“Who,me?”
“Seb, I’m serious. No sleuthing around.”
I waved a hand at him before tucking it into my jacket pocket. “I won’t.”
“All right.”
“You be careful too,” I said.
He leaned down and kissed me in the privacy of his doorway. “Have a good day.”
I smiled as I followed him down the stairs to leave the building. It was all very sweet and domestic.
Except for the ongoing murder investigation.
But it’s always something.
Chapter Thirteen
THE NEWYork Public Library took their rare books collection seriously. I signed in with my library card and ID, and checked my coat. No bag, pens, or anything of the sort allowed into the room. For those there to study the books, notes could only be taken with pencils, and photographs were at the discretion of the curator.
“Sebastian Snow,” a woman spoke as I was allowed inside. “You’re here to examineTamerlaneby Edgar Allan Poe, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
She was a tall, broad-shouldered, pretty woman with her hair tied back elegantly and a suit that made her look extremely dashing. “My name’s Kate Bell. I’ll be showing you the book.”
“Wonderful.” I followed behind her as she motioned me along.
“Professor?” she asked.
“What? Oh, no. I’m an antique dealer, actually. I’ve sort of become interested in Poe lately.”Sort of.
“I see.”
She didn’t offer further conversation, but I needed to keep asking questions. About anything. I’d strike at something important sooner or later. As much as I believed Calvin was working his ass off to get to the bottom of this case, I was afraid he wouldn’t get there in time. Pesky things like paperwork and legal proceedings held him up, and with already two dead and this creep zeroing in on me, I wasn’t willing to stand by idly anymore.
I technically hadn’tpromisedCalvin I wouldn’t snoop about. I’d help, whether he wanted the assistance or not.
“Do many people ask to seeTamerlane?”
“Now and then,” Kate answered, slowing her walk to look at me. “It’s not the work he’s known for.”
“Written by a Bostonian.”
She smiled. “That’s correct. Poe published the work anonymously. The printer was a young man named Calvin F. S. Thomas, whom Poe hired and paid to produce the copies ofTamerlane. The production amount is rather disputed, but in general it is believed that no more than fifty copies were made.”
“My father is a retired professor of American literature,” I said. “He told me there’s only twelve copies known to exist today. Is that so?”
“Very true.” Kate stopped walking. “It is known today as the Holy Grail of American literature. To find one, especially any copy not already accounted for, would be priceless.”
“How much is it worth? Of course, its condition taken into consideration.”
“The last copy that sold at Christie’s auction went for over half a million dollars,” Kate answered. “A few years ago.”
“To a private buyer?”
“Yes. One or two I believe are owned by individuals. The rest are in universities, libraries, and the Poe museum,” she said, ticking off the points on her fingers.
