Eight Perfect Murders(36)

“Sure.”

When we got to the bottom of the stairs, I peered into the living room, lined with shelves. “Can I look at the books in here real quick?” I said, and Gwen shrugged and nodded.

It was clear that Elaine’s sister had been a reader, as well, and that most of the books that filled the living room shelves had belonged to her. There was a lot of nonfiction, and historical fiction. One entire shelf was devoted to James Michener. But there was also a tall bookcase crammed into a corner that looked as though it had been brought by Elaine. One of its shelves was filled with a dusty collection of vintage glass paperweights. The rest were crammed with more mystery novels, arranged by author. I was surprised to see the collected works of Thomas Harris, a writer that Elaine had once told me was an “overrated pervert.” I was also surprised to see a copy of The Drowner until I saw that it was sitting between Strangers on a Train and a copy of Deathtrap. A little shiver went through me. All the books were there—all eight from my list—in order. I brought Gwen over, and her eyes went big. She took a photograph with her phone.

“Do you think he brought these here himself or were the books already here?” she said.

“I think he brought them, probably. Elaine might have had all these books, but I doubt it.”

“Think we’ll be able to tell anything from these copies?” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “He bought them somewhere. Maybe from my store, or maybe from somewhere else. Usually, when you buy a used book there’s a penciled price on the first page, and sometimes there’s a sticker with the name of the dealer.”

“I don’t want you to touch them, but can you tell anything by looking at the spines?”

I studied them, all eight books from my list, sitting together like an accusation. The only spine that jumped out was the one for Malice Aforethought. I recognized it as a UK paperback edition released as a tie-in with a TV miniseries from about ten years ago. It was a copy that had definitely come through the store, because I remembered how much I disliked that edition. In general, I hate all tie-in book covers. I told Gwen that I thought I recognized one of the books as one I had had in the store.

“Okay, good,” she said. I could hear the excitement in her voice. “After I get them checked for fingerprints, I’ll have them photographed and we can look at them together. Let’s go check in to the hotel.”



She’d booked us two rooms at a Hampton Inn & Suites about a mile out of Rockland’s town center. It was across the street from a McDonald’s and I was worried that was where we’d end up eating dinner, but she mentioned a place she liked on Main Street. “I made reservations for two but . . . if you’d rather go someplace else . . .”

“No,” I said. “I’m happy to follow your lead.”

We checked in then met back in the lobby an hour later and drove into town. It was off-season, so I was surprised that several restaurants seemed to be open. We parked right in front of a two-story brick building, only a few steps away from the entrance to the Town Tavern, advertising itself as an “ale and oyster house.” It was a Sunday night and the place was predictably empty, although two couples sat at the bar. The hostess, a youngish woman wearing a Bruins sweatshirt, took us to a booth.

“This okay?” Gwen said.

“Sure. You said you’ve been here before?”

“My grandparents have a house on Megunticook Lake, which is not far from here. I come up to the midcoast at least two weeks every summer. Honestly, it’s my grandpa who reveres this place because they do baked oysters the way he likes them.”

The waitress came. I ordered a Gritty McDuff’s English-style bitter and a lobster roll. Gwen ordered a Harpoon and a haddock Rueben.

“No baked oysters?” I said.

She turned to the waitress. “Can we get six oysters to start?”

After the waitress left, Gwen said, “For Grandpa. I’ll let him know.”

“Where do they live the rest of the year?” I asked.

“Upstate New York, although they keep talking about moving here year-round. But they’d have to buy a new house. The lake place isn’t winterized. Have you been to this part of Maine before?”

“I’ve been to Camden. Once. That’s close to here, right?”

“Next town, yeah. When was that?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Ten years ago. Just a vacation.” I’d gone with Claire, of course, back when we frequently took road trips all over New England.

Our beers arrived, along with a basket of bread. We each took sips, then Gwen said, “Can I ask you about your wife? Do you mind?”

“I don’t mind, no,” I said and tried to look normal. But I was aware that we’d lost eye contact across the table.

“When did she die?”

“Five years ago, now, although it doesn’t feel that long.”

“I’m sure,” Gwen said, wiping some foam off her upper lip with a knuckle. “That must have been terrible. Her dying so young. The way she died.”

“You’ve done some checking up.”

“Yes. A little bit. When I first got your name, when I found the list, I ran a check on you.”

“Did you see that I’d been questioned in the murder investigation into Eric Atwell?”