CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An obnoxious bird greeted the morning rays with a cheery song which made Sol long for his boyhood pellet gun. Evidently, the only available tree in Utah grew just outside this bedroom window. Scores - likely millions - of feathered species joined in a chorus of cacophonous delight. The clock on the nightstand said 7:40. An ungodly hour. Yet there were sounds of household activity somehow recognizable above the attendant sounds of nature. The coffee maker was in the other room, and probably required instructions. Sol found the button on the side of the telephone."Yes?" The voice was female, middle-aged, slightly curt but not intimidating.
"Hello, this is Sol Slyde in the guest suite. Mr. Young said I should ring if I needed anything."
"Good morning, Hon'! This is Fran; I'm the maid. There's still some breakfast left. What can I get you?"
"Do you object to making coffee? I mean, if you . . ."
The woman let out a throaty laugh. Her voice suggested years of smoking. "Honey, I only object if it's instant! I'll bring a tray right down. Hope you're not decent!"
After breakfast and a welcome shower, Sol still had a few minutes before nine o'clock, when Preston was to brief him on the task ahead. The sliding doors moved noiselessly as Sol stepped into the enclosed patio. Exotic plants and small potted trees bespoke a level of maintenance which few households could afford. Even the dressed stone walls appeared to be freshly scrubbed. The sun felt delicious on his face, and he placed his hands behind his neck to stretch his head back.
Sol caught his breath. He had not been prepared for what he was seeing. He stared in awe and genuine amazement – not out of total surprise, but from the utter unexpectedness of a sight which met his eyes. He preferred, somehow, just to stand motionless, like one having some sort of religious experience.
"The Wasatch!"
Sol started and turned. Preston Young stood a dozen feet behind him; the patio gate to the back yard was open. He wore an expensive-looking businessman's suit, but spoke like a pastor warming up to deliver a sermon.
"The Wasatch Front;" Young continued, "the chain of the Rocky Mountains which shelters most of the population of Utah. The sight will be stupendous in a few weeks, when the leaves change."
"Stupendous indeed!" Sol intoned, wincing to hear himself echo Young's unctuous tone. But the mountain peaks were truly awesome, rising with such immediacy that he could nearly imagine the ground beneath his feet trembling to lift and join them. "They're so high! So close . . ."
"This is a good neighborhood," Young voiced the obvious, "and this house is built near the top of the foothills, about as high up as you can get. It is a real mess driving here after a snow storm! Good morning, by the way! Did you sleep well?
"I'm well-slept, well fed, and ready to work," Sol smiled, as he looked at his watch. "You didn't strike me as a man to be late, and I see you are here for my nine o'clock briefing!"
"Once I retire from business, I hope never to be on time anywhere again," Preston mused. "With my corporate responsibilities, unfortunately, I seldom experience that luxury. But I've taken the morning off today so that we'll have plenty of time to discuss our project. Your plane to Boise doesn't leave until 3:47 this afternoon, so you won't need to re-pack your suitcase until after lunch. Do you need anything else before we get down to business?"
"I'm fine," Sol replied, "but you'll have to admit this is an unusual business, to say the least. I wonder if I'll be up to it."
"If not you, then who else? I've set up a work station in the front yard, if you want to follow me around."
The path from the patio led along sculpted rows of shrubs and a rose garden which Anna would envy. As they came to the front, Sol grasped the full richness of the estate, with its broad, sloping grounds encircled by a wrought-iron fence lined with flower beds and an outside hedge. The "work station" was a lawn table and chairs under a large sun umbrella, and Sol laughed aloud in spite of himself. Preston looked at him inquisitively with a raised brow.
Sol had lived long enough, and wide, that even in such elevated company he was only willing to maintain an obsequious decorum for a short period of time. He returned Preston's slightly aloof expression with one of his own.
It's an excellent work station, Preston: we have one at the Slyde residence in Ithaca. We call it our patio furniture!"
Young conceded a self-conscious grin. ". . . where I'm sure that some wonderful books and papers have been examined!" He indicated a chair for Sol and sat down facing him, his back to another impressive view. Far below them, the city of the Saints stretched to the Great Salt Lake. The state capitol building looked over the famous Temple and Tabernacle. A stately high-rise stood somewhat apart from other downtown buildings. Sol realized that this was a real city, with real people. Until now, it had been something of an Eastern bookseller's strange dream.
Preston looked at Sol for a moment. "I suppose this must seem fly-by-night, bringing you here so precipitously?"
"Not something I'm used to, certainly."
"In my position," Preston offered, "I've learned to size up risks quickly, then act decisively. A short delay intended to save the company $100,000 can end up costing us millions. I supposed that I could have investigated the matter further, perhaps found someone even more appropriate to the task. But after meeting you in person, I doubt it. Clearly, you are a man of competence, and integrity. Now it comes down to doing the job as well as the circumstances will permit."
"You've certainly been willing to invest in the project," Sol allowed. "I only hope we have enough information to go on. What have you learned about the missing manuscript that has brought you to this point?"
"Like any good collector," Young suggested, "I speak with dealers and fellow collectors as often as I can. I have my trusted sources, as I'm sure you do. Word is out in the Mormon Underground that the 116 pages have been found, and that they are in western Idaho.
Sol still wondered that anyone – rich or not – would go to such lengths upon ephemeral information. He stifled the urge to ask what the "Mormon Underground" might be, and headed straight to the point.
"How much do you know? I mean, will it be enough for me to work with?"
"My source has heard that the pages have been obtained by someone north of Boise, along the way to the Payette Lakes. Supposedly, some antique dealer who sells second-hand books on the side got the manuscript from an old lady whose family came West from New York state in the 1880s. The rest is speculation, but if the story is true, I need you to find out who the dealer is before anyone else gets there."
"How long has this story been going around?"
"Tibb . . ." Young pretended to clear his throat; ". . . My source called me just four days ago."
"Tibb?"
Young looked hesitant, but went ahead: "His wife calls him 'Tibbles': Tarylton Cobb. He lives up in Cache Valley, in Logan, Utah. He's as shrewd a Mormon collector as I know, though certainly above reproach. I've gotten a lot of good things with his help."
"Why doesn't he go after the manuscript himself?"
"It all comes down to economics. Tibb's an accountant, has a family to support, and works long hours. It could take a lot of time and money to do this job right. That's why he called me the moment he heard the story."
Sol hoped that the job would require less time than money, and that a generous portion of said money would come to him.
"So I guess I rent a car, pick up an antiques guide, and start driving around. Sounds like how I spend a lot of my time back home!"
"A company car will be waiting for you to pick up when you arrive at the Boise airport."
Preston reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced an expensive-looking computerized day-planner.
"This is yours. Inside, you will find a plastic card with my inside 800-number, my cellular phone, and an emergency number to use if you can't reach me. If you have to use the last number, the person will merely answer, 'Ready,' and you can ask or tell him anything you would share with me. For purposes of identification, however, you must identify yourself using the code name, 'Moroni.' Can you remember it? Just think of the angel on the Temple."
Sol nodded, a bit dubious. He began word memory imaging in his mind. The angel sucked mightily through his horn, ingesting a huge plate of macMaroni and cheese. Irreverent, but necessary to retain the unusual word. Preston returned Sol's unexplained broad smile and continued . . .
"I have also enclosed $1,500 cash (mine, so keep a rough accounting and some receipts) and a temporary credit card printed with your name. It has a limit of $100,000, but I can arrange to raise the amount if it becomes necessary."
Sol sucked in his own breath.
"That's a hefty expense account!"
"If you succeed in finding the 116 pages," Preston hushed, "you must get them. I want you to have enough persuasion at your disposal that you will not have to walk away from the dealer empty-handed. I don't want you in a position where someone has time to think about selling, then backs away and decides they have something too good to let go."
This was the most realistic thing Sol had heard Young say, and he gained a heightened appreciation for the man's abilities, however provincial he might otherwise seem.
"I couldn't agree with you more, Preston, but are you interested in granting me that much discretion? What if I find myself in a position where I can get the manuscript – say for $50,000 up front, but I have to make a decision on the spot. Will you trust my impressions of its authenticity, and back me up if it backfires afterwards?"
Young seemed almost unconcerned.
"You will have a phone in your car. If something develops, call me immediately, and we'll make a decision together on the spot. And yes, I'll certainly back you up, once my decision is made."
"That's good, Preston, because there's no way I could ever repay such a sum if the manuscript didn't meet your approval once I bought it for you. One more thing. The kind of dealer you describe is not likely to trust a stranger charging a massive sum on a credit card, no matter how good the confirmation number. They will almost certainly insist on cash."
"You may need to draw it off the card from a local bank, or series of banks. Use my number, and I'll supply the bank officers with enough codes and verifications to satisfy them."
Young showed no trace of uncertainty, and had clearly done this sort of thing before. "In the end," he continued, "your understandable concerns are really the trivia of the matter. The final question is whether you will be able to find the missing pages at all. The rest will become history, with endless footnotes for the next hundred years."
"I'm afraid you're the one with the faith here, Preston, but I promise I'll go after your manuscript as if it were the Holy Grail itself."
The Mormon magnate warmed to such an analogy without hesitation. "It is all of that and more, Solomon. With every fiber of my being, I know that it exists out there somewhere, waiting to be found. If you locate it for me, it will go down as the most momentous acquisition of either of our careers, and the Lord will bless you for it, and your family as well."
A sort of glaze transformed Young's face – something Sol had seen before, while pressing the coffee table remote in order to escape television evangelists. The old feeling rushed in again, that he had fallen in with some kind of kook. But the ten thousand dollars were secure in his account back home, and ahead lay a free vacation in the Northwest. Who could say? Perhaps he would discover some valuable books to buy on his own. Or find a new customer eager to meet an antiquarian from the East. Anything could happen in the next few days. Perhaps, as Preston Young hoped, Sol would actually succeed in making Joseph Smith speak again, if only from the written page.
"We have plenty of time before lunch," Young observed, sliding back toward reality. "Let's take an hour and I'll show you some of my collection."
This was something Sol could understand. As the two men stood up from the lawn table, he wondered if it would appear too gauche to take a smoking break before they went back into the house. He felt a little uncomfortable in this sterile environment, but strangely infected as well, with a kind of innocent expectation which he had not known for a long time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On Tuesday night after Sol had caught his plane back in Ithaca, Mack Rainey followed the girls from the restaurant, up South Hill and into the woods. The headlights of the two cars illuminated the long, tunnel-like driveway to the Slyde home, and they parked side by side at the winding sidewalk which was lined with discreet little post lights set to come on every night at dark. It could be a gloomy place at night, and Anna thanked Joh once again for agreeing to stay the night.
"Think he'll call when he arrives in Salt Lake City?" Jo asked.
Anna let out a little cough. "When hell freezes over. He'll be so distracted by then, I'll be lucky if he remembers he has a wife. Give Sol a couple of days on the road, and suddenly he'll get lonely, and call at some odd hour."
"Does that bother you?"
"Not really. It's just his way. Come on in, folks, and spend your money!"
Anna unlocked the front door carefully, accustomed to Marcus the Dog bouncing in anticipation of their return. He looked up in frantic expectation, and was rewarded with half a piece of baklava from Moosewood.
"You give him coffee, too?" Mack asked with friendly sarcasm, privately deploring the way the Slydes fed their animal.
"No, but if you'll get down and bark, I'm sure I can make you some! Go get comfortable in the attic. I'll bring it up in a few minutes. Cream & sugar? I always forget."
"I'm cream, he's sugar," Joh reminded Anna. "And while Mack's upstairs, I want to look through the box of stuff Sol said he left for me somewhere."
While Anna set to work in the kitchen, Joh headed to the back room on the main floor, sometimes called the "office." She panned across the cluttered array slowly, trying to spot anything which looked like a fresh addition.
"Anna, do you know where Sol might have left my stuff?" she called out.
"Try the little table behind the office door, by the FAX machine."
On top of the machine, perched precariously so as not to depress the keys, was a box which had once held a ream of legal-sized copy paper. It had been used a number of times since, however, and a corner of some dark blue book poked through the side.
"Thanks, Anna! Found it."
Joh settled very contentedly into Sol's chair, set the box on her lap, and carefully cleared a square foot of desk top on which to work. One by one, she brought out things which Sol had presumed she would want to see. By in large, he was right with his offerings. This was Joh's equivalent of a thrilling night on the town, only better. She was in control of a private hoard of treasures, selected just for her, with no one in competition. A trusting colleague would accept whatever price she offered for her choices from the lot. She would definitely treat Sol right. She would probably make some new discovery – bibliographic or historical, and they would both make some money in the transaction. She heard Anna taking Mack's coffee upstairs, where she could picture him poking furiously into every corner, probably piling up enough purchases to fill several small boxes. Far from the tension of auction houses or the glitz of showy glass-paneled book fair cases, Joh felt most at home here among book family: people and environment which most of her customers could hardly envision.
"Where do you get your things?" she was often asked.
"Oh, you know," she would just as often reply, "almost anywhere you can imagine."
Little did her customers realize how esoteric and private her principal sources really were – and how personally chosen and well-suited to her special needs. It had taken years to get on such a comfortable footing with Sol and Anna, whereas Mack was still a bit distant, if always cordial. Joh looked up as Anna brought in her coffee. There was nowhere to set it but on the floor, so cluttered was Sol's working area. Anna lifted a pile of old books from a chair, sat on it, and found a place for the rarities on the floor nearby.
"Anything good yet?" Anna queried.
"Nothing earth-shaking, but several things I can use," Joh replied. "I especially like this cute little pamphlet with the bright yellow wrappers. It only mentions the Mormons in one paragraph, but the author went on to become a Presbyterian missionary in Utah in the 1880s. To save the Mormons from polygamy, whatever . . . I wonder why Sol put this letter in the pile?"
It didn't look like much at first, but it was obviously old, from the period before postage stamps, when most letters were simply folded and sealed with wax. On the square area which had originally been on the outside, the address portion bore handwritten postal markings which read, simply, "Kane Ioa." Joh recognized this as likely coming from Kanesville, Iowa, where the early Mormons marshaled their forces enroute to the Great Basin. The date inside read, "December 27, 1848," and it looked like a pioneer letter from several members of a Mormon family, writing back to a relative in Vermont. ". . . your letter found us near Council Bluffs," wrote the woman,
. . . My mother . . . was taken with a fit and in two hours was dead; she left a large family of children without a mother in a wilderness country and in poverty. It would have been a great concellation to her to have heard from her mother before she died she was continualy speaking of her and her other friends . . . . . . My eldest brother resides near by . . .
As Joh read on, Anna sat patiently, perusing whatever book or paper came to hand. She was accustomed to book people drifting off in their research, and with Sol gone, she was happier being alone in the same room with Joh right now than sitting by herself in the kitchen.
". . . we want to step beyond the Rockey Mountains," Joh continued to read, "where i hope we shal wrest in peace for a season . . . We may not meet a gain in the flesh but we shall meet a gain in the eternal World . . ." This portion of the group letter was signed, "Isaiah Hamblin," and Joh wondered if the writer might have been related to Jacob Hamblin, the famous Mormon pioneer Indian scout who would later brush closely with the atrocities of the Mountain Meadows Massacre in southern Utah.
"I can't wait to look this up when I get back home," she beamed at Anna. "I think it's a good letter." Briefly, she explained the significance of such pioneer sentiments and the implications they held for the broad picture of the Mormon trek West.
Anna nodded politely, able to relate only on the intellectual plane.
"You still have a soft spot in your heart for the Mormons, don't you, Joh?"
"It's my livelihood."
Anna looked at her dubiously. She had listened to Joh's heart-felt tales of Mormon culture, hardships, history. Every time Sol found new Mormon material, Anna watched Joh's eyes light up, and occasionally water over. But she also knew the woman's bitterness, and could sense a wave of it coming on, even in the midst of her excitement at reading the letter which she still held in her hands, turning it at various angles and examining the text minutely.
"Here's the old man's daughter talking," Joh mumbled with an ironic sneer to her voice. "So typical! Poor Adeline says, '. . . I have been married about three years to a Mr. Littlefield who is now in England I have a boy one year and a half old whome I call Charles . . .'"
Anna did not grasp the entire picture, but Joh was avid to explain about women left behind by husbands eager to preach in far away places, only to return, perhaps, with additional, younger wives to amalgamate into nearly destitute families which had waited patiently for a year, or two or even longer.
"You make it sound worse than slavery," Anna protested.
"When I was in school," Joh admitted, "I would read about other societies which disgusted me, and I would want to reject anyone who had anything at all to do with them. I resented a Catholic girl in my home room because of the Spanish Inquisition! I saw Democrats as tools of the devil, working to destroy my happy world. And when I read about life in the antebellum South, I hated the wealthy women of the plantation mansions, living off the sweat of suffering slaves. I wanted every white person of the Confederacy to suffer, and wished that General Sherman had cut a wider swath to the sea!"
"And then you grew up," Anna added, remembering her own time of youthful idealism, when everything was right or wrong. She gave Joh an exaggerated rendition of her back-rolling of the eyes, a comical gesture which conveyed more than conversation or philosophy.
"And then I grew up."
Joh placed the letter on her pile of prospective purchases, and continued to the bottom of the box, sifting, sorting, occasionally pulling out some imprint which promised to add another jot or tittle to the story of the Latter-day Saints.
"It's never cut and dried," she mused, "-never simple. Mormonism has me for better and worse, until death do us part."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"The morning breaks; the shadows flee . . ." Sol recognized the line from a camp meeting hymnal he had sold to Jim Fife, the Ithaca collector of early regional imprints. How these phrases from a song published in tiny Sangerfield, New York, in 1816 had gotten onto a recording by the famed Mormon Tabernacle Choir he could hardly guess.
The sound system in the luxury car which had been waiting for him in Boise was impressive. Unfortunately, the only music which he had was a double album of Mormon hymns. Preston Young had pressed it into Sol's hands when he dropped him off at the Salt Lake airport. With it was a volume of history on early Mormonism and copies of the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants, works which Young insisted he take for possible reference while he was on the road. Sol was not used to such methodical tactics, preferring instead to wing his way along back country roads, spotting bargains of any kind which he could re-price for sale to his particular customers. To go after a specific item, particularly a unique manuscript, was highly unusual, if not insane.
Dutifully, however, Sol had read the history book late into Wednesday evening at his Boise hotel room. It was awfully flattering to the Mormons in every regard, and he noticed that the publishing company was Deseret, the same one Joh had mentioned to him when he first called her from Ithaca to inquire about Preston. This morning he spent an hour over breakfast practically memorizing the map of Highway 55 which connected the Idaho capitol with a forested lake region a hundred miles directly north. Someone between Boise and the town of McCall, according to Young's source, must possess the earliest remnants of the Book of Mormon. Sol felt irritated to be sent out with such scant information. At the same time, he was mystified to see how few antique dealers appeared in the directory he had been given. An area this large in the countryside of New York State would boast ten times the number of likely sources. Remembering, however, that Idaho offered a smaller population and a more recent settlement history, Sol decided to be grateful. He should be able to knock out this project in a couple of days at most. But he doubted heartily that Preston Young's "quest" could produce the desired result.
For awhile, the road led through low farmland bounded by barren foothills covered here and there with ill-watered patches of scrub brush. As he progressed north, however, thick stands of conifers edged down increasingly steep hillsides until Sol found himself driving through a classic Western pine forest which rose beautifully from each side of a frothing white river which cascaded wildly over large rocks and occasional tree trunks jutting into the course from narrow banks which - at sharp bends - left little space for pavement between water and mountainside. Spoiled as he was back home by country scenes worthy of calendars and coffee-table books, Sol still felt a surge of surprised appreciation for what he now saw. This was a different kind of beauty, primitive and alarmingly rugged. The gorges of Ithaca were well met in the rapids of the Payette River. As he slowed for curves, Sol watched for white-water rafters, only to realize, finally, that anyone foolish enough to brave these channels would be dashed to death against boulders which filled the stream.
From time to time, the Tabernacle Choir punctuated the striking vistas with soaring phrases that stood his hair on end. As tones reverberated against canyon walls, Sol felt himself caught momentarily by an enthusiasm he suspected had been choreographed for his benefit. He was not a religious man, but the setting and music were powerful. "Almost, Preston," he chuckled embarrassedly to himself, "thou persuadest me to be a Mormon."
The narrow canyon opened at last into a small but beautiful farming valley, the familiar mountains waiting deferentially at a short distance. The time had come for Sol to pull over and check his map. The first likely stop lay just ahead. "Alice's Collectibles" sounded promising, until he spied the pink, over-groomed structure which looked like a tourist's answer to Hansel & Gretel's cottage. He doubted that anything serious could hide behind the gingerbread exterior other than over-priced furniture restored beyond human recognition. He parked the shiny vehicle out of view of the front door, however, in case he was wrong. The last thing he would want to convey was an image of wealth or influence.
As he stepped from the car, Sol felt a subtle thrill which was part of every such visit. If he had explored a thousand collections during his career, he had known this presentiment a thousand times. The final outcome was never predictable, of course. Like with sex, his expectations rarely predicted the prize. Indeed, some of his greatest discoveries had occurred when he least counted on getting anything of interest. He remembered a spectacular Audubon print which had hung at the back of a dark shop for years without a price, no one bothering to ask – until Sol came along - because they presumed it was either a reproduction, or not for sale, or too expensive to buy. He thought of the unobtrusive little volume shelved under the wrong subject in a musty rare book shop which few dealers visited because the aging proprietor never seemed to acquire new stock worth checking. That book had paid for their son Mark's first year of college.
There would always be the odd miracle, and it took even less than that to keep Sol on the road. He was honest enough an antiquarian to concede that many great finds come through referrals and shared leads, and if information was important to him back home, it would be indispensable here in unfamiliar territory. He shuddered at the cutesy "Welcome!" sign on the door to the shop, but opened it casually, steeling himself to charm "Alice" out of anything useful which she might own.
The interior was predictably clean, and looked much as Sol had imagined. His instincts warned him not to expect bargains: things were too orderly here, with no gaps in the arrangement of pieces to suggest recent sales or speedy turn-over of merchandise. Even the price tags looked suspicious. Each had been written in a careful, determined hand and hung backwards, the figure turned demurely from view – as if waiting to shock only after forcing a close encounter with the article at hand. Self-conscious classical music insinuated itself through the rooms as Sol wandered aimlessly, his practiced eye finding little to command attention.
"Can I help you?"
He almost jumped. The cordial voice boomed deeply from the back door of the shop, and came from a man who looked more like a lumberjack than a connoisseur of polished collectibles. The contrast was almost theatrical.
"Hi, there." Sol affected nonchalance, something he had done so often that he could make it convincing. He remained pleasantly silent, feigning interest in a mission-style breakfront which had been oiled until it was slippery. While he tried the top drawer, Sol shifted mental gears. He had expected to encounter a sweet old lady – or perhaps an overly precious man. Those kind were easy. Now he prepared to interact with a proprietor whose dark, bushy beard hung over a threadbare plaid shirt. He looked up from the furniture and tossed an easy grin as the fellow approached.
"I guess you're Alice?"
The man scowled, a confused look crossing his face. Apparently, he hadn't heard this obvious line before. Business must be slow.
"The name on the sign," Sol prompted, "-'Alice's Collectibles'."
"Oh, you mean Betty." The face cleared and the man relaxed. "She's the owner. I'm watching the shop while she gets over a sprained ankle. Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Well, I was actually looking for old paper," Sol suggested, "but everything is so neat and orderly I don't imagine there's anything hiding here."
"That's George's doing," the lumberjack brightened, " Betty's husband. She's the messy one: you ought to see the stuff she's got lying around her house."
Bingo.
"I'm sorry she's not feeling well." Sol hinted: "I'm just passing through, and may not be able to come back."
"No problem." Alice perked up even more, eager to be of use. "I'll call her at home, and see if she'll let you come over."
Something about the man picking up the phone reminded Sol that he had not spoken with Anna since leaving Ithaca two days before, and he felt a sudden twinge of guilt. He would definitely give her a call tonight. The woman at the other end of the line was obviously a talker. The conversation went on for nearly ten minutes, with the man speaking scarcely a word. At last he hung up, found a sheet of paper, and drew a simple map to Betty's house.
"She said to tell you the place is a mess," he smiled, "but you're welcome to stop by and pick through whatever she has."
This was all Sol wanted. He thanked the man and left. His main purpose was to sound out the situation, and learn if anyone in the area had recently acquired a certain group of old papers. If he happened to find anything along the way which he could use in his own business, so much the better.
Betty, it turned out, had nothing to offer but gossip. Once he was able to get a few words in edgewise, he explained that he didn't want to look through her mildewed textbooks from the late 1800s. He was from the East, he told her, where such things were common. What she could help him with was a lowdown on dealers in the area. Had any estates come onto the market recently, in which dealers had found old books and papers from early nineteenth-century New York?
"Nothing like that," Betty told Sol, "believe me! If a group of stuff from New York turned up, I'd be the first to know."
Whether or not the woman was as prominent as she claimed, Sol had a disheartening feeling that she was at least right. If she hadn't heard of such a collection turning up in the area, he wondered who else would. He talked her out of a few names to check along the way, and bought a stained Currier & Ives print of a dog, paying more than it was worth. He left her his card and the number to the cell phone, and asked her to call if anything turned up.
As he walked out the door, Sol fought a lurking disappointment which he had anticipated since leaving Salt Lake. It was not an uncommon feeling in this business, but normally he could contemplate other rarities which might turn up the next day. In this case, there was only one object of Preston Young's quest, and the search was less than promising. He pushed the remote button to the car door, slid into the cushy leather seat, and inhaled an expensive bouquet of nouvelle limousine. As the engine hummed discretely, he felt terribly out of place and somehow rather small. He pressed the accelerator a little angrily, and heard a few pebbles strike a fence post behind him as he jolted onto the highway. He would get a motel in McCall – no, a nice motel room with a view of the lake, charge a fine meal to Young's card, and spend the evening thinking things through.
Even before the sound of Sol's car had faded down the road, a woman dialed her telephone.
"Patsy? This is Betty. He's here – the man from New York. . . . Don't ask me, he just walked in the shop, then came over to the house. I'm sure it's him . . . no, not about Mormons, just if anyone had handled an estate with New York papers from the early 1800s . . . Well, we can't let him . . . . He said he was spending the night in McCall, and I think . . . No, but he gave me the number to his cell phone! I think we'd better call Annie & Bill. If the four of us meet in McCall for dinner, we can get a good-size table at Hogan's, and . . . exactly! No, George is asleep on the couch, and I don't want him along anyway. He talks too much, and might ruin it. . . . "Slide" was his last name, I think - let's see - yes, with a "y": Solomon Slyde. . . . Well hurry, call them, and get cleaned up. I'll be ready to go as soon as you get here.