To Helvetica and Back (12 page)

A
new customer with an old book was always a welcome sight.

She sat on a chair next to the counter. Like Mirabelle had, she held a cup of coffee on her knees as Chester sat in another chair facing her. I hadn't noticed that I was still breathing heavily, but when I saw her, I tried to calm down, and I used my hands to smooth my hair that was undoubtedly a wild multi-directional mess after the chase I'd just participated in. The envelope was in one pocket, so I put the wrapped-up almonds in the other pocket before I opened the door.

“Clare! You were released. I was just telling Olive here about our recent adventures. I thought you might return soon, and she didn't want to have to make another trip up from Salt Lake just to talk to you if she didn't have to. I
told her about the murder and the man after the typewriter. I believe she's found it all quite delightful,” Chester explained.

“I have,” she said sincerely.

“Hi, Olive,” I said as I approached them both, briefly wondering how Chester had managed to go from concerned about me handling a police interrogation to making me a main character in one of his stories. Maybe he'd talked to Dan.

It seemed as though it hurt her to bend her neck enough to look up at me. She was older than Chester, or at least she looked it. Her back was hunched even as she sat, and her rheumy eyes registered what I interpreted as pain. I glanced at the fingers around the book she held on her lap. They were bent almost all the way sideways. Our new customer was crippled by arthritis. No wonder Chester had brought some chairs up front. And no wonder she didn't want to make another trip from Salt Lake. I wondered how she'd made this trip up on her own.

“You the Clare Henry I've been hearing about?” she asked with a twinkle in her watery eyes and a small nod toward Chester.

“I am.”

“My granddaughter is so very talented, and I have no doubt I'm leaving you in good hands.” Chester smiled and then stood to leave me the chair. I took a seat and saw relief wash over Olive's face. She didn't need to look up to see me any longer. Chester patted my shoulder. “Wait until you see what Olive's brought you to rescue. Once in a lifetime. I've tried to tell her, but I'll let you give her the details.”

Chester excused himself and went to the back.

“I've brought a book for you to fix. What do you think?” She lifted it from her lap. I reached forward to take it from her before she had to go too far.

“Let's see,” I said as I set the book on my lap. “Oh my, Olive. Oh my.”

It was a first edition of
Tarzan of the Apes
by Edgar Rice Burroughs, a book published in 1914. With its dust jacket—its almost perfect dust jacket.

“Olive, this is a very valuable book,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Are you aware of its worth?”

“What would you say?”

“I'm a restorer, not a dealer or appraiser, but give me a second and I'll give you my best guess.”

The dust jacket was simple. A black figure, like a silhouette, of Tarzan sitting on a tree limb, a white background, and some green leaves. The edges of the jacket were bent slightly in, but only slightly. I about cried as I gently removed it and placed it on the counter. I lifted the simple maroon cover emblazoned with the title in black lettering and looked through the pages, using my knuckles more than my fingertips. I found nothing wrong with the book. It was as close to perfect as I'd ever seen.

“What needs to be restored?” I asked.

“Go to page seventy-six. There, you'll see some pencil writing. I did that when I was a child. The book was my father's.”

I turned to the page and saw the writing. It said: “Jonny is a booger.” I laughed.

“Jonny a relative?” I said.

“My brother. He
was
being a booger, but I should have never written that in the book. I wish I wouldn't have. Now I need to sell it, but it has to be in the best condition possible. What can you do?”

“I see. Well, I can clean the page with the pencil markings. You're smart that you didn't just try to erase it yourself. That might have damaged the page. The binding is beautiful and doesn't need any attention. But I have to be honest with you, I think you can sell it for quite a bit of money even if you leave Jonny's behavior issue on the page.”

“Would fixing it lessen the value?”

“No.”

“What would you do?”

I looked at the penciled words again. They would not be difficult to erase.

“I can erase the pencil right now if you'd like. I just need a few minutes.”

“That would be lovely, Clare. What is the book worth?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I had never held or worked on a book worth so much before. “Olive, you can probably get a lot for this book. A lot. But I'd like to do a little research if you wouldn't mind. Give me a couple days to look up some things. I'll get back to you quickly.” I wasn't an appraiser and I didn't want to set her expectations too high. “But it's about the dust jacket, Olive. Dust jackets are rare, well-preserved dust jackets even more so. And a dust jacket along with a first edition book being in such great condition is as rare as a unicorn. Rare is what gets the big bucks. This is a big-bucks book.”

Olive's eyes got big and her hunched back straightened as much as I thought it could.

“Holy . . .” she said.

“Yeah.” I laughed. “You want me to run back and take care of the pencil?”

Olive nodded slowly. “Yes, please.” She looked at her coffee cup. “You don't by chance have anything stronger?”

We didn't, but I did top off her coffee before I carried the book to the back—as if it were a crown on a pillow.

I cleared off my desk and wiped it down before I set a protective film over it and the book on top of the film. I washed my hands and donned gloves and a surgical mask. I didn't use gloves all the time, but today I wanted total protection. First I used my phone to take some pictures of different parts of the book: the copyright page, the title page, the spine.

“How about that book?” Chester said as he came around the wall that hid the stairs.

“Chester, it's
Tarzan
,” I said.

“I know, my dear. Good memories. It's also pretty valuable, huh?”

“I've never . . .” I said.

“I know. I once printed a title page for a first edition
Gone with the Wind
with an only slightly mauled dust jacket. I thought I was going to have to seek therapy afterward, but I didn't. What are you doing to it?”

“Just removing the pencil marks. It's an easy fix, really.”

“Fabulous. The torment will be over quickly. Good luck. I'll keep Olive company while you work.”

I got to the task at hand.

I unwrapped a new art gum eraser. Slowly and gently, I ran it over the pencil marks, removing “booger” first. I dragged the eraser from the inside to the outside of the page. Then I used a fine brush to move the eraser pieces off the page.

When Olive had written the words, she hadn't pressed very hard. It only took about two minutes to remove the pencil marks. When I was done, I hadn't changed the color of the paper, and there were no telltale indentations on the page. It looked as good as new. Easiest job I'd ever had, except for the stress involved.

I took it out to the front to show to Olive and then put the dust jacket back over it. I wrapped the whole thing up in a paper bag, breathing a sigh of relief when it was covered and safe.

Olive laughed. “You're glad that's over?”

“I am. And, Olive, it was an honor to work on your book. Thank you,” I said.

When Olive asked how much she owed us, both Chester and I insisted we couldn't take a dime, that the chance to see, touch, and work on her book was greater than any fee we could charge. She tried to argue, but she knew she couldn't win.

I offered to walk her and her book out to her car.

“You know,” she said as we made our way outside, “everyone knew about your grandfather and his store in the old days.”

“That's always fun to hear,” I said.

“Do you know that when he built his printing press, he made national news?”

“No,” I said. “I knew it was kind of a big deal around Star City, but I never knew it was something that was of interest nationally.”

“It was. Chester Henry was—and still is—quite the character. The big newspapers back east ran a story that had first run in our very own
Salt Lake Tribune
. I remember it all. Chester beamed in the picture that was in the paper. The reporter who wrote the story made Chester out to be a big deal, but your grandfather was humble about his skills. It wasn't just anyone who could build a working replica of a Gutenberg press, but he made it sound like he put together a simple puzzle. I think the article was in the 1960s maybe.”

“I've never seen the newspaper story.”

“I'm sure it's been archived at the paper, but you should see if Chester has a copy. He might, I guess. I remember both Chester and the reporter being a pretty big deal for a short time.” Olive smiled back into the past.

“Did you know Chester before today?” I asked.

“Oh, I suppose we've met over the years, but he doesn't remember me. I'm not the famous one, and age changes the way we look.”

“Did you know him well?”

Olive shrugged and smiled again. “I probably had a crush on him, but lots of women did, particularly after that article. He was so dashing. No straying eyes for Chester Henry though. He loved his wife.”

“Yes, he did,” I said.

Olive drove an old Mercedes sedan. Powder blue with a diesel engine that belched loudly and spit out a puff of
smoke when she turned the key. The book was safe on the passenger seat, and her feet reached the pedals just fine, but the arthritis made me worry about her safety.

“You all right, Olive? I'd be happy to drive you back to Salt Lake.”

“Oh, don't be silly. This car and I can read each other's minds. Thank you, Clare. Tell Chester thank you too.”

With that she pulled away from the curb, and I waved as the car moved slowly down Bygone Alley. I hoped she'd be okay, and I was really glad we hadn't had anything stronger than coffee.

As I reentered the store, I was met by two less-than-cheerful characters. Chester stood beside the counter and Baskerville sat on it. I wondered where the cat had been when Olive was there. Normally, he liked to inspect new people.

“Clare, now that we've taken care of business, come and tell me what the police wanted with you. I hope the attorney arrived in time. I'm sorry it was the boy. I'm thinking of suing the force over the mere idea of bringing you in for questioning,” Chester said.

Evidently, Baskerville agreed with Chester. He looked at me and shook his head in disapproval of the police but nodded in agreement with Chester's idea to sue.

Chester must not have talked to Dan.

“Let's go in the back. I'll tell you everything,” I said.

I
didn't tell Chester
everything
. He didn't have blood pressure problems, and I had no desire to bring them on. And Baskerville paid such close attention to what I said that I was concerned he'd run away and wreak havoc on the police or one of the officer's animals. It was a ridiculous notion, of course—that Baskerville the cat understood what I was saying and that he'd be capable of seeking revenge, but sometimes I wondered.

“So, they didn't really want much of anything?” Chester said after I told him about Officer Streed's questions.

“That's correct. They just wanted to get the timing down, perhaps some of the logistics behind finding the body. Nothing serious.”

Chester somehow made a noise that sounded exactly like “harrumph.” I was impressed.

“Well, that's good. I'm still going to have a talk with Jodie and Creighton anyway.”

“They'll probably want to talk to you too. Find out where you were that night,” I said. I didn't need to add anything else, and I didn't need to look at him with raised eyebrows. He knew I wanted to know what he'd been up to too.

He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then he shut it again and frowned. After he shifted in the chair, he decided to speak. “Well, I'll be happy to tell them.”

“You will?” I said.

Baskerville meowed the same question.

“Of course. They're the police.”

“They're also Jodie and Creighton. Well,
they
probably wouldn't question you, but you've managed to put them in their place a time or two over the years.” I smiled.

The corner of Chester's mouth twitched. I'd wanted to say something that would make him less concerned, less wound up, and I'd found the right thing. Though Chester had always respected the police and the job they did, he'd fearlessly given both Jodie and Creighton a piece or two of his mind whenever the need arose.

“Well, I have no place telling them their business, I suppose, but they made you go in there, Clare. That will bother me until I get a chance to let them know how I feel,” he said less adamantly.

“I understand.” I did—he was only being Chester.

Baskerville understood too. He blinked slowly and arrogantly. He was sitting on my desk, soaking up our conversation, his head moving back and forth like he was
watching a tennis match. I scratched behind his ears, which even misanthropic cats liked.

“All right. If you're okay, do you mind if I step out a bit?” he said abruptly.

“Uhm. Sure. What're your plans?”

“Nothing, I just want to run some errands. I won't be long.”

“Okay, what errands?”

“Just errands. Do you, by chance, have some plans with that tall young man who was here earlier?”

I blinked. I supposed it was okay for him to be cagey with whatever was going on in his life even as he expected me to answer honestly about mine. “I imagine there will be another date in the very near future.”

“Another one? Well, this is good news. Tell me about him.”

“Not much to tell. I don't know him all that well yet. He's a new geologist in town.”

“Ah! Well, the geologists I've met take their rocks very seriously, and I can't think of any way to say that other than the way it sounds like a double entendre, but none intended. I hope he's a nice man and I hope you enjoy his company.”

“Thank you, Chester. I hope so too.”

“All right, now I do have to go. I need to run upstairs first and grab something and then be on my way.”

I nodded at him suspiciously, but he didn't seem to notice as he hurried away, a marked pep in his step.

I didn't mind being alone. I wasn't worried for my safety. It was daylight and the back door was as locked as it could get. Besides, I had plenty to do. Other than making that call
to Jodie, the press and the type blocks needed some attention, and I needed to clean up from the
Tom Sawyer
project. Also, the giant screw part of the press felt like it had a catch. I wanted to try to fix it by myself before I asked Chester to work on it. I got a huge kick out of fixing things on my own. And I'd received an e-mail a few days earlier inquiring as to whether or not we were set up well enough to do a short print run of some books for a long-published
New York Times
bestselling author who had a house in Star City. He was interested in using our equipment to do all the work himself, including binding the books. I thought it was a book of his poetry, but he'd been just as cagey about the book as Chester was about his personal life. I hadn't crunched the numbers or evaluated if it was truly feasible (or if I wanted someone—
New York Times
bestselling author or not—hanging out in my workshop, getting in my way for however long it took him), but I really needed to get back to him.

I'd get to it all but not quite yet.

I sat at my desk. So did Baskerville—he sat on a corner, his tail wrapped tightly around his feet. He did this when he wanted to stay out of the way. I pretended to be busy as I looked intently at a piece of junk mail. I thought that Chester would be in too much of a hurry to notice it wasn't important. I was right.

He bounded down the stairs, carrying something under his arm. I thought it might be a book, but it was wrapped in a white paper bag. It wouldn't be a customer's book, but one from his own private tumbling stacks upstairs.

“See you later, dearest,” he said to me as he continued his quick pace around the wall and out of the workshop.

“Later,” I said.

The second I couldn't hear his footsteps, I jumped up and hurried to the middle doorway, with Baskerville at my heels. We peered out and watched as Chester grabbed a piece of pastel lavender paper from the Easter side of the holiday shelves and held it gingerly by its corner as he went through the front doors. Then he turned left.

I hurried through the store, pulling my keys out of my pocket as I went.

“Sorry, boy. I need to do this on my own,” I said as Baskerville jumped up to the holiday shelf. He seemed just fine with me leaving him in the store and twitched a whisker before climbing up to the sun.

I turned the window sign to “Closed,” left the store, and then locked the door behind me. I leaned out from the small entryway just in time to see Chester turn right at the end of Bygone. If he'd turned left, I would have wondered if he was going to visit Mirabelle. But turning to the right didn't tell me much of anything. I knew
of
some people who lived on that part of the mountainside, but I didn't know any of them personally.

I continued to move quickly, darting around a few people, smiling and saying “excuse me.” Just as I reached his ornate door, Anorkory stepped out and onto the sidewalk. I dodged him expertly.

“Clare!” he said as though he wanted to talk a second.

“Hi, Anorkory. Gotta get somewhere. I'll stop by later.”

“
Tempus fugit
; so does Clare,” he said with a chuckle.

Latin humor. I couldn't help but smile as I waved backward.

I made it to the corner just in time to see Chester's destination.

Just like on Mirabelle's side of the street, the houses on this side were fairly small and built close together, though not cute and boxy enough to be on a postcard. Chester practically danced up the front stairs of the third house in from the corner.

The only way I could see what was happening now was to either cross the narrow street or walk to the middle of it. The house wasn't far away; there was a very good chance that Chester would turn around and see me.

But curiosity guided me now. I crossed all the way because someone in the middle would have been a more curious sight than someone on the other side.

I gained a great view of the white house with the wide front porch just as the door opened. A woman swung the door wide and then smiled big at Chester. I only saw her briefly, but it was clear she wasn't young or even middle-aged. She was probably at least seventy but, as Chester would put it, a really good seventy. Her long hair was still mostly black but streaked with gray, and it fell softly to her shoulders. She was dressed in nice brown slacks and a satiny beige blouse. After she smiled, they kissed. It was a quick kiss but by no means chaste.

“You have a girlfriend?” I said to no one. “Why wouldn't you tell me?” Though I'd never known Chester to date anyone on a serious basis, I and the rest of the family would never have criticized him for doing so. My grandmother had died a long time ago. We'd often talked about how nice it would be for Chester to have a little romance in his life.
A gruesome thought suddenly occurred to me, and I spoke aloud again. “Oh, I hope your girlfriend doesn't have pancreatic cancer. She looks very nice.”

I put my hands on my hips and stared at the house. It was a chalet like Little Blue, but it was more squat, making me think it didn't have a loft bedroom. As I'd seen Chester on the porch and then kissing the woman, it seemed like he fit well with the space. I had to admit, though, I was kind of hurt that he didn't want to share the news, even if it was no one else's business.

I turned to make my way back to the store, feeling way too conspicuous until I reached Bygone. I'd think about how to handle letting Chester know I'd followed him, but for now I had to get back to my original plan.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Jodie.