The Echo of Old Books(22)
By design, Wright’s book hadn’t included a single word containing the letter E—the most common letter in the English language. Legend had it, the author had tied down the E key on his typewriter, assuring that no stray instances of the vowel would appear in the manuscript. The book had barely raised an eyebrow in its day but had eventually earned its own curious brand of notoriety. Today, a collector lucky enough to locate a copy would be looking at a $5,000 price tag.
Was it possible she’d stumbled onto something of that sort? Possibly. But it didn’t explain the echoes. No amount of clever writing could account for what she felt when she touched them. The echoes weren’t a gimmick. They were real, dark and visceral aftershocks from the past. But whose past?
Her hands went quiet as she imagined Regretting Belle and Forever, and Other Lies being pulled from their shelves and packed into boxes, bound for Kevin’s store, with its lava lamps and Bakelite radios. And now they’d found their way to her. Was it possible there was a reason she’d been the one to rescue them from Kevin’s back room? That she was meant to solve the mystery?
The thought continued to nag as she picked up a bookbinding knife and made her first cut, then carefully detached the front and back boards from the text block. It was an intriguing idea, but she had next to nothing to go on. None of the characters had proper names, and there wasn’t much she could do with names like Belle and Cee-Cee. There was Goldie, of course, but that, too, appeared to be a nickname. But hadn’t Belle mentioned that everyone in New York knew Goldie’s name? Surely that was worth looking into. How many women had owned newspapers in 1941?
She felt a fizz of excitement as she made a beeline for the shop’s journalism section. It was probably a long shot, but it was a place to start. Sadly, the journalism shelf contained exactly eight books, all of them to do with foreign correspondents during the first and second World Wars, including a tired copy of A Moveable Feast, a rather nice edition of Hemingway on War, and a copy of The Face of War by Martha Gellhorn, Hemingway’s third wife. Not surprising. Frank had been fascinated by all things Hemingway.
She checked American history next, but most of the titles dealt with either war or politics. Moving on to commerce and industry, she found plenty of books on mining, railroads, and the auto industry, but nothing to do with the newspaper business.
This was clearly a job for Ruth Truman. In fact, Ruth should have been her first call. Though now part-time, she’d chalked up nearly thirty years as a librarian and was an absolute godsend when it came to research.
Ashlyn flipped through her Rolodex, located the number for the Portsmouth Public Library, and picked up the old black receiver.
“Good morning. Ms. Truman speaking. How may I help you?”
Ashlyn found herself smiling. Ruth Truman sounded exactly the way a librarian was supposed to sound: capable, courteous, and crisply efficient. “Hey, Ruth. It’s Ashlyn from An Unlikely Story.”
“Ashlyn. It’s nice to hear from you, dear. It’s been a while.”
“Since I pestered you, you mean?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m always happy to help if I can. What is it you need?”
“I’ve run across a book that I’m trying to trace. The title is Regretting Belle, but I don’t know who wrote it. And I don’t mean I’m trying to find the book. I actually have the book. But there’s no author name anywhere. No copyright page. Nothing. It’s completely anonymous.”
“And you hope I can tell you who wrote it?”
“Actually, I’m hoping you can help me identify one of the characters. A woman who went by the nickname Goldie.”
“Hmm. Regretting Belle and Goldie. That isn’t much to go on. What else have you got?”
“She lived in New York and owned a string of newspapers in 1941. That’s all I know, really. Oh, and she was kind of . . .” She paused, searching for an age-appropriate word. “Loose,” she finally supplied. “She liked young men—a lot.”
“Well, bully for her,” Ruth shot back with a chuckle. “Nice to know someone was having fun back then.”
“So what do you think? Is it possible to track down this mystery woman with so little to go on?”
“Well, I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll do my damnedest. Just let me make sure I have it all: 1941. Goldie somebody or other from New York. Owned a string of papers and liked ’em young. Sound about right?”
“Sounds exactly right.”
“Okay. Let me start digging. I’m by myself at the desk this week, so it might not be right away, but if her name’s in print, I’ll find it.”
“You’re a peach, Ruth. I owe you huge.”
Ashlyn had no more than hung up when she heard the bells on the shop door jangle. She looked up, surprised to see Kevin. “What are you doing here in the middle of the day? Playing hooky?”
“I was out to grab lunch, so I thought I’d bring you this.” He reached into his back pocket, extricating a bit of paper.
Ashlyn frowned at the folded envelope he handed her. “What is it?”
“Look at it. Not in it—at it.”
She unfolded it, scanning the neatly typed address: Richard Hillard. 58 Harbor Road. Rye, NH. She looked up, perplexed. “What is it?”
“I ran across it at the bottom of one of the boxes the mystery guy brought in. Wasn’t sure if you still needed to get a hold of him, but I thought I’d bring it by.”