The Dirty Book Murder by Thomas Shawver Page A

asked me.
    “A legal question. Could we discuss it in your study?”
    Winter looked at his wife with a pained expression. “Will you excuse us, Alice?”
    “Sure, but I’m putting away lunch.”
    “Don’t,” I said. “This won’t take long.”
    She said something about the Pope’s wedding and waltzed into the kitchen.
    “Any desire to return to the law?” Tim asked over his shoulder while leading me up a winding staircase to his second floor office. “Bill Evans was just appointed to the state disciplinary board. He asked about you at a bar luncheon last week and said he thought a majority would look favorably upon a motion to reinstate you.”
    “Sorry, not interested. I’ve gotten used to running a business where people leave their problems outside the door. Anyway, it appears you’ve done all right by my former clients.”
    “I admit it’s added considerable spice to my practice,” Tim said, grinning. “I leave the tits-and-ass trade to others, however. Alice insists.”
    “Smart girl. How is everything with you guys? Still madly in love?”
    “She’s a fine woman,” he said, and left it at that.
    The room he ushered me into was on the second level of a three-story turret where I half-expected to find Virginia Woolf scribbling in a corner. An elk antler chandelier hung from the center of the high ceiling, casting a dusky light that was good foratmosphere, but not much else.
    Bloodred drapes bordered a multipaned window featuring the Winter family crest—a serpent impaled by a lance and the rather odd motto “De Mal Me Paists,” which, if my Latin was correct, translated to “I Feed on Evil.”
    Floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves filled with beautifully bound volumes relating to mountaineering, nineteenth-century whaling, and exploration covered a ten-foot section of the concave brick wall. Five years ago they would have been covered with law books, but attorneys no longer needed them with the advent of laptops and Westlaw.
    I sat on a worn leather couch while Tim settled behind the desk in a high-backed chair. He looked at his manicured fingernails and then at me.
    “Now, what’s your problem?”
    “How did you know I have a problem?”
    “It’s Sunday afternoon and the Yankees are in town for a double-header. You decided to miss that for a little chat with me. I figure it’s some kind of trouble. Is it Anne?”
    “Not this time. She’s put herself into another unfortunate situation, but I’m into something far worse. I need your services, partner. There’s been a murder.”
    Winter sighed and looked at me indifferently as if he heard such announcements every day. His hands worked the towel back and forth across the back of his neck.
    “Are you a suspect?”
    “I will be.”
    “Hmm. What happened to place you in this predicament?”
    “I attended an auction down at River Market yesterday where some remarkable books were offered.”
    Tim leaned forward. My possible indictment for murder didn’t seem to pique his interest, but the mention of rare books did.
    “Whose collection was it?”
    “It wasn’t announced. The owner wanted it kept private, I suppose because of the erotica.”
    “Erotica?”
    “Yes. Not the trashy stuff. Lovely Shunga prints and early twentieth-century European illustrated works. It included a book by Colette.”
    “The French writer? Which book?”
    “Are you familiar with
L’Ingénue libertine
?”
    “Of course,” Tim said, slightly offended that I could question his expertise. “In 1922 it established her as not only a scandalous young lady but a distinguished prosestylist as well. The novel makes flagellation seem rather charming.”
    “Is the book rare?”
    “Not particularly. She had already become famous with the publication of
Claudine à l’école
in 1900 and then the three
Claudine
sequels. Still, you won’t find many first editions of
L’Ingénue
in this neck of the woods. In Paris or Berlin a fine copy can be found for a hundred