The Book of Old Houses by Sarah Graves Page A

turned back to what he was saying now.
    â€œ. . . not clear the book
was
stolen. Lang says he thinks it was in the house the night Horace died. But in the confusion, the police and so many other people going in and out . . .”
    DiMaio spread his hands helplessly. “Or maybe it wasn’t. I know Horace had letters from someone, asking to see the book, and he’d refused. I wish he’d kept them.”
    Ellie’s eyes met mine:
Who?
I moved my shoulders minutely:
No idea.
    â€œThe book was your property,” Dave told me, “so Horace didn’t think it was right to show it nonprofessionally. But if he sent it out to another laboratory or some other consultant before he died, I’m not aware of it. And Horace usually kept me up-to-date on things like that.”
    He looked around the table. “You see, in our younger days Horace and I were old-book-hunters together.”
    The candles flickered briefly. “But not just any old books,” Dave added. “We were after the bad ones, ones that shouldn’t be out contaminating decent literature.”
    Uh-oh. Our new pal was about to reveal himself as an even worse crackpot than Bert Merkle. A gun-carrying crackpot . . .
    Dave glanced at me and seemed to read my thought, or part of it. “Oh, no,” he assured me. “Not that kind of book. I’m no fan of book-banning. We were looking for ones that are hundreds of years old, most of them. Or older; books of evil spells, recipes for magical potions, incantations to summon the devil . . . or worse.”
    He actually sounded serious. I had a moment to consider simply demanding that he give me the gun back. Or telephoning Eastport’s police chief, Bob Arnold, to come and do it for me.
    But then my father spoke. “I’ve seen books like that. Ones I’ve run into were usually for bomb-making. Nine times out of ten a guy tries following the recipe, blows himself up. Sometimes,” he added with a look at me, “right along with the whole neighborhood.”
    It was what had happened to my mother all those years ago.
    â€œCorrect,” Dave said, nodding. “Just enough information to be dangerous,” he added, and seemed about to say more.
    By now the candles had burned to nubbins, though; George and Ellie got up reluctantly. They’d managed to get Leonora settled with a nonparent babysitter long enough to come out for dinner.
    But a second cup of coffee was pushing it. “I’m not sure what all that has to do with Jake’s book,” said Ellie.
    Carrying plates and cups, George went on out to join Sam and Bella in the kitchen. His opinion of magic was that it was all well and good for sitting around scaring yourself with, late in the evening. But if you really wanted to know whether or not something worked, try cleaning a sewer pipe with it.
    â€œProbably nothing,” DiMaio said in answer to Ellie’s question. “Because I’m sorry to have to say that most likely your old volume is a forgery of some kind, Jake,” he went on, turning to me. “Not a deliberate hoax, maybe, but like the Greenland map the result of coincidences that ended up producing the same effect.”
    I must’ve looked puzzled; he went on. “Scholars now think the map was created by a European monk, for his own amusement. In World War II the Nazis looted his monastery, stole anything that looked valuable.”
    â€œThe Greenland map would’ve been a big prize,” said George, looking in from the doorway.
    â€œExactly. To the Nazis,” Dave said, “it seemed to show that their ancestors—they fancied they were descended from Vikings, remember—well. The map said
they’d
been the first Europeans to reach the Americas. That gave them the perfect excuse to claim Canada, the U.S., all the way to the Pacific—for themselves.”
    He went on, “You see, it had been at the monastery a long time by then.