The Cracked Spine (13 page)

“It's a tragedy, but we'll get through.”

“Don't hesitate tae let me know if any of you need anything. I'm just a couple doors away.”

“Thank you, lad. Now, Delaney, I'm afraid I need yer help. We've got tae find another book. It's one that Edwin promised a customer he'd have delivered earlier this week. That task was understandably forgotten. But, Edwin wants tae get it delivered today. He files things in such a fashion that even he cannae remember where he put it. I'd like tae find it before the morning gets away from us. Good tae see ye, Tom.”

He nodded. “Nice tae meet you, Delaney,” Tom said with another smile. He didn't seem bothered by Rosie's dismissal. “I look forward tae seeing you again.”

“Me too. Nice to meet you too,” I said, forcing my eyes to keep looking up and not down at Tom's knees and sock-clad calves.

As he exited, Rosie seemed to notice the look I gave him when I freed my eyes to roam at will.

Rosie laughed. “I've ken Tom Fletcher for sae many years that I tend tae forget what he can do tae a female's pulse rate. I thought I saw a bit of that being returned by him, in fact. Hmm, not a bad idea, ye and Tom.”

I blushed. “I'm sorry. I need to be more professional. Men don't wear kilts in Kansas. It was an … interesting sight. We have much more serious things going on though.”

“Not a'tall. It's good not tae think about those serious things every single moment.” She paused and blinked hard. “Ye have good timing. I believe he's available, though I wouldnae set my hopes too high. None of us around here think Tom's the type tae settle down and marry.”

“Oh! I hadn't even thought…”

“No, ye'll need tae get past those knees tae do that, I suppose.” Rosie smiled again.

I blushed a little more.

“Ah, dinnae fash yerself, we'll see where it all goes. For now, we need tae find that book. Hamlet's looking in the warehouse, I've been everywhere else, or so I thought. Maybe yer eyes will help me.”

“What's the book?”

“
The Adventures of Roderick Random
by Tobias Smollett, a Scottish writer from the eighteenth century. The copy that Edwin recently acquired isnae valuable, a reprint long after the original publish date, but it's apparently in good condition.”

I'd never even heard of the author, let alone knew any of his characters' words. My mind was blank. There were no voices giving me any sort of indication where the book was hiding. I'd have to rely on other measures of investigation.

I remembered the organization, or anti-organization as it might have been, from the messy shelf in the warehouse. At first I'd thought everything had just been thrown onto it, but in fact there had been a vague method to the mad stacking.

It reminded me of deciphering a code with few tangible connections. I hadn't pinpointed the code exactly, but I'd gained a small sense that there was
something
there, something intuitive that I might not be able to define quite yet, but I had an inkling.

“Give me a second, Rosie,” I said.

She nodded and stood back a little.

I didn't do much of anything except look around, and think about the books on the shelves. There were so many and as I looked even more closely at them it was apparent that there were too many on each shelf, their covers and bindings more squished together than cracked. I added more tasks to my mental to-do list, and then refocused on the current task at hand.

Was there a collection of themes, or perhaps of general ideas? What had Edwin been thinking when he was placing
The Adventures of Roderick Random
on the shelf?

I turned to Rosie and said, “Can you tell me what kind of book it is—comedy, drama?”

“Oh, something silly, I think.”

“A parody?”

“Mebbe.”

“Maybe that's it, or maybe that's it for this one.” I went to the ladder against the left wall and rolled it to the middle of the wall of shelves. It was more than the fact that it might be in the P's for parody. It wouldn't have been that simple, I decided. I climbed three rungs. As my eyes scanned the crowded shelves where the P's (for whatever) should be, I did, in fact see some books by authors with last names that began with the letter, but I skimmed over those.

“Which century again?” I said down to Rosie, who stood at the bottom of the ladder.

“Eighteenth, though I cannae be more helpful than that.”

“That's good.” Without much specific intent I moved my eyes over an imaginary calendar, over the centuries, and when I thought I'd reached the eighteenth, my eyes slowed and only a moment later, and by what I thought was mere beginner's luck, landed directly on the book we were searching for. “Got it.”

“Not possible,” Rosie said.

I wrested the book out from its tight confines and carried it down the ladder and handed it to Rosie. She looked at me with wide, surprised eyes.

“How did ye do that?”

I looked back up the ladder and then at her. “I'm not sure I know, or that I can explain.”

She laughed. “Goodness, Edwin certainly ken what he was doing when he hired ye.”

That moment was even more satisfying than mastering my bus stop correctly. I smiled and didn't even mind the blush that warmed my cheeks.

“Come along. Let's make sure it's in the shape it needs tae be in. Hamlet will be glad tae stop searching.”

“How's Edwin? Everyone?” I asked as I hurried to follow behind her.

“Hamlet and I are staying busy. I havenae spoken to Edwin yet today.”

“Am I late? I'm sorry if I am.”

“Not at all. Ye can set yer own hours. Hamlet and I needed tae stop thinking about Jenny. I rang him at six this morning and he was as awake as I was. We decided tae come intae work.”

“Any news on … the killer?”

“Not that I ken.”

Though my new home was comfortable, I'd also spent a few restless overnight moments. Jenny's murder weighed heavy on my mind too. Somewhere in the middle of the night I'd come to the conclusion that I needed to somehow ease into asking Rosie and Hamlet more questions about Edwin's sister as well as the members of Fleshmarket.

The bell above the front door jingled as we reached the top of this side's stairs, before I could formulate something that might appropriately begin the questioning process.

“Perhaps that's Ed…” Rosie said as we leaned over the balcony and peered toward the door. “I guess not.”

Two men had come into the store and were already making their way toward us. Judging by their uniforms, they were with the police. Their demeanor made it clear that they weren't there for a book.

“Can we help ye?” Rosie said as I followed her back down the stairs.

“We're looking for Edwin MacAlister,” the tall man said.

“He's not here at the moment, but he should be in soon. Can I give him a message?” Rosie said.

The taller of the two was thin, almost lanky, but not quite. He had bags under his light blue eyes, but I didn't think it was because he was tired. They looked like a regular part of his long, pleasant face. His pale skin tone and freckles and red pate gave us lots in common.

The other man wasn't, in fact, all that short, just shorter than his partner. He was taller than my five feet, six inches by a good three inches. His face wasn't as pleasant as the tall man's, but that was because he was trying hard not to be friendly. His brown eyes were suspicious. His wide shoulders topped off what looked like a weight lifter's muscled body that had been wrapped in a thin layer of baby fat. Somehow it wasn't an unpleasant combination on him.

They both wore dark uniforms with insignias that meant nothing to me, but I caught Rosie's eyes scanning them.

“I'm Chief Inspector Morgan, this is Inspector Winters,” the freckled one said, his voice higher than I expected, making his light accent somewhat singsongy. “We have a few questions we'd like tae ask Mr. MacAlister. When exactly is he expected?”

“Any minute now, I s'pose,” Rosie said. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

Inspectors Morgan and Winters looked at each other again before Morgan continued.

“We just have a few questions,” he said. He pulled out a card and handed it to Rosie. “Please ask him tae ring us when he arrives. We'll make further arrangements with him.”

“Certainly.” Rosie took the card.

The inspectors turned to leave, but then stopped by the door. Winters turned around and squinted at Rosie.

“You all work with rare things, correct?” he said.

“Aye, our specialty is the rare book and manuscript trade,” Rosie said.

“How valuable is your stuff?”

Rosie blinked. “The value varies. It depends on sae many things.”

“Some worth millions of dollars?”

“Weel, that would be
extremely
rare,” Rosie said noncommittally.

“And, you have a young lad by the name of Hamlet working here. Correct?”

“Aye,” Rosie said.

“Please have Mr. MacAlister ring us as soon as possible.”

“I will.”

The inspector stood still a moment and waited for her to say more, but she had nothing more to add.

“Thank you,” Morgan said. Winters glared a moment before they left, but he didn't add anything either.

The bell jingled as the door closed behind them.

“That wasnae comforting,” Rosie said.

“Do you think they know about the Folio? Maybe Hamlet did say something to the police. Is that what that was about? Do you know if he talked to them about visiting Jenny?” I stopped speaking. I wasn't exactly easing into anything.

“He did talk tae them, but I doubt that was it. I ken that Hamlet didnae say anything about the Folio. They were probably talking generalities, and were confirming that we ken him. It's well known that Edwin is rich. There are stories, blether … gossip and such. Mebbe they were fishing, but not for anything specific. Mebbe.”

“Rosie, I know he said he didn't, but did Edwin obtain the Folio illegally? He said Birk's story is unbelievable, but maybe there's no real story to tell,” I said.

Rosie sighed and twisted her mouth. “I'm not exactly sure, Delaney. Edwin isnae a criminal, but there are times that I'm certain he's had tae skirt the law tae obtain something that might not be meant tae be owned by an individual person. Ye ken, perhaps the item belongs in a museum or some such thing. Of course, we all have our faults, and as I told ye one of Edwin's is that he's a bit taupie, or scatterbrained. But he is generous and trusting tae a fault. Though he loves his things, he cares for people much more. Sometimes I think it's just a fun, though perhaps careless, game for him, finding and buying things, but he wouldnae harm anyone or … what's an American phrase? Rip them off. No, he wouldnae rip anyone off. Or outright steal.”

“I understand,” I said. “The Folio though. Is it really one that had yet to be discovered?”

“I think so.” Rosie nodded.

“My goodness, that would be something.” My heart fluttered but didn't plummet at the news this time.

Quietly, Othello appeared in my mind and spoke whispery words:
“O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword!”

He was talking about not killing Desdemona because her kiss was so sweet, but I heard him for his willingness not to do what needed to be done. Was I willing to be swayed or just look the other way every now and then? How much of that was I going to be asked to do?

I pushed Othello back to the book he'd come from. It wasn't a stretch that there would be a copy of the play somewhere in the store.

“And the Folio
would
be something tae kill someone for, I suppose,” Rosie added. “I'm sure Edwin will never forgive himself for his sister's murder. He will always think the Folio somehow had something tae do with her death whether it was directly related or not. He will always think that giving it tae her sealed her demise.”

“But it might not have,” I said hopefully.

“We may never ken. He cannae tell the police everything he should tell them tae make sure they investigate thoroughly. Perhaps other people would be placed in harm's way, Delaney, not just him, not just us. Ye've met some of those people at the auction. As time goes on it will become clearer tae ye as to why Edwin can't offer up the information about the Folio to the police. At least not yet.”

“What about those people?” I said. “Do you know Monroe Ross?”

“Aye.”

“He used to date Jenny, right? And he had a black eye at the auction.”

Rosie blinked. “And ye think the black eye might have come from Jenny trying to fight him off?”

“I don't know.”

“I dinnae think so, Delaney,” Rosie said, but she paused thoughtfully before she continued. “They were together many years ago. Monroe used to brawl in the pubs a bit. Mebbe that's what happened to him.”

“Edwin said that was a long time ago. That he hasn't done that in years. Monroe said he ran into a door, but I didn't believe him.”

“Aye, but … no, I dinnae think he was in the pubs. Let's talk tae Edwin about it.” She turned and started walking toward the stairs. “Besides, if any of the Fleshmarket members had reason tae kill Jenny, it was probably a woman named Genevieve. Was she there?”

“Genevieve Begbie? Yes, she was there. Why would she have wanted Jenny dead?” I hurried behind Rosie.

“Och, that was a wee bit of a whid … an exaggeration on my part, but Genevieve never forgave Jenny.”

“For what?” I said as we reached the top of the stairs again.

Rosie stopped and faced me. “Jenny took Monroe's heart, took him right from Genevieve. 'Twas an ugly state of affairs, and 'twas when Monroe left Jenny a year or so later that her downward spiral began. All a long time ago, but I dinnae think Genevieve ever forgave Jenny, and I always thought she was somehow pleased about Ginny's downfall.” Rosie blinked and then waved her hand in front of her mouth. “Delaney, ye've got me sayin' things I shouldnae be sayin', or even thinking about. It wouldnae be possible that Monroe or Genevieve had anything tae do with Jenny's murder. Not possible.”