She had jotted down two names last night. Kenneth Graham, who’d helped her find a buyer for a rather fine copy of The Vicar of Wakefield she had acquired at an estate sale last year, and Mason Devaney, a Boston shop owner, who periodically penned articles on literary sleuthing.
Ashlyn checked the clock over the workbench. It was still a bit early for phone calls. Maybe she’d get some work in before the shop opened and put the calls off until lunchtime, when she was more likely to reach someone.
She had just donned a pair of white cotton gloves, preparing for a more thorough examination of The Hidden Staircase, when she heard the shop phone ring. Groaning, she peeled off the gloves and sprinted up front. Frank had been adamant about not being disturbed while working on bindery projects, but he’d had staffers to tend the shop while he worked in the back. For now, at least, she was on her own.
“Good morning. An Unlikely Story,” she answered, summoning a modicum of morning cheer.
“I was told you rang.”
“Kevin?”
“At your service.”
“I thought you and Greg were in the Bahamas.”
“We were. But so was Tropical Storm Isidore, so we scrammed while we could still get a flight out. Just as well. It was wicked hot, and we were both red as lobsters. Anyhow, I’m back, and I’m calling, though not because you asked me to. I was in the back room just now, going through some boxes that came in the day before we left, and I found something you might be interested in.”
“What?” She didn’t ask if it was a book. Of course it was a book. “What did you find? And how much is it going to cost me?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. All I’ll say is you’re definitely going to want to come by.”
“Just tell me, Kevin.”
“Now, where’s the fun in that?”
“Can you at least tell me what we’re talking about? Do I bring a checkbook or the title to my car?”
Kevin barked out a laugh. “We’re not talking Gutenberg Bible. I just said you’d be interested. And you will be. I’d bring it myself but I’m alone, which means you’ll have to come fetch it.”
“Fine. But you’re being awfully mean. You know I can’t get there until I close.”
“See you at six, then.”
There was an abrupt click and the line went dead. Ashlyn stared at the heavy black receiver, realizing that in her excitement, she’d forgotten to ask him about the guy from Rye.
At six on the dot, Ashlyn locked up the shop and walked the two blocks to Going Twice. Kevin was behind the counter, working on a sheet of price tags.
He glanced up at her with a bland smile. “Hello. What brings you by?”
“Very funny.”
“Hey, my vacation got canceled. You have to let me have some fun.”
“Are you about done?”
“Okay,” he said, feigning a pout. “But you’re going to wish you were nicer to me.” He grinned conspiratorially as he reached beneath the counter, eventually producing a small book with marbled blue boards. “Ta-da!”
Ashlyn felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle as she took the book from his hand. It was an exact copy—or very nearly exact—of the one she now carried in her tote. The same size, the same Moroccan leather, the same hubbed spine. Though not quite the same boards, she saw on closer inspection. The blue was a shade off, a little greener. She peered at the spine, at the title embossed in gold.
Forever, and Other Lies.
Once again, the author’s name and publisher were absent—as were any traces of a discernible echo. She was tempted to flip back the cover then and there, to verify what she suspected lay within, but she didn’t need to. She already knew what she was holding, and she wanted to be alone when she finally opened it.
“I can’t believe it. It’s nearly identical. Where did you find it?”
“The guy—the one from Rye—brought in four more boxes the day I left for vacation. I didn’t have a chance to go through them until today. I knew you’d want it the minute I saw it. What did you ever make of the first one?”
“Nothing yet. No one’s ever heard of it. It’s like the book never existed.”
“That’s weird, right?”
“Pretty weird, yeah.” And now there were two, which probably meant it was about to get even weirder. “I made a few calls to people I thought would be able to help, but so far, no luck. Maybe I’ll do better with this one. What do you want for it?”
“Don’t you want to at least have a flick through? To make sure it’s what you think it is?”
Ashlyn shook her head. “I’m already sure. How much?”
Kevin scrubbed at his chin, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I’ve never once held you up for a book. In fact, I gave you the last one. But this is different. You want this one. You need this one.”
Ashlyn regarded him with surprise. She’d never known him to have a mercenary streak, but he wasn’t wrong. She did need this one. “All right. Name your price.”
“It’s yours . . . ,” he said, pausing for effect, “for a box of cocoa bombs from Seacoast Sweets. And don’t try to haggle. That price is firm.”
Ashlyn broke into a grin. “You’ve got yourself a deal. I think they’re already closed, though. Can I send them tomorrow? I promise I’m good for it.”
“Fine. But remember, I know where you live.”
“Also . . . I need one more favor.”
Kevin responded with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re becoming a problem child.”
“I know. But this is easy. The guy. The one who brought in the boxes. I was hoping you might have a number for him. I’m not going to harass him or anything. I just want to ask him a few questions.”
Kevin’s face went blank. “Afraid I can’t help you there. All I know is his father died a few months back and he’s been cleaning out the old man’s house. Brought in some pretty choice stuff, too, including some great old vinyl I’ll probably end up keeping for myself.”
“Didn’t you have to write him a check for all that choice stuff?”
“Normally I would, but the guy wouldn’t take a nickel. Said he didn’t want to think of it all sitting in a heap at the dump. Wasn’t here fifteen minutes, and that’s both trips combined.”
“Don’t you have to keep records, like a pawnshop?”
“Nah. That’s in case someone’s trying to fence stolen property—jewelry, stereos, that sort of thing. No one’s going to jail for an old Partridge Family album. For a while, I scribbled names and addresses in one of those old composition books, but eventually, I got lazy and quit. Weird stuff does happen, though. Relatives show up demanding Grandma’s stuff back after you’ve shelled out money for it. It can get messy. Come to think of it, maybe I should buy a new composition book. That doesn’t help you now, though. Sorry.”
Ashlyn waved off the apology. “Never mind. It was a long shot. I’ll just keep sleuthing.”
“You think they might actually be worth something?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I’ve just never run across anything like . . . whatever this is. I’m not very far into the first book, but what I’ve read so far feels so personal. Like it was written for an audience of one.”