“Where’s Noelle?” she asked.
“Gone to France, I guess. Her store is closed indefinitely while she’s off shopping.”
“Perfect,” Elaine said. She knew that the day before Noelle had flown from Jacksonville to Atlanta, where she boarded an Air France flight at 6:10 p.m. for a nonstop to Paris. She had arrived at Orly at 7:20, on schedule, and caught a 10:40 a.m. flight to Avignon. Their man on the ground there followed her to her apartment on Rue d’Alger in the old section of the city.
When Bruce arrived at the cottage a few minutes after six, Noelle was having a late dinner with a handsome French gentleman at La Fourchette, a famous little restaurant on Rue Racine.
When Bruce arrived at the cottage, Mercer was peeking through the blinds covering a front window. He was driving his convertible Porsche, the one she had seen parked at the Marchbanks House, and he had changed into khaki shorts and a golf shirt. At forty-three, he was lean, fit, and tanned, and though she had yet to hear him reveal the usual boring details of any workout routine, it was obvious he stayed in shape. After two long dinners, she knew that he ate little and drank in moderation. Same for Noelle. Good food was important to them; they just consumed it in small portions.
He was carrying a bottle of champagne, evidence that he was not one to waste time. His wife/partner had left the day before and he was already moving in on his latest prospect. Or so she figured.
Mercer met him at the door and showed him around. On the breakfast table, where she was trying to write her novel, she had placed the two books. “I guess we’re having champagne,” she said.
“It’s just a housewarming gift, maybe for later.”
“I’ll put it in the fridge.”
Bruce sat at the table and stared at the books, as if enthralled. “May I?”
“Of course. They’re just old library books, right?” she said with a laugh.
“Hardly.” He gently picked up The Convict and caressed it as if handling rare jewels. Without opening it, he examined the dust jacket, front, back, and spine. He rubbed the jacket and said, almost mumbling to himself, “First-issue jacket, bright and unfaded, no chips or blemishes anywhere.” He slowly turned to the copyright page. “First edition, published by LSU Press in January of 1985.” He turned more pages and closed the book. “Very fine copy. I’m impressed. And you’ve read it?”
“No, but I’ve read a few of Burke’s mysteries.”
“I thought you preferred female writers.”
“I do, but not exclusively. Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes. He’s been to the store twice. Great guy.”
“And you have two of these, first editions?”
“Yes, but I’m always looking for more.”
“What would you do if you bought it?”
“Is it for sale?”
“Maybe. I had no idea these two were so valuable.”
“I would offer five thousand for this, and I would then try to sell it for twice that. I have a number of clients, serious collectors, and I can think of two or three who’d like to add this to their collections. We would haggle for a few weeks. I would come down. They might go up, but I would hold the line at seven thousand. If I couldn’t get that, I’d lock it in the basement for five years. First editions are great investments because they can’t print any more of them.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Mercer repeated, apparently stunned.
“On the spot.”
“Can I haggle for more?”
“Sure, but six is my top dollar.”
“And no one will ever know where it came from? I mean, they can’t trace it back to me and Tessa?”
Bruce laughed at the question. “Of course not. This is my world, Mercer, and I’ve been playing this game for twenty years. These books disappeared decades ago and no one will suspect anything. I’ll place them privately with my clients and everyone will be happy.”
“There are no records?”
“Where? Who could keep up with all the first editions in the country? Books don’t leave trails, Mercer. A lot of them are passed down like jewelry—not always accounted for, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Outside of probate.”
“Oh, I get it. Are they ever stolen and resold?”
“It happens. I’ll turn down a book if its provenance is too shaky, but it’s impossible to look at a book and say it’s stolen. Take The Convict. Its first printing was small. Over time most have disappeared, and as this happens the remaining ones, those in fine condition, become more valuable. But that’s still a lot of copies out there in the market and they’re identical, or at least they were when they came off the press. Many are passed from one collector to the next. I suppose a few get stolen.”
“Can I be downright nosy and ask what’s your most valuable first edition?”
Bruce smiled and paused for a second. “You’re not being nosy, but let’s be discreet. A few years ago I bought a pristine copy of The Catcher in the Rye for fifty thousand. Salinger rarely autographed his masterpiece, but he gave this one to his editor, who kept it in his family for years, virtually untouched. Perfect condition.”
“How’d you find it? I’m sorry, but this is fascinating.”
“For years there were rumors about the book, rumors probably stoked by the editor’s family, who smelled a big score. I tracked down a nephew, flew to Cleveland, stalked the guy, and pestered him until he sold me the book. It was never on the market, and as far as I know, no one knows I have it.”
“And what will you do with it?”
“Nothing. Just own it.”
“Who’s seen it?”
“Noelle, a couple of friends. I’ll be happy to show it to you, along with the rest of the collection.”
“I’d like that. Back to business. Let’s talk about Cormac.”
Bruce smiled and picked up Blood Meridian. “Do you read him?”
“I’ve tried. He’s too violent.”
“I find it somewhat unusual that a person like Tessa would be a fan of Cormac McCarthy.”
“She read all the time, as long as the books came from the library.”
He examined the dust jacket and said, “A couple of chips here on the spine, probably due to aging, with a bit of fading. Overall, the jacket is in good condition.” He opened the book, examined the endpapers, turned to the half-title page and the copyright page, and read it carefully. He turned more pages, almost slowly enough to read the text. Softly, he said, as he flipped through, “I love this book. It’s McCarthy’s fifth one and his first novel set in the West.”
“I hung in there for about fifty pages,” she said. “The violence is explicit and gruesome.”
“Indeed it is,” Bruce said, still turning pages, as if he reveled in the violence. He gently closed the book and said, “A near-fine copy, as we say in the trade. Better than the one I already own.”
“And you paid how much for it?”
“Two thousand, nine years ago. I would offer four thousand for this and I would probably just keep it in my collection. Four thousand is the top.”