Were we dating? No.
Would we? Hard to tell. I was not oblivious to how he evaded a direct answer that morning when I brought it up.
And I certainly hadn’t expected to learn about Calvin’s PTSD. That worried me. I had never seen a man break down so suddenly the way he had last night, and this morning it was like it hadn’t happened. It was like watching a knight put his armor on. Nothing could reach Calvin when he was at work; he was focused solely on his job as a detective. But how long can a knight endure the weight before it becomes too heavy and he has to remove pieces of his chainmail? Before he must make himself vulnerable in order to breathe?
I had learned through my initial research on Calvin that he had left the military just a few years ago, but how many times in those years had he awakened like he had last night? It had to be exhausting. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I literally could not imagine what he was going through, but it hurt to see him suffer alone. I decided while sitting at a booth in the back that once this shitstorm of a case was over, I’d approach Calvin about seeking help.
A soldier shouldn’t fight a war alone. There were people who could help him.
I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and tugged it free. Text from Calvin Winter. I smiled and unlocked the phone with a swipe, not sure what to expect after our last conversation.
Forensics at apartment now.
What a romantic.
Another text popped up on my phone while I had been trying to peck my way through a response. Beth Harrison. Wow, wasn’t I the popular sort today?
Celebrate the Master of Horror and Macabre with a surprise unveiling! Sure to capture the hearts of the literary world! Tonight at Good Books, 7:00!
What?
I didn’t bother with texts and immediately called Beth. “What the hell is that text about?” I asked when she picked up.
“Good morning to you too, Sebby.”
“Good morning. What surprise unveiling?”
“Did your father never teach you what
surprise
meant?”
“Beth, come on. What is this about?”
“Oh good grief, Sebastian. It’s. A. Surprise. Come by tonight, understand? I mean it. Don’t miss this. It’s going to be huge.”
“In what way?” I was almost hesitant to ask.
“Great for business. Really great.”
That’s when I began to wonder… If I didn’t have the copy of
Tamerlane
in with my antique books, could it have accidently ended up with Beth’s secondhand paperbacks? All of this time, the killer had been targeting antique shops because it made sense that that would be where the book would have ended up.
But it was so easy to mistake
Tamerlane
as nothing but junk.
Kate had told me about the antique dealer in the eighties who sold it for a whopping
fifteen bucks
. They clearly didn’t know who either a Bostonian was, or thought it to be a facsimile.
Just a little six-inch pamphlet.
Shit.
“Beth, I have to go. I’ll call you back.”
“You’re going to come tonight, right?”
“Yes, of course,” I quickly answered before saying good-bye and hanging up. I called Calvin next.
“I don’t have time,” he stated upon answering my call. His tone was very official. Man, he could turn off that sweet side real fucking fast.
“It’ll be quick. Have you confirmed that Mike was one of the antique shops that put in a bid for the estate’s book collection?”
A moment’s pause. “Sebastian,” he said quietly. “What did I tell you this morning?”
“Just answer me. You’ve told me everything else.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“
Calvin
.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the diner, behaving like a good boy and waiting for Duncan.”
“Duncan?”
“Andrews. The date. The guy. Come on. Tell me.”
He sighed with such a level of exasperation that if I hadn’t known better, I’d tell him he needed to get laid. “Yes, Sebastian. He did.”
“And Greg?”
“Seb.”
“He didn’t, right?”
“All three of you did.”
That surprised me. “Are you sure about Greg? Was there anything strange about his bid?”
“Other than he offered more than what he appears to be financially capable of,” Calvin said. “Why are you calling?”
My train of thought was halted when I glanced up and saw Duncan stepping inside. He immediately spotted me and waved before hurrying over. “I have to go,” I told Calvin.
“Stop. Sleuthing.” He hung up.
I set my phone down. “Good morning,” I said with a forced smile while looking up at Duncan. My mind was racing a million miles an hour. I didn’t have time for this.
“Good morning! I’m sorry you’ve been waiting.” He removed his hand from behind his back and produced a bouquet of roses. “For you.”
“W-What? Oh—Duncan, this wasn’t necessary.” Now the guilt was coming on hard. I hesitantly accepted the flowers.
“Don’t be silly,” he replied, removing his coat and taking a seat across from me. “It’s the least I can do.”
Least you can do?
“Thank you,” I said slowly.
“So is that… other guy watching your shop today?”
“Other….
Max
?”
Duncan shrugged. “I guess.”
“No. We usually aren’t open on Mondays.”
“That’s good.”
“Why?”
He grabbed his menu, staring hard at the breakfast options. “He just gets to be around you all day.”
“How unfortunate for him.”
A waiter came over and poured us each a mug of coffee before taking orders. Morning sex left me famished, and I was even hungrier after my meeting at the library. I ordered waffles with a side of bacon and briefly wondered what Calvin would have ordered. After seeing how he could put pizza away when denied a meal, I’d imagine he could have easily eaten two of the waffle specials. Duncan asked for eggs and toast, and the waiter left.
“So,” I said. “What do you do? Are you—you’re not still in school, are you?”
He grinned. “No. I’m not
that
young.”
“Oh?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
I laughed quietly and sipped my coffee. “I don’t remember being twenty-four.”
“How old are you? Twenty-eight?”
“Flattering.”
“Thirty?”
I jutted my thumb up in the air to indicate higher.
Duncan made a face. “You are not.”
“I’m thirty-three,” I said with a smile. “A nice boring age. I’m in bed by ten.”
“You’re not boring!” Duncan insisted. “I think you’re very interesting.”
I bit my tongue as I tried to delicately navigate these dark waters without insulting the guy. “Well, you don’t really know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You do?”
“I know that you’re really smart. You wouldn’t be able to run an antique shop if you weren’t. You like literature too.”
“I also like silly mystery novels,” I pointed out.
“Why do you wear sunglasses so often?” Duncan asked, ignoring my comment.
Had I worn them a lot around him? “I have a sensitivity to light.”
“Your eyes are very pretty. ‘Whose luminous eyes, brightly expressive as the twins of Lœda,’” he quoted with a grin.
“Ah, thanks,” I replied, ignoring the heat rising to my cheeks.
Duncan was still smiling widely, looking terribly excited. “Is your head okay?”
“My head?”
“You got hurt,” he said with a worried tone.
“I’m fine—how did you know it was my head?”
“I heard the bookstore woman mention it.”
“Beth? Ah, yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
Our meals came fairly quickly after. Thank God, because my stomach was about to let out some of those cavernous growls, like a monster from the depths coming up to feed. The waffles were delicious. Warm, with melted butter and syrup. The bacon had just the perfect crunch to it too. I had devoured half of my meal within minutes.
I listened to Duncan talk about books, a subject he was quite passionate about, and gave my polite comments in between bites of food. To be honest, between the bacon and my curiosity over Greg’s large bid that he was financially unable to see through, I was only half paying Duncan any attention.
“Sebastian?”
“Hmm?” I quickly wiped my mouth on a napkin. “Sorry. What?”
“I asked what you were doing this evening.”
Uh-oh. Time to let the guy down. “I was thinking about going to Beth’s shop. She’s having some big book unveiling.”
Duncan tilted his head curiously. “Really…?” He set his fork and knife down. “Can we go together?”
Crap.
“Actually,” I said slowly. “Duncan, you’re a really sweet guy, but I think I’m a little old for you.”
“No, you’re not,” he said simply.
“Well, I mean to say that there may be someone else—”
“But you told me you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“I don’t. Not really. But there was someone I met before you.”
“How?” Duncan asked, with such a desperate tone you’d think I had absolutely broken his heart. “It’s that fucking redhead, isn’t it?”
I blinked in surprise at his tone. “Hey. Come on. Don’t be rude. How do you even know who it is?”
Duncan shook his head and grabbed his scarf and jacket. “I can’t believe you would do this.”
“Do what?” I asked defensively.
“Betray me!”
“Jesus, Duncan. You need to calm down.”
“Shut up!” Duncan looked like he was going to cry. “I’m leaving.” He stood from the booth and left, pulling his coat on as he walked out the door.
That’s how I ended up paying for two meals.
I WAS
waiting for the train at Bryant Park, although where I was going, I wasn’t entirely sure. I could just go to the Emporium, do some work until Beth’s exhibit.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Beth.
Duncan had thrown me off my game!
Beth and her stupid surprise unveiling! Assuming there was in fact, a long lost thirteenth copy of
Tamerlane
being tossed as part of that estate sale, it ended up in one of two places. Either my shop, with the haul of antique books it should have been a part of, or in Beth’s haul of secondhand paperbacks, where it could have easily been mistaken as junk and tossed in. I had to assume, despite never having looked in my boxes at home before someone had taken the opportunity to investigate themselves, that I didn’t have
Tamerlane
. I had to assume I
never
had it.
Why?
Because Beth did. How long had she known, I don’t know, but somewhere along the way, she found it. Being a serious person in the business, she knew who the author was and the goldmine she had stumbled upon. An unveiling of that book for the general public to see, exclusive to Good Books, before putting it up for auction—her brick-and-mortar shop would be safe for years and years to come.
The problem with Beth having the book was that I was pretty sure our killer knew she did too. Otherwise they wouldn’t have broken into her store and I wouldn’t have nearly been killed. And it didn’t matter if there wasn’t evidence as to who it was that snuck into Good Books. It made no sense for it to be anyone but this EAP freak. They’d managed to discover I was the antique dealer with the winning bid for the expensive collection. It should have only been a matter of time for them to determine who won the cheap paperbacks and come to the same conclusion I did.
The fact that our shops were neighbors was just too convenient.
Beth was undoubtedly pulling out all the stops to promote this surprise event. It was like ringing the dinner bell for a hungry bear. The killer would come. He
had
to. He had already killed two people in his fanatical search for the book. He’d have no qualms about offing a third.
But I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I told Beth and she called off the event, the man would just lie in wait and strike when we wouldn’t expect him. If I told Calvin, he’d have cops there and maybe this guy wouldn’t appear. He’d still be out there, still ready and willing to hurt more people—maybe still me, and most certainly Beth. And I might gripe about Beth not paying her account on time, but I’ve known her for years. She’s a good person. A
friend
. I wouldn’t let someone hurt her.
Having the book unveiling go on without commotion might be the only way to corner the killer and catch him. The only way to keep everyone safe, the book in the right hands, and get him behind bars. My number one problem still was: who.
I knew what it was: A thirteenth copy of
Tamerlane and Other Poems
.
I knew why: Money. Lots of it.
I knew where: Beth’s shop.
I knew when: Seven o’clock tonight.
But I didn’t know who.
I had more clues than I knew what to do with, and none of them could draw a line to who the fuck this guy was. My best bet was still Greg. Maybe Calvin had my ex-boyfriend pinned as the most interesting guy, but that was just simply ludicrous.
I had decided where to go.
MARSHALL’S ODDITIES.
I’d never actually been inside. It was an extremely small store—two or three of them would fit inside the Emporium easily. There was only enough space for a few customers to skirt around the displays at a time, but it was empty that Monday afternoon.
Empty, save for myself and Greg Thompson.
He was sitting behind the counter, reading the newspaper, and looked up when the door opened. “Sebastian?”
“Hi.” I looked around the shop as he shut the page he was reading and put his hands on the countertop.
The shop was brightly lit and was starting to annoy the growing headache I had. The shelves weren’t stocked as heavily as my own, but the items were similar. What my returning customers told me of Greg’s business was that he had interesting wares, but was priced higher than what the market asked and wasn’t as knowledgeable on particular subjects. I was full of random facts, for sure, and took it as a compliment that my customers trusted me and my research, despite being one of the younger antique dealers in the city.