frame was white, and its top edge had turned a shiny black with all the grime. The photograph in the frame was of a family on vacation, a father in a golf shirt, a mother in a short, plaid dress and horn-rimmed glasses. There were four children, two older boys and two younger girls. They were posed in front of an enormous tree, a redwood probably, somewhere in California. I leaned in trying to pick out which one of the preadolescent girls was Elaine, but the photograph was slightly blurry, and had faded with age. I assumed, however, that Elaine was the younger of the two, the one with glasses, holding a doll by her side. She was the only child not smiling.
“Ready?” Gwen said.
“Sure.”
When we got to the bottom of the stairs, I peered into the living room, lined with shelves. “Can I look at the books in here real quick?” I said, and Gwen shrugged and nodded.
It was clear that Elaine’s sister had been a reader, as well, and that most of the books that filled the living room shelves had belonged to her. There was a lot of nonfiction, and historical fiction. One entire shelf was devoted to James Michener. But there was also a tall bookcase crammed into a corner that looked as though it had been brought by Elaine. One of its shelves was filled with a dusty collection of vintage glass paperweights. The rest were crammed with more mystery novels, arranged by author. I was surprised to see the collected works of Thomas Harris, a writer that Elaine had once told me was an “overrated pervert.” I was also surprised to see a copy of The Drowner until I saw that it was sitting between Strangers on a Train and a copy of Deathtrap. A little shiver went through me. All the books were there—all eight from my list—in order. I brought Gwen over, and her eyes went big. She took a photograph with her phone.
“Do you think he brought these here himself or were the books already here?” she said.
“I think he brought them, probably. Elaine might have had all these books, but I doubt it.”
“Think we’ll be able to tell anything from these copies?” she said.
“Maybe,” I said. “He bought them somewhere. Maybe from my store, or maybe from somewhere else. Usually, when you buy a used book there’s a penciled price on the first page, and sometimes there’s a sticker with the name of the dealer.”
“I don’t want you to touch them, but can you tell anything by looking at the spines?”
I studied them, all eight books from my list, sitting together like an accusation. The only spine that jumped out was the one for Malice Aforethought. I recognized it as a UK paperback edition released as a tie-in with a TV miniseries from about ten years ago. It was a copy that had definitely come through the store, because I remembered how much I disliked that edition. In general, I hate all tie-in book covers. I told Gwen that I thought I recognized one of the books as one I had had in the store.
“Okay, good,” she said. I could hear the excitement in her voice. “After I get them checked for fingerprints, I’ll have them photographed and we can look at them together. Let’s go check in to the hotel.”
*
SHE’D BOOKED US TWO rooms at a Hampton Inn & Suites about a mile out of Rockland’s town center. It was across the street from a McDonald’s and I was worried that was where we’d end up eating dinner, but she mentioned a place she liked on Main Street. “I made reservations for two but … if you’d rather go someplace else …”
“No,” I said. “I’m happy to follow your lead.”
We checked in then met back in the lobby an hour later and drove into town. It was off-season, so I was surprised that several restaurants seemed to be open. We parked right in front of a two-story brick building, only a few steps away from the entrance to the Town Tavern, advertising itself as an “ale and oyster house.” It was a Sunday night and the place was predictably empty, although two couples sat at the bar. The hostess, a youngish woman wearing a Bruins sweatshirt, took us to a booth.
“This okay?” Gwen said.
“Sure. You said you’ve been here before?”
“My grandparents have a house on Megunticook Lake, which is not far from here. I come up to the midcoast