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He retrieved the book, still in its FedEx box. He wasn’t sure why Selma bothered locking it up except, perhaps, because it was connected to the robbery and then the death of Mr. Pickering, the bookseller.
When he returned with the package, Remi was looking out the window—apparently at Selma as she and Zoltán walked down the drive. “Now that she’s in the sun, I do believe her hair matches her shirt. Pink and blue streaks.”
He glanced out the window and saw Remi was right. A very subtle highlighting that hadn’t been there before. “Not like the old Selma to fuss over her appearance. You think—?”
“Lazlo?” Remi finished.
They watched her until she and the dog disappeared from sight. Returning his attention to the book, he slipped it from the FedEx box onto the kitchen table, then unwrapped the brown paper, exposing the leather cover with the gold-tooled title. He could see why Remi had been drawn to it. “This is quite the find.”
She opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of sparkling water. “They went to a lot of trouble to make it look like an antique. They’re printed in China to keep the cost down.”
“Mr. Pickering said this was a copy?”
She poured two glasses. “One of several. Why?”
He looked over at her, saying, “You might want to rethink that.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I mean, around the book.” He stood aside so that she could see. “No way is this some made in China copy, Remi. It’s the real deal.”
Six
Remi stared for several seconds, noticing the worn leather binding, the gold-tooled markings, gilded pages, and the inked typeset lettering that could never be mistaken for modern-day laser print. “This is not the same book he showed me.”
“Then how did you end up with it?”
“I don’t know. I only paid forty-nine dollars plus tax. I—” Remi reached out and touched it, then pulled her hand back. “We should be wearing gloves.”
“Back up there, Remi. What do you mean you only paid forty-nine dollars for this? Or did you forget a few zeroes before that decimal point?”
“No. But when that gunman walked in, Mr. Pickering grabbed the reproduction from me and said he’d wrap it up. The book he took from me was not this one.”
“Do you think he switched it with the book from the safe?”
“He must have. He must have known that man’s intent when he saw him walk into the store.” She glanced down at the volume on the table, still unable to believe what she was seeing. “We should probably let the police know about this.”
“Undoubtedly. But if we do that, they’re going to want to see it. And, right now, I’d like to know what’s so important about this particular volume.”
“So we take it to the expert in Phoenix first?”
“Definitely. Then we inform the police.”
They flew to Phoenix the following morning, meeting with Professor Ian Hopkins, whose studies focused on sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English literature. He also repaired antique books, a hobby he’d taken up after his retirement, and was working on one when they walked in. He looked at them over the rims of his dark-framed glasses. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Fargo.”
“We are,” Sam replied. “But call us Sam and Remi.”
“Ian,” he said, standing. He reached out and shook hands with them both. “So. My friend Lazlo tells me you have a decent copy of The History of Pyrates and Privateers.”
Remi pulled the carefully wrapped book from her tote and set it on the counter. “We weren’t aware that it was supposed to be particularly valuable, but it seems someone believes it is.”
“Let’s have a look.” He donned white gloves, then examined the book, turning it over in his hands. “Full leather binding and spine in good shape. The gold-tooled geometric pattern on front and back still visible . . . Gilding on the page edges apparent, not worn . . .” He set the book on the table, then opened the cover. “This,” he said, running his gloved hand on the front endpaper, illustrated with a map, then flipping the book over and opening the back of the cover, also illustrated with a map, “is where the value lies in copies of this particular book. The endpapers have been removed from most of the copies I’ve seen. You’ll notice that the maps aren’t the same? The front differs from the back? No one realized that for quite some time.”
“Why,” Remi asked, “would someone remove them?”
“I believe they’re copies of actual pirate maps that are described in the book. But since the same maps appear in the endpapers of later editions, including current reproductions, it’s more likely that someone thought the older illustrated endpapers would make a nice framed decoration. That’s the speculation from the author of an article on the recent endpaper theft from a copy contained at the British Library last year. A rather daring burglary, considering the cameras and such.” He touched the edge of the back map along the bottom of the cover and the endpaper lifted slightly. “Not that they would have been all that difficult to remove. You can see the glue is no longer holding on to this copy.”
Sam figured that was the minor damage Selma and Lazlo had mentioned. “With the endpapers intact,” Sam said, “would that increase the value so much that someone would be willing to kill over it?”
