Free An Illustrated Death by Judi Culbertson

honking, but kept following closely.
    At Montauk Highway, I had to stop for a red light. As soon as I did, the driver of the other car jumped out, came over, and rapped on my van window.
    It was Charles Tremaine, the bookseller from Amagansett. And Manhattan.
    I rolled the window down. “My God, I thought you were a carjacker! Or a rapist.”
    “This is the Hamptons, sweetheart. And, nothing personal, but why would anyone want to steal this?” He gestured at my 1999 van.
    His tone was surprisingly unfriendly, but I laughed. “It’s doubtful. And I’m even older.”
    “We need to talk. Flaherty’s is down the road on the right.”
    F LAHERTY’S I S ONE of those East End taverns covered in white clapboard that looks more like a house than a bar. It was the folding sign with a Heineken medallion next to the front door advertising “Happy Hour!” that made me pull into the driveway. As I parked and walked past the sign, I saw that it was advertising “Raw Clams,” and “Lobster Rolls with Fries,” in loopy red letters.
    I waited for Charles Tremaine to get out of his car and meet me at the door. He looked like a true Hamptonite, dressed in gray slacks, a pale blue V-neck cardigan and expensive loafers. His silvery hair was in perfect order. How long had he been waiting on the road for me to leave? We crossed the threshold into a room that smelled of beer and lemon freshener. To my right was a narrow bar, the stools crammed with people. To the left were small wooden tables with red-and-white checked cloths beneath mirrors advertising liquors.
    Charles managed to find us a tiny table in the back corner but didn’t sit down. Instead he turned toward the bar, then, as an afterthought, asked, “Do you want anything?”
    So this wasn’t a date. “Chardonnay.” And you can pay for it yourself for frightening me.
    The empty table next to ours had a small black bowl of pretzels. I reached over and set it in front of me.
    Charles brought back what appeared to be a double scotch for himself and set my wine down without looking at me.
    “Thanks.” I picked up the glass and tilted it slightly toward him. “To the end of a perfect work week.”
    He snorted. “For years, my colleagues and I have been dying to get our hands on the Erikson library. I’ve made my wishes clear to the family. I knew Nate personally. When I asked about it last Saturday, I was told Eve would never allow it. Now I turn around and some . . .” He didn’t know what to call me that wouldn’t make me get up and walk out of the bar, so he let the characterization hang in the air.
    “How do you know what I’m doing there?”
    “They didn’t hire you to wash the floors.”
    “I thought you worked in Manhattan.”
    He glared at me. “I have an assistant. And I’ll tell you frankly, I can’t believe Eve is allowing it. Does she even know if you’re qualified? What are your qualifications anyway?”
    We were on dangerous ground. I took a long sip of my wine. “Have you seen Eve lately?”
    “No,” he admitted. “She hasn’t been out since he passed. And they were big partygoers. They gave parties too, for Midsummer’s Night or a croquet marathon. But he was the one with the zest for life. That’s what makes his death so ironic.”
    “Do people think what happened was an accident?”
    He looked at me and I saw that his eyes were a true gray, the color of suede gloves men sometimes wore with formal attire. “What else would it be? He’d be the last person to commit suicide. Not that he had an easy life, he lost his father in the war and his mother to breast cancer. He was raised by Gretchen’s parents.”
    “Is that why he didn’t go to college?”
    “He didn’t go to college?” Charles worked on his drink. “I didn’t know that. His uncle was a well-known Shakespeare scholar at Brown. Somebody told me they never got along though.”
    “What’s Eve’s background?”
    He laughed. “Eve the Southern debutante? Charleston