The Marsh Madness

The only selling point was getting our mitts on the books. I stuck to that. “He specifically mentioned that you were chosen to have first dibs on his uncle’s world-class collection.”


I didn’t mention that Vera’s own collection of Marsh novels was barely adequate. She had twenty-three of the books—nice enough, mostly paperback reprints in decent but not pristine condition. If this new collection was as described—fine first editions, practically untouched—she would be over the moon when she took possession of it. Not that she’d admit that. I knew I’d be finding buyers for the books she had, and if I was patient and businesslike, we’d collect quite a bit to offset the cost of the “Kauffman Find,” as I thought of it.

While I was at college, I’d discovered the Marsh books one rainy weekend at my best friend Tiff’s family cottage. I read quite a few during the summers. Now I wanted to get back on top of the series, as part of the whole Summerlea adventure. I would never dare try to read Vera’s collection. I’d been hunting for cheaper secondhand copies for myself. Even with my nose for a bargain, I’d found that a challenge as many of the Marsh paperbacks were out of print.

Vera wasn’t letting go of her reluctance. She’s not the type to be enthusiastic about anything, except maybe bursting my bubble. “Why me?”

We’d been through this already, but I took a deep breath and recapped. “Miss Troy said—if you remember—that as you are a preeminent collector, Mr. Kauffman believes the books would be in good hands and this would honor his uncle’s interests and memories.” I may have put some words into the mouth of Chadwick Kauffman. I had never spoken to him directly. But it was all in the service of a greater good, and there was an excellent chance that this would turn out to be true. Plus I wanted to enjoy my bit of anticipation and, most likely, Vera wouldn’t remember the details of what I’d claimed he’d said.

Even so, she shot me a suspicious glance.

I returned her glance with my most innocent expression, smoothing my hair to the side, a horrible tell, my uncle Mick would say. “I really love those books. I haven’t read her in a few years. But I’ve found myself a few paperbacks.” I tried to pretend that my interest was purely professional, but then that Roderick Alleyn was really delicious.

I have a weakness for fictional males, and Inspector Alleyn was as aristocratic and intelligent as Lord Peter Wimsey and as entertaining as Archie Goodwin, my two all-time heartthrobs. He was better looking than Wimsey, and I was sure Roderick Alleyn had never looked even slightly foolish. He was more elegant than Archie, although maybe not quite as good in a fight. But what I liked best was that he had a foot in two worlds: his upper-crust origins and the much grubbier world of policing. Welcome to my life, living large at Van Alst House. I totally understood that. I was the first person in my entire family to go straight. And hadn’t the inspector and I both stumbled into more than our share of murders?

I thought he’d get me.

Vera made another face that didn’t do her any favors. “You really should stop mooning around, Miss Bingham. It’s all such a waste of energy. I don’t see why we can’t do the transaction by phone or e-mail.”

I felt Summerlea and my great adventure slipping away. Without chirping, I said, “We’ve already accepted and they’ve welcomed us. We’ve already arranged with the bank to get the cash. You know that, Vera. We can’t back out now. Think of your status in the community.” Okay, that was a stretch. It would be hard to imagine anyone who cared less about the community than Vera. Or anyone whose status was more compromised.

“Miss Bingham! Please stop squandering my time. Weren’t you supposed to be finding a new supply of acid-free boxes today?”

“It’s done, Vera.”