Murder at Teatime by Stefanie Matteson Page B

library huddled over his books like a miser over his gold. The room was almost a separate apartment: there was a cot, an adjoining bathroom, and a kitchen corner with a small refrigerator and a microwave. French doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the rose garden, where a crude cross marked Jesse’s grave. Beyond the rose garden was an arbor, and beyond that, the herb garden. A light breeze carried the spicy scent of herbs.
    “What about last night?” asked Tracey. “Could someone have entered the library while you were at the hospital? I see that it’s not very secure,” he said, nodding at the open doors to the terrace.
    “Yes, that’s a possibility,” said Daria. “The doors are never locked. Fran and Grace and I were all at the hospital.”
    Tracey made a notation in his notebook.
    “Shall I continue?” asked Felix.
    “By all means,” said Charlotte.
    “Finally there’s the thief who steals out of anger. He harbors a grudge against an institution, or, in the case at hand, an individual. Usually he destroys a book rather than selling it. He is rarely caught, but we can take some solace from the fact that he rarely repeats his act.”
    “Then it’s possible that the books were taken by someone with a grudge against Dr. Thornhill,” said Charlotte. “For instance, a member of the Citizens for the Chartwell Corporation.”
    “Very possible indeed,” said Felix, taking another puff of his cigar.
    Or , Charlotte thought, a disaffected colleague . John certainly qualified in the grudge category. But she couldn’t imagine him destroying books that he believed to be among civilization’s greatest treasures.
    “What kind of thief do you think is involved, Mr. Mayer?” asked Tracey.
    “I doubt it’s the thief who steals for gain,” replied Felix. “This kind of thief is usually very professional: he knows which books are the easiest to sell. And the rarer the book, the more difficult it is to dispose of.”
    “But wouldn’t it be possible to sell the books to an unscrupulous dealer?” asked Daria. “I’m sure there are dealers who wouldn’t hesitate to pass a stolen book off on an unsuspecting customer.”
    “ Ja ,” replied Felix. “I am afraid there are as many unscrupulous people in the bookselling business as in any other. I doubt, however, that such a dealer would sell the books to an unsuspecting customer. It is more likely that he would have a particular customer in mind, a bibliomaniac, perhaps, for whom the pride of possession would outweigh any moral scruples he might have about accepting stolen merchandise.”
    Pulling a monogrammed linen handkerchief out of one of his many pockets, he wiped his shiny forehead. Charlotte noticed that the toe of his foot, clad in white doeskin, tapped a nervous tattoo. Was he nervous because Daria’s question challenged the integrity of his profession? Or was he nervous because he had stolen the books? He had access to them, and he knew the market. She looked down with a shudder at the little gray heaps of cigar ashes at the side of his chair. She could imagine what his apartment looked like. She knew it was ridiculous of her to think so, but to her his sloppiness alone made him worthy of suspicion. She had always had a passion for order. Even as a child she had been tormented by something as trivial as a wrinkle in her blouse or a grass stain on her skirt. But although she recognized that her fastidiousness was excessive, experience had nevertheless confirmed her opinion that sloppiness can sometimes be a manifestation of weakness of character. Besides, Felix’s sloppiness wasn’t all that made her uneasy about him. He also seemed to be playing a role: he was almost a caricature of himself—a shade too unctuous, too jovial, too much the bon vivant .
    She made a mental note to ask her friend Tom Plummer to check Felix out through his contacts in the New York book world. Tom was the journalist who had written Murder at the Morosco . He had