Part 8 (2/2)

”Good Lord. I hope it's not under your seat. The heat of your engine could do some serious damage.”

”Come on, you know I know better. It's in the top case.” There were only certain things I could leave under the seat-my helmet, gloves, a rain jacket, items like that. No groceries, unless I wanted the meat and produce to be precooked and the cheese melted when I got home. ”Do you think I could stop by now?”

”Sure you can. I'm just catching up on paperwork. What's going on, sugar? Is this something urgent?”

”Yes.”

”I see. Would I be correct in a.s.suming the book's not yours?”

”You would, but the owner, or the person I think is the owner, can't ask you about it himself. It's a long story.”

”I see. Well, in that case, come on over. I'll make tea.”

M. Katzer Fine Antiques was located on upper Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, in a historic district known as Book Hill. A neighborhood of wide brick sidewalks lined with art galleries, antiques shops, and home-furnis.h.i.+ng boutiques, the long block between Q and R Streets had been the home of the late, lamented French Market until twenty years ago. But the Gallic charm lingered, along with the pleasant, unrushed feeling that you'd somehow left frenetic Was.h.i.+ngton behind and wandered into the Latin Quarter of Paris. The name Book Hill came from the nearby Georgetown Neighborhood Library, as well as a pretty hilly patch of green on Reservoir Road called, not surprisingly, Book Hill Park.

Max's upscale gallery at 1605 Wisconsin specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century English and continental antiques and decorative arts, Oriental carpets, and an eclectic collection of art. I liked the fact that he wasn't a sn.o.b or a purist, and every now and then he'd display something offbeat like a retro 1950s sofa upholstered in loud avocado and tangerine stripes or, once, a chandelier made of red, yellow, and green Murano gla.s.s gummy bears.

The gallery was a secondary business, opened to appease his many admirers who clamored for it. But he'd made his reputation and his fortune as one of D.C.'s top interior designers, thanks to a client list that included diplomats, politicians, wealthy socialites, and even the First Family.

The Tibetan wind chimes hanging on the front door of his gallery tinkled as I walked in half an hour later cradling my camera bag with Kevin's book inside. Max's business partner-and, if you believed the rumors, a former lover-glanced up from a catalog she was reading behind an antique walnut-and-gla.s.s display cabinet.

She smiled. ”Sophie, how nice to see you. Go on through, he's in his office.”

Max was sitting at a mahogany desk that dated from one of the Louises-fourteenth or sixteenth, I could never remember-frowning at something on his computer screen. When he saw me in the doorway, the frown vanished and he switched off the display and came around, smiling, to give me a kiss.

He was dressed as though he'd just come from a meeting at the White House: impeccable charcoal suit, pale blue dress s.h.i.+rt, blue-and-yellow silk tie, and black wingtips polished to a military s.h.i.+ne. He was tall and slim, with an air of erudition and seriousness and the bearing of someone who grew up surrounded by privilege and luxury on a grand estate or a historic plantation, a first-cla.s.s private education, summer holidays abroad. The truth-and he was proud of it-was that he was the only child of a single mother who worked in a school cafeteria in rural Kentucky. The military paid for his college education.

”Sweetheart, do come in. Let me take that from you.” He set my camera bag on an English sideboard. ”I made Earl Grey. And we've got macaroons from Patisserie Poupon.”

I'd completely forgotten about eating lunch. ”Sounds wonderful,” I said. ”And thank you again for the note you left this morning about Kevin Boyle.”

He shook his head in dismay. ”I read his book. A real shame about his pa.s.sing. He wasn't that old.” He indicated a chair. ”Have a seat, darlin'. Your tea's ready.”

I sat in a moss-green velvet slipper chair in front of his desk and took the bone china cup and saucer he handed me. Max sat in the matching twin chair across from me and pa.s.sed me a plate piled with macaroons. When he crossed one leg over the other, I noticed he was wearing socks with a pirate skull and crossbones on them.

”Hazelnut or raspberry?” he said. ”Never mind, take one of each.”

I took one of each and said, ”I love your socks.”

”I like 'em, too. Always do one thing that keeps people guessing about you. It's boring being predictable. Suit from Savile Row, socks from Target.” He grinned, and stuck out a leg, admiring his sock. ”So tell me about this book. We have some time before Bram calls. He won't be free until three o'clock.”

”Bram?”

He dipped a hazelnut macaroon in his tea. ”Bramwell Asquith. You must know Asquith's, the British auction house? Their Was.h.i.+ngton gallery is on Cady's Alley.”

It was one of the oldest auction houses in Britain, founded in the late 1700s.

”Of course.” The studio I briefly worked for was also located on Cady's Alley, a little cul-de-sac in lower Georgetown next to the C&O Ca.n.a.l. ”When I lived in London I used to stop by their gallery on Bond Street.”

Max nodded. ”I know it well. Bram is their senior vice president-and heir apparent to take over-but he's also Asquith's expert on rare and antiquarian books. He works here in Was.h.i.+ngton, though. I'm not sure how much he'll be able to tell us over the phone, but at least you might be able to get a rough idea of the value.” He gave me a questioning smile. ”I'm presuming that's what you're after, isn't it?”

”Yes and no. I believe someone is searching for this particular book, and I want to know why.”

”Can you be any more specific?”

”I'm fairly certain it belonged to Kevin Boyle. He hid it in a locker at the Natural History Museum, or at least I think he hid it, though I don't know from whom.”

Max brushed imaginary crumbs from his perfectly creased trousers and looked as though we were discussing something as innocuous as what fabric to choose for my living room drapes. ”I see,” he said in his languid drawl. ”Do you believe there's a connection between Brother Kevin's death and the book?”

”I don't know. That's why I'm so curious about it.”

Max set his cup and saucer on his desk as though I still hadn't said anything that surprised him. But in his line of work, he probably saw his share of surprises-some of them no doubt jaw-dropping-peeking into the bedrooms, offices, and private lives of his powerful and wealthy clients. I figured he had a lot of practice perfecting that poker face.

”Why don't I pour us some more tea?” he said. ”And maybe you can start at the beginning.”

I told him everything, including finding Kevin's study room trashed, Thea Stavros's asking to keep the key, and Logan's suggesting it possibly opened a locker at the Natural History Museum.

Max's eyebrows went up when I mentioned Thea. ”So you met La Stavros? How interesting. I haven't spoken to her in ages. In fact, I didn't realize she was still at the library.”

”You know her?” I asked, as he gave me a practiced innocent grin that fooled no one. ”Why am I asking? You know everyone.”

”You flatter me. But Thea . . . a fascinating woman, to say the least. We met years ago when a client asked me to create a one-of-a-kind hand-painted wallpaper of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American botanical prints.” He picked up his teacup again and drank, his eyes crinkling as he started to laugh. ”Let me tell you, Thea saved my bacon. Refused to let me use two of the prints I absolutely loved because she said they would look like we'd put big green phalluses all over the walls once they were enlarged. Lord, it was a distinguished room in a rather famous home.”

I laughed, too. ”I don't suppose you'd care to tell me which rather famous home?”

He gave me a look like a cat that just drank all the cream. ”Have another macaroon, Sophie, darlin'.”

I took one, and he stood up. ”Let me wash my hands and we'll have a look at your book.”

I cleaned up our dishes while he disappeared into the small bathroom that adjoined his office. Then I took the book in its canvas cover out of my camera bag. Max returned holding a pair of white cotton gloves. He removed the cloth-covered box from the bag and set it on the sideboard.

”Well, the fact that it's in a Solander box already indicates that it's of some value.” He took reading gla.s.ses out of the inside pocket of his jacket and put them on.

”Why is it called a Solander box?” I asked.

”Because it was invented by Mr. Solander.” He opened the box. ”I don't recall his first name, but he was a botanist, interestingly enough, who needed a st.u.r.dy container to protect a collection of prints . . . let's see what we have here. Adam in Eden: or, Natures Paradise. The History of Plants, Fruits, Herbs and Flowers by William Coles, Herbalist.”

He lifted the yellowed book out of the box and set it on a piece of cloth he'd laid out on the sideboard. I took a look inside the box.

”There's an envelope in here,” I said. ”It must have been underneath the book. No postage stamp and it seems to be quite old. Addressed to Dr. Francis Pembroke of Leesburg, Virginia.”

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