The Body in the Library
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A few minutes after noon, on a Sunday in late April, I opened the doors to my bookshop with an entirely new perspective. The rain had stopped by dawn and I thought there might be another window of opportunity before things closed down for lunch.
It was still early enough that there wasn’t much foot traffic yet, but it would pick up soon as people came out from whatever they did over the weekend—the ones who went anywhere or did anything at all when they could just stay home and read books instead. And if I timed this right, maybe some of those readers might find something that took their fancy here.
Or not, but at least the day wouldn’t feel so hopelessly slow that I’d have to close shop early again, like the Friday before Easter. I didn’t really mind doing this because the extra money helped, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do forever. My friend Roshan would laugh at me, saying the only way you can make a living without selling your soul is to be born rich.
It was a nice day, sunny but cool and damp with drizzle, just how I liked it most of the time. As I stepped through the door into the shop’s warm air I breathed out a sigh of relief as I shut the umbrella under the counter and hung its strap across my shoulder. The sky was bright blue outside, though the sun didn’t penetrate inside the narrow front windows.
In the afternoon light, I saw that two customers were already browsing shelves on either side of the store, one of them looking at the cookbooks, while the other held a paperback in his hands, reading quietly, the title of which I couldn’t see from where I stood. I nodded at the man with the cookbook. “Hello.”
He glanced up at me from the spine of the book in his hand, then looked back at the book with a shrug. After a moment he put the book down. “I’m thinking of having a barbecue this summer,” he said, “but my wife says she doesn’t want me to buy any meat that hasn’t been organically certified.
So I need to know what kind of meat comes in different grades of certifications, organic being the best, and which brands come closest.”
“That’s actually a good question,” I said, coming around the counter. “I can answer it once we find you the right book. What else do you like to grill?”
His eyes lit up and he gave me a broad grin. “Anything!” he said, then lowered his voice slightly: “Not too spicy.”
“Then it sounds like our best bet is going to be the barbecue section.” He smiled and followed me to the left-hand side of the counter where a wide aisle ran between the cookbooks and the novels. We went past stacks of paperbacks, some of them half-empty or near empty, to where there was more room along the wall.
Our path took us behind the counter, which was why I hadn’t seen him before I spoke to him. But now he noticed me and waved a friendly greeting.
We made eye contact briefly, then he turned to look at the shelf and started flipping titles, stopping every time he found a brand name he recognized. His choice of bookshelves was very specific: the ones with a small lip at the edge of each shelf so that the paperback books sat closer together; the ones with a gap between two rows, leaving space above and below.
There was something reassuring about seeing these choices made deliberately, like a fingerprint from another time. He stopped at three different sections and picked up three different books that featured labels on the spines telling me which of them were organic brands.
I pulled one of the books out of his hand and brought it to the counter with me. “This will give you a better idea of what’s available in the organic meat category.”
When I handed it to him, he hesitated and glanced at the title, frowning. “Is this a children’s book?”
“No, but it might help you with the right questions to ask your wife.”
“Oh, good.” He took the book with a smile, and his shoulders slumped a little when he realized the price tag: ten dollars. “But it won’t take long,” he said. “I’ll have this done tonight.” Then he reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. I took his credit card and swiped it through the reader, making sure we got an automatic email confirmation of the transaction.
“Thanks,” he said, smiling broadly.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “And thank you for shopping local.”
The woman at the other end of the aisle was still reading her paperback as she leafed through the pages. She wore a red-and-white plaid shirt and a denim jacket that matched well against her fair skin and dark hair, but there were some strands of silver peeking out now and then.
When she lifted her head and saw me watching her, she glanced quickly away, then leaned forward again, reading. “How much money do you make here every week?”
“About seventy-five dollars,” I replied. “Why?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like much for such a big house,” she said.
My eyes widened slightly. The only person who’d ever told me that before had been the first boyfriend I’d lost my virginity to – and he’d been joking because he knew I couldn’t afford a place to live without a roommate. I tried not to think too hard about the underminer at work, instead concentrating on how to answer her question. “It depends on how busy it is.”
“What about you? How much do you make a week?”
I thought for a moment, searching for the best way to explain the difference. “I don’t get paid until the end of the month.”
“So if you did nothing all month except sit here and read all day, you’d be able to cover everything in your checking account?”
I nodded. “If it wasn’t for my overdraft fees.” I waited while she frowned, then added, “I can’t pay them.”
“Then how are you getting by?”
“Borrowing from friends. Or using my credit cards.”
Her brow furrowed, and I wondered what would happen next. But after a few moments, she turned and headed back toward the books, looking distracted, almost as if I’d disturbed her reading.
A customer approached from behind me, holding up a cookbook that had obviously been read many times before. The man was tall and thin and wore a pair of faded blue jeans with a matching t-shirt underneath a brown suede jacket.
It must have been warm out, because he had his jacket unzipped to the chest, revealing a white cotton turtleneck sweater with an old logo on the front that I didn’t recognize.
“Hey,” he said cheerfully to the woman working behind the counter, “do you know who makes this book?”
“That’s the All-American Barbecue series. I can tell you right off who wrote it, but I’m sure you already know. They’ve got a website.” I looked at the cover where the title had been printed in a large font. “All American Barbecue Cookbook, Volume Three: Recipes and Techniques from the Heart of Texas.”
He gave a half laugh as he held the book upside down. “Texas barbecue? You mean you guys have figured out how to make good barbecued meat without burning your house down?”
She glanced over her shoulder at me. “This is a very old cookbook. We actually have a couple of these on display on one side of the shop.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Really? In Texas?”
The man smiled. “They used to be more popular in Texas than they are now. Not so many people are interested in cooking anymore.”
The woman shook her head. “Not when you can buy fast food and microwavable meals for less than fifty cents apiece.”
I nodded. She was probably right. The only time I cooked was when I made hotdogs or hamburgers on the grill in my backyard, and that meant making hamburger patties out of ground beef that I heated up in the microwave.
My family always ate out of cans, but my mother insisted that I try to cook for myself once a week. As far as I could tell, no one else in my life had ever cooked anything before me, so the few times I did it ended in disaster.
Maybe there was hope yet for someone like me, though. I could see why some families were still interested in preparing their own food. Cooking for yourself saved money, and most canned food was loaded with salt and sugar.
And as for microwaving… I had to admit that my mother was right, it was easy enough to heat something up. But I also hated that the food was overcooked and dry, and the only thing remotely close to a vegetable was a frozen green bean bag, which I could only eat with a knife and fork because it was so tough.
The man walked past me and pulled a few cookbooks off the shelf. He flipped through each one quickly. When he stopped on the last one, I saw that it was the All-American Barbecue series, though this one was called Texas Barbecue. I watched him carefully, studying the way he read the title page.
“You don’t have any of the other ones, do you?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But we should, and you’re welcome to look.”
“Thanks.” His voice sounded vaguely familiar, and I searched my memory but couldn’t quite place the face.
The man walked out of the store, leaving me alone again. The woman glanced over at me, and I caught her eye briefly, then returned my attention to the counter. After a few minutes, she came and sat beside me.
“How much are those?” She pointed to a book lying nearby. It was small, black, and looked like some sort of religious text. I glanced at its title, and then noticed that it had no cover, just a few lines of type on the spine: What is God? I looked up at her, wondering what I’d missed. “Oh, you’re thinking of the price of the books, not the cookbook. The Bible.”
“That’s right.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why would anyone want to spend $100 on a cookbook and nothing else?”
I hesitated. “It looks like it’s a very good copy.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed, and the two of us exchanged a quick smile. “Do you know what it’s worth?”
I shrugged. “Maybe a thousand dollars. Maybe a little more depending on who bought it.”
Her eyebrows went up. “A thousand dollars?”
“Yeah, and it’s not even signed by the author.” I paused. “Well, maybe it is.”
She nodded, then looked over at me. “Are you sure?”
I thought about it. How could I explain this one? I didn’t know if the person who had written the book was the same one who sold them online. It seemed likely, given that they both lived in Austin. “Most of the books by this author are signed. There aren’t any here, but…” I looked up at her. “There is one in the store, and I think it might be signed.”
When I looked back down at her, she had her hands folded together. “What does it say?”
I opened the front cover of the Bible and showed her the inside. “Here’s where he wrote his name and date. ‘C. J. S. Jones – August 20th, 1867.’ This is from our database, too, though this particular Bible was purchased at a second-hand bookstore in Houston.”
She stared at me. “You think this is the one?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.” I nodded. If it was, that meant whoever bought the book here at the flea market in Austin had a connection with this guy who owned the only signed copy of the book in existence, and that wasn’t something to take lightly.
“If someone wanted to buy it and keep it safe somewhere until someone else could pay for it, that’s how they would do it. That means somebody is looking for this.”
She frowned. “Who is? What would someone want to buy a hundred-year-old book for?”
“Someone in law enforcement would probably start with the FBI.” I paused. “Or Homeland Security.”
“Homeland Security?” She shook her head. “They wouldn’t care about an old cookbook.”
My stomach dropped when she said that. “Actually, Homeland Security has more authority than you may think, Miss…?”
“Rice. My name is Monica Rice.”
“Then maybe Homeland Security will be able to tell you what this book is actually about since nobody else seems to know.” I took a deep breath, hoping that maybe Homeland Security might know a secret or two, and then smiled. “And besides, if anyone would have the resources to protect a book like yours, it’s them.”
Monica stood. “Thanks. I’ll see you around.”
She walked out of the store, leaving me alone once more. Then a young girl wandered in behind the counter and started browsing.
I picked up the Bible and flipped it open to the title page. C. J. S. Jones. A handwritten inscription above that.
‘This is what happened.’
The End