The Marsh Madness Read Online Free PDF Page B

and the society fund-raisers appeared to be managed by Chadwick Kauffman on the grounds of his Country Club and Spa. Chadwick wasn’t one to seek the limelight, and while the big patrons and donors appeared grinning for the cameras, he rarely stuck his mug into the group shots.
    Refreshing.
    It didn’t take long before I felt I knew all about the Kauffmans. Chadwick was indeed the end of a scandal-free line.That was good, because I wanted to like him. And I wanted our visit to Summerlea to be perfect.
    *   *   *
    “JORDAN?”
    I was glad to hear Tyler’s voice again. “I thought you were on duty.”
    “I was checking out Flora’s Fanciful Flowers to find out who sent your dead roses.”
    “And?”
    “And there doesn’t seem to be a Flora’s Fanciful Flowers in Harrison Falls or anywhere else in the world.”
    “Oh. But the label . . .”
    “Trust me. There isn’t one.”
    “A practical joke, then.”
    “Yeah. And a creepy one.”
    “Who would have done that?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Do you still have the box?”
    “It’s on its way to the compost. I could dig it out.”
    “Do that and hang on to it. I’ll see if I can get any information from it.”
    “It was a joke. Thanks, but does it really merit a police investigation?”
    “Humor me. You know I want to be a detective when I grow up.”
    “Never grow up, Tyler. I like you the way you are. Tell you what, I’ll drop the box off the next chance I get.”
    “And I’ll see what I turn up.”
    *   *   *
    I FOUND THE box of dead flowers, fished it out and put it in a large plastic bag. The signora had been happy to provide the bag. The signora, small, black-clad and round, followed me. She kept clucking over the flowers, muttering in Italian and shaking her head.
    “Sfortunata.”
    Unlucky? No kidding.
    “Thanks,” I said, “I hate them too.”
    *   *   *
    I REFUSED TO dwell on those flowers. Instead I focused on Craigslist for our area. I’d been watching all my online sources hunting Ngaio Marsh books for myself and also trying to locate suitable titles for Vera’s collection. I checked often. In my line of work, you snooze, you lose.
    Today, I was a winner.
    A couple who were downsizing and moving to one of the new riverside condos in the neighboring town of Grandville had given up their walls of bookcases in their sprawling suburban home. They were prepared to liberate boxes of mass-market reprints from the seventies. “Pristine,” they said, except for small labels on the inside front first page of each book. They posted photos of the covers and spines of hundreds of mysteries including many of the Ngaio Marsh titles I wanted.
    Best of all, the ad hadn’t been up long.
    I happily drove to Grandville, glad to get there before any book scouts descended. Not that I had anything against other scouts; after all, I was one myself in a limited way. And I counted on my contacts to keep Vera’s collection improving. Aside from that, I also made a bit on the books I found in the church bazaars, secondhand stores, Goodwill, garage sales and other rich sources. Several of the scouts were also my customers.
    Labeled boxes were stacked by the front door when I arrived. Although the packing looked orderly, the place had that forlorn feeling that houses get in a move. I was greeted by a tall woman with shoulder-length wavy auburn hair and a full, almost voluptuous figure. There was something familiar about her. “I’m Larraine Gorman,” she said, “and the noises you hear from upstairs would be Doug. Ignore them and him.”
    Larraine looked like she would have been more at home on a Titian canvas than in this jumbled, box-laden foyer. My uncles would have been captivated by her.
    She’d put aside the books I wanted, neatly packaged up in two boxes and labeled “NGAIO MARSH.” I could tell that the owner was parting with them reluctantly. “No changing your mind,” her husband had boomed from upstairs as she greeted me.