The back of my neck felt hot and my heart was clamoring so hard I felt almost dizzy. But next to me, Delilah seemed serene. I couldn’t tell if I was ruining everything or actually convincing them.
“He’s always been a romantic,” she said. She tucked herself against my chest just as I happened to turn—causing my lips to brush the soft strands of her hair.
“Yes, I can see that,” Victoria said. “And the ring?”
Fuck. I should have been using this time to come up with a plausible reason why Delilah wasn’t wearing a ring.
“Oh, it’s…um…” I stammered.
“We just haven’t found the right one yet. For either of us.” Delilah nudged my side, and at the last second, I realized what she wanted.
“I’m not wearing one either.” I held up my left hand. “So if you have any good jewelers please send them our way.”
“Yes,” Victoria said softly. “I just might.” She handed us one of the postcards that had been floating around advertising the Copernicus exhibit. “Can you place your phone number there for me, please?”
“Of course,” Delilah said, snatching the card from her. “Henry, let’s use yours.” She gave a subtle nod. So I scribbled down my real phone number for the most famous woman in the city.
As Bitzi bade us farewell, I stared at the postcard, recognizing the famous manuscript on the front. I’d once handled Oxford’s copy of On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, and it had been one of the most magnificent books I’d ever seen. Since it was printed in the handpress era, it was riddled with mistakes, overcome with age, and the gilded flowers on each page had permanently lost their sheen. But there was no doubting the feeling it evoked in me—that sense of glorious wonder.
“So, will we see you at this exhibit in a few weeks?” I asked.
“No, that’s unlikely,” she said. “And, if I can be perfectly honest, I don’t suggest going.” She reached between us and snatched the card back, depositing it in her purse. “I think you’ll find it sorely lacking.” She grimaced at something behind us. “As much as I’d love to talk with you two for this entire night, I’m afraid my audience expects me. I’ll be calling you, Henry. And I do expect you to answer.”
And with that, Victoria Whitney disappeared into the crowd.
As soon as she was out of sight, Delilah sprang from my arm like it was on fire.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” I asked.
“No, no,” she said nervously. “I’m fine. But we need to go find Freya. And we really need to talk to Abe.”
“Okay,” I said, slipping my hands into my pockets.
Delilah bit her lip. Tapped her foot. “Okay.”
She turned and left as quickly as Victoria, like our entire interaction—and sudden marriage—had never even happened.
6
Delilah
Codex was located on the second floor of a 300-year-old carriage house in Old City. The first floor was Marple’s Home for Used and Abandoned Books, run by a seventy-five-year-old woman named Bea. She had two great loves in her life: Agatha Christie and men with cute butts, and she let us run amok on the second story without ever saying a word.
It was almost midnight now as Freya, Henry and I wove our way through stacks of dusty books and climbed the rickety spiral staircase to our offices. Abe was sitting behind his desk in a dark suit with a glass of whiskey in his hand, fire roaring behind him. When Abe had started Codex, he hadn’t changed much of the second story’s historical details—old wood floors, brick walls, fireplaces in every room.
“Returning triumphantly?” he asked.
“Yes, which means I deserve some of that whiskey and to change back into my yoga pants.” Freya yawned, placing a wrapped package on the edge of Abe’s desk before loping off to the bathroom.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
“It’s the Bradbury,” I said, sinking into a chair. Henry sat next to me, still looking immaculate. He’d barely said a word as I rattled off our conversation with Victoria to Freya on the ride home.
“Will you verify before I call the library, Henry?” Abe asked.
“Absolutely,” he replied. He reached forward, cradled the little book with reverence.
Freya came back out in her usual oversized sweater and black leggings. “So you’ll never guess who the seller was.” She took Abe’s glass of whiskey as he scowled at her. “Charles fucking Kearney.”
“Is that so?” Abe drawled.
“It is so.” She drained the glass and sat next to me. “And I only had to threaten to kick him in the nuts once before he basically threw the book at me.”
I reached over, squeezed her shoulder. “You’re a bad-ass, Frey,” I said.
“By any means necessary,” Abe said approvingly. “I shall bring you donuts tomorrow.”
“World’s Best Boss, ladies and gentlemen,” she mock-swooned at him.
“Don’t get too excited,” he said, but the edges of his mouth tipped into a smile. “Well done.”
She shrugged. “And you haven’t even heard the craziest part yet.”
I turned and made eye contact with Henry for the first time since we’d left the gallery. It’d been so strange and uncomfortable to play at being married with the newbie that we hadn’t even debriefed.
“It’s about Victoria Whitney. And Bernard. And the Copernicus exhibit.” I paused, searching for that same feeling from earlier. It was like attempting to discern navy-colored threads in a black sweater: easy to miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for. But Victoria had dropped plenty of clues and subconscious admissions—and I needed to put them all together. “I think she’s up to something.”
Without a word, Abe slid two more glasses of whiskey over the desk—one for me, one for Henry. “Start from the beginning.”
Abe listened with a steely expression as I unraveled the evening’s peculiar events: Henry impressing Victoria with his art history knowledge, the code word, her almost-buy with Charles, the strange way she was talking about the Copernicus. The fact that she seemed to know Bernard Allerton very, very well.
“And Victoria was vague and a little guarded when I asked her the last time she’d seen him,” Henry cut in. “If they’re that close, she might know that he’s in hiding.”
Abe leaned all the way forward, hands fisted together. “Tell me what she said again. The very last thing.”
“I think you’ll find the exhibit sorely lacking,” I quoted.
We were all quiet while Abe followed the trail of clues I’d presented.
“I might have something,” Henry interrupted. He dropped his elbows to his knees, one hand rubbing his jaw. I knew what this was—had felt it often when I was a police detective. That nagging in your subconscious demanding your attention. “I wasn’t lying to Victoria when I told her librarians the world over know of her private collection. I knew of her before even meeting her tonight. She has a reputation for owning some of the rarest manuscripts in the world. Specifically from the handpress era. Like the Copernicus.”