“Don’t you want to know about the blank pages?” Nora asked, feigning surprise.
Beck glanced down at the book. “What about them?”
Bobbie never mentioned blank pages in her description and Beck never looked at them. He just made another mistake.
“They’re not nearly as old as the rest of the book. In fact, they were probably made in the twentieth century. Believe me when I say that I was unaware of this when I posted the photos and description. A friend of mine, an expert in antique paper, came by the shop today. I showed him the book, and he told me that it was authentic. Except for the blank pages. They’re not seventeenth-century laid paper. Not even early eighteenth.”
Thunderclouds were gathering in Beck’s eyes. He glared at Nora from beneath his lowered brows and asked, “And your friend could determine this just by looking at the paper?”
“Actually, he used another sense: touch. After rubbing several of the blank pages between his fingers, he explained that the paper is slightly thinner because it’s made of wood pulp instead of flax.” Nora paused for a second to give Beck a chance to digest her falsehood. Then, she barreled on. “Here’s the craziest part. My friend recognized the paper because he saw a sheet just like it last week. Our sheriff asked my friend to examine a piece of evidence in a suspicious death case. The spells in this book must be powerful. I mean, it’s like they infected every piece of paper between the covers.”
Without warning, Beck lunged forward. His face was inches away from Nora’s. She could feel the heat of his breath as he said, “I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I think you should shut up now.”
Stifling an urge to cry out, Nora raised her hands in a submissive gesture. “I just wanted to come clean about those pages. I’m sorry that you had to find out at the last minute. If you still want Cecily’s book, I’ll knock a few hundred off the price. After all, it’s none of my business what you do with those blank pages.”
Beck stood up and edged closer to Nora. He stopped at the chair next to hers, perched casually on its arm, and fixed Nora with an icy stare. “What a strange thing to say to a collector. What would I do with those pages?”
It’s now or never.
Nora blurted, “Forge a grimoire.”
The moment the words left her mouth, her fight-or-flight response kicked in. She wanted to run—to put as much distance between herself and this man as she possibly could. Her body thrummed with adrenaline, but she didn’t move. To Beck, she probably looked like a rabbit in an open field, exposed and paralyzed by fear.
To her surprise, he began to laugh. The sound was devoid of merriment. It held only mockery and arrogance. “You’ve been reading too many fantasies, Book Lady.”
Beck pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. He removed several bills from the wad of cash inside before tossing the envelope on the coffee table. “Your payment. Minus three hundred for your error and another two hundred for springing it on me this late in the game. Feel free to count it.”
Having regained control of the situation, Beck returned to his chair. He sat down and placed the book back in its box. Seeing that Nora hadn’t touched the envelope, he said, “You’re far more trusting than I am.”
It was now Nora’s turn to stare him down. “You didn’t correct me. I said that it was Cecily’s book. I knew her as Celeste, but to you, she was Cecily. She was a gentle, compassionate woman, but you punished her for leaving Still Waters. For having the nerve to defy your wishes.” Nora pointed at him. “I saw you. The night of the festival. I saw you sitting with Bren. I saw the tattoos on your arm. And when I found Bren’s body, I saw the tattoos on her neck. She gave me the book page for a reason, Monkshood81.”
Nora clamped her mouth shut. Had she said too much?
But she’d had no other choice. Beck had been on the verge of leaving, and Nora couldn’t allow that. The sheriff didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest. At this point, he probably couldn’t even question Beck unless it was voluntary. And while Nora was positive that Beck had been with Bren at the festival, she couldn’t swear to it under oath. His face had been cloaked in shadow. He’d been there for a few minutes before slinking away into the night.
He wasn’t slinking away now. His shoulders were pressed firmly against his chair back, and his long fingers were curled over his knees. While his knuckles had gone white, his face and neck were a mottled red. Malice glistened in his eyes.