Liz thought quickly. If she couldn’t get information from Kinnaird before the six o’clock deadline for first edition, she might still have a chance of getting something into a later printing.
“You’re on!” she said. “See you at seven.”
Taking a seat on a bench in the lobby, Liz gave some attention to the last half of Nesnarf’s talk. It seemed to be based on the private eye’s specialty, rounding up straying spouses. The sobering statistics she delivered about unfaithful mates seemed to upset this mostly female audience more than did Kinnaird’s bite marks presentation. Despite this, Nesnarf managed to make the mystery mavens laugh, as she enlivened her talk with anecdotes about men whose foolish infidelity to clever wives landed them in hilarious fixes.
“Sometimes I wonder why these wives hire me,” Nesnarf said. “Forget the old evidence of lipstick on the collar. I had a case in which an errant husband came home from a rendezvous with custard on his cravat. Yes, a cravat! That’s how uncool this dude was. The problem was, he was one of those extreme vegans who won’t eat any animal products. And his wife was a food sciences professor at the culinary institute. A quick analysis in her lab proved this guy truly had egg on his cravat, if not his face.”
The mention of cooking ingredients made Liz recall the bloody scene in Ellen’s kitchen, captured in DeZona’s photo. She found a pay phone and called the Banner’s photo department.
“Photo. DeZona here.”
“René! I’m glad you answered. It’s Liz. How long are you on tonight?”
“Another few hours unless they send me out on assignment.”
“Listen, could you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is and on what The Powers That Be need me to do.”
“Could you print the rest of your pictures from the Johansson kitchen?”
“I only took two shots before the police kicked me out, but I have some I took outside and in the living room with you and the kid, too.”
“Print as many as you can, please. I need them to show to a forensics guy tonight. And could you enlarge any sections that show blood or other forensic evidence?”
“Yeah, sure. You know Dick has already been interviewing the medical examiner. What’s his name? Barney Williams. I know because I took a head-shot for the paper.”
“Were you with Dick all day?”
“Part of the time. Look, where are you calling from?”
“Worcester.”
“Well, why don’t you let me get on with this? We can talk when you get to the newsroom.”
“Okay. One more thing, René.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got a film Ellen Johansson took when she was out of town, I think. Could you print it on the sly for me?”
“I’ll try,” DeZona said, hanging up.
Liz made her way to the reference desk.
“I have a Boston Public Library card,” she said. “Would I be able to use that card to take out books here?”
“I’m afraid not,” the librarian said. “We’re in a different network. And you’d have to be a resident of greater Worcester in order to apply for a library card here. You can certainly use our books within the building, however.”
“That won’t work for me. I really need to look at some books for an article I’m writing for the Beantown Banner. I’m working under a tight deadline and need to take the books home with me to examine later.”
“There is something I can do to save you time at the Boston Public Library,” the librarian offered. “I can look online to see which branches of the BPL hold the books you need. I can even tell you if they are listed as checked out.”
“That’s much better than nothing. Thank you.”
“What titles are you looking for?”
“Charles Lindbergh’s The Spirit of St. Louis and Susan Glaspell’s A Jury of Her Peers.”
The librarian rapidly typed in the first title.
“Lindbergh’s book is in at the BPL main branch and in Jamaica Plain. Now, let’s see about the Susan Glaspell. Hmm. Nothing under the title. Let me try the author’s name.”
“What Glaspell work are you looking for?” said a man wearing a “WORCESTER READS!” T-shirt. Below that exclamation, his shirt was emblazoned with the words, “Friends of the Worcester Public Library.”
“Oh, hello, John,” the librarian said. “I’m not seeing the title A Jury of Her Peers under the name Susan Glaspell.”
“That’s because it’s a short story, not a novel,” John said. “It should show up in something like The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories. The story is based on a murder she covered when she was a reporter for some Midwest newspaper. She actually first wrote a play based on the incident, and titled it Trifles.”
“You’re in luck,” the librarian told Liz. “John’s a book dealer and detective fiction buff.”
“Would you have a copy of the play in your store?” Liz asked him.
“I wish I did. It would be worth a pretty penny.”
“Too bad. I want to get my hands on a copy of the book urgently.”
“I’ve been looking for it in the BPL system,” the librarian said, “but it’s not there. Now I see it’s not in our catalogue, either. And I also don’t see it in the Minuteman Library Network.”
“As you can see,” John said, “copies of the play are hard to come by. I could probably get you one through another book dealer, but that could take weeks or more. But if you’re just interested in knowing what the play is about, the short story will be adequate.”
“Our copy of The Oxford Book of American Detective Stories is out,” the librarian said. “Let me look in the short story index to see where else it might be anthologized.”
“Don’t bother,” said John. “I’ve got a copy of the Oxford Book in my store. It’s pretty dog-eared, so it’ll go cheap.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time to travel far,” Liz said.
“My shop is just across the street.”
“Fantastic!” Liz said, putting on her coat and following the book dealer to his shop.
Except for a single high-school student holding the fort, the Worcester Hills Book Shop was completely deserted. Apparently the bibliophiles who usually frequented it were all clustered at the feet of Maurice E. Bouvard, who was holding forth at the Worcester library at the moment.
John found the Oxford Book without much ado, and then made his way to a section of bookshelves labeled “Aviation History.” He returned to Liz with a wide smile on his face.
“Yup, just as I hoped,” he said. “Here’s the Oxford Book with the Glaspell story in it. And here’s an anthology that excerpts Lucky Lindy’s The Spirit of St. Louis. I realize it’s not Lindbergh’s full account, but it may be adequate if you’re working under a deadline. That’s an odd combination of topics. Do you mind if I ask you what the connection is?”
Liz was usually loath to reveal what she was working on, but the man had been so helpful that she told him, “A missing woman loved both of these books, and some others, too.”
“The combination is a bit suggestive, but I wonder if I think so only because you’ve told me the reader’s circumstances. If she had treasured those two books but never went missing, would the same thought come to mind?” the book dealer mused aloud.
“What thought?”
“This woman flies from home but knows any loose ends she leaves will be seen as significant—if a woman gets the chance to look things over. That’ll be eleven dollars for the two books.”
“They’re worth much more than that to me,” Liz said, waving away change from a twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you.”