Lila leaned close to the paper and sniffed. “I’d need to look at it with a magnifier, but the paper seems right.” She ran her fingers across the top of the page. “Of course, it could be giclée.”

“What’s that?”

“A really fine print copy. Digital technology. It’s so good that you can’t see the dots, and if it’s printed on period paper, well, it can fool even an expert. But this?” She ran her fingertips around the margins. “It appears to have been printed from a plate. There’s a pressmark.” She held the map up to the light and rotated it a quarter turn at a time, examining each of the edges. “And it’s been removed from a bound book. See how only this edge is rough, where the others are sharp?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Emily said as she drove past the turnoff for the town wharf. A drop of rain plopped on the windshield. “You’re saying it’s been torn out?”

“Carefully. By someone who knew what they were doing. If I had to guess, I’d say they used wet string. Placing a piece in the gutter margin weakens the paper. Leave it there for a few minutes, and you can make a clean tear. It’s quiet, doesn’t require bulky tools, and leaves barely a trace. Slip the document up a coat sleeve, and Bob’s your uncle.” Lila held up the map. “This is a beauty. Really old. Historically significant. You can see why someone would want it, assuming it’s original, of course.” She sighed. “And the Blaine doesn’t even know they’re missing it.”

19

BECCA AND MRS. Murphy were waiting at the storage unit when Emily and Lila pulled up. Before getting out, Emily slid the map into its tube. As soon as the storage bin was open, she’d put it back. She popped the trunk and got out an umbrella for herself and one for Lila.

Mrs. Murphy narrowed her eyes as they approached, and Emily wondered if she thought Lila might have been the woman the security guard had recently seen going in and out of her husband’s storage unit. She looked puzzled when Lila hugged Becca.

“Mrs. Murphy, this is Lila Laubenstein,” Emily said. “She’s my mother, and she knows everything there is to know about books and prints.”

“Not everything,” Lila said. “But I’ve been around for a while and paying attention.”

“Your mother?” Mrs. Murphy asked, her face relaxing into a smile. She shook Lila’s hand. As different as they looked—Mrs. Murphy all in black like an Italian widow, her white hair and unvarnished face accepting her age; Lila in bright plumage, fighting it all the way—Emily realized that they were probably about the same vintage.

“My mother was a librarian,” Emily said.