The Book Stops Here (3 page)

“I loved every minute of it,” I said, happy that so far my day was going pretty well, too.

But the same couldn’t be said for Randolph. The star of the show crossed the wide stage and headed straight for Angie and me, his face drained of color and his jaw taut. He looked as if he might have just witnessed his own
death.

Chapter Two

Ten minutes later, the director was ready to shoot our segment. I’d been watching Randolph carefully as he slowly shook off his mood and returned to his peppy, perky self. He was deeply involved in a conversation with Tom and Walter when Angie grabbed him and dragged him over to my table.

“Sit. Stay,” she said, pushing him into the chair across from me.

He looked in much better spirits now than he had a few minutes ago and he took Angie’s wrangling with good humor. I wondered if maybe he had a soft spot for her, too. Who could blame him? She looked like a pre-Raphaelite angel with lustrous black curls instead of the usual red.

I was nosy enough to wonder what had caused Randolph’s look of despair earlier, but it wasn’t the right time to ask. Something about that flower delivery had caused him to turn a deathly shade of white. I’d been itching to eavesdrop on his discussion with the producers, but I wasn’t brave or stupid enough to do it. Not with so many witnesses standing around, anyway.

Whatever had upset him, he seemed to have brushed it aside and was in a good mood for our short teaser segment. The camera
rolled and the two of us chatted for all of one minute. And then it was over.

“That was easier than I thought it would be,” I confessed.

“It’s my cheery inquisitiveness,” Randolph said blithely. “Admit it: I make you feel both desirable and comfortable.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You really are a rascal.”

“Rascal.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I like that.”

“You would,” Angie muttered.

Poor Angie had my sympathy. Randolph was in his thirties, tall and classically handsome, with dark blond hair worn in a casual, wind-tossed style. His vivid blue eyes were mesmerizing. He had a great smile and perfect teeth, and it didn’t hurt that his voice could melt butter. Best of all, he had a charming sense of humor.

Angie yelled, “Civil War’s up in ten minutes, people!”

I turned down Randolph’s generous offer to buy me a free cup of coffee and headed off to the tiny dressing room I’d been assigned earlier that day. The schedule gave me two hours to research the next book I’d be appraising and I would need every minute to do my job well.

On the way backstage, I wasted a few long seconds worrying about my
Secret Garden
segment. Had I blathered? Had I laughed too loud? Had I sounded smart? Silly? Had my shoulders slumped? Had I droned on with details nobody else in the world would care about unless they were a devout book lover? Probably yes to that last one, and maybe to all of the above.

I wondered if my on-camera self-consciousness would ever wear off. Did it matter? I would be here for only three weeks and the most important thing was to have fun and give accurate appraisals and make the book owners happy. I thought I had accomplished all of that with Vera.

And with that conclusion, I shoved my angst aside. I didn’t expect it to stay where I’d shoved it, but for now, I gave myself permission to ignore it.

As I crossed the massive studio, I glanced around and marveled that despite the large space, it had an air of intimacy. This was probably because of the twenty-five-foot-high wall of curtains that was hung from a curved ceiling beam that ran all the way around the room. The curtains were weighted and anchored to the studio floor, creating a wall between the main staging area and the backstage. The stage manager referred to the curtains as the backdrop.

The main staging area was further divided into six small sets where the different experts sat and appraised their items. Like my cozy space, the others were filled with antique furniture and interesting set pieces that corresponded to their field of interest. For instance, on my set, the cabinets and shelves were filled with old books. Sitting on the dressers were framed illustrations and frayed botanical prints taken from old books.

Since I would be sharing my space with a map expert and a historian who specialized in vintage correspondence and documents, my book illustrations would be switched out with framed drawings of maps or old letters and tattered certificates.

In the Civil War expert’s area, an old rifle was displayed in a large glass cabinet. On one of the dressers were two elegant portraits of soldiers from that era. Apparently, the rifle could be replaced by a musket or a bow and arrow or another weapon, depending on which particular war was being discussed.

Another area featured shelves of vintage kitchenware, old toys, and folk sculpture. A child’s painted rocking horse filled one corner of the space, and on the top shelf was an intriguing display of covered woven baskets.

The largest staging area was located at one end of the studio and would be used to feature larger pieces of furniture, grandfather clocks, and other big items, such as the old canoe one visitor had brought in for appraisal.

Even the largest area had the same rich, warm feeling as my
smaller set. If I ignored the studio cameras and the technical contraptions and the burly crew members, it was almost like being inside a beautiful home.

“Watch your step, young lady,” one of the crew guys said.

I stopped abruptly and glanced down. I was close to tripping over the two-inch-thick cable that snaked down from the boom microphone pedestal, slithered across the shiny floor, and disappeared under the backdrop.

“Thanks,” I said, flashing him a grateful smile. I really didn’t want to break an ankle on my first day. Around me was a tangle of equipment. There were four television cameras along with two boom microphones that looked like heavy-duty fishing poles attached to rolling pedestals. These could all be wheeled from set to set, depending on which segment was being taped.

Besides all the hardware, dozens of people bustled about in a state of organized chaos. The lighting crew stood on ladders or used long poles to adjust the studio lights hanging on the grid high above our heads. Camera operators discussed the shooting schedules with the director and her team. A woman touched up Randolph’s makeup and hair with brushes and sponges she had stashed in a tool belt around her waist.

Thick lines of electric cables went everywhere. It looked like one crew member was assigned to each camera and each boom, simply to adjust the wires and cables as the machinery was moved from here to there.

I found a break in the curtain and slipped through to the backstage area. I passed the green room—the walls of which were actually painted a pleasant light taupe—and the makeup room, then turned the corner and stared down a hallway that ran the entire length of the studio building. There had to be twenty doors on either side of the long, wide corridor and I was happy I’d memorized my dressing room number.

As I approached the room, I felt that odd buzzing sensation I
always got whenever I was about to start work on a new book. I didn’t know what else to call it but sheer exhilaration. I was itching to explore the old edition of the
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
I’d been given to study, especially since it featured a unique wooden cover with art deco–style illustrations carved into it.

How cool was that?

And how geeky was I for getting so excited? I chuckled at myself as I started to turn the key in the lock.

“Yoo-hoo, Brooklyn!”

I glanced down the hall and saw Vera Stoddard teetering toward me in her death-defying heels. I grimaced, knowing that if she slipped and fell off those stilettos, she could break her neck.

“I’m probably not supposed to be back here,” she said, giggling in that high-pitched tone I’d grown used to so quickly.

Probably not,
I thought, but didn’t say it aloud. She looked nervous enough already as she clutched
The Secret Garden
to her pillowy chest. I had to resist grabbing the book right out of her hands. The tiniest bit of perspiration could ruin that beautiful leather cover within seconds. But I held back. It wasn’t easy, but it also wasn’t my book.

“I wanted to ask you,” she said, then paused, out of breath from her exertion. “I . . . I wanted to ask you about all that book stuff you said when we were on camera.”

“Let’s go in here.” I opened the door to the dressing room and ushered her inside.

She stopped just beyond the threshold. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I’m anxious to—”

“It’s fine, Vera. I’m happy to talk for a few minutes. Have a seat.” I gestured toward the hideously ugly orange cloth chair that was a perfect complement to the ugly turquoise Naugahyde sofa shoved up against the wall. An imitation wood coffee table completed the ensemble.

Once she was seated, I held out my hand. “May I see the book again?”

“Oh, you bet.” She handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I sat in the swivel chair at the counter in front of the wide makeup mirror. I had turned it into a desk and set up my computer and a few reference books here. I took a moment to admire
The Secret Garden
cover again before looking up at my guest. “What can I do for you?”

With a nervous laugh, she played with the loose threads of the armchair. “I want to sell the book and I want to make as much money as possible. And I want to do it right away. The sooner the better. So, I want to hire you to do . . . you know, whatever it is you can do to make it perfect.”

“So you definitely plan to sell it?”

“You bet I do,” she said eagerly, then pressed her lips together as if she’d said something rude. “That is, I would love to keep it, believe me. It’s a work of art, like you said. A real beauty. But when you told me how much it was worth . . .” She shook her head, giving up any pretenses. “I mean, wow. I could really use the money.”

“I understand.” I leaned forward in my chair. “But, Vera, I should warn you. I had only a limited time to research your book, so I’m not exactly sure how much work I might have to do. My guess is that my time would only cost you a few hundred dollars, but it could go as high as five hundred. I won’t know for sure until I get a better look at the book.”

“I hear you.” She nodded slowly. “Five hundred would be okay, as long as it’s not much more than that.”

“No, I can promise it won’t be any more than that.” I turned the book over in my hand and carefully stroked the back cover. “Probably less.”

“And then I could get a few thousand dollars more for it, right?”

“Yes.” I wasn’t going to tell Vera, but I believed a real collector would pay many thousands more than I had quoted her on camera.
“And when you’re ready to sell, I can help you. I’ll give you a few names of people to call.” If she was going to sell the book, anyway, why not point her toward someone who would appreciate the book for the treasure it was?

“That would be great,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I have no idea who to talk to about this kind of stuff.”

“I’ll be happy to help.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” she said.

“Are you certain?” I asked. She didn’t appear to be a wealthy woman, so I decided I’d better make sure. “It’s a lot of money. I don’t want to empty your bank account.”

“You won’t,” she insisted. “As long as you guarantee that I’ll get an extra couple thousand on the book when I sell it. Can you do that?” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “I can trust you, right?”

I almost laughed. She didn’t know me from Adam, so why would she trust me to give her an honest answer? But I wasn’t about to lie to her. “Yes, I promise you can trust me, but you don’t have to. I can give you some references before I take your money. I can also give you a list of bookbinders who can offer a second opinion.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her hands together as if she were praying. “Just tell me again that I can sell it for the price you quoted.”

I smiled. “Unless the world turns upside down tomorrow, I can pretty much guarantee it. And as I mentioned before, I can also give you the names of some reputable buyers in town who would be interested in looking at it.”
Like Ian,
I thought. He would kill to add this book to the Covington children’s collection.

She patted her chest again and took a slow, deep breath. Then she clapped her hands and let out a little shriek of joy. “Thank you! This is like a dream come true.”

As I watched her bounce with delight, I noticed something odd. Her bubbly black bouffant hairdo seemed to shift slightly.

Is she wearing a wig?

I looked away, but from the corner of my eye I caught her surreptitiously tugging at her bangs.

That was so weird. But maybe she’d been sick. Maybe she’d lost all her hair. Maybe that’s why she needed the money. I hated to stare so I busied myself with straightening my short stack of reference books. After a few seconds, I tried to be nonchalant. “I still can’t believe you found this amazing book at a garage sale.”

She glanced at the ceiling and around the room. “Gosh, I can’t either. The guy I got it from didn’t seem to know much about it.”

“He couldn’t have,” I said firmly. “He wouldn’t have given away a treasure like this for so little money.”

“No, I guess not,” she murmured. “Lucky for me.”

I checked my watch. We’d been talking for ten minutes and I needed to get back to work. “Why don’t I take the book home and look it over, then call you with an estimate? You’ll have some time to catch your breath and figure out whether you want to spend the money or not.”

She nodded. “That sounds good.”

“If you decide not to go through with it, we can meet somewhere and I can return the book to you, no problem.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” she said, and, reaching into a pocket of her faux tiger-skin tote bag, she pulled out a shiny green business card.

We both stood and she handed the card to me. “I own a flower shop at Nineteenth and Balboa in the Richmond.”

I read the card. V
ERA’S
F
LOWER
G
ARDEN.
V
ERA
S
TODDARD,
P
ROPRIETOR
.
I looked back at her. “That’s a pretty name for a shop.”