A Bookmarked Death by Judi Culbertson Page A

expression. “It’s the latest thing. The air goes through the house’s ductwork and gives off a different scent in every room. Sandalwood in here, Fresh Linen in the bedrooms.”
    “Pumpkin Pie in the kitchen?”
    “Exactly.”
    I thought of my own house. Book Dust in the barn, Cat Box when I wasn’t paying attention.
    Outside, pushing through the sand to my van, I saw workmen sliding the ladders out of a large truck. They didn’t have a clever business name or a cartoon character printed on the side of their van, just heavy-duty tools and no-nonsense faces. These guys were the real deal. I hoped I was too.
    A S LONG AS I was out east, I decided to visit my favorite Hamptons booksellers—the WOOFF (Welfare of Our Furry Friends) thrift shop, the old Bridgehampton Fire Department that now housed rooms of books, and the Ladies Village Improvement Society in Easthampton. They accepted donations from the community and over the years I had picked up some prizes. The prices weren’t the most reasonable—nothing beats an estate sale where every book is fifty cents—but like most dealers, I was mindful that it would take only one treasure to change my life.
    My hopes had just been refueled by the story of a scrap metal dealer who nearly melted down a Fabergé egg for the gold, then decided it was too pretty to destroy. For his good taste he went on to collect millions. That’s what I fantasized happening to me. Nothing on such a grand scale, but perhaps a short story handwritten by Edgar Allan Poe or a missing Massachusetts Bay hymnal inscribed by Cotton Mather.
    That day I found no Russian eggs, no trillion-dollar manuscripts, but I turned up some vintage art catalogs. Three were inscribed by the artists, which alone made the trip worthwhile.
    I WAS WRA PPING books to mail in the early afternoon when there was a quick knock at the barn door. People rarely came here looking for books, but when they did I invited them in to browse. I kept the books that were already cataloged on the downstairs shelves.
    When I opened the door it was not a bibliophile but Ruth Carew. She was by herself today and wearing a pantsuit the pale yellow of Long Island corn. This jacket seemed a little grimy around the cuffs, but at least there were no food stains on the lapels.
    “We’re interested in examining your van and your computers,” she told me bluntly.
    I didn’t say anything.
    “We can get a warrant, of course.”
    Why don’t you do that?
    “This just seems easier.”
    “You can look at my van in the driveway,” I said. “It’s unlocked. But I need my laptop for my book business.”
    “Is that your only computer?”
    “Yes.”
    She eyed me as if dubious that I could conduct a business with just one laptop. “Do you have a smartphone?”
    Did a phone keep a record of Internet searches? Or was she looking for calls to the Crosleys? “Yes, but I need that too.”
    “We can get a warrant,” she repeated.
    “Do whatever you have to.” With no evidence of any criminal activity on my part, I doubted a judge would give her one.
    I didn’t slam the door in her face. I waited until she had turned and was walking down the gravel path before closing it.

 
    Chapter Twelve
    “M OM , E LISA ’ S NO T answering my texts!” Hannah’s voice on my phone sounded frantic.
    It was Thursday morning, the day before graduation at St. Brennan’s College. Jane was scheduled to take the train out from Manhattan tonight and we would be on the ferry to Connecticut early tomorrow morning. The plan was for Hannah to drive over from Ithaca and meet us at there.
    “She has a lot on her mind,” I reassured Hannah, as I poured extra dried food into the dish for the cats. Yet even this small twist ramped up the tension I was already feeling. One more thing to worry about.
    “She’s just going to be staying on in the dorm, they told her she could. And her classes are over. Why isn’t she answering my texts? She doesn’t want us to come.” My