Free An Illustrated Death by Judi Culbertson Page A

plantation, horseback riding, coming-out parties. Nate wasn’t what her family raised her for. He showed them though. Anyway, let’s talk about you .”
    “All I’m doing is appraising the books. I’m not buying them, I can’t. From what Bianca told me, they’ll probably go to auction.”
    Ethically I couldn’t put a price on a book and then offer to buy it. My only chance to own any was to bid for them along with everyone else.
    “It’s a shame to break up the collection. Tell me what’s there exactly.”
    I smiled. “You know I can’t do that.” He couldn’t really be expecting me to betray client confidentiality. But what if he went to Eve Erikson, presuming on old friendship, and made her an offer to buy the books outright? She would become hysterical if she learned that someone had been in her husband’s studio touching them.
    “Look.” I took another sip of wine, playing for time. “I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening. I’ll let you know when I finish, and what the family has decided to do. Once I’m done I can tell you more about the books. You were right, there are some wonderful association copies. I promise to keep you in the loop.”
    He gave me a dry look. “Don’t do me any favors. But I can see why they’d want an outsider for the appraisal. I just don’t get why they’d pick you. To think, if I hadn’t changed your number . . .” He turned his wrist to see his Rolex. “I’ve got to go. My wife will think I’m having an affair.”
    “Perish the thought.”
    He winked and stood up. “You don’t know my wife. We’ll be in touch.”
    I had no doubt that we would.

 
    C HAPTER F IFTEEN
    I WAS RUNNI NG out of time to buy a dress for the memorial. Resisting the siren call of just one more sale—a sale that might have the book I’d been looking for all my life—I made myself drive over to Veterans’ Thrift on Jericho Turnpike. The store was cavernous, a converted airplane hangar which displayed long, jumbled racks of clothing and dry goods. I bought most of my sweatshirts here. The rack labeled “Formals” was nearly too packed to sort through, but I pushed through it. Unless I wanted to look like a 1970s prom queen or the grandmother of the bride, there was little to choose from.
    I continued on to Goodwill a mile farther down the road, and there I stumbled on a royal blue velvet dress. It wasn’t floor-length, it ended at my knees, but it had a full skirt and an iridescent blue-green satin flower pinned to the waist. It fit perfectly and gave my eyes some color. I could add matching eye shadow and wear my hair up. No doubt it would have been more practical to buy something in black, but for $11.99 I decided I could splurge.
    C OLIN LOOKED ME over carefully when I opened the door Saturday night, a father long practiced in sending his daughters back upstairs to change.
    “Very nice,” he said finally, holding my arm to turn me and inspect my French twist. “Where’s that gold chain I gave you?”
    “Upstairs. You think I need jewelry?”
    “Absolutely. And take off that Star Wars watch.”
    He had made reservations at Chez Marcelette in East Hampton, an intimate restaurant with designer food. Intimate also meant that the tables were as close as Kentucky cousins. Colin grimaced at the amount of room allotted to him, but managed to squeeze his generous body into a corner. No one looked surprised that he was wearing a tux.
    When Jason was four, he had whispered to me, “Is Daddy Santa Claus?” That was even before Colin’s thick beard had turned white.
    I thought he’d been asking if Colin was responsible for his Christmas presents, and said, “No, of course not. Santa lives at the North Pole.”
    Jason had taken another look at Colin sitting in his wingback chair, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his round nose. “Well, is he his brother ?”
    Colin had gone on to cultivate the Santa Claus persona, showing a large and generous spirit to the people