Ray sighed. “So tell me this—and I know you can’t give me names, I wasn’t asking for any—what kind of people bought the book?”
“I would have thought you’d be more interested in what kind of people nicked the book,” Phillip responded, still giggling slightly. “Too bad I can’t tell you. All the purchases happened during the holiday rush. You know, I’m slow all fall and then we go mad from Thanksgiving to Christmas, especially the last two weeks. And to make things more complicated, I was often gone at the busiest time. My wife’s father was in the hospital in Detroit. Some temps, college kids, were running the asylum. When I was here I was focusing on inventory and orders. We don’t have much storage space; everything has to be just in time. It’s a bit of a dance.”
“So nothing really unusual?” probed Ray.
“Well, book buyers are sort of unusual, more all the time, don’t you think?” Phillip raised an eyebrow and looked thoughtful. “There was one thing more than a bit unusual. Nothing to do with Vinnie or his book, though, just odd. A couple of men were in here on the day before Christmas: two men, black suits and hats and beards.
“Hasids, or Amish?” asked Ray.
“The second, the ones with the buggies.”
“Were they looking at Fox’s book?”
“No, I don’t know what they were looking at; I don’t think it was his book. They did buy something, quite curious at the time, but I can’t remember what it was….” Phillip snapped his fingers. “You know, it might have been a map or a calendar. And after they left I went out to see if there was a buggy on the street,” he confided. “I was wondering if some of them were moving to the area. Might be good for the tourist trade. They do crafts and furniture.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No buggy, they just disappeared into the crowd.”
Ray set the volume of poetry on the counter and placed a credit card on top. Phillip picked up the card and ran it through the reader. Handing Ray a slip to be signed, he said, “See, with this sale your name gets recoded twice: once for the charge, and once as a member of our discount club. But I’ll never disclose this purchase to anyone, especially potential opponents.” He winked. “By the way, whatever happened to that guy that ran against you last time? What was his name?”
“Hammer.”
He chuckled. “Yes, Hammer.”
“Last I heard he’d moved to the Texas, border country somewhere. Bought a gun shop.”
“Ahhh.” Phillip picked up the store receipt and shut it in the register. “I must say your elections are, how should I put it, well I hate to see one coming. You just can’t watch the telly without one or more bits of outrageous propaganda at every break.”
“It does get noisy,” said Ray. “In your home country, politics are rough and tumble, too. And nothing more outrageous than British press coverage.”
“You’re right on about the tabloids, little truth there. At least we don’t have the adverts, there just isn’t that kind of money. And our politicians, well, our scandals are… But there is one important difference.”
“What’s that?” asked Ray, enjoying the banter.
“When our politicians are hearing voices and talking to God, they end up in hospital. They don’t get to stand for Parliament, let alone become Prime Minister. We don’t allow people, even politicians, to embarrass themselves completely.”
“How about Thatcher?”
“She wasn’t talking to God. She was God.”
“This has been fun,” said Ray, “but I’ve got to scoot. I do need a favor, however.”
“Anything for a loyal customer.”
“If you ever notice that I’m talking to myself or seem to be hearing voices, get me out of public office and into treatment.”
“No problem, old friend. I’ll just put out the word about the pacifist poets. I’ll even organize the recall.”
Ray found Penny Storrer, the Cedar Bay District Library head librarian, in her crowded office in the basement of the 60s modern brick building. Her door was open, and she was talking on the phone. Noticing Ray, she pointed to the empty chair in front of her desk. Then she completed her conversation. After returning the phone to its cradle, she crossed her hands on her chest and said, “Horrible news this morning, Ray. Vinnie has been a part of our community here at the library for years. The TV report was rather vague, not that there’s ever much content. I don’t understand what happened.” She looked at him inquiringly.
“I can’t tell you much, Penny. I’ll know a lot more in the next few days.” He smiled. “There is something you could help me with, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Two things, actually. First, what can you tell me about Fox’s book? And secondly, Phillip at Ye Olde says you told him you’ve had two copies stolen….”
“That’s right,” Storrer sniffed. “We checked them in, put them in circulation, and they disappeared.”
“When did you notice they were missing?”
“Vinnie called my attention to it—he liked showing people his books on the shelves. He was constantly dragging people over to his title. First he noticed one was gone, then the other. He asked me if I wanted additional books because both copies were checked out. He was sitting right where you are sitting, and I checked his title on the computer as we were talking. I remember that one copy had circulated; then it was returned in a few days. The other had never circulated. Logically, that meant both copies should have been on the shelves. Anyway, I told him I’d be happy to have two more, and after he left, I went to see if I could find the originals. They weren’t anywhere: not on a return cart, not left on a desk, not shelved incorrectly. Just gone.” She turned to a book-covered table by her desk and rummaged through several piles of books, finally extracting two fresh copies of Fox’s book. “Here are the new copies he brought me, sometime last week it was. They’re still waiting to be cataloged.”
Ray looked up from his notebook. “Is it normal to have books stolen from the library?”
Storrer shrugged and brushed back her shoulder length salt and pepper hair with the writing end of a pencil. “Well, yes and no,” she said. “It doesn’t happen much. Here anyway. Our loss rate is way below the national average. And, as you know, we don’t have any of the electronic detection gear at the door. We’ve never really needed it.” She looked to the ceiling, thinking. “There’ve been a few cases where particular books have disappeared, like new Harry Potter books, the Twilight series too. Our way of dealing with the problem is to put those titles behind the circulation desk. Patrons must ask for the book in person. Anyway, it’s not a common event. Not here.”
“Any idea who might have walked away with Fox’s book?”
Storrer shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about things that way.”
“But you were familiar with the contents of the book,” said Ray.
“Yes, very.” She smiled. “In fact, I helped Vincent with his research, the Capone part—Cicero and Chicago. I had to get most of the books he used via interlibrary loan, as there’s not much demand for Capone material up here. I also pulled things off the Internet for him. Have you read the book?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you know,” she said, her smile growing weak. “The first part of the book might be termed historical fiction with emphasis on the fiction, and the rest is just over the top, Vincent having fun. I liked to kid him about his story, but he’d say, ‘It’s all true!‘ The couple of times I pushed harder, he’d amend that to, ‘Well, it’s mostly true.’ And he would sit there and sort of laugh with a Cheshire cat grin, like we both knew he was just blowing smoke.”