Eight Perfect Murders(8)

“I guess,” I said. “I wrote that list a long time ago, and some of those books I know a lot better than others.”

“Still, it can’t hurt to get your opinion. I was hoping you’d look at some cases I put together, a list of unsolved murders in the New England region over the last few years. I threw it together quickly last night, just summaries, really”—she was pulling a stapled sheaf of papers from her briefcase—“and was hoping you’d go through them, let me know if any of them seem like they might have something to do with the books on your list.”

“Sure,” I said, taking the pages from her. “Are these . . . classified, as well?”

“Most of the information I’ve summarized is public information. If any of the crimes strike you as a possibility, I’ll take a closer look. I’m just fishing here, with these ones, honestly. I’ve already gone over them. It’s just that, since you’ve read the books . . .”

“I’ll need to reread some of the books, as well,” I said.

“So you’ll help me.” She sat up a little straighter and half smiled. She had a short upper lip, and I could see her gums when she opened her mouth.

“I’ll try,” I said.

“Thank you. And there’s one more thing. I’ve ordered all the books, but if you had any copies here, I could get a quicker start on them.”

I checked the inventory on the computer; it told me we had several copies each of Double Indemnity, The A.B.C. Murders, and The Secret History, plus one copy of The Red House Mystery. We also had one copy of Strangers on a Train, but it was a first edition from 1950 in perfect condition that was worth at least $10,000. We had a locked case near the checkout counter that held all our books that were worth fifty dollars or more, but it wasn’t there. It was in my office, also in a locked glass case, where I put the editions of books that I wasn’t quite ready to part with yet. There was a collector’s streak in me, not necessarily a good thing for someone who worked in a bookstore, and for someone whose own bookshelves in my attic apartment were filled to capacity. I nearly told Agent Mulvey that we didn’t have the Highsmith book but decided that I shouldn’t lie, at least not about something trivial, to an employee of the FBI. I told her what it was worth, and she said she’d wait for her paperback copy to arrive. That left The Drowner, which I definitely had at home, and Malice Aforethought, which I thought I might have at home, as well. I definitely didn’t have a copy of the playscript for Deathtrap, either here at the store or at home, but I did know that it existed. I told the agent all this.

“I can’t read eight books in a night, anyway,” she said.

“Are you going back to . . .”

“I’m staying near here tonight, at the Flat of the Hill Hotel. I was hoping after you looked over the list, maybe in the morning . . . we could meet again, see if you’ve had any thoughts.”

“Of course,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ll be opening the store tomorrow, not if this weather . . .”

“You could come to the hotel. The FBI will pay for your breakfast.”

“Sounds fine,” I said.

At the front door Agent Mulvey said she’d pay for the books she was taking home with her.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You can return them to me when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” she said.

She opened the door just as a gust of wind ricocheted down Bury Street. The snow was piling up, the wind causing drifts, obliterating all the sharp angles of the city street.

“Be careful out there,” I said.

“It’s not far,” she said. “Tomorrow at ten, right?” she added, confirming the time for our breakfast meeting.

“Right,” I said, and stood in the doorway, watching her disappear into the enveloping snow.





Chapter 4




I lived alone on the other side of Charles Street, up the hill in a brownstone attic apartment that was rented to me by a ninety-year-old Boston Brahmin who had no idea of the actual worth of her property. I paid a scandalously low rent and fretted selfishly about the day my landlady would die and pass her property on to one of her more financially astute sons.

It normally took me less than ten minutes to get from the bookstore to my apartment, but I was walking against the storm in a pair of shoes with worn-out treads. The snow stung my face, and the wind was bending trees and singing down the empty streets. On Charles I considered checking to see if the Sevens was open for a drink but decided to pop into the cheese and wine shop instead, where I bought myself a six-pack of Old Speckled Hen and a premade ham-and-cheese baguette for my dinner. I had been planning on cooking the pork chop that I’d taken out to defrost that morning, but I was anxious to read through Agent Mulvey’s list that night.

At my apartment building I climbed the unshoveled steps to the heavy front door, made from walnut and with cast-iron door handles. I let myself in after knocking the snow from my shoes. Another tenant, probably Mary Ann, had already sorted the mail and left it on the side table in the foyer. I picked up my damp credit card solicitations while I dripped onto the cracked tile floor, then climbed the three flights of stairs to my converted attic space.

As always, during the winter months, it was stiflingly hot inside my place. I removed my jacket and sweater, then opened both my windows, one on either side of the slanted walls, just enough so that cold air could seep in. I put five of the beers into my fridge and cracked the sixth. Even though my apartment was a studio, there was enough space for a clearly delineated living room, and I stretched out on the sofa, put my feet up on the coffee table, and began to read through Agent Mulvey’s list.