Free Murder at Teatime by Stefanie Matteson

bottom of the pie plate.
    “The arrogance of the young is more like it. Not that he’s all that young. Of course,” Thornhill continued, changing his tone, “I’m all for putting my collection on computers if it will help someone, but to want academic recognition for it? That’s not scholarship—it’s secretarial work.”
    “I think there’s a lot more to it than that,” said Daria, coming to John’s defense. “Not that I understand it myself. But I know he has to develop the computer programs and all that.”
    “Well, maybe I’m a bit behind the times,” said Thornhill conciliatingly. “Bit of an old fossil, I guess, just like John said.” He turned to Charlotte. “Would you like more coffee, Miss Graham?”
    “No thank you. I have to get back to the Saunders’ while the tide is still out. I promised Kitty I’d go shopping in town with her. Besides,” she added, “I wouldn’t want to keep two devoted bibliophiles—or is it bibliomaniacs—from their work.”
    “For bibliomaniacs, books are not work, they are pleasure,” said Felix. He turned back the lapel of his jacket to reveal a series of half a dozen pockets, each containing a catalogue. He pulled several out. “You see, Miss Graham, I am a bookseller who is always ready to do business.”
    “So I see.”
    “In addition to bibliomania, bibliophiles are subject to another addiction, catalogue-mania,” he continued. “For us, there is no greater pleasure in life than to spend hours poring over book catalogues. My tailor has allowed me the maximum indulgence in this vice.”
    “And in another vice as well,” said Thornhill.
    “Ja,” replied Felix. Turning back the other lapel, he revealed another series of pockets. He withdrew two cigars from one of the pockets and handed one to Thornhill. “Cuban. Aged a full year. You can’t buy them legally in the United States. But”—he raised a forefinger—“I have a connection.”
    “I’ve had a wonderful time,” Charlotte said as she rose to leave. “I’d like very much to see some of the books in your collection some day.”
    “I’d be delighted,” replied Thornhill, who also rose. “How about tomorrow? There’s no time like the present, as they say.”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    “I’d be happy to give you a tour of the bindery too,” said Daria. After setting a time, Charlotte and Daria thanked Thornhill for the meal and went through the hand-kissing routine with Felix once again.
    As they left, the two men were hunched over their catalogues, cigars in hand. Looking back, Charlotte thought they looked more like bettors consulting tout sheets than bibliophiles deciding what rare books to buy.

5
    Charlotte was struck by the smell the minute she entered the Ledge House parlor the next day. It might have been called eau de summer house: a combination of must from years of being closed up during the winters, rubber from the boots and slickers stored in the hall closet, and lemon oil from the freshly polished furniture—all overlaid by the sweet, salty smell of the sea breeze and the resiny smell of the balsam firs. It reminded her of the many happy summers she’d spent at her second husband’s summer house in Connecticut. Had he lived—he had died suddenly of a heart attack when he was only forty-two—she would probably still be happily married. Her first marriage had been the product of a teenage romance—a common enough mistake and one for which she felt no remorse—but her third and fourth marriages had been ill-fated attempts to recapture the happiness of her second. But maybe she was deceiving herself. Maybe she would have tired of Will in time, or he of her. It had been a marriage of shared ideals and mutual respect, which many contend is the best kind, but it had never been a marriage of passion.
    She had been attracted to Will and his family by their sober Yankee values, values that had given her the sense of order and security that she needed to offset the craziness