“In the meantime, it won’t hurt to take a look,” Brainert interjected. “Shall we go?”
Taking the lead, Brainert hustled my aunt and Mr. Montour to the storeroom. I faced Garfield. “Take over the register, please.”
“But what about this stuff?” He displayed the bundle of old papers in his hand.
“Put them under the register, and keep them out of sight. I’ll take a look later,” I said, then hurried to catch up with the others.
The storage room was located through the store’s newly established Community Events space, part of our expansion into the adjoining storefront, which actually had been part of the store’s original space before the 1950s. The large room had exposed fieldstone walls, a restored parquet floor, and renovated restroom facilities. Padded folding chairs were stacked at one end beside a few floor displays and standees that we’d used to decorate the room during our last author appearance.
We moved through the empty space to a short hallway where the restrooms were located, then through another door that led to the storage room. “Room” was a misnomer, because though the space was fairly large it was definitely not roomy. Much of the area was dominated by crates of inventory. We kept our own files back here, and I had boxes of Jack’s old case files here, as well (the reason I had them was a story in itself, but then, I’ve told that tale already).
There was an old wooden desk, which Sadie used to examine the collectable books that came into the shop. On it was a laptop computer she used to hammer out descriptions for Buy the Book’s online catalog.
As instructed, Garfield had unpacked Peter Chesley’s consignment and laid the old volumes on the desk—except for the folios, which were too large to fit, so he’d left them in the box. The irregularly-shaped Phelps books occupied the center of the desk, next to the 1807 edition of Thomas Paine.
On a shelf against the opposite wall, the Raymond Chandler first editions awaited Rene Montour’s inspection. They were arranged neatly, each volume sealed in a clear Mylar sheath. Generally the hardcovers were in good condition, with some fraying on the dust covers and, of course, some yellowing of the acid-based paper.
It took only a few minutes for Rene Montour to accept delivery of the Chandlers. He looked at each volume, took one or two of them out of the Mylar, and nodded in satisfaction.
Then, while Sadie and I spent the next fifteen minutes carefully boxing up the Chandlers and surrounding them with a protective layer of foam popcorn, Montour joined Brainert in examining the Eugene Phelps editions. The two men spoke in hushed tones about the books, as if they were discussing religious philosophy.
“Do you think Mr. Montour will make an offer for the Phelps set?” Sadie asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know.”
I still wasn’t sure how I felt about selling any of Chesley’s books. But I could tell by the way Sadie was watching Montour that she didn’t share my uncertainty. Of course, she was the one who’d had the long-standing relationship with Peter Chesley.
“He’s using his cell phone,” Sadie whispered excitedly a few minutes later. “Maybe he’s calling his uncle and he’ll make an offer.”
Brainert was close enough to hear Rene Montour’s conversation. I tried waving him over to tell me what he was hearing, but my old friend didn’t seem to notice my gestures.
Save your sign language show, baby. Your overeducated pal isn’t picking up your broadcast. He’s too busy jazzing over that musty pile of old kindling.
“What is the lawyer saying, Jack?” I asked.
The frog’s jawing about those moldy doorstops he’s been looking at. He’s talking dough, too, with some high-flying top hat on the other end of that Dick Tracy wrist radio.
Rene Montour closed his cell phone. He turned his back on the Phelps books and approached Sadie.
“We’re almost done here, Mr. Montour,” she said.
“Excellent,” he replied. Montour paused, then cleared his throat. “About those Phelps editions. My client is very interested in one of the volumes, but, unfortunately, he is not in the market for a complete set.”
I stepped forward, cleared my own throat. “I’m not sure we should break up the set—”
“Oh, nonsense,” Sadie interrupted. “You know very well the former owner gave us no stipulations as to how these books should be sold. What volume is your client interested in, Mr. Montour?”
“Specifically volume twelve, The Poetic Principal,” he replied. “I have examined the volume in question and the condition is…acceptable—”
“It’s practically mint,” Sadie countered, cutting him off.
“Indeed,” Montour murmured.
I could see him mentally upping his offer.
“I am prepared to advance a considerable sum for this single book,” he said. “I understand that the volume in question is quite rare, but I believe that you will find my client’s preemptive offer to be well above market value. As you know, my client is always generous, always fair, and—”
Sadie raised her hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Montour. But what is your client’s offer?”
“Eight thousand U.S. dollars, and not a penny more.”
Brainert’s jaw dropped. Sadie blinked.
Eight thousand clams for a putrid old tome! Jack cried so forcefully in my head I felt my face twitch. I wouldn’t give you a frayed Washington for that used pile of pulp. Since when is outhouse paper worth a cool eight large?
I was too overwhelmed by the offer to reply to Jack’s less-than-tactful query. My aunt and I exchanged glances; and I realized at that moment that everyone—even me—had her price.
“Sold!” we cried in unison.
CHAPTER 8
Literary Treasure
It was a type of letter well calculated to cause uneasiness…
—Erle Stanley Gardner, “Hell’s Kettle,” 1930
SADIE LED RENE Montour to the register, where a simple credit-card transaction more than doubled Buy the Book’s bank account (not counting sales tax, of course).
I stayed behind in the storage room and wrapped up the Poe volume in a sheath of protective, acid-free Mylar, then packed it in its own small box, surrounding it with a blizzard of foam peanuts, which I dumped from a fifty-gallon bag.
Sadie came back to see if I needed any help.
And that’s when my conscience kicked in again.
“Aunt Sadie, are you sure we’re doing the right thing, selling off Mr. Chesley’s books?”
“Dear, I knew Peter very well at one time, and I remember every word he said to me last night. He called us to his place to take these books and sell them. Now that he’s gone, they’re ours.”
My aunt wasn’t wrong. The old man’s last wishes had been clear enough when we’d taken possession of the lot: “And if my illness should overtake me, please consider them yours. Willed to you. A gift.”
“He wanted us to have them,” Sadie declared. “He loved this store, Pen, and these books will help to keep it financially viable. That’s a wonderful legacy for Peter, and I’m committed to seeing it happen.”
I sighed and nodded, promising not to fret anymore—at least, not in front of Sadie. When I carried the box to the front, everyone had gathered at the counter, including Seymour Tarnish. By now, he’d finished his mail route and had come to the store, hunting down Brainert.
I handed the box to Garfield. He laid it atop the box that held the Chandler first editions. With Rene Montour in the lead, he hauled the lot out to the man’s maroon rental car parked at the curb. They returned a few minutes later.