Jamie Brodie 02 - Hoarded to Death

you didn't count the twenty-somethings hanging on the arms of a couple of the older men. It made me realize that the five-year age difference between me and Pete was nothing.
    Something was odd, and I couldn't put my finger on it. Then I realized what it was.
    There wasn't a single woman in the room. Not even among the catering staff (who all looked like they'd been hired off a Chippendales roster).
    That was t oo bad. Women were interesting. They provided essential conversational variety.
    This might be a long night.
    Elliott introduced us to his boyfriend. His name was Matt Bendel. He was probably in his early to mid-twenties, about 5'8" and thin, with light brown hair cut short on the sides and long on the top so it flopped endearingly over his eyes. He barely squeezed my hand when we shook.
    Oh brother .
    Pete introduced me to a couple of people from the college, and we chatted a bit. In about twenty minutes, two more couples had arrived and mingled a little. Elliott moved over by the tables and clapped his hands. "Excuse me everyone, dinner is served! There are place cards at each seat."
    Everyone milled around looking for their names for a few minutes, and gradually we all got seated. I had Pete to my right and an older gentleman to my left whose name card said Hugh Stamant. He proclaimed himself to be a professor of mathematics and then began to expound on Boolean logic to anyone who would listen. I wouldn't. The food was delicious so I concentrated on that, and on not spilling anything on myself. Pete was talking to the guy on his right; it sounded like they were talking about baseball. I was jealous.
    After dinner, Elliott guided us all downstairs to the first floor of the loft. There was a bar set up in the corner, and music coming from somewhere. Must be speakers in the corners. I was driving, so I got a bottle of Perrier. Pete got a rum and Coke. We wandered around for a while, talking to various people, then Pete got attached to a clump of other faculty members who were up for tenure. My attention strayed a little, sorry to say, and my gaze landed on the host's boyfriend, leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand, looking a little lost. What was his name? Matt? I went over to talk to him.
    I introduced myself again. "Where'd Elliott go?"
    "He's over there." Matt indicated the other side of the room with his head. "Talking to college people."
    "Yeah, Pete's doing that too." I took a closer look at Matt. He was awfully young. I seriously wondered if he was over 21. I decided to go ahead and ask the lamest question in the history of parties. "What do you do?"
    Matt perked up a little. "I work for an antique book dealer."
    Well, whaddya know. "No kidding. I'm a librarian. So I'm kind of an antique book dealer too."
    He laughed. "Well, I’m not a dealer. I’m just the clerk. That's how I met Elliott. He came in to buy something."
    "Ah. I know some of the dealers in town; who do you work for?"
    "Quentin Brashier. In Brentwood."
    I nodded. "I've never been in there, but I know where it is. That must be interesting."
    Matt grimaced. "Most days, not. A lot of Quentin's business is online now. I spend a lot of time in line at UPS."
    "Oh, I guess that makes sense."
    "We did have something interesting happen last month. A homicide detective came in."
    Really . My Spidey sense tingled. "Whoa. What for?"
    " He had a torn piece of paper that had been found at a crime scene. It looked old and he wanted to see if it really was."
    Holy shit . My brain started working. I didn't want to alert this kid to the fact that I had a peripheral involvement in the case. "Was it?"
    "Quentin said no... but I don't know."
    Really . "Really? Why?"
    Matt looked uncomfortable. "I have a degree in art history, and I took a whole class in reproductions and counterfeiting. I know how to age things to make them look old, and how to tell the difference. And I'm pretty sure that scrap of paper was really old, and not aged like Quentin said it was."
    Oh my God . "What makes you think that?"
    "Old vellum has tiny holes, pinpoint marks that the writers made for lining up the words. And the texture of old vellum is uneven because it was made by hand from scraping the animal's skin. No one does that any more, so reproductions are always on smooth paper. This piece of paper had both of those things."
    "How did you get a look at it?"
    "A customer came in while the detective was there, and I went over to take care of her. When I came back,