Chapter 20 #2
had collected the additional flyers on how to use a pessary that had been salvaged from the night of the attack. She still
blushed hot to think that Mr. Starling had seen full well what they were.
But she deposited them in Camille’s office, merely mentioning that they were back in business and telling her about the Tellers’
change of heart.
“Oh good. We were afraid we were going to lose our only access to material. Thank God for those good people. We seriously
need more vitamin flyers. Not the prenatal ones, but the regular ones.” She shuffled through a pile of pages and slid one
out. “These. Please thank the whole family from Camille and the settlement.”
“I will be sure to,” Celia said. “But I had another reason for coming today.” She shifted in her seat. “I’ve been reading
The House on Henry Street and thinking about what you said about needing experts in other fields.”
“Oh, you’re thinking about studying sociology? We so desperately need someone who can apply our work to other organizations.”
“I don’t know if it’s even possible,” Celia said. “I couldn’t afford to go full-time. Plus there’s the shop, but I thought maybe if I could start with some night classes . . . maybe at Cooper Union, if they have any sociology courses at night.”
“Well, let me see if Miss Renfroe is free. She knows all sorts of ways to get things done. Just stay put for a sec.” Camille
hurried out the door and returned a few minutes later with another woman, tall, broad and packing considerable weight. Her
hair was pinned up in a wild caricature of a Gibson girl and was skewered by several pencils that stuck out in different directions.
“Good to meet you, Miss Applebaum,” she said, holding out her hand in passing but never getting near enough to shake Celia’s.
“Cammie tells me you’re interested in a degree in sociology.”
Celia didn’t even have time to explain that she was just seeking information.
“Well, we can use you. And we can help financially if you will agree to donate a certain number of hours to the settlement.”
Celia opened her mouth but got no further.
“There are new semesters starting at NYU in a couple of weeks.” She paused long enough to snatch a piece of paper from Camille’s
desk, pull a pencil out of her hair, and start scribbling on the back. “You’ll want to talk to Professor Lydgate.” She lifted
the pencil. “Tell him Renfroe sent you.” She wrote it all down. “See how you like it, and do some volunteer work for us while
you’re at it. If you’re still serious and we’re a good fit, we’ll find a way to help you go full-time. There.”
She pushed the paper across the table. “I have to go wrangle a group of rambunctious young men into learning how not to spend
their paychecks at the pub. A pleasure meeting you.”
She performed her hand-pass gesture again and was gone.
“Whew,” said Camille. “She’s a power unto herself, totally eccentric, but she gets things done. I thought it best not to warn you in advance.”
“She is, um, persuasive.”
“And she knows how to arm-twist. Very handy tool in our work.”
Celia stood and slipped the paper into her bag. “I have to get back to the shop. I left my sister to run things by herself.
I didn’t know when I’d get down again if I didn’t come now.”
“Glad you did. You’re welcome anytime.” She walked Celia to the door.
“Thanks,” Celia said and ran down the stairs to the street. She got no farther before a black sedan pulled up to the curb,
the car doors swung open, and two men in black SSV suits stepped out.
“Miss Celia Applebaum?”
She didn’t even have time to answer before they grabbed her and forced her inside.
She twisted away as her feet fought for traction on the pavement. Tried to cry for help, but all she saw was the settlement
door closing behind Camille before the men threw her into the auto and it screeched away.
Daphne decided to close a little early; it had been more than an hour or two, and there was no sign of Celia. Typical of her
sister. Leave all the work for Daphne. And all alone. She made the rounds, confirming everyone was gone. But she didn’t go
upstairs. What if someone was hiding there? She couldn’t lock up until she checked. She hugged herself; she was turning into
a nervous Nellie. It was all because of Celia telling them about someone trying to break in. Daphne hadn’t felt safe since.
She certainly didn’t want to go to a book auction; she couldn’t think of anything duller, plus they always made her sneeze. But she didn’t really love the idea of staying alone. At least it was still light outside, and she was locked securely inside.
She was about to turn over the closed sign when a knock on the door made her nearly jump out of her skin.
Yannis Teller stood outside.
She slumped in relief.
He pointed toward the door. Oh right, she’d just locked it. She happily unlocked it again. He slipped inside before she could
ask him what he wanted.
“Celia asked me to come keep you company. She said you might have some things that I could help you with. Wow,” he said, catching
sight of the new sitting area. “You’ll never get rid of the afternoon old boys’ club now.”
“The sitting area is not for them,” Celia said. “It’s for new customers, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t know why no one takes
me seriously.”
Yannis’s eyebrows lifted. “Who doesn’t take you seriously?”
“Olivia, Celia . . . you.”
“What did I ever say or do?”
Daphne sank onto the new chair. “Nothing. I just feel . . .”
“Unappreciated?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me some of the things you think aren’t appreciated, and I’ll tell you what I think.” He sat in the
chair opposite her, leaned forward, and gave her his full attention.
He looked so earnest, she blurted out, “I want to stock more new books, bestsellers, and romance novels. Things regular people want to read, in a place that’s pleasant to visit. If I’m going to be stuck selling books my whole life, I want to sell the books I want to read.”
“Is that what you’re planning, to sell books your whole life?”
“What else can I do?”
“I thought maybe you wanted to get married and have a family. Most girls do.”
Embarrassed, she averted her eyes, almost missing the faint blush that had sprung to his cheeks. “Not the Applebaum sisters.
We’ll grow old and desiccated in this old shop.”
“Only if you want that. Now what do you need help with?”
“Everything. I want to clear out the back and open up the balcony again. It could be pretty, don’t you think?”
“Uh, sure. What would you use it for?”
“Oh, I have lots of ideas. Get rid of the worst of the used books and replace them with newer books that might also appeal
to people like me.”
“Women?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?”
“Absolutely nothing, but that gives me an idea. If you want to hear it.”
“As long as it doesn’t include keeping everything the way it’s always been.”
“Not at all. My father thinks that we should buy a four-color printer. We have the work for it, if he helps run the business.
But we would need more space. It would mean pushing out the retail partition to the front of the store with just enough room
for customers to order and pay.”
“But what would happen to your mother’s beautiful cards? That’s not fair.”
He smiled at her and she felt a little bubble of . . . joy?
Daphne jumped up. “I know. She could sell them here. I have just the perfect place for them.” She was already moving toward
the second display window. “I’ve been thinking about adding something to attract more women. Your mother’s cards would be
perfect. We can put them in a rack on the wall so people see them when they first walk in. In fact . . .
“It’s just what we need,” she said, clapping her hands. “Just the thing to draw in more ladies.” She spun around, half survey,
half pirouette, and grinned when she was facing Yannis again. They were smiling at each other when a frantic pounding sounded
at the door.
Olivia paid for her purchases and was on her way to the carting agent to arrange the delivery for the following morning when
she passed Mr. Smith, who was speaking with two other men. She didn’t recognize either of them, probably dealers from one
of the uptown stores or clients for whom he was fronting.
There had been a handful of big items in tonight’s auction, but all Smith had done was drive up the price before dropping
out of the bidding. Something he was notorious for and continued to get away with.
As she was watching them, the group broke up and Smith brushed by with an incidental nod in her direction. She was, after
all, one of the only women in the room. Book selling was still a man’s business.
Normally, he wouldn’t have even bothered to acknowledge her. She was immediately suspicious. She quickly searched the room
for the other two men, but they had disappeared, though she hadn’t seen them leave. Was she being overly suspicious?
She quickly finished her business with the carting service and hurried over to join several of her Book Row colleagues.
She wasn’t the only one put out with the appearance of the master collector.
“What’s he even doing down here?” asked Mr. Henderson, his cheeks ruddy from irritation.
“It’s galling,” Stammer agreed. “The man doesn’t care about books, just titles and profit. I heard he snatched a Milton’s
Paradise Lost before it even made it to the floor at the Chicago sale last month.”
“And sold it to a ‘private’ collector,” Mr. Bender added.
The group collectively shook their heads.
“What did he buy tonight?”
“Not a thing. Just drove up the price of the Twain and the H. G. Wells first edition before dropping out of the bidding. Probably
fronting for their current owner or owners.”
“Hardly seems worth the trip.”
“Not if the price is right.”
“You have to admit it was livelier tonight than the last few have been.”
“At least entertaining, if not particularly inspiring.”
Olivia felt traitorously relieved at their attitude. If there had been any word even whispered about a stolen papyri cache,
it would have made its way into the conversations even if on the lowdown, and Olivia had heard no hint of a missing manuscript.
She was about to take her leave when she was surprised to catch sight of Mr. Starling standing at the back of the room. She
hadn’t known he was there. He certainly hadn’t bid on any books, unless he had bid in advance, a practice more common than
approved of.
He hadn’t been back to the Arcadia, and Olivia thought she must have put him off. As much as she would value a big sale right now, she couldn’t deny that his absence had assuaged her paranoia about his reasons for gracing their shop.
Celia at first thought he might be a Comstock agent, but Olivia didn’t think so. Those agents were, for the most part, bullies
and thugs. Mr. Starling was refined, well spoken, and charming. But that didn’t mean he might not be more than just a fine
art agent.
He caught her eye and strode over to her.
“Good evening, Miss Applebaum. Are you leaving? Shall I walk you home? Can’t be too cautious these days.”
And just when she was beginning to breathe easy again. “Certainly. Thank you.”
They said good night to Mr. Henderson and Mr. Kirsch, who were arguing with Stammer and Bender about the worth of another
book they had all lost out on, when the door of the auction loft swung open and spit out Yannis and Daphne, who stood panting
and looking wildly around.
“Good God,” Olivia exclaimed, and hurried toward them. “What’s happened?”
“They’ve arrested Celia!” Daphne wailed between gasped breaths. “Comstock’s agents. They kidnapped her!”
“What? Why?” Olivia’ s brain couldn’t seem to understand. “I told you girls to lock up early.” As if that would make it all go away.
“I did, but Celia left and Yannis came to help me with the furniture.”
Yannis grabbed her by the elbow. “Daphne. Just breathe.”
He turned to Olivia and the crowd that had collected. “Celia went down to the settlement house.”
“What settlement house?” Olivia knew she sounded hysterical, just like a woman. Well, damn it, she was a woman, and her sister had just been arrested by the most hated man in America.
“Henry Street,” Yannis said.
“No,” Olivia protested. “What was she doing on Henry Street?”
“I’ll explain later; we’re wasting valuable time. Someone from there called the printshop. My father answered and came to
tell us.”
“Do you know where they’ve taken her?” asked Mr. Kirsch, who stepped ahead of the others.
“No,” said Yannis.
“Probably the thirteenth precinct,” said Mr. Henderson, striding over. “Close to where they picked her up.”
“We don’t even know where that is,” said Olivia, who was trembling so much she could barely get out the words.
“Mr. Henderson and I will deal with this,” said Mr. Kirsch. “Yannis, will you and Daphne take Miss Olivia home?”
Olivia shook her head. She couldn’t go home.
She had to get Celia out of jail. Celia in jail.
No, she couldn’t do that. Mr. Henderson was right.
She should go home and wait. Prepare. How could her sister be in jail?
Make sure they had bail money. Bail money?
The street committee would help. She had to trust them. Go home.
She turned to thank Mr. Starling for offering to escort her, but he was gone. She looked quickly around for him. But he had
vanished, and so had Mr. Kirsch.
Mr. Henderson nudged her toward Yannis and Daphne. “Come, Miss Olivia. You don’t worry about a thing. We’ll get her back.”
“But it’s my fault—”
“Olivia!” Daphne screeched. The sheer panic brought Olivia to her senses. No one knew about the Sappho. Not here, not yet.
But as soon as they learned of their infamy, they would be ostracized.
“Go home. We’ll take care of getting Celia back. And we’ll bring her right home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Henderson. I’m sure she will be safe in your hands.”
“And then,” said Mr. Henderson through gritted teeth, “we’re going to organize for real. We need a sellers’ organization to
protect us from these unwarranted assaults.”
Yannis took one of Olivia’s arms and Daphne the other, and they led her to the door. Olivia was aware of eyes upon them. Her
secret, her need, her obsession had caused this. How had she thought she might have a future? They would lose the store, their
home—and how on earth would she take care of her sisters when they did?