The signature itself was trickier. Through the magnifying glass I could see the concentric swirls and dips typical of a young woman’s signature of this era.
I’d already established that the first name began with M. The second name began with either a J or a T.
Mary Jo. Mary Jane. Mary June? Mary Theresa. Mary Todd?
“Hey, Mary Todd Lincoln,” I muttered. “Not likely.”
I moved to the last name. The last three letters looked like est. So it was a matter of figuring out the first letter. I went down the alphabet. Best. Jest. Nest. West.
West was the most likely guess, given the dramatic swirl of the first letter. Mary Jane West? Mary Jo West?
I had a lightbulb moment and decided I could Google all of these possible names together with the year 1912.
A minute later, I stared in stunned silence at the computer screen.
Mary Jane West, known as Mae West, was an American actress, singer, playwright, screenwriter, and sex symbol whose . . .
Mae West.
“Oh, my God.” I almost laughed. I’d read about the two women having had tea together. Still, how was it possible that this rare edition of The Secret Garden was once owned by Mae West, one of the most famous sex symbols in the world?
My father had loved W. C. Fields, so I had seen Mae West in My Little Chickadee at least six or eight times while growing up. She was coarse and earthy and in-your-face funny. I remembered all of us laughing at the double entendres flying back and forth. Even as kids, we understood many of the naughty jokes, except for the most provocative ones.
Mae West hardly seemed the type to own a copy of a beloved children’s book, but the connection was there. Vague, but it was there. So now that I had established a tenuous relationship between Frances and Mae West, how was I supposed to figure out how those two women were linked to Lug Nut and Grizzly?
I felt a wave of guilt for ever ridiculing the possible bond between Mae West and the two thugs.
“Because you just never know,” I mumbled, still not over the shock of finding an actual connection.
I wrapped the white cloth around the book and slipped it into my computer bag. I needed more information and I knew exactly where to get it.
? ? ?
“You must meet Edward Strathmore,” Ian said enthusiastically. “You’ll love him. He’s charming and a bit eccentric but extremely generous. He’s given so much to the library.”
“He sounds like a dream come true for you,” I said, and took a small bite of my chicken salad.
“He is,” Ian said with a smile, before adding, “And for you, too, because he’s quite possibly the world’s foremost expert in all things related to Mae West.”
I blinked. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” I said. “When can I meet him?”
“I’m not sure.” He bit into his curried chicken sandwich. “I’ll try to reach him after lunch.”
We were seated at the best table in the lovely Rose Room, right by the bay window that overlooked the colorful rose garden, the wooded Presidio, and the sparkling Bay with the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.
I could barely concentrate on the view because I was dying to know more about Edward Strathmore. On the other hand, I had no problem concentrating on my delightful lunch of tea and a variety of crustless mini sandwiches, followed by scones, jam, and tea.
“Does he live in San Francisco?” I asked, as I slathered homemade jam onto my scone, topped by a blob of clotted cream. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll travel to wherever he is.”
As soon as I said the words, I knew I had a problem. I wouldn’t be able to travel anywhere with my television schedule. “Or maybe we can talk on the phone.”
Ian took a quick sip of his tea. “He lives in Belvedere and works out of his home, so he’s probably available almost any day you are.”
Belvedere was a small, upscale community in Marin County. Upscale as in “multimillion-dollar Bay-front homes with incomparable views of the city and the Bay.”
“I’m available tomorrow,” I said promptly, “or anytime he’s willing to meet me.”
He grinned. “I’ll call him and set it up as soon as I get back to my office.”
? ? ?
I secretly feared I would be struck with some sort of posttraumatic snake stress when I returned to the studio, but it didn’t happen. Randy, on the other hand, looked horrible. I met up with him at the coffee and doughnut table and his face was pale, almost chalky.
“Are you all right?”
He groaned and rubbed his stomach. “No.”
“Why don’t you go home?” I asked.
“Because I’ve got post-segment interviews with the owners and eight intros, plus a bunch of teasers to tape.” He grimaced and grabbed a can of cola. After popping it open, he took a long swig.
“You seriously look like hell.”
“I appreciate that,” he drawled, but couldn’t quite pull off the sarcasm.
“I’m worried about you. Do you think you have the flu?”
“I never get sick.”