Page 13 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Polished Off

really say how many she had this morning. But I know that’s what
she did first thing every day. Maybe some guy would actually call
back.” Again Iris chortled bitterly. I sensed some sort of tension
between her and Mariana, and longed to pry the details out of her.
Labelle made more notes. The technology was beyond me, but I
wondered if old phone messages could be retrieved, even if putatively
deleted by their recipient.
“Who else saw her this morning?”
Had Iris needed a frown in order to concentrate, it wouldn’t have
been perceptible. She did pause, however, glibness fleetingly arrested.
“Well, Patty came by for a cup of coffee. She had to bring her own
cup, of course. Mariana did not provide for guests. Then that crank
collector insisted on making his usual hopeless offer for Again I’ll
Explain, by Mirbis Duchaine. Other than that, just old Gutenberg.”
“Who are those people, exactly?” Labelle seemed to possess an
inexhaustible reserve of patience. The police have to deal with all
types of people, I reflected; perhaps it deadened them to nuances of
prevarication and preposterousness. I would have been getting
considerably testy at this point had I been the one questioning Iris.
“Patty Melton? Runs the shop next-door, Esprit Decor. Been
coming over here quite a bit lately, and the two of them must have
had some kind of business deal going on, the way they made sure I
wasn’t listening to their earnest little conferences. She didn’t stay long
today, though: must have been in and out in ten minutes. I think
there was still coffee in her mug, because she was carrying it with
both hands. Now, the other one was already in the shop, and I had
told him to wait because Mariana was busy. Really a pathetic little
man.” She wrinkled her nose, segmentally.
“Why is that? And do you know his name?”
“Sure. Paul Wandisi. I probably have a dozen of his calling cards
in the drawer here.” She fished out a rather shoddy-looking card and
handed it to Labelle. “Must have thought I had some influence with
the boss. What a jerk! Even worse than most of these rare-book
fiends. Must be a masochist, coming back every few days for another
dose of ridicule and rejection.”
“Ms. Trench would not sell him that book?”
“Oh, I guess it doesn’t matter now that she’s gone, but he had no
idea what a first edition of Again I’ll Explain is worth. Maybe she

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