When Bruce arrived at the cottage, Mercer was peeking through the blinds covering a front window. He was driving his convertible Porsche, the one she had seen parked at the Marchbanks House, and he had changed into khaki shorts and a golf shirt. At forty-three, he was lean, fit, and tanned, and though she had yet to hear him reveal the usual boring details of any workout routine, it was obvious he stayed in shape. After two long dinners, she knew that he ate little and drank in moderation. Same for Noelle. Good food was important to them; they just consumed it in small portions.

He was carrying a bottle of champagne, evidence that he was not one to waste time. His wife/partner had left the day before and he was already moving in on his latest prospect. Or so she figured.

Mercer met him at the door and showed him around. On the breakfast table, where she was trying to write her novel, she had placed the two books. “I guess we’re having champagne,” she said.

“It’s just a housewarming gift, maybe for later.”

“I’ll put it in the fridge.”

Bruce sat at the table and stared at the books, as if enthralled. “May I?”

“Of course. They’re just old library books, right?” she said with a laugh.

“Hardly.” He gently picked up The Convict and caressed it as if handling rare jewels. Without opening it, he examined the dust jacket, front, back, and spine. He rubbed the jacket and said, almost mumbling to himself, “First-issue jacket, bright and unfaded, no chips or blemishes anywhere.” He slowly turned to the copyright page. “First edition, published by LSU Press in January of 1985.” He turned more pages and closed the book. “Very fine copy. I’m impressed. And you’ve read it?”

“No, but I’ve read a few of Burke’s mysteries.”

“I thought you preferred female writers.”

“I do, but not exclusively. Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes. He’s been to the store twice. Great guy.”

“And you have two of these, first editions?”

“Yes, but I’m always looking for more.”

“What would you do if you bought it?”

“Is it for sale?”

“Maybe. I had no idea these two were so valuable.”

“I would offer five thousand for this, and I would then try to sell it for twice that. I have a number of clients, serious collectors, and I can think of two or three who’d like to add this to their collections. We would haggle for a few weeks. I would come down. They might go up, but I would hold the line at seven thousand. If I couldn’t get that, I’d lock it in the basement for five years. First editions are great investments because they can’t print any more of them.”

“Five thousand dollars,” Mercer repeated, apparently stunned.

“On the spot.”

“Can I haggle for more?”

“Sure, but six is my top dollar.”

“And no one will ever know where it came from? I mean, they can’t trace it back to me and Tessa?”