The Marsh Madness (4 page)

“I was checking out Flora’s Fanciful Flowers to find out who sent your dead roses.”

“And?”

“And there doesn’t seem to be a Flora’s Fanciful Flowers in Harrison Falls or anywhere else in the world.”

“Oh. But the label . . .”

“Trust me. There isn’t one.”

“A practical joke, then.”

“Yeah. And a creepy one.”

“Who would have done that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you still have the box?”

“It’s on its way to the compost. I could dig it out.”

“Do that and hang on to it. I’ll see if I can get any information from it.”

“It was a joke. Thanks, but does it really merit a police investigation?”

“Humor me. You know I want to be a detective when I grow up.”

“Never grow up, Tyler. I like you the way you are. Tell you what, I’ll drop the box off the next chance I get.”

“And I’ll see what I turn up.”

*   *   *

I FOUND THE box of dead flowers, fished it out and put it in a large plastic bag. The signora had been happy to provide the bag. The signora, small, black-clad and round, followed me. She kept clucking over the flowers, muttering in Italian and shaking her head.

“Sfortunata.”

Unlucky? No kidding.

“Thanks,” I said, “I hate them too.”

*   *   *

I REFUSED TO dwell on those flowers. Instead I focused on Craigslist for our area. I’d been watching all my online sources hunting Ngaio Marsh books for myself and also trying to locate suitable titles for Vera’s collection. I checked often. In my line of work, you snooze, you lose.

Today, I was a winner.

A couple who were downsizing and moving to one of the new riverside condos in the neighboring town of Grandville had given up their walls of bookcases in their sprawling suburban home. They were prepared to liberate boxes of mass-market reprints from the seventies. “Pristine,” they said, except for small labels on the inside front first page of each book. They posted photos of the covers and spines of hundreds of mysteries including many of the Ngaio Marsh titles I wanted.

Best of all, the ad hadn’t been up long.

I happily drove to Grandville, glad to get there before any book scouts descended. Not that I had anything against other scouts; after all, I was one myself in a limited way. And I counted on my contacts to keep Vera’s collection improving. Aside from that, I also made a bit on the books I found in the church bazaars, secondhand stores, Goodwill, garage sales and other rich sources. Several of the scouts were also my customers.

Labeled boxes were stacked by the front door when I arrived. Although the packing looked orderly, the place had that forlorn feeling that houses get in a move. I was greeted by a tall woman with shoulder-length wavy auburn hair and a full, almost voluptuous figure. There was something familiar about her. “I’m Larraine Gorman,” she said, “and the noises you hear from upstairs would be Doug. Ignore them and him.”

Larraine looked like she would have been more at home on a Titian canvas than in this jumbled, box-laden foyer. My uncles would have been captivated by her.

She’d put aside the books I wanted, neatly packaged up in two boxes and labeled “NGAIO MARSH.” I could tell that the owner was parting with them reluctantly. “No changing your mind,” her husband had boomed from upstairs as she greeted me. “And see if she’ll take some clothes while you’re at it.”

She rolled her eyes and called back, “How about some golf clubs? I could slip in a few of those.”

I grinned. “It’s not easy cutting back, is it?”

“It certainly isn’t. This downsizing effort is killing me,” she said. “I don’t mind ditching the knickknacks, but it’s hard to get rid of my books. I’ve read them all more than once and treasured each one.”

I got that.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “they’re going to a good home. My employer collects first editions. I can’t afford that, but I have my own little collection. And every book in it gets treated like a fine first.”

“That’s a relief,” she said with a wan smile.

I checked out the other boxes of books, in case there were volumes we needed or with good resale prospects. Nothing wrong with funding future projects with a quick flip. I found some likely candidates and put them aside, before I opened the two Marsh boxes to check the condition of the books. I may have purred with delight as I inspected each book. I loved how the covers reflected the style of the era. Many of the Fontana reprints even had a charming little inset with a painting of Inspector Alleyn on the back and some details about him. “Educated at Eton and moulded in the diplomatic service,” I noted and in my opinion both environments had served him well.

I checked inside and, sure enough, several had maps and floor plans of the grand house in that book. I loved that. Most
had the cast of characters before the first chapter. I’d appreciated those lists when I first discovered Marsh. The device hadn’t lost its charm. I wished more authors would give their readers a break by doing this.

I chuckled over the names in the lists: Cressida and Cuthbert, Nigel, Peregrine and Sir Hubert, Chloris and Aubrey, Sebastian, Barnaby and Hamilton, Cedric, Desdemona and Millamant! I thought they were all delicious. A new batch of names in every book. Of course, there’d be crowds of butlers and footmen, cooks and maids. Some staff would rate a name, but not all.

I looked forward to meeting more of Marsh’s characters. Some would die in the interests of the story. In most cases, the death would be grisly and possibly bloody, but it would get our attention and teach us that this was a murderer who meant business and would stop at nothing. Ruthlessness can keep us turning pages. Never fear, Roderick Alleyn would put things right again.

I was counting on it. I noticed Larraine grinning at me. “You seem to appreciate them. I hate to give them up. It’s like letting go of friends. So I’m glad you’ve discovered Ngaio Marsh.”

“Rediscovered.” I couldn’t resist telling her about our luncheon at Summerlea.

“That sounds amazing.”

I grinned. “I’m lucky to be along for the ride. It’s all between my employer and Chadwick Kauffman. But I can’t wait to soak up that ambiance. It will be almost like stepping into one of the great estates in these books.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s work too. I’m one of the nameless servants on this character list.”

Larraine said. “Did you say you collect first editions?”

“Yes.” I was glad I’d left Vera out of the story, as she was generally loathed in our part of the world, and anyway, the Van Alst name might be enough to raise the prices.

“Oh well, have a look at some of Doug’s books. You may find something you like.” A wicked smile played around her full, bright lips.

I glanced up the stairs, where there was a certain amount of crashing about and huffing going on.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

A half hour later, I had another pair of boxes with hardbacks, including a few firsts in quite decent shape. A Hammett. A Chandler. Some John D. MacDonalds. Vera had all those, but I’d invest my own money and they’d make me a few pennies on the side.

I could hear Doug carrying on about finally getting rid of those dusty old Christmas decorations. But that wasn’t enough for him. “And who needs four closets for their clothes?”

“Leave my closets alone. I’ll take care of them!”

“At least can I pitch these theater souvenirs. It’s bad enough you have seen every play on and off Broadway—no matter how short the run—but do you have to keep this junk? You never look at it.”

She glanced up the stairs. I foresaw stormy weather coming for Doug. A small nerve flickered under Larraine’s eye. “My playbills stay. End of discussion.”

I decided it was time to make tracks. Larraine and I settled on a price for Doug’s books, for the other mysteries I’d found and for the Marshes.

As I picked up the first box, she glanced sadly at the box and reached out. “I love the theatricality of the Inspector Alleyn novels. I did a lot of theater in college and that really appealed.”

No wonder we’d hit it off. “Me too. I remember that. I read
Death in a White Tie
first and felt as if I was actually watching it play out on a stage. How people came and went within scenes, the way the dialogue propelled the story forward was three-dimensional. They’re so much fun and now I’ll get to read them all.”

Larraine said, “Apparently, theater was Ngaio Marsh’s
first love, and it showed in the way those characters and settings with a theatrical connection rose from the page.”

“I was involved in theater too. Every year in college I worked on at least one production.”

“Onstage?”

“Sometimes onstage, or behind the scenes with wardrobe or makeup or as a production assistant. I enjoyed everything about each production, from the first read-through to the feel of the costumes, the smell of the theater, the buzz of excitement when you step in front of the lights.”

“Why didn’t you pursue it?”

“If I hadn’t been so in love with English literature, maybe I would have switched to a drama degree. What about you?”

“I did go that route. Never really succeeded, although I was in a number of productions and some of my friends went on to success. Now I’m here, teaching. It has its good points too. But you know . . .”

“I hear you. There are such great bonds in theater. Wonderful friendships.” Lance and Tiff had been part of all the productions.

Tiff had been reluctant. In her own words: “So I won’t be forced to listen to Jordan blab on endlessly about something I’m not involved in.”

Not so for Lance. He was born for the stage. These days his performances were reserved for his permanent audience in the reference department or in a presentation to the library board for funding or service enhancements. Still, he’d been a big hit in some Harrison Falls Theater Guild’s performances. People were still talking about his Stanley Kowalski.

“Some of those friends will break your heart. Until you end up happily ever after.” She laughed and pointed upstairs where Doug was thundering about.

I said, “Only one of them broke my heart. He also cleaned out my bank account and maxed out my credit cards.”

“Ouch. Hope you’re over him.”

“Yup. With lots of help.” Lance and Tiff and a raft of
redheaded Kellys. And we move on, as my uncles had taught me early and well.

“I’m so glad to hear it.” She beamed at me, and I knew where I’d seen her before.

“I just realized why you look familiar. Are you part of Harrison Falls Theater Guild? I saw you in
Steel Magnolias
. You were an awesome Truvy! That was one of our college productions. We could have used you.”

“You should come and try out. I can let you know when there are auditions. Give me your number.”

“Sure thing.” I headed out with the box and thought about her offer. I loved the idea of auditioning for one of HFTG’s productions too, but I always seemed to be knee-deep in murder when the call went out.

When I came back for the second box, Larraine was still in a mood to chat. “I think Marsh is brilliant. You’d better run before I change my mind.”

From up the stairs a bellow from Doug: “Since we’re getting rid of some of my books, who needs seventy-five pairs of shoes?”

Larraine chuckled. “I can’t wait to get back to normal. Doug has already taken the TVs and radios to the new place. He claims they’re too distracting here. I’ll need a week of theater to get me back to normal. Oh, and by the way, I try to catch everything I can on and off Broadway. And off-off-off. As you could probably tell, Doug’s not so keen on it. I often meet up with old friends to go. But I like you too. Maybe you and I could attend a couple of performances together.”

“That would be great.” I was still grinning as I drove away. It would be nice to stay in touch with her. But I realized that I’d paid cash and forgotten to give her my name or my number, even though we’d talked about getting together. And I didn’t know where she was moving. Oh well. I could probably track her down through the Harrison Falls Theater Guild. An occasional trip to catch a live performance in the city sounded wonderful.

I took a couple of minutes to drop the long white florist’s box (still containing the offending dead roses), with a note, at Tyler’s neat little brick home. It was easier than chasing him around town on his shift, and I did have a key.

Now, I had a lot of reading to catch up on.

*   *   *

AT HOME, I lugged the boxes up to the third floor and set out the books on my Lucite coffee table. With their bright colors and similar styles, my new finds brought some extra life to the space. Of course, there wasn’t much time to read before our lunch tomorrow at Summerlea, but I wanted to use what I had. I chose
A Man Lay Dead
, partly because it was the first and partly because it took place in a stately home. How much fun was that? Inspector Alleyn was a suave and elegant upper-class character. He practically reeked dignity and elegance, but right from the beginning he managed to avoid being stuffy or arrogant.

I sifted through the other books, with flickering memories of the ones I’d read seven or eight years earlier. I read quickly, so I figured I could whip through them again.

I hadn’t wanted to put my foot in it at lunch, so I’d made sure to brush up a bit on Marsh’s history too. What do people talk about at luncheon in places like Summerlea? I felt I could at least chat about the books and their author. It seemed that theater was indeed the grand dame’s first love and crime fiction second. I thought that explained a lot. I could see characters coming and going almost as though on a stage. The image of the scene rose from the page. But best of all was the dialogue, sharp and astute. You got to hear the English dialects from the various settings. I remembered reading these bits out loud. More than once, I’d thought, I wish I’d said what she’d written.

You couldn’t gloss over a character who wandered onto one of these pages. We readers were able to check them out as if they’d been under a particularly heartless microscope
trained on their less attractive attributes. She didn’t mind laying her characters bare. With the exception of Alleyn, of course, who remained the perfect gentleman, irritatingly aristocratic, brilliant and unflappable. It appeared he never failed to solve a crime, with his small coterie of helpers to follow along, speaking in accents that were far less elegant. Once again, I knew if I’d been in one of these dramas, it would have been as the perky little Irish maid, who was maybe a bit too uppity for her own good.