The Marsh Madness

Chadwick asked Vera about her collection.

“It’s not bad,” Vera said. “Coming along.” That was an understated way to describe the treasured volumes in the climate-controlled library with its security system, Aubusson carpets, rosewood furniture and bookshelves and wrought-iron circular staircase leading to the second floor. Of course, Vera was crying poor on the off chance, in the end, the price for the Ngaio Marsh collection could dip a bit in her favor.

Chadwick tilted his narrow head and gazed at her speculatively. I figured he had her number. Sometimes, playing games can actually cost you money. Vera wanted that collection the way she wanted to keep breathing.

“Tell us about the collection here at Summerlea,” I said, being careful not to chirp.

He glanced at me briefly before saying, “What do you want to know?”

“What did your uncle collect? Fine firsts? Other mysteries?” Those were Vera’s passions, and she favored the authors from the Golden Age of Detection. Of course, Ngaio Marsh had been one of the giants of that era.

I guessed that Chadwick didn’t appreciate an interruption from one of the minions. He gave a tight smile that went nowhere near those hooded eyes. “He collected many things, including certain authors. Marsh was a favorite, although he leaned toward American classic mysteries. He had some Hammetts and Chandlers.”

There had been nothing about Magnus Kauffman’s reading habits in anything I’d read.

“Did he keep his books here in Summerlea?” I wondered about the climate-controlled conditions. My guess was that Summerlea wasn’t open all year round and that we were the first through the door at the end of winter. Would it be damp? “Damp” was a four-letter word in our business.

He flicked an annoyed glance in my direction. “No. The books are at the residence in Manhattan. There is a special room for them for the time being. Some were singled out in the will for the New York Public Library, Rare Book Division. If Miss Van Alst would be interested in seeing the others sometime before they are on their way, we could certainly arrange for her to visit.”

If Uncle Kev noticed that we were pointedly not invited to visit the city residence, he gave no indication. Instead, he held out his empty mimosa glass. Thomas refilled it, with his eyebrows raised. And here I’d thought butlers were supposed to keep their reactions under wraps.

“I don’t travel,” Vera was saying, dismissively. It must have been difficult for her to look so uninterested, because of course, she would want to see, and yes, touch, the Hammetts and the Chandlers. I was impressed that she’d managed not to drool. But she’s nothing if not a good negotiator. Her first principle: You have to be prepared to walk away. They can sense that.

Chadwick pursed his thin lips and glanced at me once more past those thick eyelids, as if I were responsible for Vera’s rudeness. I kept my mouth closed. Although I found myself disliking Chadwick more by the minute, I didn’t want to ruin lunch. Instead, I smiled and said, “What a beautiful room. I love the light and the view. It must be lovely in the summer looking down the lawn to the water.” I didn’t say, “Holy crap, is that a real Andrew Wyeth?”

Miss Troy, who had continued watching Chadwick intensely, produced a warm smile that transformed her face. “Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? What a shame this isn’t later in the season.”

Chadwick barely stifled a yawn and said to Vera, “Who knows? We may have more transactions in the future and you could enjoy a visit here in June.”