The Stolen Blue Page 5

  “I’m looking forward to seeing Burke’s books,” he said.

  “You’ve never seen them?”

  “No.” Harrison sighed, reinforcing Claire’s opinion that Burke didn’t think much of him. Burke had shown her the collection many times. Harrison had been next in line when Burke retired, and he was the deans’ choice for the job. Harrison was cost-conscious, which the administration considered important after Burke’s extravagant reign.

  “We’ll be the envy of every library in the Southwest,” Harrison said. He took the Porter print from Claire and balanced it between his long white fingers. Harrison had the hands of a pianist, but Claire doubted he played; his movements were stiff and unmusical, and his right hand always seemed to be out of synch with the left. “Now, tell me again why we want to have a Porter exhibit?”

  Claire was tempted to say, “Because it will make us the envy of every other library in the Southwest,” but she checked herself. “The library is very lucky to have these photos. They’re much too beautiful to keep in a drawer.”

  Harrison fingered the photo. “But is there any historical significance?”

  “Wouldn’t you have liked to have exhibited the Edward Curtis photographs when they were new?”

  “The Curtis photos were a record of a dying time and culture.”

  “These are a record of a sensibility,” she said. Possibly even a dying sensibility, she thought.

  Acquiring Burke’s collection had put Harrison in an expansive mood, particularly since no library money had been spent. “All right,” he said. “Go ahead with the exhibit.”

  “Thank you,” Claire replied. “I’ll arrange for someone in the mail room to bring in the books.”

  Harrison looked at his watch, more for effect than for information, Claire thought. She suspected that Harrison always knew exactly what time it was. “It’s too late,” he said. “They’ve gone home.”

  Harrison was the only one at the center who had windows in his office. They were set high in the wall near the ceiling. Claire looked up and saw evening rubbing its back against the glass. “I’ll see if Ralph can help me,” she said. Harrison had the opportunity to offer his assistance, but he didn’t take advantage of it.

  Claire stopped at Ralph’s office and found him hunched over his computer. When she asked him to help, he said he’d be glad to. Claire’s hand truck was in the pickup. They took another from the storage room and wheeled it behind the library to the parking lot. The weather had turned cold, and the wind was gusty. Dark clouds scooted across the sky. The few people who were out walked quickly with their collars turned up against the wind. Claire told Ralph about Burke’s collection while they walked.

  “There’s a Banditti of the Plains,” she said. “The 1894 edition.”

  “I’ve never seen that book in the original edition,” Ralph replied.

  “Few people have. It puts the cattlemen of Wyoming in a bad light, and they went to great lengths to suppress it. What they couldn’t buy up, they stole. They even hired an itinerant preacher to go into people’s homes looking for copies. The book is subtitled ‘The Cattleman’s Invasion of Wyoming in 1892, The Crowning Infamy of the Ages.’”

  “Crowning Infamy? That might be an overstatement, but they hung Cattle Kate, Queen of the Sweetwater, for taking stolen cattle in payment for her favors. She’s one of my favorite Western women,” Ralph said.

  Claire laughed. She was partial to Cattle Kate, too, and to all the wild, defiant women of the Old West. They had reached the parking lot, which was badly in need of some overhead lights. Claire never liked coming here alone at night. As they walked toward her vehicle, Ralph continued talking about other Western women he admired, and Claire saw the damage before he did. The window on the passenger’s side of her truck had been smashed, and the broken glass lay in pieces on the ground. Claire felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She remembered seeing the movie of Kipling’s Kim as a child and watching an Indian fakir make glass shatter and come together again. She had the sensation that if she stared at the glass intensely enough, she could make the window whole and bring back whatever had been stolen from her truck.

  Ralph continued talking about hookers and cowgirls, waiting for Claire to take out her keys and open the door. “Oh, no,” he said when he stopped and saw the damage. “What did they take? Your radio?”

  “I hope that’s all,” Claire said.

  Ralph circled the back of the truck. Claire looked into the window and saw what she feared most—an empty space on the passenger seat where the box of special books had been.

  “The camper shell is intact,” Ralph said.

  “The radio is still here, but the special box of Burke’s books is gone.”

  “Do you think they knew what they were getting?”

  “Hard to say. I labeled that box valuable. Would you mind watching the truck for me while I go to my office and call university police?”

  “Sure,” Ralph said.

  ******

  Claire paced the small space in front of her desk while she waited for the university police to show up. Rachel Dunbar, the policewoman who answered the call, came dressed in a tight-fitting uniform that was not designed for the female body. In a dress, Rachel might appear svelte, but the pants of her uniform stretched tight across her hips made her look lumpy as a pillow. Rachel had a wide face, bright eyes, unruly blonde hair, and an enthusiasm that led Claire to place her in her mid-twenties.

  At the center, the librarians’ offices all had glass walls, and it would be no secret to anyone walking by that Security was talking to Claire.

  “You reported a theft?” Rachel said.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Have a seat.” Claire motioned to the chair in front of her desk, but she was too tense to sit down herself.

  “I came back from Arizona today with Burke Lovell’s book collection in my truck.” Burke’s name didn’t cause a ripple in Rachel’s calm face. “I put some of the more interesting and expensive books in a separate box. I took it into my motel room for safe keeping last night and put it back on the front seat of my truck. All the other books were locked in the camper shell. I left the books in the truck while I came inside for a meeting. When I went back out to get them, the cab had been broken into and the box of special books had been stolen.”

  “I inspected the truck on my way over,” Rachel said. “The window was smashed with a rock, and the door unlocked through the broken window. They didn’t take your radio.”

  “I know.”

  “It might have been a casual thief. Someone who just passed by and saw an opportunity. A person walking through the university with a box of books isn’t going to attract attention.”

  “I should have had the truck unloaded the minute I got here,” Claire said. “I didn’t think . . .”

  “No one does, do they?” Rachel answered. “This is a university. The one place in Albuquerque we ought to feel safe.”

  Claire didn’t expect the Albuquerque Police Department, who dealt with murder, rape, and child abuse every day, to pay attention to a box of books, but she hoped the university police would take the theft seriously. The expression on Rachel’s face indicated she might.

  “Can you put a value on the books?” she asked.

  “I’d say somewhere around fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Whew! That’s a lot. What was in there?”

  “Some limited editions, some signed first editions. Willa Cather, Tony Hillerman, Edward Abbey. A folio of Ansel Adams photographs.”

  “I like Tony Hillerman,” Rachel said.

  Good, Claire thought. Maybe that will encourage her to get the books back.

  “Did anybody else know what was in the box?” Rachel focused her sharp eyes on Claire.

  “My coworkers knew.”

  “Did any of them have a grudge against you?”

  “Not enough of a grudge to steal the books, I would hope.”

 
“Library thefts are often inside jobs. Employees have the means and opportunity. As for motive, we all know about university salaries. I see the kinds of cars your coworkers drive.”

  “And what kind of car do you drive?” Claire asked.

  “A Mustang.”

  Probably spends most of her paycheck on the payments, Claire thought.

  “Your coworkers park in that lot. It would have been easy to put the books in a nearby car and drive away.”

  “The books are valuable, but they won’t be easy to sell; some of them have fingerprint inscriptions, which are easy to identify. It’s a limited market, and I know most of the people in it.” Claire hated to think that the thief was a coworker. “Aren’t there other motives for stealing?”

  “Sure. There are kleptomaniacs who can’t help themselves, people who steal for their own personal use, people who steal in anger to get back at somebody else. Addicts who steal because they need the money for a fix.”

  Claire saw Ruth O’Connor walk by the glass wall. Ruth stopped, stared at Rachel, and held an imaginary receiver to her ear indicating she expected a phone call the minute the policewoman left.

  “Did anybody besides your coworkers know what was in the box?” Rachel asked.

  “The Lovell family knew I was taking Burke’s books; he donated them to the center.”

  “And how did they feel about that?”

  “They weren’t thinking about books when I saw them last; they were in shock. He died Saturday night.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “In the Blue near Reserve.”

  “That’s a long way to come to steal a box of books.”

  “True. And if the family wanted any of those books, all they had to do was ask.”

  “Could there have been something else in the box somebody wanted?”

  “Such as?”

  “Valuable papers, jewelry, electronics, cash. Those are the things that get stolen most often here.”

  “I had a copy of Burke’s will, but I didn’t put it in the box. It’s in my purse.”

  “Is it a will some people are going to object to?”

  “Probably.”

  “Are there any other copies?” When Rachel zeroed in on a question, her face lost its placidity and a strong underlying bone structure came into focus.

  “There’s one at the ranch.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I’d make another copy if I were you, and put it someplace safe. Who was this Burke Lovell?”

  “He was the director of the Center for Southwest Research for many years and a legend in the world of Western Americana/’

  “Must have been before my time.”

  “Must have been.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about getting his books back.” Rachel’s eyes were bright with an investigator’s zeal. There was a lot to be said for being young and new at the job, Claire thought.

  “Good,” Claire replied. “They mean a lot to me and to the library.”

  “There’s a way librarians can put out word on the Internet that books were stolen, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if Harrison will agree to it. The library doesn’t like to advertise its thefts.”

  “That attitude makes our work harder.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with in the way of physical evidence. With your help, we have a good chance of getting these books back.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Claire.

  “Can you give me an inventory?”

  “Yes.”

  Rachel looked at the books and the artifacts on Claire’s shelves. “It’s a big responsibility you librarians have taking care of all this stuff.”

  “We’re the keepers of memory,” Claire said.

  ******

  As soon as Rachel left, Claire made two copies of Burke’s will. She put the original back in her purse and locked the copies in her desk drawer. Then she reached for the phone to call Ruth O’Connor; but before she could dial the extension, Ruth poked her head in the door.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “The box of Burke’s most interesting and valuable books was stolen from my truck.”

  “And that young woman is investigating the theft?” Ruth’s musical voice was full of innuendo.

  “It could work to our advantage. She’s enthusiastic about her job. She hasn’t seen enough book thefts yet to become jaded.”

  “I don’t have a very high opinion of university police; they seem to be more interested in stolen hubcaps than they are in books.” She looked around her. “In their opinion, we already have more than enough books. When I reported the theft of some photographic plates a few years ago, a policeman told me he didn’t know we kept china here. They might be impressed by the fact that a Taos Pueblo would sell for at least thirty thousand dollars.”

  “But who would buy it, Ruth? I intend to notify dealers, museums, and other libraries that it was stolen.”

  “Oh, there’s always some unscrupulous person out there willing to pay the price.”

  “You could be right.” Claire sighed.

  “Maybe the thief doesn’t intend to sell, maybe he just wants to add the books to his private collection.”

  “Or hers.”

  “Whatever,” Ruth shrugged.

  “In that case, we’ll never get them back.” The thought of the books ending up in the hands of a rogue collector was bad enough, but even worse was the thought that whoever took them wouldn’t know their value and the books would end up moldering somewhere in a dump. When you have something valuable, you have the responsibility to take care of it. Claire felt she had failed. Her shoulders slumped, and her mood was turning dark.

  Ruth fluttered around the tiny space in front of Claire’s desk looking for ways to cheer her up. “You’ve had a bad weekend, haven’t you? First you lose your mentor, then you lose some of his favorite books. Middle age is not for sissies.”

  “True.” Claire knew Ruth was trying to make her laugh, but she didn’t feel up to it.

  Ruth escalated her efforts. She’d spent a year cheering up a sick husband and had some practice. “You know the books most often stolen from public libraries are The Joy of Sex, G.E.D. Exam books, and The Prophecies of Nostradamus, which means that the average thief is a high-school dropout who has great sex and can foresee the future.”

  Claire had heard it before but she smiled, encouraging Ruth to continue. “In the Middle Ages the scribes put anathemas in their books to discourage vandals and thieves,” Ruth said. “Maybe we should do that here. ‘Who folds a leafe down, the devil toaste browne; Who makes marke or blotte, the devil toast hot; Who stealeth thisse book, the devil shall cooke.’”

  This time Claire did laugh. She and Ruth went outside and helped Ralph and the university police bring the rest of the books in and stash them in the tower. When Rachel Dunbar was done examining her truck, Claire drove it home feeling a cold wind blowing through the broken window.

  Chapter Four

  CLAIRE LIVED IN THE HIGH DESERT SUBDIVISION, a half hour drive from the university. In Tucson, Evan (who hated to drive) had insisted on living near the U of A in a subdivision where the houses were all white stucco with tile roofs that resembled flowerpots broken in half. In Tucson, the mountains remained in the distance silhouetted against the pale sky. In Albuquerque, Claire lived in the foothills and could observe the mountains up close in all their phases. At night they reflected the moon, and every piñon cast a shadow; in the morning they were a black outline against the rising sun; in midday a herd of resting gray elephants; in the evening, after the sun sank over the West Mesa, they turned the effervescent pink of sangria. Claire had been on the mountain once in the afterglow and felt she was immersed in sparkling wine. Her house had a small, walled yard Xeriscaped with yucca and prickly pear by the previous owner, except for a rose garden along the east-facing wall.
It had been too hot in Tucson to grow roses; they soaked up water like an insatiable sponge. Claire knew in spring she’d be battling aphids, but she’d also get to see the color of the buds.

  When she got home, Nemesis rubbed against her legs to welcome her back. She changed the litter and filled his dish. He wanted to go out, but that was forbidden after dark when coyotes took control of her yard and Nemesis’s white fur and house cat smell made him an easy target. The neighborhood seemed tame enough by day, but at night it belonged to the predators. The closer one lived to the foothills, the more pets got taken. Claire could hear the coyotes at night barking and singing. As long as she knew Nemesis was inside, the sound was thrilling.

  Evening was the time when she felt most divorced—no one to talk to, no one to cook dinner for but herself. She boiled water, threw in some frozen tortellini and a handful of frozen peas. Evan had insisted on a real meal every night plus a salad. Frozen tortellini did not satisfy his needs. To give him credit, he did the dishes and he talked during dinner mostly about himself and his work. Evan was an anthropologist at the U of A, superficially quiet and intellectual, but there was something deep and unyielding about him. Claire had spent twenty-eight years circling his unreasonable core. Evan was a spring wound too tight. In middle age the spring came unwound, and he got involved with a graduate student.

  Claire wondered whether the new wife, Melissa, cooked dinner every night. Evan had a chance to remake himself and not have a salad every damn day of the week, but she doubted he’d take it. Melissa was thirty-eight years old, a perpetual graduate student, blonde, fit, and deeply in debt. She eked out a living taking people on archaeology tours while she pursued her Ph.D. on student loans. It was obvious what Evan saw in her, but Claire had to wonder what she saw in him. She knew his every flaw and wrinkle. She knew how annoyingly predictable, inconsiderate, and demanding he could be. In the heat of anger after finding out about Melissa, Claire had offered to write her a letter thanking her for ending the marriage. “Our marriage ended years ago” was Evan’s pompous reply.

  Claire hadn’t written the letter, but she kept track of all the ways she was glad to be rid of Evan, calling them her “Poor Melissa” moments. For example, she could eat what she wanted to eat when she wanted to eat it without an argument. But just as she sat down to her Poor Melissa tortellini, the phone rang. It was the time of day when Anonymous and Unavailable were out trolling for suckers, so Claire waited to see what appeared on her call-screening box before picking up. She saw a New Mexico number she didn’t recall, but the name under it, Burke P. Lovell, gave her a chill.