your relationship with that beautiful cop already the same thing as being married?” Earlene had queried. “Don’t tell me you don’t worry about him all the time, anyhow.” She laughed. “Only this way, if he dies in the line of duty, you don’t get the pension and the insurance.”

I shivered, my blood suddenly frozen. “Jee-zus, Earlene,” I’d snapped at her. “I thought you were going to butt out of my personal life.”

***

“Hey, is this the book you’ve been looking for?” Charlie had discovered a copy of a brightly covered Hardcastle novel shoved behind other books. “
Bad Attitude
?” He held it up. The lime-green and jonquil jacket featured the Hardcastle motif, a stylized woman aiming a huge hand gun at the reader.

“No. The one I’m looking for is titled
Rough Cut
. But put that one aside, too.”

“Sure thing.” He placed the book on the coffee table, lowered his hand and ran it slowly down my leg, then cuffed my ankle. Umm.

“What’re you guys doing?” Amanda wandered out from her bedroom, still in her leggings and sweatshirt. Awkward with Charlie in his Mom’s-boyfriend role, she gave him a high five instead of a hug, then plopped down on the couch and picked up the TV remote.

I sat up straighter. “We’re looking for a book called
Rough Cut
. You remember it, Hon? Hardcover. Hot pink with a gun.”

“One of those Kit Danger books?”

“Yeah.”

“I read them all when I was—oh—maybe, thirteen.” Her voice grew reminiscent, as if that were decades in the past, instead of a scant nine years. “Decided right then and there I was gonna be a hot-shot private eye when I grew up.”

Charlie grinned. “You’d be a natural.”

I cast him an evil look. “Over my dead body. I didn’t raise this girl so she could put herself in harm’s way.”

Amanda squinted at me. I changed the subject before we could take the discussion any further. “So, you have any idea where my copy of
Rough Cut
went?”

After a short beat of silence, she said, “You kidding, right? We’ve moved twice, no, three times, since then. What do you want it for?”

“Sunnye Hardcastle’s going to be on campus for a conference next weekend. I’m her escort.”

“Cool! Wish I was gonna be around. I’ve never met an author.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, I’ve met this one. You’re not missing much. She’s a pain in the ass, even if she is a terrific writer.
Rough Cut
was her first novel. I want to ask her to sign it.”

Charlie had a flannel rag I’d cut from one of my old pajamas and was dusting each book so carefully you’d think he was checking for fingerprints. “Your mother’s convinced she’s got a gold mine hidden away somewhere,” he said, “a rare first edition. She’s gonna sell it and put you through grad school.”

Amanda’s dark eyes momentarily became opaque; she dropped her gaze. “Grad school? I don’t think I—” My daughter paused for a few seconds. Then she shook her head as if to clear it, and recovered her usual aplomb.

Charlie stacked the dusted books in piles by author. By the time he was done, I’d have the cleanest and best organized library in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

“I hate to say this, Mom,” Amanda nonetheless said, “but when we moved up here from the city, didn’t you donate, oh, maybe, seven or eight boxes of books to the Salvation Army?”

“Ouch! I think you’re right. But would I have put the Hardcastle book in with them?”

“Who knows? She shrugged and clicked on the TV. “You were in a real slash-and-burn mood.” She began channel surfing.

I took a closer look at my daughter: Was she losing weight? “How about some oatmeal, Amanda? I’ll make it the old way, with butter and brown sugar.”

“Oatmeal with butter and brown sugar,” Charlie repeated. “And raisins? I haven’t had that since I was a kid.”

“You got it now,” I said, grinning at him.

“Maybe later for me,”Amanda replied. “I don’t have much appetite.” She clicked through another half-dozen channels. “Oh, look, a rerun of Cagney and Lacey. Cool!”

***

That afternoon, Charlie watched the football game, Amanda dozed, and I picked up
Tough Times.

“So, you think you can play with the big boys, Danger. Well, you got another think coming.”

“I’m no hard guy like you, Vecchio, but I’ve got what it takes. And more.”

“Oh, yeah. Like you’re gonna pull that trigger. Little girl like you. Anything happens to me, and my boys’ll be all over you like shit on toilet paper.”

Kit gave him the steely glance she reserved for heartless thugs. “Bang, bang,” she said. Then she pulled the trigger. The bullet whipped just past his left ear, as she intended. It zipped across the vast empty factory space and embedded itself with a thunk in a discarded wooden packing case. Jack Vecchio made his final move—a recoil that sent him back against the catwalk’s low steel rail. Coolly, Kit watched him stumble, overbalance, and fall headfirst, a long, fatal drop, to spatter like a squashed white spider on the unforgiving concrete floor.