Under the Rose - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,27
hands into his pockets, looking like the dashing book thief he was pretending to be. The soft light from the chandeliers bounced off his blond hair. Cora reached for his chest, pinched something between her fingers.
“Lint on this beautiful suit,” she murmured. But her fingers lingered.
“Cora’s heart desires quite a bit as well,” Thomas said. Cora’s lips pursed in response, but she didn’t back away from Sam.
Sam kept his face impassive. Merely nodded and said, “We’re just feeling grateful that our flu passed. Although the airline did lose our luggage and merchandise.”
“How ghastly,” Thomas said.
“We’re flying our assistant out to Phoenix as we speak. They’ll retrieve the books and return them to the store immediately.”
Thomas and Cora exchanged a look. “You won’t be providing any of your orders?” Thomas asked.
“Sadly, no.” Sam looked apologetic. “We’ll have to make other arrangements.” I wondered if Julian and Birdie were bringing stolen goods to the convention. Would we have angry customers this weekend?
The ballroom ceiling curved overhead, and gold curtains draped down nine-foot-tall windows. The booths stretched around us in organized rows, like a planned village of book dealers. Or thieves. Most were draped with white cloths, heightening the mystery. The mood was jovial—people were meeting, shaking hands, speaking in low tones. It was reminiscent of many of the events Delilah and I had crashed as private detectives—the antiquities community was one of highly educated, elegant wealth. Champagne and caviar and manuscripts that went for millions of dollars at auction.
It was a world of extravagant money and secret handshakes.
“Who are these people?”
A tall man stood in front of us with a barely disguised sneer. He was thin as a reed, wearing a navy blue suit and a flashy gold ring.
“Roy,” Thomas said, “this is Julian King and Birdie Barnes.”
“I thought you had the flu?” Roy said to me.
I gave another tiny cough. “Last minute decision to tough it out. And some miraculous medicine from our doctor.”
Roy looked young—and wealthy, of course. But he had none of the Alexanders’ moneyed confidence. He was fidgety, like the suit he wore was uncomfortably tight. His skin could only be described as pasty.
“I went to visit your bookstore last month when I was in San Francisco,” Roy said.
Sam placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Our undercover training had focused extensively on the art of staying quiet. Human beings despise an awkward silence. The more space you leave for them to talk, the more they’ll fill it with incriminating information.
“And you weren’t there?” Roy prodded, exasperated.
“Ah, yes,” Sam replied. “We weren’t there.”
“I wasn’t happy about it, as you remember,” he said.
“For Christ’s sake, Roy, when was the last time you were ever happy?” Thomas sighed.
Roy scowled in his direction. “I’ll be happy when I get what I came here for,” he said.
“That’s not up for him to decide this morning, now is it?” Cora asked, voice hushed. “And can’t you tell that he’s preoccupied?”
The audience hushed, turning as one toward a man on the stage.
“There he is,” Cora said next to me. “He was nervous, what with all the recent news, but I doubt anyone will suspect a thing.”
The chandeliers dimmed. The hotel staff tugged those golden curtains closed. A candle-lit darkness draped the exhibition room. We were in the middle of a bustling city, on a Friday morning, and yet the still, dramatic atmosphere said otherwise.
Sam’s heavy hand squeezed my shoulder. He appeared calm, confident. My archnemesis had been an FBI agent for seven years. The arrogant young man I’d fought with was now a broad-shouldered, square-jawed, highly competent special agent.
It was both comforting and irritating.
I rolled my shoulder, dislodging his hand.
Sam looked away, sliding his hands back into his pockets.
The man on stage stepped into a golden spotlight. Like every other man here, he was dressed in a suit. He was taller, burly, with a trimmed red beard. Unlike every other man here, he wore an Indiana Jones-style fedora. When he unleashed a crooked smile on the crowd, I heard a few sighs of adoration.
“Good morning, ladies and gents,” he said, with a slightly Southern drawl. “My name is Dr. Bradley Ward, and I am honored to be the keynote speaker and president of the East Coast’s chapter of the Antiquarian Book Festival.”
Recognition shivered through me. Roy Edwards. Dr. Bradley Ward. I knew those names. They were the other names from the empty house group.
Dr. Ward gripped the podium and let his gaze roam across the large, silent room. “I’ve never been a man