“Sounds good. Do you know where the club is?”
“No, but I’m sure Enoch Whitley kept something with the club’s information on it in his house. I can’t imagine he wasn’t a packrat if what Turpin said is true.”
***
Book Row was far less busy than Hester Street had been by the time they arrived. The sleet came down in earnest, turning to dirty slush the second it hit the pavement. Booksellers on either side of the street dragged their carts of books back inside while the few people who decided to brave the cold huddled under the awnings long enough to pull their hats and scarves closer before hurrying on. Felipe squinted out the window of the steamer, trying to read the shop signs as Oliver drove down Fourth Avenue as slowly as he could without the people behind them getting angry. It was their third trip around the block, and Felipesuspected M. H. Vaude’s might be veiled by magic, hidden in some nook, or tucked behind an awning. They probably should have parked and gone on foot, but the weather was shit and the bones in his injured hand ached from the cold. Felipe tugged his leather gloves down in hopes they would cover more of the gauze. The constant pins and needles in his skin combined with spikes of pain were making it hard to focus, which is probably why he had missed the shop’s sign so many times. That and there were so many bookshops that they all looked the same after a while.
Felipe was about to suggest the shop might be on the Broadway side of the block when he finally spotted it as a man built like a bear hefted a tall crate to revealM. H. Vaude Booksellerwritten in gold across the window behind it. The tiny shop was sandwiched between a printer and a boarding house. The printer dwarfed the narrow building beside it so thoroughly that it spilled out onto the sidewalk and made the bookstore look like an afterthought. As they climbed out of the steamer, Felipe eyed the front of the shop. Unlike some of the newer bookshops they had passed on Book Row, M. H. Vaude’s looked closer to a junk shop or an antiquarian with a dim, cramped interior hidden behind a dusty front window. It wasn’t seedy, but it had an air of neglect from forgetfulness or disinterest. What Felipe could see from the glass set in the door was a cramped front room with a skinny counter at the entrance and every surface taken up by books. The shelves bowed under their weight as they were shoved in wherever they fit, and those that didn’t were piled on the floor in hip-high stacks. Felipe couldn’t see the back wall, only shelves, and he suspected the maze of books ran far back. While the shop appeared dark, it was hard to tell in the premature twilight if the store was shut or if the owner had merely grown accustomed to the waning light and hadn’tbothered to turn on the lamps. Oliver reached for the knob only to nearly walk into the door when it didn’t open.
“Locked, but it should be open,” Oliver said pointing to the sign propped against the window displaying the hours. Cupping his face, Oliver peered into the darkened store. “I don’t see anyone inside. Do you see anything saying when he’ll be back?”
Felipe looked for a second sign or a paper that might have blown off the door, but there was nothing. Opening the mail flap at the bottom of the door, Felipe could see a pile of letters strewn across the scuffed floor. It looked as if the owner had closed up shop one day and never returned, which was better than it being ransacked with his decomposing body in the back, he supposed, but something about it still unsettled him. Enoch Whitley’s corpse had been discovered almost a week before, and there had to be at least four days worth of mail left behind. The timing was too perfect to be coincidental.
“You looking for Mr. Vaude?”
Oliver and Felipe turned to find the hulking man who had moved the crate watching them from the printer’s door. He wore an ink-covered apron with his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. If the cold bothered him, he didn’t show it.
“Yes, we were hoping to speak to him about one of his customers,” Oliver replied.
“Cops?” the man asked, his walrus mustache twitching as he spoke.
“No, private detectives,” Felipe corrected and noted how the man looked a hair less hostile. “We just want to ask him questions about a book he sold. Do you know where we can find Mr. Vaude? Does he live upstairs?”
“He does, but you won’t find him there. He left with a suitcase a few days ago and didn’t say when he’d be back.”
“Is it like Mr. Vaude to leave so abruptly?”
“Mr. Vaude keeps his own company. I’m not his minder.”
When the ursine man looked as if he might duck back inside, Oliver quickly added, “We think he might be in danger. Did you hear anyone threaten him or see anyone skulking around the shop recently?”
“No, but—” He let out a heavy breath. “Vaude’s a little odd, all of us around here are, but he got odder as of late. Every time I came out for a smoke, he would be staring out front as if he was waiting for someone or something. What that was, I don’t know, but something had him spooked.”
A woman’s voice boomed from within the printshop, and with a tip of his hat, the printer slipped back inside the building and let the door slam shut behind him.
Oliver shivered as the wind whipped down the street and splashed sleet under the awning. “Well, that was odd.”
“It was, but at least Vaude seems to have left town of his own accord. Normally, I’d assume he left to go to an auction or estate sale or wherever people buy old books, but it sounds like he was expecting something to happen to him. The question is whether a guilty conscience or blackmail drove him to leave.”
“You think Vaude knew about the cursed book?”
“I don’t know if he knew it was cursed, but Enoch Whitley heard about the book’s location while in his shop. If it wasn’t intentional or if Vaude didn’t know the entire plan, he must have heard about the dead man in the Livingston’s library and put two-and-two together. At some point, we should talk to Mr. Ramsey again.” Rubbing his cold hands together with a wince, Felipe eyed the bookstores on the other side of the street. “How many shops do you think sell esoteric books that are the real deal?”
“Probably quite a few if you know where to look. There is one I know the library works with that fixes and sells unusual books. It might be worth stopping there to see if they know anything about Enoch Whitley or Mr. Vaude’s whereabouts.”
It was worth a shot. Braving the bitter cold, Oliver and Felipe walked down the block until they found Ravencroft Bookshop and Repair. Unlike M. H. Vaude’s, the entire shop was neat and tidy with bright, whitewashed shelves running along the perimeter of the room and a handful of tables in the center covered in novels. The bell jangled overhead as they entered, but when Felipe looked around the shop, it appeared to be empty. The till was modern and gleaming with a selection of pens, ink, and fancy wax on a shelf behind it along with a worktable near the other window. Felipe wouldn’t have suspected the shop had anything to do with magic, except that there was a door between two shelves that seemed to appear and disappear when he turned his head. The veiling was subtle but effective. Much like the Paranormal Society, one could see it if they knew to look for it.
“Do you think they closed due to the weather?” Oliver asked in a whisper as he dried his feet off on the mat near the door. “Should we leave?”
“We’re open!” a woman’s voice called a second before the door behind the counter opened to reveal a blonde woman in her late twenties. She was dressed in a coquettish blue gown that matched the air of the shop, and in her hand was a partly bound book with a needle and thread dangling from its spine. Giving them a dimpled grin, she dropped her project onto the worktable and took up position behind the counter. “My apologies, gentlemen. You were right in that I wasn’t expecting customers with the weather being what it is. Is there anything you’re looking for? A Christmas gift for someone?”
“Actually, we were hoping you might be able to give us some information. We’re with the Paranormal Society,” Felipe said, flashing the badge from his pocket, “and we’re investigating a murder. The victim often frequented bookshops, and we were hoping you might know them.”
“I don’t think I could identify a random customer, but I can tell you if it’s one of my regulars.”
“The photograph I’m about to show you is of the deceased. Do you recognize him?”
When Felipe held out the photograph of Enoch Whitley, the young woman’s brows shot up, and then, her face fell. “That’s old Mr. Whitley. What happen to him?”
