“Nothing is a waste of time when you’re following leads,” he assured me. “Everything you’re looking into will either confirm or eliminate the book as the prime motive for killing Vera. You’re checking every possible scenario, weighing all the odds. All of it will add to the big picture. And, love, no one else is capable of connecting the book to her death but you.”
“I know you’re right, even though it feels like I’m grasping at straws.” Seriously, how could Frances’s random run-in with a future movie star like Mae West or Helen Hayes have even the slightest connection to Grizzly or Lug Nut Jones?
With a sigh, I plugged in my phone to charge it and turned off the light.
And in the dark, I wondered how Derek had managed to sound so articulate at this hour of the morning.
? ? ?
Early the next day, Derek was dressed and hard at work in our second bedroom office. He would be tied up on a conference call with his London office for the next hour, so I pulled Vera’s copy of The Secret Garden from its hiding place in my hall closet. Could it hold the answers I was looking for? Perhaps it had a secret pocket in the back cover that was stuffed with money or the deed to a ranchero somewhere.
Fine, I probably wouldn’t discover a deed. But maybe something about the author’s signature or the original painting on the cover would give me a clue to a connection to the Jones brothers.
Perhaps they were related to the illustrator. I made a mental note to check later at the Covington.
Or maybe there was something to do with the binding itself. I’d disregarded the bookbinder’s connection before but now I wondered if the original bindery was an important one.
I yawned as I headed for the kitchen. I’d been up way too late the night before. Now I was desperate for coffee. Thank goodness Derek had turned on the coffeemaker.
I took my coffee to my workroom and gathered my supplies—mainly, my most powerful magnifying glass. Once I’d scanned the book up close, I would figure out what needed to be done next.
I took a few big gulps of coffee and then left the mug on my desk. I never allowed myself to keep liquids on my worktable. That was a disaster waiting to happen.
I unwrapped the soft cloth around the book and gazed at it for the first time in more than a week. It was like seeing a museum masterpiece after a long while. I noticed new details, new colors. A piece of chalk on the ground by the little girl’s booted feet. The swirls of vibrant blue ribbon at the end of the title banner above the artwork. The depth and luminescence of the gilding on the edges of the front cover.
With a contented sigh, I picked up the magnifying glass to examine the painting of the little girl in the red coat again. The swath of red was so joyful, so—
I dropped the magnifying glass and sat back in my chair, staggered. The girl in the red coat. That was me! Or it was supposed to have been me, anyway, until Tish had taken my place and suffered the hurtful consequences.
How weird was that? There were those shivers again. What were the chances? Was there possibly a connection between . . . ?
I almost groaned out loud. “It’s not always all about you, miss.”
Maybe not, but wasn’t it interesting that I had a red coat and the little girl on the cover had a red coat, too?
It’s just a silly coincidence, I insisted silently, and mentally smacked myself. Now get back to work.
I picked up the magnifying glass again. And prayed I wasn’t the only weirdo in the world who carried on these little arguments with herself.
Soon I was lost in the book again. After serious examination, I came to the sad realization that there were no secret pockets anywhere in the book. But as I studied the book, I decided to go ahead and do the work I’d planned to do for Vera, for free. The book deserved to be spruced up, and it was my way of honoring poor Vera, as well.
If Vera had any family, they would be able to obtain the highest price possible for the book. And if none of Vera’s relations came forward to claim it, then the Covington Library might want it. In that case, I could recoup my time from them.
After checking the outer covers and the end pages, I opened the book to study the limitation page again. Frances’s signature was original and seemed to be in order. To be certain, I compared it to several ephemera Web sites that sold cards and books autographed by her. It wasn’t the most comprehensive way to ensure authenticity, but it was close enough for my purposes.
I turned to the flyleaf page inside the front cover to study the second signature and date. This time I used the powerful magnifying glass to take a good, close look. I hadn’t examined it in much detail the first time because it wasn’t something I was willing to erase or repair. But now, if I could figure out whose signature it was, it might provide a clue. It was a long shot but I didn’t have much more to go on.
I was able to decipher the date more quickly than the signature itself. It read Sept. 7, 12. I’d seen dates jotted down this way in the early days, with only the last two numbers of the year represented. So the person whom I assumed was the original owner had signed the book on September 7, 1912.