Deadly Editions Page 6

  “Aye, she’s fine. Thank you for taking care of her, Winston,” Shelagh said.

  He nodded at her.

  But there was something to her voice that gave me pause. Yes, she was grateful the horse was in good health, but was there a hint of coldness in her tone? Or was I imagining it? She changed the subject too quickly for me to decide.

  “All right, then. How about the tour of the library?” she said to me. “Come back anytime to see my girls.”

  “I appreciate that. And I am very ready to see the library.”

  As we reboarded the golf cart, she sent Winston a frown. He didn’t notice as his attention was fully on the horses.

  “Everything okay?” I asked quietly after she backed the cart out of the barn.

  “Aye,” she said abruptly. She frowned again. “I think Winston was drinking through the night. If something had happened to Gin…”

  I didn’t see any sign of a night of heavy drinking. I’d seen him putting things away in the closet, but I didn’t notice what the items were—I’d been too interested in Gin. Had Winston been hiding a bottle—perhaps one filled with booze? I didn’t think so. I had an urge to go back and look, but I squelched it.

  I put my hand on Shelagh’s arm. “Gin seems okay.”

  “Aye. I think so.” She shook her head and then forced a small smile. “I’m looking forward to showing you the library.”

  Shelagh steered the golf cart to the side of the house. She led me through a door, on the other side of which was what I would have called a mudroom, if it weren’t so fancy. There were plenty of pairs of wellies lined up, only some of them muddy, but this was nothing like a good old Kansas mudroom with a warped screen door that slammed shut in the ever-present prairie wind.

  We moved into a kitchen that was as large as I might have predicted. It was pristine, but I thought I smelled the remnants of recent cooking. Another door led out to the back grounds. It was closed, but I could see the barn through the window that took up the top half. I hadn’t noticed the door from the other side.

  I wanted to ask how many people lived in the house, but I suspected that it was only Shelagh. I knew she’d never married. It was a beautiful, expansive place, but it was also big enough for a person to get lost in. I felt a tiny bit sorry for her, but she didn’t behave as if she wanted sympathy.

  Once through the kitchen, we followed a long, white, wood-paneled hallway toward the back of the house. Shelagh stopped outside some closed double doors and looked at me.

  She nodded at the large multipaned window at the end of the hallway. “I have a security system, but I don’t always remember to arm it. I need to better care for these books, which is part of the reason I think it’s time to do something else with them.”

  “In recent years security has become much more convenient. Have you had someone show you any new options?”

  She shrugged. “Some.”

  “Well, you might want to consider looking at everything that’s out there. It’s really is much easier than it used to be.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, as if she wouldn’t. “Here it is. Here is the library, Delaney.” She turned the knobs and pushed the doors so they swung open with just the right amount of speed and flair. She probably always opened the doors with such drama.

  I followed her inside.

  The library extended up the entire height of the house.

  Rich wooden shelves and floors covered with vibrant throw rugs filled the large space. There were more books in here than in the bookshop.

  Couches and chairs were set up in a U formation, each seat given its own lighting as well as a table where mugs of tea or coffee probably magically appeared. Each of the two upper levels had its own walkway with a wrought-iron railing, and each wall was adorned with a rolling ladder.

  It was a place of both opulence and comfort. You had everything you would ever need inside this library. You wouldn’t even need to eat; the books would be enough.

  “Wow.” My eyes went wide.

  “Aye. Wow. It’s my favorite place in the whole world. I don’t even enjoy traveling, because it takes me away from here.”

  “I understand.” A tiny part of me silently acknowledged, however, that I liked my new garret library even better, but that was for less material reasons. Maybe there was a perfect library for everyone; you just had to be lucky enough to find it. Or find the perfect someone to make it for you.

  “You may take a slow look around when we finish our business. Sit.”

  We sat on opposite ends of the couch. I tried to rein in my focus and direct it at my host, but it took me a few seconds. She seemed to understand and waited.

  Just as I nodded that I was ready, a gentleman in a tuxedo and a cap walked in with a tray. I didn’t recognize Louis at first, but once he greeted me, I did.

  “Oh, hello!” I hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, as my mind tried to figure out exactly what his roles for Shelagh included. He seemed to understand.

  “I do a little bit of everything,” he answered my unasked question. He lifted the hat, exposed his bald head, and lowered it again. “I didn’t fix the refreshments, but I’m still solid enough on my feet that I can deliver them.”

  “It’s good to see you, Louis,” I said.

  He poured us each a mug of tea and then left again. A tray overflowed with small cookies in more flavors than maybe even Rosie and Aggie could bake. Since Shelagh didn’t fill a plate immediately, I didn’t either. I eyed them, though.

  “What do you know about Robert Louis Stevenson, Delaney?” Shelagh asked after she took a sip of tea.

  “Other than the books he wrote, I don’t think I know anything. I’ve never researched him. What do you find most interesting about him?”

  “Oh, everything. Did you know he wrote Jekyll and Hyde in three days, after a dream?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “He did. And he battled ill health all his life, through writing all his stories. Bronchial tube troubles—things that we could handle fairly easily these days, but not then. He searched his whole life for a place he could live and not suffer as much. Ultimately he moved to Samoa and then died there.”

  “Interesting.” I took a sip too.

  “Yes. He was a celebrity during his lifetime, much like Charles Dickens was. It was a different time, of course—back then popular writers were some of the biggest celebrities.”

  “Like Stephen King these days?”

  “Aye, but there were fewer popular writers back then, of course, and printing presses were less reliable. As I believe I mentioned to you, Jekyll and Hyde was set to publish one year, but many of the first-edition copies didn’t get delivered until the next. Nowadays, as you know, digital copies have changed everything … but I digress. Mr. Stevenson was popular and considered prolific, but nothing happened as quickly back then as it does these days. He didn’t write as many books as you might think, but of those The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is undoubtedly his best known. Perhaps it and Treasure Island have equal places in history.” She cleared her throat. “But in my heart there is only Jekyll and Hyde.”

  “Why?”

  “From the first moment I read it, it spoke to me—the imagery, the secretive life, the idea of man’s true self being tamed only by the constraints of civilization. I just love it. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read it over the years, but each and every time it still hits me in all the right spots.” She smiled. “I savor each word.”

  “I think it must be wonderful to have something like that. I’ve reread a few books over the years, but I don’t have one that I go back to again and again. In fact, some of the books I loved as a girl I don’t like now. The old-fashioned writing isn’t enjoyable for me any longer.”

  Shelagh turned and nodded to the bookshelves immediately behind us. “Understand that when I read it the first time, for whatever reason, I hadn’t ever heard of it. I had somehow bypassed all the spoilers, if you will. It was a new st
ory to me, and that might have contributed to why I fell in love with it. Please just go have a look at that shelf.”

  I set down my tea and made the short trip to the shelf. There were probably three hundred copies of Jekyll & Hyde on it.

  “So many different editions,” I said.

  “Yes, and most of them aren’t valuable at all. They are just copies I purchased here and there. I once stopped by The Cracked Spine, but there were no copies there at the time.”

  “I heard you’d stopped by, but I don’t think you’ve been back.”

  “Ah, I suppose people do notice those sorts of things sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t sent in others to search. In fact…” Shelagh stood and came over to my side. Gently she took hold of my arm. “This way.”

  We walked toward the back of the room and to some other shelves. Shelagh paused dramatically and sent me a conspiratorial smile. “You’re going to love this.” She pushed on a book, and just like in old movies the bookshelf swung open. “In here is where I keep my favorites. They aren’t the most valuable of my books, except for one, but they are definitely the ones that mean the most to me. Louis has been inside your bookshop many times. He has spoken about the lovely older woman you have working there.”

  “Rosie?”

  “I don’t know her name, but Louis adores her.”

  “Everyone does.”

  “I’m not surprised.” She gestured to the shelves. “Some of the books from your bookshop are in here, but some are also out in the general population of my library. This place is a secret, Delaney. I’m showing it to everyone involved in the hunt, but I haven’t told a soul outside my immediate circle about it in years.”

  “I’ll keep the secret.”

  We walked into the small space behind the moving bookshelf. Inside were more shelves, but only the top one was filled. An old typewriter sat up on a pedestal in a corner. A row of books ran along the shelf. My eyes scanned copies of modern mysteries as well as older versions of the classics.

  “Is that a first-edition Austen?” I nodded toward a copy of Persuasion.

  “A second edition, sadly, and with no autograph inside, but I love the feel of the cover. It’s worn perfectly.”

  I smiled at my fellow book nerd. “It’s lovely.”

  “Aye.” Shelagh sighed.

  “The typewriter?” I said. “Is that yours?”

  “It is!” she exclaimed as she smiled at the old machine. “It’s an Underwood. Only slightly valuable, but it means a lot to me. It was my first typewriter back when I was young. I’ve had it for so long, I expect it has witnessed all my secrets. At one time I imagined I could be a writer. I pounded out a few short stories on this.” She pushed a key. “I decided I was more of a reader, though. I’m fond of the old machines, and they’re headed the way of the dinosaurs, so I kept this one.”

  “And this room is where the book that we will be hunting for was kept? One of your favorites.”

  “No. My most favorite. An old and valuable copy of Jekyll and Hyde.”

  I frowned.

  “You think I’m being naïve, perhaps careless with my most prized possession.”

  “I just hope it’s being hidden in a safe place.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Good.”

  “Anyway, I wanted you to see where the book had been kept. It’s my secret room, Delaney. I don’t advertise it. It might be silly, but sometimes they speak to me, my books. If they speak to you too, perhaps this will give you an advantage. Perhaps there’s still something of its spirit here that might tell you where to find it.”

  I looked at her. Yes, books spoke to me, but I doubted it was in the same ways they did with her. My bookish voices, those tricks of my intuition, had a knack for speaking up more when I least expected them than when I wanted them to. I turned up my intuitive ears for a moment to see if they were trying to communicate now. They weren’t.

  “Ah,” Shelagh said as she smiled at me knowingly. “I see they do speak to you.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Come along. There’s more to this, I promise. I’m sending you on a treasure hunt, but not a wild-goose chase.”

  I followed her out of the room. She closed the shelves by pushing gently on them, and we moved back to the couch.

  Shelagh reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I gave everyone else the same note.” She handed me the paper.

  I unfolded it and read aloud:

  “‘Pierce my hart and blood will flow. Not red nor black, but aye, read all o’.’” I looked at Shelagh. “Clue number one?”

  “Aye.”

  “A riddle of sorts.”

  “Maybe.” Shelagh shrugged.

  “I’m not from Edinburgh, Shelagh. I’m still kind of a tourist. I’m not sure I’ll be able to figure out one clue, let alone a trail of them.”

  “I disagree. Based upon what I have learned about you, you are very smart.”

  “Brigid told you that?”

  Shelagh looked surprised. “She did. She told you about talking to me?”

  I nodded. “I appreciate her vote of confidence, but I still don’t know my way around all that well.”

  “Something tells me you might know people who could help.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but she was correct; I knew several people who would not only be good at such a game but would enjoy it too. I closed my mouth and nodded.

  “There. See! I knew what I was doing.” Shelagh reached into another pocket and pulled out a different piece of paper, holding it in her hand as she continued. “Delaney, whoever finds my book shall receive my entire library upon my death. However, each of you will also receive a sum of money just for trying. I’ve written that sum here.” She extended the paper to me. “If this amount is disagreeable to you, let me know now and we will go our separate ways.”

  I looked at the dollar amount she’d written down and gulped. Any museum or library or school would be beyond blessed to receive such a sum. If I won, I’d follow Edwin’s lead. He gave money away all the time; this would thrill him no end. “Shelagh, this is very generous.”

  “I have the money, and I like my money to do some good. You may do whatever you want with it.”

  I would never keep it. “Very generous.”

  “So you’ll do it, then? You’ll search?”

  “I will do my best.” I would, but I was more thrilled by a future donation than motivated by the contest. Shelagh’s library was beyond impressive, and hopefully all the books inside it would go where they’d be best taken care of and viewed, but in truth the hunt might also be plain fun, particularly if I could get my friends and family involved.

  “That’s all a person can ask for. Now … I have something else I want to tell you.” Shelagh’s voice became more serious than I’d yet heard it.

  The double doors to the library burst open, startling us both.

  “Gracious,” Shelagh said as we struggled to understand what was happening.

  “Shelagh O’Conner,” a police officer said as four of them marched toward us with Louis following behind, his expression one of panicked fear.

  “Aye, of course.” Shelagh said.

  “We need you to come with us,” the police officer said.

  I stood. “Is she under arrest?”

  The police officer sent me a level but angry glare. “Not yet, but it’s imperative that we speak with Ms. O’Conner immediately.”

  “You can’t do that here?” I said, plopping my hands on my hips.

  “We. Would. Prefer. Not. To.”

  I nodded at him as a voice sounded in my head. The bookish voices had just been waiting for the right moment.

  The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.

  I thought it might be George Bernard Shaw, but I wasn’t sure. It was a rare moment that I couldn’t place exactly where the bookish voice had come from, but it had happened. No matter what though,
my intuition was trying to tell me something.

  “Do you have an attorney?” I asked her.

  “Louis, please call Frank.”

  “I will,” Louis said.

  A moment later Louis and I were alone inside the library, looking at the open doors where Shelagh and the police had departed.

  I hadn’t heard any sirens approach the house, and I didn’t hear them peel away in retreat.

  “I had so many questions, and she was about to tell me something very serious, Louis. It felt important. Do you know what it was?”

  “I have no idea, lass.”

  “You should call the attorney.”

  “Aye. Of course. You’ll show yourself out?”

  “Yes.” And that’s exactly what I did.

  EIGHT

  I could have retraced my steps and gone back the way Shelagh had brought me in—down the hallway, through the kitchen, and then out the mudroom. But there was also a front door, and my curiosity quickly concluded that it would be fine for me to go that route instead.

  In the hall, I listened for where Louis might have gone. Was there a landline he was using somewhere? I didn’t hear any voices, but I kept my ears pricked to all noises as I hurried along, passing the entry into the kitchen and continuing toward the front of the house.

  The hall turned right and then to the left before I came upon more living spaces. The library seemed far off, very hidden from view, from curious eyes. The design had probably been on purpose, but Shelagh and I hadn’t had a chance to discuss it, or much of anything for that matter.

  On my left was a giant living room. It was so large that there were three different gathering areas; a television hung on the wall above a fireplace in the middle of the room, in front of a couch and a few comfortable chairs. The room didn’t feel overly formal, but there was no sign that it was well used either. No old mugs, no misfolded newspapers.

  On my right was a room with a grand piano as well as another hall that led to a distant staircase. I didn’t dare explore that far off the beaten path.

  Other than a small loo, there were no other nearby rooms. I didn’t know if there were other hallways going other places, but looking would entail much more than the small detours I’d already taken. I hurried to the door.