Chapter 6 Archives and the Rival Dealer #2
He looked every inch the predatory reptile he was.
Dressed in an iridescent slate-gray sharkskin sport coat that seemed perpetually damp, Gable wore an open-collared lavender shirt and loafers so polished they mirrored the rafters.
His slicked-back pomade smelled of cheap clove oil and mint mouthwash, and his pencil-thin mustache hovered above a smile that had all the warmth of a chilled scalpel.
Miss Abigail did not even look up from her vellum. She reached beneath the lip of the reading table and produced a heavy, solid-brass twelve-inch library ruler with an edge sharp enough to dress poultry.
"You have five seconds to remove your carcass from my restricted annex, Gable," she rasped, "before I separate your ears from your skull."
Gable offered a theatrical surrender, his oily smile intact. "Now, now, Miss Abigail. No need for violence. I am merely a humble tax-paying citizen researching the illustrious Gable lineage in the 1880 census rolls. A man has a right to know his granddaddies."
"Your grandfather stole two mules and an oak sideboard from the parsonage in Sylva," Miss Abigail said without missing a beat. "Now march."
Gable ignored her, his dark eyes locking onto mine across the green pool of light. He took two slow steps toward the table, hands sliding into the pockets of his sharkskin jacket.
"You look tired, Maggie," Gable purred in that conspiratorial, southern-fried cadence that made my skin crawl.
"A woman of your delicate constitution shouldn't be running herself ragged over the Vance tragedy. Dusting old china and dealing with county sheriffs. It’s hard on the nerves. Hard on the complexion."
"My complexion is holding up remarkably well, Sly," I replied evenly, resting both hands on the table and refusing to flinch. "Unlike your alibi for Tuesday afternoon, I imagine."
Gable’s mustache twitched. "A tragic misunderstanding. I was in Flat Rock all afternoon bidding on pine blanket chests. Half the dealers in Henderson County saw me."
"How convenient," Birdie cut in, crossing her arms and fixing Gable with a glare that could have etched glass.
"Did those dealers also see you skulking around Eleanor Vance's carriage house at seven this morning?
Because if you think that polyester suit blends into mountain laurel, darling, your optician owes you a refund. "
Gable’s smile thinned into a razor blade. He leaned over the edge of the table, his gaze dropping to the open Hollinger box, then back to my face.
"Blackwood Manor is out of your depth, Maggie," he murmured, his voice dropping low enough that the dehumidifier nearly swallowed it.
"You’re a widow with a small-town shop, peddling Victorian teacups and braided rugs to tourists.
This isn't teacups. This is big money. The kind of money that doesn't care about historic preservation or Moravian dovetails. "
He took another half-step closer, his eyes narrowing.
"Amateur furniture dusters who stick their noses where they don't belong have nasty accidents in old barns, Maggie.
Rotten floorboards give way. Heavy iron scales fall off high beams. It would be a terrible shame if Callahan & Company had to close its doors because its owner suffered a sudden, permanent misfortune. "
The threat hung in the cellar air, cold, ugly, and unmistakable.
Beside me, Birdie drew in a sharp breath, but I raised a gloved hand to stop her.
I looked directly into Sly Gable’s small, predatory eyes. I looked at the tension around his mouth, the faint tremor in his manicured left hand, and the hungry, desperate way his gaze kept darting toward the documents on the table.
And suddenly, the truth hit me with the clarity of a mountain sunrise.
"You don't have it," I said softly.
Gable froze. "What did you say?"
"The ledger," I said, letting a calm smile touch the corners of my mouth.
"You don't have it, Sly. If you had found that 1845 ledger, you wouldn't be lurking in the basement of the Carnegie Library trying to read expired lease covenants over my shoulder.
You'd already be in Raleigh, cutting a side deal with Gregory Vance to split the development rights. "
Gable's jaw tightened. The slick veneer cracked, exposing raw panic underneath.
"You think you're clever, Callahan," he hissed.
"I know I am," I said, picking up the 1845 covenant folio and sliding it carefully back into the acid-free Hollinger box.
"And more importantly, I know you didn't kill Julian Croft.
Because if you had killed him in that carriage house, you would have taken the ledger off his body.
But you're empty-handed. Which means the killer still has it. "
Gable stared at me, his chest heaving beneath the sharkskin jacket.
*CRACK.*
Miss Abigail’s brass ruler slammed down against the edge of the oak table with the force of a rifle shot.
"Time's up, Gable," the archivist barked, rising to her full height, the silver chain jangling against her collarbone. "Out. Before I call Lawson and tell him you’ve been fondling nineteenth-century tax rolls without gloves."
Gable took a step back, his eyes darting between Miss Abigail’s raised brass ruler and my steady gaze.
"Enjoy the estate sale while you can, Maggie," Gable spat, retreating toward the wooden stairs. "Because when that mountain changes hands, people like you are going to get plowed under."
He turned on his polished heel and vanished up the staircase, his rapid footsteps echoing until the heavy exterior door slammed shut above.
Silence returned to the basement, heavy with the scent of old paper, dust, and wintergreen.
Birdie let out a long exhale and sank onto the bench. "Remind me to buy a can of wasp spray to keep behind the shop counter. That man is an infestation."
"He's desperate," I said, watching the empty stairwell. "And frightened. Which makes him dangerous, but not our killer."
Miss Abigail picked up her brass ruler, inspected it for dust, and tucked it back beneath the desk. Then she pulled the cardboard pastry box toward her, neatly untied the baker's twine, and lifted out a glistening almond croissant.
"You have forty-eight hours until the estate preview, Maggie Callahan," Miss Abigail said, taking a delicate, appreciative bite of flaky pastry. "If you don't find that 1845 ledger before Gregory Vance does, Blackwood Mountain will be strip-mined for golf courses by Thanksgiving."
I looked at Birdie. Birdie looked at me.
"Come on," I said, stripping off the cotton gloves. "Let's go find Luke. We've got an 1820s desk to take apart."