Myst The rare book case
Retired schoolteacher Angela Potts was fl ipping through envelopes from her mailbox when Sheriff Chunky Jones’ cruiser stopped at the curb.
“Love letters from old boyfriends?” he called through the car window.
“Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp.” She looked up at him. “Why aren’t you at the Fourth of July celebration?”
“Because I work for a living. Want to ride down to the bookstore?”
She snorted. “When did you become a reader?”
He gave her a pained look. “I read now and then.”
“Right. The sports section and the menu at Roscoe’s.”
“Are you coming or not?” he asked.
“Why? To help you pick out a book?”
“To investigate a robbery.”
Angela blinked and stuffed her mail into her pocket. “Why didn’t you say so?”
On the way to Abner Smith’s bookshop, the sheriff fi lled her in. According to Smith’s call, a rare novel had been stolen. The theft was witnessed by a customer—an aspiring writer named Jill Wasson—while Smith was in the rest room. The robber had held Wasson at gunpoint, opened a locked case of old fi rst editions and taken one worth almost $5,000. Minutes later, the sheriff and Angela were at the store, sitting with Wasson and Smith, who had now — despite being open for the holiday—locked his doors. “How’d the robber know how to open the case?” Sheriff Jones asked after introductions had been made.
“No idea,” Smith said. “Maybe he was a regular customer who knew where I kept the key.”
The sheriff turned to the witness. “You recognize the guy?” Wasson shook her head. “No—but I’m new in town.”
“Ms. Wasson’s from Chicago,” Smith explained.
“Can you describe him?” the sheriff asked her.
She frowned thoughtfully. “Youngish, maybe late twenties. Small, dark hair, blue eyes. Had a plaster cast on his left arm.” “Ring any bells, Abner?” Smith, looking miserable, said, “Afraid not.”
“Notice anything else, Ms. Wasson? Eyeglasses, tattoos, beard, wedding ring?”
“No. Though I couldn’t tell about a ring. The cast covered his fi ngers.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing. He just walked past me, took a key from under the front counter, opened that case there, grabbed the book and left.”
“Did he take the key with him?” the sheriff asked, thinking of fi ngerprints.
“Yes.” She sighed. “I wish I could’ve done something— but he kept a gun on me the whole time. I was terrified.”
“I understand,” Smith said
ngela asked, “Anything you’re not telling us, Ms. Wasson?”
Wasson stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Did you see, or hear, anything else?”
“No. And for your information, my eyesight and hearing are excellent.” “Mine, too,” Angela said. “What?” “Forgive me, but your accent doesn’t sound Midwestern, Ms. Wasson. It sounds like New England. Boston, maybe.”
Angela crossed the room to study the bookcase, then returned to stand beside Wasson. “I understand you’re a writer,” Angela said. “That’s correct.” “I’ve heard writers sometimes give their characters little distinctions to make them more interesting. A limp, a nervous tic, a goatee, a broken arm. Am I right?”
“Sheriff,” Wasson snapped, “who is this woman?”
Angela interrupted, “I’m here as a private citizen.” “A private citizen?” “Who doesn’t need a search warrant.” Lightning fast, Angela snatched Wasson’s oversize purse, looked inside— and took out a thick hardcover book. “Well, well. What’s this?”
All the color had drained from Wasson’s face. The others at the table were speechless.
Smith, stunned, picked up the book and looked at it. “What told you she was lying, Ms. Potts? Surely not just the accent.” Angela smiled. “No.” “Then how did you know?”
Q. What did the tomato say during the race? A. I can’t ketchup!