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Gay Toltl Kinman has eight award nominations
for her writing; several short stories published in American and English
magazines; over one hundred and fifty articles; six children's books;
and had four plays produced. Her young adult gothic novel, Wolf Castle
and two adult mysteries Death in Covent Garden, and Death in a Small
Town were just released by Hilliard and Harris. She co-edited a
cookbook, and a book promotion publication for Sisters in Crime, and was
on the Board of SINC / LA. She coordinated workshops for writers at
California State University, San Bernardino; and is a scholar for the
Library of Congress / UCLA "Women of Mystery" discussion groups. Kinman
has a library degree and a law degree. The Book Collector by Gay Toltl Kinman
Tom Janes, book collector extraordinaire, patiently went through the bins, book by book, in the short London street lined with outdoor vendors. He'd been there all day and his eyes were tired.
Suddenly, his heart stopped.
He clutched the book.
He closed his eyes, then blinked several times.
He read the author's name again.
Yes, he was seeing correctly.
Mary Westmacott.
Not many people knew Mary Westmacott was Agatha Christie writing love stories.
Summoning up all of his acting abilities, he strolled to the bookseller, and presented the English coins with a shaky hand. The bookseller took his money, while carrying on a conversation with another person through the haze drifting from the cigarette that clung to his lips.
Tom strode away, his prize safely tucked inside his jacket right up against his heart.
Then he raced back to his hotel room at Manzi's and put his prize in his suitcase.
He had no idea how much the book was worth, but it didn't matter for he'd never sell it. He sat at the window and looked out onto the street, Chinatown, busy with tourists. He tried to calm his palpitating heart.
He didn't dare go out again. What if the bookseller realized his mistake and recognized him? What would he do if the man wanted the book back? Kill?
He opened his suitcase, pulled on plastic gloves and reverently took the book out. It was everything that he thought it was.
NO!
It was more!
It was an ARC!
An advanced reading copy. It couldn't be!
He lay the book carefully on the bed. His heart beat so rapidly, he felt dizzy.
ARCs were what he collected. They were paperbound, usually not finally proofread so they had errors and typos. Even so, the publishers sent them out to reviewers.
ARCs were his oxygen.
And, now, he owned an ARC of Agatha Christie!
He went through the book, lovingly, savoring the aroma of the paper which he held close to his nose inhaling its fragrance. He looked at the typeface, the colophons, the chapter headings, admired the artistry of the printer. He held the book for a moment more wanting to crush it to him, but it would be damaged. Buttons would make an imprint, sides would be bent, grime from his jacket would meld into the cover. He sighed, then wrapped the book in the special paper he had brought and packed it in a box.
He was leaving tomorrow and glad of that. He wouldn't feel safe until the plane lifted off from Heathrow.
For dinner, he ate in the restaurant downstairs, not something he usually did, as it was expensive. He'd rather spend his money on books.
He savored his food along with the thoughts of his find.
***
A month later he attended the Collecting Rare Books Seminar taught by Adelaide Lane who knew more about book collecting than God. Tom wrote down as much as he could of what she said. He was thankful she talked slowly, but then she was 91.
She talked about the joys of collecting, describing exactly what he had experienced, that adrenaline ride. And he wanted to experience that again!
***
Lucy Bouchercon, house sitter not extraordinaire, browsed the shelves of her new employer's house for a book to read. Nothing but a bunch of mysteries. Not only that, they were all behind locked cases. "Who locks their books up?" she muttered. No matter, she found the keys. A housesitter knows where everything is.
She pulled several books out, then shoved them back not bothering to align them as perfectly as they had been. Mysteries. Bah. The last thing she'd read.
"Give me a good romance," she said to Poopsie, the cat, and Bitsy, the dog, for she was animal sitting primarily. But they barely responded. What did they care? She'd fed them to the max, made sure they had lots of petting, playing and pottying. Therefore, what else was there for them to do but sleep?
Lucy finally found the perfect book. She had to work at wiggling it out of the hard box that was around it. Then she settled into the overstuffed lounge chair occupied by curled-up Poopsie and Bitsy, and began reading.
Suddenly she stopped.
She was attending "Learning How to be a Best-Selling Author in Four Easy Lessons" on the City's Recreation and Parks program, so she recognized a typo when she saw one.
"I can fix that!" she said as she reached for her ballpoint pen. She was quite proud of the pen and took it everywhere, but only used it on special occasions. This was one of them. The pen was in the shape of a syringe filled with red ink that advertised a book by a real author she'd met at a signing. She couldn't afford to buy the book, but free pens were available so Lucy took one. And a chocolate. Actually, more than one chocolate, but only one pen.
She picked up the pen from the endtable, joyous that the class had become so useful. The instructor would praise her!
She read on. Another typo! Dutifully she corrected it. Bitsy flicked an ear, and Poopsie's eyes fluttered, as Lucy continued to exclaim and correct the errors. Wait until she told her instructor how diligent she'd been!
***
The Police responded to a neighbor's complaints about the dog howling next door. They finally found poor Mr. Janes, sitting on the floor, clutching an old paper-covered book to his chest, mumbling incoherently and weeping copiously. Next to him sat Bitsy howling as if as desolate as her master seemed to be. She was. She had now missed two meals.
Unfortunately, they also found one Lucy Bouchercon on the chaise longue, a red syringe-like ballpoint pen through her heart.
THE END Gay Toltl Kinman © 2007 |