Murder at Teatime (10 page)

“My legs feel so heavy,” he complained.

“Have you called a doctor?” asked Charlotte.

“No. I gave him a nitro, though. He’ll be all right,” she repeated, as if trying to convince herself. “If you girls could just help me get him to his room …”

“I’ll help you in a minute,” said Charlotte. “First I’m going to call an ambulance.” She didn’t think he looked all right at all. She remembered seeing the bar from the window. The tide was out: an ambulance could make it across.

The nearest hospital was in Bridge Harbor; a regional hospital with an excellent reputation. The availability of good medical care was one reason why the Saunders had chosen Bridge Harbor for their retirement.

“Do you really think that’s necessary, honey?” protested Grace. “He’s always pulled out of these spells before.”

“We’ll let the ambulance crew decide that,” replied Charlotte curtly. “Is there a phone in the library?”

Grace nodded.

With the ambulance on its way, Charlotte returned to the parlor to help Daria and Grace carry Thornhill to his room. He wasn’t especially heavy, but his inability to move his legs made their job difficult. At last they arrived at his spare, cell-like bedroom, its stark appearance relieved only by an engraved portrait of a bewigged Carl Linnaeus, the Swedish botanist.

As they laid him on his narrow bed Charlotte had an uneasy feeling. For some reason she was reminded of the image of the yellow dog that had appeared in the coals of the fire in the witches’ cauldron.

6

“What do you think of this?” asked Stan, sliding the local weekly across the table to Charlotte, who was sipping her morning coffee. “In the box,” he added.

The item was an editorial entitled “The Man Who Would Be King”; it was prominently displayed in a box on the front page next to a story on the proposal to grant a tax abatement to the Chartwell Corporation.

“Once upon a time,” read Charlotte, “there was a beautiful republic by the sea whose people were very poor. Among the republic’s territories was a beautiful island, which was owned by an old hermit. Many pilgrims wanted to visit the island, but there was no bridge. So the people said to the hermit, ‘Let us build a bridge so the pilgrims can visit our island.’ The hermit said, ‘But where will the pilgrims stay?’ The people replied, ‘Let us build an inn where the pilgrims will stay.’ ‘But who will tend the inn?’ asked the hermit. ‘We will tend the inn,’ replied the people. ‘The inn will give us work and make us prosperous again.’ The hermit considered the people’s petition, and then said: ‘I will not allow it. I am now king of all I survey. If I allow the pilgrims to visit my island, I will no longer be king, for they will not obey me.’ And so the people suffered. But the hermit lived happily every after.”

“Kipling, it’s not,” Charlotte said drily as she finished reading. “Isn’t
pilgrim
the Maine expression for a summer tourist?”

Stan nodded. “As if the meaning weren’t clear enough. What they left out of their little fable is how the inn would help the local newspaper:
And when the inn was built, the local bellyache grew fat with revenues from ads designed to separate the pilgrims from their hard-earned cash.
”

“Chamber of Commerce journalism,” commented Charlotte as she gazed out at the sparkling cove, where Gilley’s lobster boat was making its way around Sheep Island from lobster buoy to lobster buoy.

“You can say that again. Well, their nasty little fable may backfire on them when people find out that Frank’s in the coronary care unit. But maybe not. I’m not sure I’d trust the town’s good will to extend that far.”

“I wonder how he’s doing?”

She was answered by a knock on the door. It was Tracey. He had again walked over from the Saunders’ wharf. Charlotte still couldn’t get used to the idea of a place that sometimes was an island and sometimes wasn’t.

“How’s Frank?” asked Stan as they greeted Tracey at the door.

“Not too well,” he replied solemnly. “He’s still in the coronary care unit.”

“Sorry to hear it,” replied Stan. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you, no,” said Tracey. “I have to be getting on up to Ledge House. I wonder if you’d like to come along, Miss Graham? Something’s come up that I think you might be interested in.”

A few minutes later they were hiking up the road toward Ledge House, chatting easily about lobster traps and the other arcana of Maine life. It seemed to be becoming a regular commute for Charlotte—one that she was becoming fond of. As she was of her companion. She and Tracey couldn’t have come from more dissimilar worlds—he had spent his entire life in the same little corner of Maine—but they had much in common, chiefly their devotion to their work. She also sensed behind his round red cheeks and mild blue eyes that familiar strain of Yankee grit, the ballast of the soul that keeps the ship steady in the roughest of waters. For her, it was like coming home again. After a while, they walked in comfortable silence. But if they were silent, nothing else was: birds sang, katydids buzzed, the waves lapped against the bar, the boats in the harbor rumbled, and—a motorcycle engine roared. As they reached the top of the rise, they could see the offender: a long-haired teenager on a trail bike, mindlessly tracing figure eights over and over and over again in a grassy field. So much for the pleasures of nature.

“Who’s that?” asked Charlotte, as the teenager came around again, sending the dirt flying. He was wearing a studded leather jacket and a knapsack emblazoned with the name of a rock group.

“Kevin Donahue, Chuck and Marion’s boy,” explained Tracey. “Another one of those obnoxious teenagers.”

“Well,” she said, turning to Tracey, “what’s up?” Enough with the small talk, already, she thought. (Four decades in Hollywood and New York had coarsened whatever New England courtliness she might have once possessed).

“Daria Henderson just called the station,” he replied. “She went to the vault this morning to get out one of Dr. Thornhill’s rare books. Said something about showing it to you, in fact.” He paused. “But it wasn’t there. All the rare books that were supposed to be in the vault were missing.”

“Missing!” exclaimed Charlotte. “How long have they been gone?”

“She doesn’t know. They weren’t there when she looked for them two weeks ago. She thought Dr. Thornhill had put them somewhere else, which is what she thought at first this time too. But they’re nowhere to be found.”

Ahead, they could see the gardener’s cottage where John lived. “How about John Lewis, the scholar-in-residence?” said Charlotte. “Maybe he was using them over at the gardener’s cottage.”

“She checked with him right off,” said Tracey.

“Does that mean someone’s stolen them?” How ironic that they had just been talking about their vulnerability to theft, she thought.

“Evidently,” he replied in his thick Maine accent.

For such a small place, Gilley Island certainly had its share of trouble, Charlotte mused. She was reminded of the editorial in the newspaper: it did seem that an island was a little kingdom, a symbol of independence and individuality, a minute world of pure perfection. But it was also sinister somehow in its detachment from the strictures of mainland society. When something went awry, it seemed to go more awry on an island. She was reminded of stories she’d heard about the islands off the coast of the Canadian Maritimes: one island inhabited by thrifty, hard-working, God-fearing folk, and its neighbor by utter degenerates, with only a rotten gene or two down the centuries to account for the difference.

The question was, who was responsible for the rotten gene on Gilley Island? Someone with a grudge against Thornhill might commit malicious mischief, but why steal his books? She wondered about reselling them, and concluded it might be very difficult. “What’s the procedure for reporting stolen books?” she asked. “There must be a way of alerting dealers.”

“There is,” Tracey replied as they walked up the driveway to the front door. “Mr. Mayer is going to tell us about it. He’s taking care of it.”

The door was answered by Grace. She said nothing, as if recent events had robbed her of the energy required for her syrupy sweetness. Charlotte and Tracey followed her into the library, a spacious room that ran the full depth of the house. Unlike the parlor, which had a feminine quality, the library was a man’s room, filled with dark wood and capacious club chairs of the kind found in grand old hotels that care more about comfort than image. Despite the brightness of the day, the atmosphere was dusky. Heavy green drapes were drawn over the windows. The books were housed in polished walnut bookshelves marked with brass plates. From the shelves hung engraved portraits of gentlemen in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century dress, presumably the authors of some of the books in the collection. One portrait—of a man in an Elizabethan ruff—had been tilted aside to reveal the rectangular vault concealed behind it. The gleaming stainless steel door stood open, exposing the empty interior.

In the center of the room stood an old English refectory table, at which Daria sat in one of four ornately carved armchairs. She rose to greet them, as did Felix, who had just hung up the telephone.

Tracey introduced himself to Daria and Felix. He then explained Charlotte’s presence: he didn’t expect that they would mind the assistance of someone who had helped solve the famous “murder at the Morosco” case.

“Not at all,” said Felix, lowering his ponderous torso into a large armchair by the fireplace. “The more heads the better. A very interesting case. There was a book written about it, was there not?”

“Yes,” replied Charlotte. “
Murder at the Morosco.
”

“A likely title,” he said with a smile. After lighting his cigar with a great deal of licking, puffing, and lip-smacking, he proceeded with his remarks: “I presume Chief Tracey has filled you in on what’s happened. At his direction, I have notified the proper authorities of the theft.”

“Who are the proper authorities?” asked Charlotte. She sat at the table in one of the ornate armchairs, facing a tile-ornamented fireplace.

“The FBI, when the loss is over five thousand dollars and when it is presumed the books have left the state. And, of course, the local law enforcement authorities,” he added, with a nod to Tracey.

Nodding in return, Tracey made some jottings in a notebook. He also sat at the table, looking distinctly out of place in a dark blue uniform shirt with his name embroidered in gold thread above the breast pocket.

“How are the dealers notified?” he asked.

“A computer bulletin board alerts dealers around the world within hours,” replied Felix. “Dealers with computers have immediate access to a list of missing books. Dealers without computers can call a special number or consult a list that is mailed out monthly.”

“It sounds like an efficient system,” said Tracey.

“Very efficient,” interjected John, who had entered and was standing by the door. “The tragedy is that it’s needed at all. Such a sophisticated system was never necessary in the past. But as rare books have become increasingly fashionable, theft has become a greater problem.”

Daria introduced him to Tracey.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” said John, crossing the room to shake Tracey’s hand. “I just wanted to offer my services. I’m sure Mr. Mayer is doing everything in his power to help, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Obviously, I have an interest in seeing that the books are recovered.”

“When did you last see the missing books, Mr. Lewis?” asked Tracey.

“A couple of weeks ago,” he replied. “It was a Tuesday. I remember because I’d just returned from a long weekend in Boston.” He walked over to a calendar that was hanging on a wall. “June twelfth, I guess it was.”

“The day before I looked for them and discovered that they weren’t there,” added Daria.

“Will there be anything else?” asked John.

“Not at the moment,” replied Tracey.

“I’m sorry this had to happen, but maybe it will be a lesson to Frank,” he said, heading back toward the door. “Keeping books as valuable as these lying around is an open invitation to theft.”

“I am afraid our young friend is right,” said Felix after John had gone. “Let’s hope our dear host will have a chance to put the lesson into practice once the books are recovered.”

“A question about this notification system, Mr. Mayer,” said Tracey, pencil in hand. “Would a dealer who is offered a book for sale automatically consult the computer bulletin board, or would he have to be tipped off first that a book might have been stolen?”

“A very good question, sir,” replied Felix, with a little nod. “Usually a dealer would suspect theft before consulting the list, the tip-off, as you say, being that the seller cannot supply a verifiable provenance.”

“Provenance?” asked Tracey.

“Origin. But in the case of extremely rare books such as these, the dealer would immediately suspect theft. If a seller should tell me, for instance, that he bought the books at a yard sale or found them in his grandfather’s attic, I would immediately—what is the expression in English?—smell a fish.”

“A rat,” corrected Charlotte.

“Ah,
ja
,” replied Felix good-naturedly.
“Smell
a rat or
suspect
something fishy,
nicht wahr
?”

Charlotte nodded. She noticed with repugnance the lack of concern with which he flicked the ashes of his cigar on the fine Chinese carpet.

“Does that mean the books are likely to be recovered?” asked Tracey.

“
Ja
—if they enter the market place,” replied Felix. “But material gain isn’t the only motive for theft. In fact, the thief who steals for material gain is usually quite easy to catch. It’s the thief who steals out of some other motive who’s hard to catch.”

“Such as?” prompted Daria.

Felix settled back in his chair self-importantly, delighting in his role as resident expert. “One motive is the drive to possess, which we were talking about the other day. The thief who is motivated to steal for this reason doesn’t try to sell the book, which makes it very difficult to catch him. This type of thief thinks he has a
right
to a book. Usually he keeps the book in a place that is directly under his control, such as a vault.”