The room was a wild mishmash of colors, textures, and styles. But it was all great fun. I didn’t know what to look at first.
When Edward closed the door, I noticed a small brass plaque screwed into the wood. It read, SHE DONE HIM WRONG, 1933. He showed me a few more rooms furnished in items collected from Mae’s other films, including a Western-style saloon from My Little Chickadee. But none of the others were as riotously garish as the She Done Him Wrong room. I wondered if he spent much time in these rooms and what determined which room he would choose. Did it depend on his mood? The day of the week? The phase of the moon?
Edward led me back to the living room and offered me a chair while he sat at the end of the sofa nearest me. “Now, Ian tells me that you’ve come across something that might be of interest to me.”
I opened my satchel and pulled out my copy of The Secret Garden and handed it to him.
“Ah,” he whispered. “Excellent.”
Prinny, the Siamese cat, strolled into the room and stopped at my feet. Could he sense my little kitten’s scent on my shoes? After a few seconds of sniffing, he returned to his master’s side and Edward rewarded him with long strokes along his back. The cat purred with happiness.
At that moment, Mrs. Sweet bustled in with a tray of tea and cookies. She set the tray on the table and poured the tea into fine china cups. She was about to walk away when she noticed the book her employer was holding and blinked a few times. “Oh, my. That is a lovely one.”
Edward looked up and smiled. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Sweet? It’s a duplicate of the one I have in the library.”
“You have the very same book?” I asked. I wasn’t exactly surprised. The man had everything that Mae West had ever touched. But had his copy of The Secret Garden been signed by her, as well?
“Yes, the very same,” he said, smiling as he stroked the spine gently. “This limited edition is exquisite, isn’t it?”
“I love it,” I admitted.
“Enjoy,” Mrs. Sweet said, and toddled off.
Reaching for my teacup, I said, “There’s a signature on the inside front cover. Would you be able to verify that it’s Mae West’s?”
“Certainly.” He laughed lightly. “That is what you’re here for, after all.” He opened the book carefully and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, my. Yes. It’s definitely Mae’s signature. From the early years of her career. It changed as she grew in fame. Became grander, more flamboyant.” His smile softened. “This was the signature of her youth.”
He set down the book, got up, and walked slowly over to a small escritoire in the corner. He returned with a magnifying glass and sat and stared at the writing for another long moment. Then he gazed at me. “Tell me how you came to possess this book.”
“I’m working as a book expert on This Old Attic while they’re taping in San Francisco. Do you know the show?”
“Absolutely. I never miss it.” He chuckled. “In fact, this will confirm that it’s a small world, because the producers called to ask if I would come and be interviewed on their ‘Collector’s Corner’ segment next week.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll see you there.”
“I’m delighted. But go on with your story.”
I told him how Vera had found the book by chance and brought it to the show. I mentioned that she had died a few days later, but left out the gorier details of her death. I didn’t want to shock him.
“My goodness, that is tragic.” His head tilted as something else occurred to him. “But what will happen to the book?”
“If the owner has no living relatives, it might be put up for auction. The Covington would probably be interested in bidding. I suppose any money made from the sale could go to charity.”
“Oh yes.” He nodded briskly. “The Covington would be a wonderful place to display it. But, dear me, I’m stunned that the young lady found it at a garage sale.”
“Yes, it was one of those crazy things,” I said lamely. I wasn’t about to mention the bad luck that had followed me, not to mention Vera, ever since.
“I used to enjoy poking around garage sales,” Edward admitted. “These days, I prefer to use the services of the established auction houses.” He added with a wink, “And usually by telephone from the comfort of my humble abode.”
He spent a few more minutes studying the book, turning the pages slowly, touching only the outer edges so any oils in his skin didn’t mar the leather surface. He was clearly experienced in handling rare books.
When he handed the book back to me, I said, “Thank you for treating it so respectfully. I can tell you’re a true book lover.”
“Yes, I am, and I appreciate your saying so.” He took a cookie and bit into it. “I’m very careful with my own books and would be highly agitated if someone were to mistreat one of them.”