The Book Stops Here (14 page)

“But I would never do that.”

“You don’t have to, Stanley.” I let out a breath and tried to compose myself for the camera. “You can simply enjoy them for the rest of your life and never sell them. But isn’t it nice to know that your efforts to keep them in fine condition have paid off?”

“But how can I enjoy them?” he wailed. “They’re worth too much money. What if somebody steals them? Oh, God. What am I going to do?”

Randy was standing behind the cameraman and I caught his eye. He grinned, pointed to his ear, and made a circular motion with his finger, the universal sign indicating I was dealing with a crazy person.

Angie moved into my line of sight and gestured that I should wrap up the segment.

I reached over and patted Stanley’s hand. “I’m sure the books will be perfectly safe with you as their owner. Thank you so much for sharing them with me and our audience today.”

There was a long beat and then Angie yelled, “We’re clear!” In a more sedate tone, she added, “Good job, Brooklyn.”

“Thanks, Angie,” I said, but I was still worried about Stanley. He hadn’t moved from his chair, just sat there holding his head in his hands.

“Stanley?”

“What am I going to do?” he moaned.

“Please don’t be upset,” I said more gently. “The books are worth that much because of all the wonderful care you’ve given them.”

“Yes.” He scowled darkly. “And it was a big mistake. From now on, I’m going to mess them up just like every other slob does. What’s the use of having nice things when you have to worry about them all the time? So forget it. I’ll bend the corners to save my place, lick the pages when I turn them, write notes in the margins, you name it.”

I cringed. “Don’t do that.”

He stared bleakly at me. “I can’t live with the burden of having something so valuable in my home.”

He stood and piled his books onto the little carrying cart he’d brought with him. Then he trudged off the stage, accompanied by Kristi, one of the production assistants, and disappeared behind the scrim.

Angie frowned after him. “Maybe you should offer to buy those books from him.”

“He won’t sell them,” I lamented. “He’s too big a fan. But now he won’t maintain their condition anymore and that annoys the heck out of me.”

“He’s a wackadoodle,” Angie muttered.

I scowled. “So why did he come on the show in the first place?”

“Can’t say for sure,” she said, and shrugged. “I’ve seen others like him. They want to be praised and recognized for being a good little boy and keeping their things in nice condition. They’re fine until they hear about the money. Then they go a little crazy.”

“So you think he just needed a motherly pat on the head?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“He would’ve been happier if I’d appraised the set for a few hundred dollars.”

“Probably. Like I said, a wackadoodle.”

We commiserated for another minute and then I left the stage for my dressing room. I was relieved that the segment was over, because I’d been distracted by thoughts of Vera the whole time—until the very end, of course, when Stanley went nuts on me. Now I just prayed that he wouldn’t go home and do something stupid or dangerous, because my reputation would start to shred if word got out that my appraisals had led to two deaths.

“Oh, great,” I muttered, cringing as I realized what a terribly self-serving thought that was. Vera was dead; Stanley was traumatized. But, hey, it was all about me and my reputation!

I stared at myself in the dressing room mirror and realized I was exhausted. I slumped down onto the turquoise couch and put my feet up on the rickety coffee table. I needed time to think. I’d already given up on Stanley’s problems and was back to dwelling on Vera. Derek’s words circled around in my head and I wondered if maybe he was right, that Vera’s death might have been the result of a simple robbery gone bad. Maybe it hadn’t had anything to do with
The Secret Garden
.

I had naturally assumed that her killer was the garage-sale guy who had threatened us both only a day before. The book was the best motive I could come up with for murder. Or, more precisely,
the book’s
monetary value
was the best motive. People had killed for a lot less.

On the other hand, Vera could have been killed during a simple robbery. I supposed I could survey other shop owners around there to see if robbery was a common occurrence. Not that it was my job, but once in a while I got a little curious and anxious to find out the real story.

Even if robbery was a problem in that area, why would a robber show up at midmorning to rob a store in such a busy, clean, well-traveled neighborhood? It didn’t seem very smart. How much money could he expect to get from her cash register?

And why would he kill her? Okay, he might have gotten pissed off because there wasn’t enough money, but wouldn’t he just grab whatever there was and get the hell out of there? Would he really freak out so much that he ended up killing her? And even if the answer was yes, wouldn’t he be carrying a gun or at least a knife? Why reach for her prissy English garden shears?

And wouldn’t there have been a struggle? Vera’s shop had been in shipshape condition when I walked inside. Nothing seemed to be out of place. But if a robber had been struggling to get money from Vera, wouldn’t some items have been knocked off the shelves?

A robber would want to get in and get out quickly. If Vera had balked or if she hadn’t given him enough money, he would have shot her and taken off. He wouldn’t have looked around for the perfect pair of garden shears with which to stab her.

Damn, I should’ve asked Inspector Lee how much money was in the cash register. If it was empty, it might give more credence to Derek’s simple robbery-gone-bad hypothesis.

But even if it was empty, that didn’t necessarily mean it was robbery. The burly garage-sale guy could’ve stolen the money to make it look like a robbery.

I kept trying to picture that big oaf in Vera’s store. How could he have walked through her small, tidy shop without disrupting
everything? He was so loud and boorish, he would have made a mess just crossing the threshold. And he seemed like the kind of rotten jerk who wouldn’t give a hoot if he left everything in disarray.

But nothing had been out of place in Vera’s shop. I couldn’t see him killing her and then taking the time to tidy things up before he left.

“Yeah, that’s ridiculous,” I said aloud.

So if it wasn’t the garage-sale guy and it wasn’t a robber, then who had killed Vera?

I was arguing with myself for argument’s sake, but I still believed in my gut that Vera’s killer was the garage-sale guy.

At this point, I hated calling him the garage-sale guy.
He really needs a name,
I thought, and wondered why I hadn’t asked him his name while he was attacking me. Because, you know, that would’ve been the polite thing to do.

Idiot
.

I shook those thoughts away, and after another moment of contemplation the name Horatio popped into my head. I didn’t know why, but it worked. From now until we found out his real name, I would refer to garage-sale guy as
Horatio
. The name was close enough to
horrible
to work for me.

Horrible Horatio might be Vera’s killer, but I still couldn’t figure out why he’d grabbed those garden shears instead of just strangling her. He definitely seemed like the type to prefer physical brutality, the type who would enjoy using his hands to hurt someone. But Vera hadn’t been strangled and I hadn’t noticed any bruises on her. None that I could see, anyway.

A third possibility occurred to me. The killer could have been someone Vera knew. She’d mentioned an ex-boyfriend. Maybe the two of them had had a terrible argument and in a fit of passion the boyfriend grabbed the conveniently located garden shears and shoved them into Vera’s stomach.

I grimaced at the thought and rubbed my own stomach in sympathy.

It made sense that her death might have been personal and had had nothing to do with
The Secret Garden
. But I still believed that Vera was dead because of the book.

I was so tired that my head was beginning to spin, so I stretched out on the couch. With my eyes closed, I was physically ready and willing to zone out into sleep, but my mind wouldn’t stop circling around Vera.

I was so sure the book was the killer’s motivation. At the same time, I had to ask myself:
Was that really enough to kill for? Do people really kill for a book?

I jerked my head up off the couch. “Are you crazy?” I asked out loud. Of course someone would kill for a book!

If I wasn’t so exhausted, I never would’ve had that ridiculous thought. I stood up and stretched my arms and shoulders for a minute. Maybe it would help me think things through more carefully.

What was it about this book
in particular
that would cause someone to kill another human being? Was it all about the money? Did Horatio just want the cash? Had he killed Vera when she refused to give it to him?

Or was there something else about the book that made Horatio determined to get it back? Had somebody else offered him more money for it? Had it belonged to someone else and that person had threatened to harm him if they didn’t return it? Maybe his mother owned the beloved book and threatened to starve him out if he didn’t give it back immediately.

My mind was coming up with reason after reason for why Horatio wanted the book back. It would probably be a good idea to write them all down, so I zipped open my computer bag and fumbled for a notebook. And a pen. Where were all my pens?

“Ah.” I found one at the very bottom of the case, naturally. I was just starting to write out a list when my cell phone rang, causing me to jump. I yanked it from my jacket pocket, surprised to see Inspector Lee’s name flashing on the small screen. “Inspector.”

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

I slid down onto the swivel chair. “That’s never a good thing.”

“In this case, you’re right.”

“What happened?”

She took a deep breath. “Stern and Wilkins never got around to interviewing Vera. They caught a gang shooting in Ingleside Tuesday afternoon and didn’t make it over to the flower shop.”

“Damn it.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she said, then added, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Annoyed, upset, and antsy now, I stood and began to pace the small room while we talked.

So we still didn’t know who the garage-sale guy really was. Horatio would remain Horatio until further notice. I wallowed in that bad news for a moment, then remembered there was more. “What’s the good news?”

“It’s not exactly
good
, but it’s a move in the right direction. We want you to come in and meet with our sketch artist. Do you think you can give us an accurate description of the guy who attacked you?”

My spirits lifted slightly. “Absolutely.”

“Okay, good.”

We set up a time the following morning for me to meet the sketch artist at the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street, just a few blocks away from my place on Brannan. We ended the call shortly after that.

I sat down on the couch, excited at the prospect of contributing any information that might lead to the arrest of Vera’s killer. I just wished with all my heart that those two police officers had
reached her in time yesterday. If they’d been able to talk to her, she would have given them all the information they would need to arrest Horatio. And she would still be alive today.

My shoulders slumped a little as that sad realization smacked me upside the head. It was true that I had barely known Vera, but I hated that she was dead simply because of bad luck and timing on the part of Officers Stern and Wilkins. The injustice was maddening.

Aiding the police sketch artist to create a picture of Horatio was important, but there had to be something else I could do to help.

A kernel of an idea sprouted in my brain. I jumped up from the couch and stalked around the room, the better to let the idea unfurl and grow. I’ve always thought better when I was moving.

The fact was, Horatio still didn’t have the book. And if he was desperate enough to kill Vera to try to get it, then he would have no choice but to come after me again.

I could be the bait to draw him into the open.

“Oh, sweet Mary.” I stopped midstep, picturing the smoke coming out of Derek’s ears if he ever found out what I was thinking of doing.

But this could work.

My hours at the television studio usually began around noon, so I had some time to kill every morning. Why not spend them trying to lure Horatio out of hiding?

What was wrong with taking the time to stroll around the studio parking lot in the morning? I could always use the exercise.

It might be a long shot to think that anyone would be dumb enough to skulk by the studio, looking for a chance to attack me again. But we were talking about Horatio, after all.

If he’d been desperate enough to kill once, wouldn’t he be
willing to approach me again? Even if he knew that I could identify him as the man who had threatened Vera?

My plan could work, as long as Horatio was really, really stupid.

•   •   •

T
wo hours later I had finished my last segment and was back in my dressing room with Derek. We were packing up our computers and files for the night when my cell phone rang. I checked the screen; Inspector Lee was calling again.

“Inspector,” I said.

“I’ve got more news. It’s a little better this time.”

I sat on the swivel chair and grabbed a pen. “What’s up?”

“We’re not going to need you to meet with our sketch artist.”

“Why not?” I dropped the pen. “I can do it.” Darn it, I’d been looking forward to describing Horatio to the police artist, just like I’d seen people do on television.

“I know you can do it, Wainwright, but now you don’t need to. Stern and Wilkins are really pissed off about Vera. We all are. We’re pretty sure her death could’ve been avoided if they’d had a chance to talk to her and get the guy’s address.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that, too.”