“Really?” he said, surprised. “What do you mean by value?” he asked.
I shrugged. “There are very few books here that would retail for more than a dollar or so.”
“There are a lot of Civil War books there.” He pointed to a shelf on the right, near the door. “They’re worth more than that. I know because I bought them at a used bookstore myself. The prices are still in the front.” He reached for a volume and showed me the pencil mark that read twelve dollars.
I flipped through it. “It’s not in good enough condition to fetch a price like that anymore. Do you see?” I pointed to the gap in the binding. “The spine is broken, and here, several pages are dog-eared.”
He began to get irritated. “That’s because it’s been read. It’s still a wonderful book.”
“I understand.” I gestured toward the shelves, sweeping my hand to indicate all volumes. “They’re all reading copies.” I smiled. “I have shelves of books like that myself. But as a businesswoman, I can’t offer you more than two hundred dollars for the lot.”
“What?” he asked, looking and sounding outraged, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“I know you love them,” I said, meeting his eyes and speaking softly, “and I’m sorry I can’t offer more. Try other places, if you want. That’s what they’re worth to me.”
He paused, calming down, shaking his head, resigned. “It’s a shock, that’s all, to learn that something you cherish has such limited market value.”
I nodded. “It hurts.”
“You can have them for three hundred dollars,” he said, recovering from his disappointment enough to negotiate. Fancy that. I suspected mine wasn’t the first bid he’d received.
I paused, as if I was thinking hard. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. The best I can do is, maybe, okay, two hundred and ten dollars.”
“Ten dollars more! That’s an insult.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew my margins. I certainly didn’t intend to insult you. I came up five percent from my original, fair offer.” I met his eyes and watched him think it over.
“Two-fifty, then.”
I smiled and headed for the door. “Try other places if you want, but two hundred and ten dollars, here and now, cash on the barrelhead, that’s all I can do.”
As I crossed the threshold, he called out, “Wait.”
I turned. “Okay,” he said. “Take ’em away.”
He was a good guy. He might not know anything about the resale value of used books, but he agreed to let me send Eric to collect them in the morning, and he waved cheerfully as I drove away.
As I headed back to the warehouse, I allowed myself a grin. Those 840 books would flesh out our dwindling inventory of used books nicely, and I’d kept to the price limit I’d set of twenty-five cents a volume. All in all, a job well done.
I decided on impulse to go to Mr. Grant’s funeral. On the one hand, I wasn’t a friend, or family, and I was a little afraid it might seem intrusive for me to show up. On the other hand, I wanted to show respect to Mrs. Cabot, who was, I thought, fighting the good fight alone. Also, from a business perspective, I knew that it wouldn’t hurt my reputation to be seen at a church event.
I hadn’t planned well, though. I was wearing jeans and a flannel plaid big shirt over an ordinary tee. Hardly a proper outfit for a church funeral. I decided to go and at least make an appearance. Arriving at the church after everyone was seated, I scanned the names in the guest book, then added my own. There were only about twenty people total, including, to my surprise, Chief Alverez. I stayed in the atrium until the minister began to speak, then slid into a pew at the rear.
I spotted Barney and Martha, hovering as near to Mrs. Cabot as they could. Barney leaned over Andi and whispered something to Mrs. Cabot, apparently just a word or two. She didn’t respond, but Andi turned and said something. Alverez sat near the back, his eyes on the move. He nodded in my direction when he saw me.
Epps, Mr. Grant’s lawyer, was sitting near Mrs. Cabot. As if he sensed my gaze, he looked over his shoulder, saw me, and stared with disapproving eyes. I inferred that he still thought I was a shark. After a moment, he turned back to face the front, and from the tilt of his head, I guessed he was listening to the minister’s invocation.
The minister’s well-considered and well-delivered words only served to accentuate my grief, to remind me of my own loss, and to underscore that my wounds were still raw. After a few minutes, I left.
As I drove, I rolled down the window, allowing the chilly air to numb my skin. I wasn’t sorry I’d gone to the church, but I was glad I hadn’t stayed. It was too hurtful for me to hear words of mourning, and I’d learned in the years since my father’s death that my best strategy to dull the pain was to insulate myself with work.
I returned to the warehouse and took some time reviewing the preliminary financials from the weekend’s activities. Things looked good. I pushed the papers aside and turned to look out my window.
It was a bright day, but not very warm, and the tree remained barren. Wes was right. I needed to focus on the threat that Barney might present. He was competitive as all get out, and more by smooth talking than discerning judgment he’d won a reputation as an arbiter of quality. One bad word from him would be enough to cast doubt over my company’s abilities. Not everyone would believe him, but some people would. Look at Epps. Mr. Grant’s lawyer believed I was a shark based on an uncorroborated indictment. If Barney intended to take me on, I needed to be ready. Screw you, Barney, I thought. And the horse you rode in on.
I used the toe of my right boot to pull open the bottom desk drawer far enough for me to perch my feet on comfortably. I leaned back, my hands behind my head. What could I do to create an effective barrier to competition? What could I offer that Barney couldn’t? What value-added service could I provide that would create loyal customers and enhance my reputation?
I sat forward. Bingo, I thought. What about an instant appraisal service? A homegrown version of the PBS television show?
Sasha and I could take turns staffing a booth at the tag sale for an hour each Saturday. We could hook up a computer so we could use our subscription services to easily find values for the better items. I stood up and walked to the window, excited at the thought. Barney couldn’t compete because he had no access to professional research. Martha’s work certainly didn’t count. I smiled devilishly.
Not only would I create a barrier to competition but I’d be able to make on-the-spot offers for items people might want to sell. We could call it Prescott’s Instant Appraisals. We’d highlight that it was free.
I began to pace, my mind racing, coming up with ideas, discarding some and keeping others. I thought of how the ad I’d use to announce the new service should read. I considered what the booth itself should look like, and I planned how to control a crowd if we were lucky enough to get one.
The phone rang.
“Barney Troudeaux’s on the phone,” Gretchen told me. “He wants to know if he can stop by and talk to you. He said it’s important.”
“Sure,” I said, my attention caught.
I couldn’t imagine what Barney wanted to say to me that would be in the category of important. I tapped the desk, anxiety replacing confidence and creativity. I glanced at the computer clock and realized that Mr. Grant’s funeral was over. Mr. Grant, a man I’d liked, yet apparently a thief and a liar. A man who’d been stabbed… murdered-why? To protect the paintings? Or to keep the secret that the paintings had been stolen? What did Barney know, and did his coming here have anything to do with the murder? Increasingly apprehensive, my heart begin to thud.
I paced. I stood in front of the window looking out. I sat down again.
Gretchen called up and told me Barney was there, and I asked her to send him up.
I walked to the spiral staircase and watched as he ascended.