“Jesus, Duncan. You need to calm down.”
“Shut up!” Duncan looked like he was going to cry. “I’m leaving.” He stood from the booth and left, pulling his coat on as he walked out the door.
That’s how I ended up paying for two meals.
I WASwaiting for the train at Bryant Park, although where I was going, I wasn’t entirely sure. I could just go to the Emporium, do some work until Beth’s exhibit.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Beth.
Duncan had thrown me off my game!
Beth and her stupid surprise unveiling! Assuming there was in fact, a long lost thirteenth copy ofTamerlanebeing tossed as part of that estate sale, it ended up in one of two places. Either my shop, with the haul of antique books it should have been a part of, or in Beth’s haul of secondhand paperbacks, where it could have easily been mistaken as junk and tossed in. I had to assume, despite never having looked in my boxes at home before someone had taken the opportunity to investigate themselves, that I didn’t haveTamerlane. I had to assume Ineverhad it.
Why?
Because Beth did. How long had she known, I don’t know, but somewhere along the way, she found it. Being a serious person in the business, she knew who the author was and the goldmine she had stumbled upon. An unveiling of that book for the general public to see, exclusive to Good Books, before putting it up for auction—her brick-and-mortar shop would be safe for years and years to come.
The problem with Beth having the book was that I was pretty sure our killer knew she did too. Otherwise they wouldn’t have broken into her store and I wouldn’t have nearly been killed. And it didn’t matter if there wasn’t evidence as to who it was that snuck into Good Books. It made no sense for it to be anyone but this EAP freak. They’d managed to discover I was the antique dealer with the winning bid for the expensive collection. It should have only been a matter of time for them to determine who won the cheap paperbacks and come to the same conclusion I did.
The fact that our shops were neighbors was just too convenient.
Beth was undoubtedly pulling out all the stops to promote this surprise event. It was like ringing the dinner bell for a hungry bear. The killer would come. Hehadto. He had already killed two people in his fanatical search for the book. He’d have no qualms about offing a third.
But I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I told Beth and she called off the event, the man would just lie in wait and strike when we wouldn’t expect him. If I told Calvin, he’d have cops there and maybe this guy wouldn’t appear. He’d still be out there, still ready and willing to hurt more people—maybe still me, and most certainly Beth. And I might gripe about Beth not paying her account on time, but I’ve known her for years. She’s a good person. Afriend. I wouldn’t let someone hurt her.
Having the book unveiling go on without commotion might be the only way to corner the killer and catch him. The only way to keep everyone safe, the book in the right hands, and get him behind bars. My number one problem still was: who.
I knew what it was: A thirteenth copy ofTamerlane and Other Poems.
I knew why: Money. Lots of it.
I knew where: Beth’s shop.
I knew when: Seven o’clock tonight.
But I didn’t know who.
I had more clues than I knew what to do with, and none of them could draw a line to who the fuck this guy was. My best bet was still Greg. Maybe Calvin had my ex-boyfriend pinned as the most interesting guy, but that was just simply ludicrous.
I had decided where to go.
Chapter Fourteen
MARSHALL’S ODDITIES.I’d never actually been inside. It was an extremely small store—two or three of them would fit inside the Emporium easily. There was only enough space for a few customers to skirt around the displays at a time, but it was empty that Monday afternoon.
Empty, save for myself and Greg Thompson.
He was sitting behind the counter, reading the newspaper, and looked up when the door opened. “Sebastian?”
“Hi.” I looked around the shop as he shut the page he was reading and put his hands on the countertop.
The shop was brightly lit and was starting to annoy the growing headache I had. The shelves weren’t stocked as heavily as my own, but the items were similar. What my returning customers told me of Greg’s business was that he had interesting wares, but was priced higher than what the market asked and wasn’t as knowledgeable on particular subjects. I was full of random facts, for sure, and took it as a compliment that my customers trusted me and my research, despite being one of the younger antique dealers in the city.
“Can I help you?” Greg asked. “Or have you come to spy on my shop?”
