Cracked to Death (4 page)

Chapter 4

 

After Savannah closed up Webb's, she hopped back in her car and noticed the box of old books on the passenger seat.

Rats! I've got an appointment with Haslam's Book Store.
She checked her watch. The watch showed five minutes past her scheduled meeting time with the bookstore's owner. She took the quickest route there and sped down the alleyway behind all the businesses along Central Avenue. Savannah pulled up to the largest bookstore for new and used books in Florida. Last week she had called to arrange this meeting to determine if her grandfather's collection of motorcycle repair manuals would be of interest to the owner for the store's used book collection.

The seriously old manuals had been collecting dust in the living-room bookcases at home, and they could be rare and valuable. A little cash windfall to offset the many expected expenses of opening the studio would be welcome. She parked by the outbuilding at the back of the bookstore, climbed out of her car, and knocked on the wooden door.

It opened, and a wiry gray-haired man with a charming smile walked out into the graveled parking lot. “You must be John's girl, Savannah.” He extended his hand.” I'm Ray Hirst. Where are those old motorcycle manuals we talked about over the phone?”

Savannah shook his hand with a firm grip. “Hi. I'm sorry to be late.” He waved a hand to indicate that it was no problem. She pointed to her Mini. “The books are right here. Should I carry them into the—”

“No, no, no!” Ray waved both hands in a stop motion. “No offense, Savannah. I'm sure you're a tidy housekeeper, but I need to examine them outside, in the air, first.”

Savannah wrinkled her brow in confusion.

“Wait,” Ray said as he opened the passenger door. “Just a second.” He bent down to the box of books and sniffed deep and loud. He straightened up and smiled. “I needed to make sure they weren't steeped in smoke and pet odors or, even worse, moldy.”

“Oh, of course. I didn't even consider that.”

“These are in great shape. Where have they been?”

“In the living room, for as long as I can remember. Before that they would have been in Grandpa Roy's store. It's the same building that Webb's Glass Shop occupies now.”

Ray picked out one of the manuals and opened it to the middle. “Are all the volumes in as good condition as this one?”

“Yes. Grandpa Roy was very fussy with them. Dad said he would wash his hands before picking them up to use as a reference. They were very expensive and were critical to the success of Grandpa Roy's motorcycle repair business.”

“They don't make them like this anymore. In fact, they don't print these at all. The manufacturers today publish all their information digitally and post it on the Internet. It's sad.” Ray shook his head slowly. “How many more do you have?” He closed the old manual and tucked it under his arm.

“There are about thirty more in the same or better condition. Are they worth anything?”

“Difficult to say.” He rubbed his chin. “If you could leave these with me, I have some contacts who specialize in repair manuals. I'll have them give me an appraisal, and I'll get back to you.”

Savannah smiled and propped a hand on her hip. “But do you think they're worth something?”

He returned her smile with an added twinkle. “In this condition, I think you could be looking at either no value at all versus up to several hundred each. Maybe more for the rare ones.”

Savannah smiled wider. “That's exciting. It's a shame to keep them out of circulation if someone can use them to restore vintage motorcycles. That would make me happy.”

Ray started to walk back to the outbuilding, which was used for storage. “I'll let you carry them, if you don't mind. I should know something in about a week.”

After she carried the box of manuals for Ray, she looked across the alley at the main building.

Haslam's Book Store opened in 1933, during the Depression. It had been on the corner of Central Avenue and Twentieth Street since the early seventies. Today the third and fourth generations of the Haslam family were in charge of the new and used books stuffed on the overburdened shelves of the sprawling corner store. Savannah and her dad had spent many Saturday afternoons foraging among the crowded stacks, searching for the political thrillers he enjoyed and the science fiction series she preferred.

Savannah entered the main building. The owner's son-in-law Raymond stood at the reference desk, situated more than halfway down the main aisle of the store. As she made her way over to him, the smell of the old books stacked on the desk's surface made her feel welcome.

“Hi, Raymond. How are you?”

Raymond looked up, and his youthful face brightened into a thousand-kilowatt smile. “Savannah, I've haven't seen you in here for quite a long time, not since you left for that fancy glassblowing studio in Seattle. How are you doing with your dad's shop?”

“Reasonably well, thank you. We are still teaching lots of students, and the commission work is steady. How's the bookstore?”

“It looks like we're going to weather this latest tempest in a teapot—the ebook threat. It seems, in the long run, people still like to read and hold actual books.”

“What do you mean?” Savannah asked.

“Having a staff of booksellers who can recommend what you want to read next is preferable to an artificial algorithm based on who knows what kind of voodoo. It looks like people are ready to support a bookstore that helps customers choose their next book. A book that the clerk has actually read.”

“Speaking of actual books . . .” Savannah folded her arms across her chest and leaned back a bit. “I seem to remember a section on antiques and collectibles.”

“Definitely. What are you looking for?”

“A student brought in a couple of curiously old cobalt-blue bottles. My friend Robin was able to get a preliminary value for them by comparing them to similar bottles, but I would like to date them accurately. Do you have anything that might be useful?”

Raymond scratched the back of his head and looked up at the ceiling. “I recall a large red volume down the second aisle, toward the back, that provides information on vintage bottles. It includes a small section, an illustrated history about glass bottles and their origins. I remember when a young lady brought it in. It was part of an estate sale over on Snell Isle. The last living relative of the owner—a niece, I think it was. It might be helpful.”

“Thanks. I'll give it a look.”

Savannah browsed as she made her way toward the back of the store. She was followed discreetly by one of the two cats that lived in Haslam's. Beowulf was a ghostly brown and tan tabby with a pleasant habit of rubbing against your calves when you were looking at books. He would be deterred only if you continued to move through the store. If you stopped to browse, the toll was to pet Beowulf. Savannah reached down to give him a thorough scratching, and he rose up on his two hind feet and nipped her hand!

“Ouch!” yelped Savannah. “What's wrong? That's not nice. You're supposed to be the nice one.”

Beowulf slowly walked to the back of the store and sat down near the antiques and collectibles aisle. Savannah walked over, and where she expected to see the volume Raymond had recommended, all she found was a gap in the row of books.

Beowulf looked up at Savannah and immediately began to wash his back leg with an air of concentrated innocence.

Savannah searched through the books shelved in the adjacent section but found nothing remotely helpful. She walked back to the reference desk.

As she approached, Raymond asked, “Did you find the right section?”

“Yes, I'm sure I found the right shelf. Are you sure you remember the glass book? I can't seem to find it.”

“I never forget an acquisition,” he muttered. “I remember that I entered it into the store's computerized inventory. Dad doesn't like to touch anything the least bit technical, so I do all the data entry.” He came out from behind the desk and made his way back to the antiques and collectibles section of the store. He looked directly at the gap in the shelf. “It was right there. Looks like it's gone. Let me check the database to see if it's been sold.”

He returned to the reference desk, where he started tapping on the keyboard with amazing speed, and then he frowned. “It hasn't been sold. Either it's been misplaced within the store or someone has stolen the book!”

Chapter 5

 

Savannah drove down her redbrick street, still thinking about Amanda's abrupt exit from the shop and her absentminded behavior. Forgetting to turn on the kiln was an obvious indication of anxiety. Maybe Amanda needed additional positive feedback to instill confidence.

The tired driveway to her parents' bungalow crunched under the tires of her smoke-gray Mini Cooper. She needed to get an estimate for repairing or replacing the driveway, but she dreaded the sticker shock. It would have to wait until the studio began to show some positive cash flow from the new glass students.

It had been a tough decision to purchase her first new car. It had seemed like such an extravagance. But losing both her parents had taught her to live wholly in the present.

No sooner had Savannah opened the car door and stepped up onto her wide front porch than “Savannah!” wafted across the street. Savannah turned to see her neighbor, Mrs. Webberly, wave a yoga-toned arm to catch her attention. “Savannah, I'm so glad you're home. Rooney's been howling nonstop while you've been gone.”

As if he had heard what she said, Rooney let loose a bloodcurdling howl as he stood at the heavy oak front door.

“And there he goes again. Now you can hear exactly what he's been doing.” Mrs. Webberly shrugged her shoulders. “I don't understand. I took him for a walk in the morning and in the afternoon, as well. Weimaraners are not typically needy dogs, although like any young dog, they need a certain amount of socialization. He must be upset about something.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Webberly. I'm sorry he's been a pest today. I'll try to figure out what's bothering him.” She smiled. “He is quite a challenge. It doesn't help that there aren't any agility meets in the summer. Those obstacle-course trials seem to keep him calm.”

The agility training had also been good for their bonding. Rooney had been her father's puppy and wasn't immediately keen to put aside his grief and accept Savannah. They were a crack team now, and she expected they would win their agility competitions this fall.

She opened the door and was again confronted with a mournful howl, which slowly turned into a soft whimper. “What on earth is bothering you?” Savannah cuddled the big blue-gray dog and looked into his warm amber eyes. She gave him a vigorous rubbing that extended from behind his ears to his lean, athletic shanks. “Let's go for a short run before Edward gets here. Does that enormous wiggle mean yes?”

Savannah changed into running clothes and left the house with Rooney in tow. They started running and went on their routine two-mile neighborhood loop. He relaxed into the run after the first few blocks and returned to his normal cheerful self.

When they got back home, Savannah took a quick shower, and afterward, she slipped on a white eyelet summer dress. In the kitchen, she put on her apron, tied it in the back, and then pulled open the refrigerator door. The organic New York strip steaks had been in a thin marinade of Worcestershire sauce, olive oil, aged balsamic vinegar, and a spice mixture since last night. From the vegetable drawer, she grabbed three ears of fresh corn, along with two small sweet potatoes and a bag of fresh baby salad greens.

“Thank goodness for prepackaged greens, Rooney. I'm more a meal assembler than a real cook.”

She looked at the kitchen clock. The invitation was for seven—plenty of time for a simple meal. She washed the potatoes, slathered them with olive oil, and put them in the countertop toaster oven. She stripped the silk from the corn, then dumped the ears into a steaming pot of salted and seasoned water. After placing two dinner plates and a basket of sourdough dinner rolls on top of the toaster oven to warm, Savannah put her mother's heavy iron skillet over a medium flame to preheat it.

She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, with her hands on her hips. The table sat ready, with plain white service pieces and silver cutlery. Rooney swung his head from side to side, following her every step. With the feeble hope that feeding Rooney would dampen his interest in the unusual feast being prepared, Savannah fed him an extra portion of his favorite wet food.

“Have I done everything right?”

Rooney sat and tilted his head. His amber eyes were clear and curious.

“I hope so. You know I'm better at reservations than at actually cooking a dinner. Except for your dinner, of course. But you're too nice to complain.”

His tail thumped against the wooden floor, a gesture she took as approval.

At ten minutes to seven, Savannah swirled a generous pat of butter in the skillet and waited until it had melted fully and a slight bit of foam had disappeared. The steaks sizzled and popped in the hot skillet and filled the kitchen with a savory, mouth-watering aroma. She placed the cooked corn and sweet potatoes on the warmed plates and then mixed equal shares of a local honey and grainy mustard in a small servicing dish. She carried the dinner rolls, the dressing, and the salad bowl to the table.

The doorbell rang, and Rooney barked a friendly woof. Savannah checked her lipstick in the framed wooden mirror by the front door and ran a hand through her black curls. She opened the door wide.

Edward stood there, grinning, and held a bottle of red wine, along with a white bakery box tied with curly red ribbon. “Am I too early?”

“No, not at all.”

She stepped back to let him into the house. As he passed by, he planted a drive-by kiss, and then he made his way into the living room.

She smiled. “The wine opener is on the counter. You do like your steak medium rare, right?”

“Too right!” He expertly wielded the opener and poured the fragrant Médoc into the large goblets on the table. He brought them over to the stove and handed one to Savannah.

“Here's a toast to a beautiful wine, a beautiful steak, and a beautiful cook.”

They clinked their glasses and then sipped with their eyes locked.

Savannah's eyes sparkled over the rim of her goblet. “Fine speech, but you're cooking breakfast.”