One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

making Brooklyn even more afraid than before.”
     
    “It’s best that she be prepared,” Vinnie said darkly.
     
    But Grace and I had gotten along famously, maybe because we both loved books so much. Grace, unfortunately, loved books in the worst way. Her home was a huge, sprawling mansion on the lake, and every room was stacked with books. There had to be at least twentythousand books in her house. She had every author and collection known to man. Not just finely bound works, but paperbacks from every era. She was particularly proud of her forties noir collection with their grisly, sensationalist covers.
     
    It was difficult to reconcile everything I knew of Suzie and Vinnie, the chain saw–wielding, animal-loving lesbian wood artists, with Suzie’s eccentric and brilliant aunt, who’d made her money by designing computer games.
     
    We’d had high tea with Grace and her friend Ruth. Grace had assured me she’d Googled my name and been impressed with my professional Web site. She trusted me to do a good job for her kids. By
kids
, I assumed she meant her Wilkie Collins books. But it wasn’t until we had finished tea and Suzie mentioned that we needed to get back to the city that Grace finally asked the housekeeper to bring out the box of books she’d set aside for me.
     
    Grace wouldn’t allow me to open the box; she simply said that she wanted them rebound and that they contained lots of surprises and I wouldn’t be sorry. I assured her I was very excited to do the work.
     
    Now as I opened Grace’s box of books for the first time, the pungent aroma of musty, moldy pulp wafted up. I picked up the book on top and stared at it in dismay.
     
    “Good heavens,” I muttered, putting it back in the box. “Did she use them for rat bait?”
     
    I hurried over to a side drawer, pulled out several white cloths, and draped them across the worktable’s surface. Taking all the books out of the box, I laid them carefully across the table to study their condition.
     
    Once upon a time, the leather covers had been navy blue. Each book’s front cover featured a miniature painting behind a small glass plate. They must have been exquisite when they were new, but now they were sad and dreary. That was okay; I appreciated a challenge.
     
    I picked up the first book and checked the spine.
The Woman in White
. Its tiny painting depicted a woman in a billowy white dress standing on the bank of a lake withrippling water in the background. The detail was wonderful. It was lucky that the miniature paintings were protected by glass, because they all appeared to be in perfect condition, unlike the books themselves.
     
    I checked the copyright page and found it was printed in 1860. I quickly looked up the publication date online and realized that this book might be a first edition. I would have to check other sources, but I had no doubt that the book was extremely valuable. While online, I also discovered that Collins had written twenty-three novels. The box Grace had given me contained only six books. I had to wonder whether there were more hidden throughout her rambling home that were in need of rescue.
     
    Closing the cover, I turned the book over and carefully began to thumb through the gilded pages. That’s when I discovered the fore-edge painting.
     
    “Oh, my God,” I whispered. Was the entire collection painted? If so, the books were beyond priceless. The set belonged in a museum. I wondered if Grace would consent to donating them to the Covington Library.
     
    The technique of fore-edge painting came into popular practice in the 1800s, and it was done by fanning the pages and clamping the book tightly. Then an artist would paint a watercolor painting on the fanned edge. When dry, the book would be clamped at its normal angle and the fore edge would be gilded in the typical way.
     
    So when the book was closed, it would appear to be a normal, gilt-edged book. The painting couldn’t be seen unless the fore edge was fanned. It was a charming surprise for any antiquarian book lover.
     
    Some of the antiquarian books sold these days contained edge paintings that had been added more recently. There were artists who specialized in edge painting, and I’d worked with one talented but eccentric fellow a few years ago. It wasn’t the sort of art you could hang on a wall and he was a little bitter about that, but his art was his master, or so he claimed.
     
    But the fore-edge painting on this copy of
The