“But how can I enjoy them?” he wailed. “They’re worth too much money. What if somebody steals them? Oh, God. What am I going to do?”
Randy was standing behind the cameraman and I caught his eye. He grinned, pointed to his ear, and made a circular motion with his finger, the universal sign indicating I was dealing with a crazy person.
Angie moved into my line of sight and gestured that I should wrap up the segment.
I reached over and patted Stanley’s hand. “I’m sure the books will be perfectly safe with you as their owner. Thank you so much for sharing them with me and our audience today.”
There was a long beat and then Angie yelled, “We’re clear!” In a more sedate tone, she added, “Good job, Brooklyn.”
“Thanks, Angie,” I said, but I was still worried about Stanley. He hadn’t moved from his chair, just sat there holding his head in his hands.
“Stanley?”
“What am I going to do?” he moaned.
“Please don’t be upset,” I said more gently. “The books are worth that much because of all the wonderful care you’ve given them.”
“Yes.” He scowled darkly. “And it was a big mistake. From now on, I’m going to mess them up just like every other slob does. What’s the use of having nice things when you have to worry about them all the time? So forget it. I’ll bend the corners to save my place, lick the pages when I turn them, write notes in the margins, you name it.”
I cringed. “Don’t do that.”
He stared bleakly at me. “I can’t live with the burden of having something so valuable in my home.”
He stood and piled his books onto the little carrying cart he’d brought with him. Then he trudged off the stage, accompanied by Kristi, one of the production assistants, and disappeared behind the scrim.
Angie frowned after him. “Maybe you should offer to buy those books from him.”
“He won’t sell them,” I lamented. “He’s too big a fan. But now he won’t maintain their condition anymore and that annoys the heck out of me.”
“He’s a wackadoodle,” Angie muttered.
I scowled. “So why did he come on the show in the first place?”
“Can’t say for sure,” she said, and shrugged. “I’ve seen others like him. They want to be praised and recognized for being a good little boy and keeping their things in nice condition. They’re fine until they hear about the money. Then they go a little crazy.”
“So you think he just needed a motherly pat on the head?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“He would’ve been happier if I’d appraised the set for a few hundred dollars.”
“Probably. Like I said, a wackadoodle.”
We commiserated for another minute and then I left the stage for my dressing room. I was relieved that the segment was over, because I’d been distracted by thoughts of Vera the whole time—until the very end, of course, when Stanley went nuts on me. Now I just prayed that he wouldn’t go home and do something stupid or dangerous, because my reputation would start to shred if word got out that my appraisals had led to two deaths.
“Oh, great,” I muttered, cringing as I realized what a terribly self-serving thought that was. Vera was dead; Stanley was traumatized. But, hey, it was all about me and my reputation!
I stared at myself in the dressing room mirror and realized I was exhausted. I slumped down onto the turquoise couch and put my feet up on the rickety coffee table. I needed time to think. I’d already given up on Stanley’s problems and was back to dwelling on Vera. Derek’s words circled around in my head and I wondered if maybe he was right, that Vera’s death might have been the result of a simple robbery gone bad. Maybe it hadn’t had anything to do with The Secret Garden.
I had naturally assumed that her killer was the garage-sale guy who had threatened us both only a day before. The book was the best motive I could come up with for murder. Or, more precisely, the book’s monetary value was the best motive. People had killed for a lot less.
On the other hand, Vera could have been killed during a simple robbery. I supposed I could survey other shop owners around there to see if robbery was a common occurrence. Not that it was my job, but once in a while I got a little curious and anxious to find out the real story.
Even if robbery was a problem in that area, why would a robber show up at midmorning to rob a store in such a busy, clean, well-traveled neighborhood? It didn’t seem very smart. How much money could he expect to get from her cash register?
And why would he kill her? Okay, he might have gotten pissed off because there wasn’t enough money, but wouldn’t he just grab whatever there was and get the hell out of there? Would he really freak out so much that he ended up killing her? And even if the answer was yes, wouldn’t he be carrying a gun or at least a knife? Why reach for her prissy English garden shears?