A Deadly Edition Read online

  “And typeset by Morris, I believe.” Emily flipped through the facsimile. “The originals would be stunning, wouldn’t they?”

  “I’m sure. I haven’t seen a real one, although my research turned up a copy at the University of Maryland, so maybe”—I met Emily’s interested gaze with a smile—“a road trip is in order.”

  “You probably need an appointment,” Emily said absently, her eyes fixed on one of the illustrated pages of the facsimile. “You know, this reminds me of something. Some conversation I was involved in once. What was that?” She tapped her chin with one finger. “Oh yes, I remember now. It’s a funny coincidence, really, because it involved someone whose name I heard again recently.”

  “Who might that be?” I asked, leaning forward to take the book from her hands.

  “That poor man who died out at that art dealer’s house. You know, he collapsed and died at some party …” Emily covered her mouth with one hand for a moment before speaking again. “Oh dear, you were there, weren’t you? I remember hearing your name mentioned in the news.”

  “Actually, my fiancé Richard and I discovered Selvaggio’s body,” I said grimly. “The party was in honor of our upcoming wedding. Kurt Kendrick hosted it for us.”

  “That’s right, Kendrick. The art dealer. Which was what Selvaggio was too, you know.”

  “I’m aware.” I twisted the hem of my cotton tunic between my fingers. I wasn’t sure if Emily had actually forgotten Kurt’s name or was just trying to pretend she’d never met him when they were both much younger. In any case, that wasn’t the mystery I wanted to pursue. “What did you hear about Selvaggio in the past? I’m just curious, having been thoroughly interrogated by the sheriff’s department about the man.”

  Emily rolled her shoulders in a mock shiver, reminding me that she was almost as well-known for her dramatic readings as for her poetry. “Oh dear, I know how dreadful that can be. To be honest, it was so long ago. I was still in New York at the time, so it must be more than forty-five years.” Emily lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. “But I remembered the name, because I thought it had a poetic ring to it. Sel-vag-gio,” she said, drawing out each syllable.

  “He was already an art dealer at the time?”

  “Oh yes. He apparently dropped by the Factory to speak with Warhol once or twice, although Andy never sold him anything. Didn’t like the look of him, or so I heard.” Emily shrugged. “I’d left the Factory by then, so this is all hearsay.”

  “Why did his name come up in a conversation then?”

  “Because there was a scandal, and if there was anything my artsy New York pals liked better than shocking the public, it was a scandal involving someone else in the arts scene.” Emily adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses and fixed me with her slightly myopic stare. “Oscar Selvaggio apparently sold someone a stolen Kelmscott Chaucer, and when the poor fellow tried to subsequently insure it, the truth came out. He was investigated, and even though it was eventually proven that he had nothing to do with the theft and no knowledge of receiving stolen goods, it affected him so adversely that he died from a heart attack. Or so his children claimed.”

  “Really? Was Selvaggio ever arrested?”

  “No. Strangely, he was cleared, or at least never prosecuted. No one knew why at the time, and one of the dead man’s children—his daughter, I believe—was absolutely furious over the whole affair. Made a big noise in art circles, but her accusations never seemed to affect Selvaggio, at least from what I know.” Emily shrugged. “At any rate, the last thing I heard was that he continued to buy and sell art without any interference from the authorities.”

  “That is interesting,” I said, filing away this information to consider later. “It sounds like Mr. Selvaggio wasn’t exactly the most honest of individuals.”

  “Apparently not. Just like …” Emily closed her lips over whatever words she’d meant to say next and simply lifted her hands. “But that’s not such an unusual thing in the art world, I’m afraid.”

  “No, it isn’t, as I sadly found out not too long ago,” I said, thinking about my own run-in with forgers and thieves.

  “Well, now that I’ve bent your ear about some ancient history, I should go and let you get on with your research.” Emily rose to her feet. “We should get together sometime. I’ve discovered a few nice little restaurants not too far from Taylorsford. Maybe we can meet up when you can get away from the library for a longer lunch?”

  “That would be nice,” I said, adding with a smile, “But not at the Heapin’ Plate, I take it?”

  “Heavens no.” Emily flung one dangling end of her paisley scarf over her shoulder. “The diner’s good for a quick bite, but hardly haute cuisine.”

  “True, although I don’t think Bethany is aiming for that.” I held out my hand. “Good to see you again, Emily.”

  “You too.” Clasping my fingers tightly for a moment, she stared directly into my eyes. “I didn’t realize you were such close friends with that Kendrick fellow. I’d be careful there. I mean, I don’t really know the man, but I’ve … heard things. Just a word to the wise.” Dropping my hand, Emily scurried off before I could reply.

  I stared after her for a moment before turning back to my pile of books. Everyone’s heard things, I thought with a sardonic smile. But I can do better than that, Ms. Moore. I actually know a few things.

  Enough to always be careful in my dealings with Kurt Kendrick, no matter how much he seemed to care about me, Richard, or the rest of my family. Enough to believe he could’ve had a hand in Oscar Selvaggio’s death, if anyone had.

  I checked my watch and realized I needed to leave soon if I hoped to make it across campus to meet Richard at his studio by noon. But before I deposited the books I’d pulled on a reshelving cart, I opened the Kelmscott Chaucer facsimile one more time. Staring at the beautifully decorated title page reminded me of something I’d just typed into my notes—a quote from a letter Edward Burne-Jones had sent to Charles Eliot Norton in 1894:

  Indeed when the book is done, if we live to finish it, it will be like a pocket cathedral …

  And it had been exactly that—a magnificent edifice captured on paper, a work that captured the soul of two great artists. Something rare and wonderful.

  And sadly, I thought, as I closed down my laptop, perhaps something worth killing for.

  Chapter Six

  After our parents departed on Tuesday morning, Scott and I shared a second cup of coffee while Aunt Lydia headed outside to work in the garden.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” Scott said before she left the kitchen.

  Aunt Lydia just raised her eyebrows and mentioned something about an extra pair of garden gloves in the hall closet.

  “I can tell she doubts me,” Scott said.

  I sipped my coffee and studied his unreadable expression. “You have to admit that garden work has never been your thing.”

  “True.” Scott waved his mug at me, sloshing a little coffee over the rim. “But I do want to help out while I’m here. I know you’re busy, with the wedding planning as well as your job, and I don’t think Aunt Lydia should be doing all the heavy lifting.”

  “Besides, you’re looking for something to do.” I cast him a smile. “I know how restless you get when you aren’t occupied with work.”

  “I am used to being busy,” he admitted with an answering smile.

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the help. Just be willing to take direction.” I absently swirled the remaining coffee in my cup. “She has her way of doing things.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Scott pushed his chair back and stretched his arms over his head. “What are your hours today?”

  “Eight to five,” I said. “The library is actually open until eight, but Sunny will be coming in around noon and staying on to cover the later hours. Along with a volunteer or two, of course.”

  “That’s right, you told me Sunny’s only working part-time now because she has her mayoral duties too. How’s that goi
ng?”

  “Fine. I was able to hire someone who lives in town to fill in the other hours. One of our regular patrons, Samantha Green. She’s actually quite good.”

  “You mean Sunny had better watch out?” Scott shot me a grin, but his expression grew immediately thoughtful. He took a long swallow of his coffee before speaking again. “On another subject, and just between you and me, I was a little surprised Hugh left right after dinner Sunday night. When I met him the other day, he said he’d be staying until Monday morning.”

  I shrugged. “To be honest, I suspect he and Aunt Lydia are on the outs.”

  “There was definitely some tension crackling over the dinner table Sunday night.” Scott set down his mug. “You think it’s because he’s asked that Nash guy to dig into Kurt Kendrick’s business interests?”

  I finished off my own coffee before replying. “I believe she’s more concerned with what they might unearth from Kurt’s past.”

  “I see. Something to do with Uncle Andrew, then.”

  “Exactly. Remember that whole mess about a year and a half ago? All that stuff about forgeries?”

  “You told me a little about it.” Scott slid one finger around the rim of his empty mug. “Although I think you were deliberately vague about some of the details.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “There are some things that Aunt Lydia prefers to keep quiet.”

  “Especially from me?” Scott adjusted his glasses. “I know you all suspect that I’m too closely tied to a few government agencies.”

  “Aren’t you?” I asked as I rose to my feet, my empty mug dangling from my fingers.

  “I think I’ll leave that alone.” Scott stood up as I reached over and grabbed his cup with my other hand.

  “Which answers my question.” I carried both mugs to the dishwasher.

  “I’m not trying to be evasive,” my brother said.

  “I know.” I turned around. “You can’t say. Just like you can’t tell me why you’re staying here for several weeks.” I looked him over as he stood to face me. “It does seem like an odd choice, though. Wouldn’t anyone tracking you discover such a close family connection?”

  “Are you worried?” Scott’s expression darkened. “Don’t be. You should know better. I’d never draw danger anywhere near my family.”

  “But if you have to lay low, doesn’t that mean you’re in hiding?”

  Scott shook his head. “It isn’t that people are looking for me. It’s that they need to think I’ve been put on indefinite leave.”

  “That you’ve been suspended, you mean.” I tapped my temple with my forefinger. “I get it. Whoever it is needs to think you’ve been removed from whatever mission you were on.”

  “Something like that.” Scott shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. “Still determined to sleuth out all the answers, aren’t you? You just can’t let things go until you solve the mystery.”

  “Seems like that runs in the family.” I grabbed my purse from the table and strolled out into the hall.

  * * *

  As I did on most fine-weather days, I walked to work. It was a pleasant way to incorporate more exercise into my schedule and also allowed Aunt Lydia and me to share one car. Besides, I enjoyed the ever-changing landscape. Every season had its own charm, but I especially loved the late spring, when the gardens that filled the fenced front yards of many of the houses overflowed with color and fragrance.

  Taylorsford dated back to the eighteenth century, so historic properties lined the main street. Toward the center of town were a few businesses housed in brick buildings erected in the late 1930s or ’40s, but most of the private homes were older. They came in a variety of styles: simple, two-story wood structures with plain black shutters and stoop porches rubbed elbows with elegant Victorians sporting gingerbread trim. The oldest and rarest were built in the style of English cottages from the fieldstone once prevalent in the area. It was the same mottled gray stone that had been used to build Kurt Kendrick’s home, as well as the low walls dividing farm fields outside of town.

  Strolling beneath the arched canopy formed by the trees that lined the sidewalk gave me the feeling of walking under the intricately beamed vault of a cathedral. As I gazed up into the interlaced branches to watch bright-red male cardinals and their dull-brown mates flit through the crisp green leaves, the toe of my leather loafer caught on a loose piece of cement, sending me staggering forward.

  “Oh dear, do be careful,” said the person who grabbed my shoulder and righted me before I tumbled to the ground.

  “Thank you.” I turned to face this savior of my dignity. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Probably not. I’m a visitor to Taylorsford.”

  “Welcome, then. I’m Amy Webber, director of the public library.”

  “Very nice to meet you. Cynthia Rogers,” the stranger said, offering me her hand.

  I looked her over as she gave my hand a firm shake. She was my height, but certainly older—in her early seventies, or at least her late sixties. Her pale-pink cotton tunic-and-slacks set was complemented by magenta sneakers, a choice that made me suspect she was one of those feisty older ladies who enjoyed being fashionable as well as comfortable when they traveled.

  “Is this your first visit to Taylorsford?” I asked.

  “Not at all.” The older woman patted her short gunmetal-gray hair. “I’ve been here before, on day trips. Always loved it, so I swore I’d come back to spend a little more time exploring the town and surrounding areas.”

  As Cynthia Rogers widened her eyes behind the round lenses of her pewter-framed glasses, I noticed their unusual shade. Gray, but they can probably look green, or even a dusky blue, depending on the light or the color she’s wearing. “Are you staying at the inn?”

  “No, the Hill House bed-and-breakfast.”

  “I’ve heard that’s very nice. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” I brushed a crab apple petal from my amber silk blouse. “And thanks again for preventing my tumble, but I’m afraid I must get going. I have to open the library”—I glanced at my watch—“very soon.”

  “Perhaps I could accompany you? I’ve been wanting to stop by. I understand it’s a Carnegie building?”

  I set off at a brisk walk. “Yes. There’s an addition that was added later, but it’s at the back, so the facade still looks like it did when it was built in 1919.”

  “Lovely.” Cynthia Rogers easily kept pace with me. “I can take pictures, I assume?”

  I shot her a sidelong look. “Of course. Inside as well. We just ask that you don’t take any photos of our patrons without their permission.”

  “For privacy reasons, I assume?”

  I paused on the sidewalk in front of the stone library building. “Exactly. We’re careful about that, especially when it comes to children and young people. I mean, anyone can walk into a public library, and that’s fine, but …”

  “You don’t want to encourage any exploitation? Very sensible.” She slid a cell phone from her pants pocket.

  I looked at my watch again. “I must leave you now. I need to get everything set up before we open. It’ll be about fifteen minutes, so feel free to take some outdoor shots. You might want to get a few of the Lutheran church across the street too.” I offered her a smile before striding toward the staff door located on the side of the building.

  Inside, I crossed through the workroom to reach the main part of the library, then turned on lights and brought up the circulation system computer before making a sweep of the building.

  The high-ceilinged main room, with its dark wood trim and tall, deep-set windows, housed the main desk, public computers, current periodicals and general book stacks. It was separated from a small reading area by an arched opening decorated with carved-wood trim. After scanning the main space, I headed to the back of the library. The 1960s addition lacked the charm of the original structure but did provide space for a children’s room and staff break room. />
  At exactly nine AM, I opened the front doors, where I was greeted by Bill Clayton, one of our most reliable library volunteers, and Cynthia Rogers.

  “Got some good shots of the outside,” she said, waving her cell phone as she strode past me. “By the way, where are the public restrooms? All that coffee I sucked down at the B and B is running right through me.”

  Bill pointed down the short hall that led off the flagstone-floored foyer. “That way, ma’am.”

  Cynthia thanked him before disappearing into the ladies’ room.

  “Nice woman, but nosy,” Bill said, as we passed through the open inner doors and circled around behind the circulation desk. “While we were waiting, she bombarded me with questions about how long I’d lived here, who my family was, and stuff like that. Like I was supposed to know her or something.”

  I straightened some local-attraction flyers in a display rack on the desk. “I think she’s just a curious traveler. You know, one of those people who likes to learn everything about every place they visit.”

  Bill shook his head of shaggy gray hair. “I don’t know. She seemed familiar somehow. Maybe it’s just that she has an extremely average appearance. Like she could be anyone.”

  “That’s probably it. She does look like a lot of the other tourists who visit Taylorsford. Especially the older ladies,” I said. “Now—I need to pull some materials for our homework crowd later today. There’s a big English project they all seem to be frantically trying to finish at the last minute.” I grinned. “You know how students are.”

  “Don’t I ever. Don’t miss that,” said Bill, who’d taught algebra and other math classes at the local high school for over twenty-five years. “Well, to be honest,” he added, “I really mean the bureaucracy. I do miss the students.”

  I patted his arm. “You get to see them here. And I’m thankful to have you to assist with any math questions. Not my forte.”