The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) Read Online Free PDF

Mysteries, where I spotted George Beckwith with his elegant silvery hair. As usual he peered at me over the reading glasses at the end of his nose. His whole life was “just so.” You could tell this guy was no fun to live with. From his sock drawer to his alphabetized refrigerator, Master Beckwith had to be in control.
    There was no sign of his wife, Jeannette. Too bad, because I liked her more than I liked him.
    “Jordan Bingham,” he said, in his plummy British accent. Not for the first time, I wondered if that accent was real. “How nice to see you.”
    I wasn’t so sure he meant it, but I would take what I got. He wasn’t curling his lip, so that was promising.
    “Looking for anything in particular?”
    I wasn’t likely to let George know that Vera was after something. By now he was well aware that I represented her, and that was enough to drive up the price of any desirable object. George being George, I wasn’t sure he’d give me the information I wanted, just because I wanted it. Better not to let him think it was anything other than a friendly visit.
    I picked up a pristine copy of
“B” is for Burglar
and said, “Just taking Karen around for a spin. She can’t get out by herself yet.”
    I gasped as someone grabbed me. I spun, but before I could use the old Kelly standard uppercut, I realized it was Jeannette Beckwith, George’s much-better half. She had me in a bear hug. She might have needed a hip replacement, but she hadn’t lost the strength you get from years of schlepping boxes. I was laughing when she let go. “Thank you for bringing Karen,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “That was so kind.”
    “My pleasure.”
    Jeannette sank into a chair and winced. I sure hoped she’d get that operation soon.
    I sank into the chair next to her. The Beckwiths had a double booth and always plenty of room for a customer to sit and be talked into a purchase.
    Jeannette said, “It must be hard for her, being out of the mainstream.”
    “She’s getting better.”
    “How’s her memory? That’s what I’d worry about after an injury like that.” Jeannette’s round, kind face was full of concern.
    “She’s making the best of it, trying to remember people. The other day we had a bet that she could remember a certain client’s name. She was lusting over their Craftsman home where she delivered an order, and when I mentioned I would be auditing an American architecture class online, it just popped into her head. It wasn’t even an important client, just suddenly this house and person were in her mind, then poof, blank. She couldn’t remember who or where.” I was making it up as I went, not wanting the Beckwiths to pick up on the real reason for our interest.
    George decided to poke his longish nose into our conversation and I began to worry. Even his immaculately pressed shirt was annoying. I stifled an urge to somehow smear newsprint on it. I was sure that if George knew Karen needed to know someone’s name, he was quite likely to see if there was anything in it for him. Rumor had it he’d been a ruthless trader in the days before he retired.
    I wouldn’t have put a bit of “client-napping” beyond him. Just as I went to change the subject, one of the regulars, an impossibly tall man in a trench coat, sidled up. I was glad of the distraction, but I wondered where he bought his pants.
    Jeannette seemed unaware of my feelings about her husband and didn’t appear to notice the unusual height of her customer. She chattered away. “We all forget things.”
    “Absolutely,” I said. “I was thinking that going back to the house would jog something for Karen. She seemed to have it in her mind so clearly. If she were there again, maybe she’d remember more. Besides, I want to see this place. I love everything to do with the whole Arts and Crafts movement. I guess I’ll just have to wait until this person reorders and then insist on delivering the order with her.” I tried to sound