Midsummer Night's Mischief by Jennifer D. Hesse

Saturday someone broke into Eleanor’s home. At least, I think they broke in. Anyway, it appears they took the Folio and nothing else.”
    T.C.’s eyes widened, and his gray eyebrows rose halfway up his broad forehead. “Good Lord! Someone stole the Folio? It wasn’t locked up in a bank?”
    I shook my head sadly. “It wasn’t in a bank,” I said.
    I watched him closely as he processed the information. He did seem to be truly surprised. After a moment, he stared wistfully out the shop window behind me. Almost to himself, he murmured, “The First Folio. Amazing condition. I held it in my hands. Right here, in my hands.”
    â€œYou were confident it was legitimate, even though it hadn’t been authenticated yet?”
    â€œOh, yeah. I’ve been in this business a long time. It looked like the real deal to me, and I was very interested in acquiring it. Mrs. Mostriak told me she wanted to keep the sale local.” He heaved a sigh and shook his head again.
    â€œI’ve never been so close to owning something so special as that. I wish to heck I could’ve purchased it before . . .” He stopped himself and looked at me. “Of course, my loss, if you could call it that, is nothing compared to the family’s. First, they lose their mother, their grandmother. And then they lose their inheritance. What a blow, huh?”
    â€œI know,” I agreed glumly. “I feel terrible about it, too. Um, I take it Eleanor didn’t mention anything about an insurance policy to you?”
    â€œWell,” T.C. said, “I know for a fact the Folio wasn’t insured as of the time she was last here on Thursday. She asked me for an extra copy of my appraisal letter for her to give to her insurance agent.”
    â€œThen she was probably going to go with her current agent,” I said half to myself. So much for the hope that there might be some unknown insurance policy out there.
    For a minute, neither of us said anything, each feeling the weight of the loss.
    If only the Folio would just reappear.
    â€œT.C.,” I said suddenly. “How easy will it be for the thief to sell the Folio? And, for that matter, where could he or she sell it?”
    â€œWell, now, that all depends,” T.C. mused. “If it was a professional, someone with contacts in the art and antiquities world—and someone who’s willing to travel anywhere in the wild blue yonder—it could be done relatively quickly. But if it’s a small-time thief, they might hold on to it longer. They’ll want to be careful about who they talk to. As for where , well, a place like my store here might be a good start.”
    Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.
    T.C. chuckled. “Not because I’m a known dealer in stolen books, let me assure you. I mean a place like mine. Any dealer in used books would be a potential buyer for the Folio. Or a potential broker—someone who could put the thief in touch with interested private buyers. Of course, you know the first question any bookseller worth his salt will ask is, ‘Where’d you get it?’”
    I pondered what T.C. had said. “It seems unlikely to me that it was a professional book thief,” I said. “I mean, first of all, how would they know Eleanor even had the Folio? She had just found it and wasn’t making it widely known. She took it to you initially on Tuesday, and—”
    â€œI didn’t tell anyone, except my wife,” T.C. cut in. “No sense in drumming up competition.”
    â€œShe came to see me on Wednesday,” I continued. “She mentioned she had made some phone calls to arrange a trip to the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C., but I don’t think she had actually made an appointment with anyone yet.”
    My wheels were spinning, but I decided I’d taken enough of T.C.’s time. “Well, I guess the police will check out all the