At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(85)
“I do remember that.”
“Bill and Nancy Rhinehart were some of the best in the biz. Noses like bloodhounds and with unimpeachable respectability. They always played fair, were known for being scrupulously honest. Because of that, people took their finds and treasures to them. Those two got some of the best books and manuscripts in the business.”
“Didn’t they acquire that original broadside of the Declaration of Independence back in the eighties?”
“They did indeed. Favored by the gods, those two. The document was tucked inside a garage sale picture frame and very nearly consigned to the dust heap. They brokered the Sotheby’s auction. Anyway, everyone was both happy and a bit envious when Ralph followed his parents into the business. He showed every sign of being as honest, if not as sharp-eyed, as his parents.”
“I sense the turning of the story.”
“You are so correct. After Bill and Nancy were killed—”
“A car crash, if I remember.”
“Yes. Terrible, the way life can turn on a dime. After they passed, young Ralph decided he wanted nothing to do with the rare-book world. He sold the business to an up-and-comer in the field for what I’m sure was a tidy profit. And then he vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“Completely. Old business acquaintances didn’t hear from him. If he had friends, they ran in other circles. We only got the story later.”
Evan stood and walked over to the table where the brandy bottle and snifters still sat, glowing softly in the storm’s false dusk. “And what was the story?”
“He up and hauled off to England, went to work for a construction firm there called Osborn-Kleinberger. Moved very quickly to the top, we heard.”
Evan lowered the hand that had been reaching for the brandy. “England.”
“He apparently settled in quite nicely there. Married the American daughter of the owner of the firm, started a family. But then tragedy struck again. His wife passed away while still young, and Rhinehart pulled stakes again. He went into the rare-book business once more, focusing on items from the early Middle Ages. That’s when things turn sordid.”
Evan grabbed the bottle and one of the snifters and returned to his desk. “How sordid?”
“He began working with less reputable dealers, or so we heard. According to the rumor mill, he was deliberating purchasing forgeries and passing them along to clients. The turning point came when he went into partnership with a decidedly unsavory young man who brought in family money and offered to do Rhinehart’s footwork for him, traveling the world looking for rare manuscripts. Ultimately, this man was accused of almost pulling off an incredible coup.”
Evan wiped out the snifter with the hem of his sweater and poured a splash of brandy. “You’re very good at building suspense, Simon.”
“Thank you.”
“This isn’t the time for suspense.”
Simon cleared his throat. “Of course. This young man claimed to have found a companion poem to the Beowulf epic. As you can imagine, the announcement caused quite a stir. Old English died out as a spoken language long before the invention of the printing press, so manuscripts from that time are handwritten and quite rare. Rhinehart verified the provenance of the document and took it to an auction house. The firm initially confirmed the find, and things were looking quite wonderful for our dear Mr. Rhinehart. But then a few questions arose, other experts were brought in, and eventually the manuscript was declared a fraud. The finding destroyed what was left of Rhinehart’s reputation.”
Evan swallowed the brandy and poured another splash. “And with no reputation to preserve, he turned to occultism and mysterious alphabets?”
“Apparently. But not before the last nails were hammered into his coffin, in a manner of speaking. The young man who claimed to have found the poem is also believed—according to the rumor mill—to have died under mysterious circumstances before he could be brought up on charges. Something about bad brakes and a curving cliffside road. Classic cinema stuff.”
“Are you suggesting Rhinehart had something to do with it?”
“That’s what was rattling around the grapevine, my dear Evan. I checked back with a friend who believes Rhinehart was brought in for questioning by the police. If that’s true, nothing came of it. Given that, you can hardly blame him for retreating to America and focusing his interest in other areas.”
“What was the timing on all this? The pseudo-Beowulf manuscript, the young man’s alleged death?”
“Early part of the millennium, I suppose. Rhinehart returned to the States around 2006 or 2007. Ah, here’s my client back now. I’ve got to run. I hope that was helpful.”
“Very much so. Thank you, Simon.”
“Always happy to be of service. Just be careful around Rhinehart. I’ve heard from book dealers who specialize in the occult that he’s a much darker man than he used to be. And a bit desperate, apparently, for whatever reason. Maybe finances.” He cupped a hand over the phone and called “be right there” to someone. He came back on the line. “Do take care, my friend.”
And he was gone.
Evan immediately dialed Diana, but his call went straight to voice mail. He left her a message to call him back as soon as possible, that he had the details on Rhinehart, that the man was considered both desperate and shady. That it was even possible he was linked to a murder. He babbled on for a minute before reluctantly disconnecting.