"Margie," began Anna, tentatively, "would you . . . -is there any reason you have to go back to Rochester tonight?"

"Just my work, some housecleaning, a bunch of bills I need to sort out: no, nothing at all. Why?"

"I guess this sounds silly, but it's spooky here at night if I'm alone. Especially the first night whenever Sol is away. Why don't we take him to the airport after dinner, then come back and you spend the night here. You can have Mark's old room."

The idea of sleeping in Marcus Slyde's bed, even alone, was enough to get Margie hot and bothered. She adored Sol and Anna, but confessed to herself that they were not favored in the looks department. How their son turned out to be a living god was one of those miracles of nature. Too bad he was a decade younger than she. Too bad he didn't go for older women!

"I suppose I could afford one night away from my desk." Margie thought of the Bauder pamphlet in the car. "It would do me good to breathe your forest air."

"Perfect!" Anna perked up markedly. "You can leave your car here while we go into town."

Margie remembered how the Slyde station wagon had sounded last time Sol pulled in front of her apartment building with things to sell. "Better still," she suggested, "let's take my car. It's warmed up from the trip anyway. You just relax and enjoy the evening."

Anna acted as excited as if they were going on vacation.

"Do you want to freshen up while Sol gets his things together for the trip?"

The rare pamphlet was central to Margie's excursion to Ithaca, and remained foremost in her mind. "Just let me bring a few things in from the car," she said, "and maybe you can find me a towel and formal evening dress for the restaurant."

Anna chuckled in delight and went upstairs to make sure Sol stayed on schedule.

Marcus followed Margie out to her car, checking her shoes and tires for important scents. He let her scratch behind his ears and waited patiently as she retrieved her purse from the front seat and pulled something from the locked glove compartment. When they got back to the patio, they let themselves in the back door and settled comfortably in the living room, one with a magazine, the other with the back leather cover from a small 1820s book on infant baptism, long-since fallen apart and forgotten by all but the master of the house.

It was not long before Sol came downstairs carrying two travel bags and a legal-size cardboard box. Though still elevated by the day's developments and infusion of money, he seemed more reflective than earlier, and did not say a word. When Anna called down to ask if he had remembered handkerchiefs, he didn't seem to hear. She followed him into the living room carrying two or three, and zipped them neatly into a side-pouch of his carry-on bag.

"All set?"

"Money, gum, wallet, keys," he recited.

"Tickets, antibiotics, travelers' checks?" Anna countered.

"Tickets, pills, cash," Sol returned. It had been years since he had bothered with travelers' checks, and he had not lost money thus far.

Anna put out some dry food for Marcus, and looked at the cat on the wall. It was nearly 5:00.

"We have two and a half hours until your plane leaves," she told her husband. "We can enjoy our dinner and talk before we drop you off at the airport. Margie volunteered to drive, so I guess we can load up and be off."

As the three slipped on their jackets, Anna turned and looked at the dog.

"I'll take Marcus outside one last time before we leave. Sometimes he forgets if we're gone for several hours."

Not understanding the full complexity of the English language, Marcus the dog fetched his leash and waited eagerly for some new adventure in the loud rider. Anna simply accepted the leash, set it back down, and beckoned the Terrier out to do his duty. As they came back in, Anna locked the kitchen door and checked all the windows as usual. She explained to Marcus that he would not be accompanying them to the restaurant, and he offered a token whine which he knew would not be taken seriously.

Sol checked his keys and locked the front door. Margie popped open the trunk and started her car. It was less than six minutes before they were starting the descent of South Hill, just above downtown Ithaca. The view from the top is about as fine as New York has to offer. Margie had forgotten how beautiful Cayuga Lake appears from this angle, stretching from the valley below as far north as one can see. Countryside, small-town ambience, and a major university all protected by steep hills covered with hardwood forest, miles from any freeway. Convenient at times, and protecting - at least on the surface.

Tuesday night at Moosewood Restaurant was not too busy, and it was still early. Anna was able to select her favorite table. It was only a few minutes until they were served, but just as they were starting to eat, Sol glanced over to the entrance and spotted a familiar face.

"Mack!" Sol had a way of making his voice carry without much volume, and he caught the eye of the fellow dealer thirty feet away. The man brightened, nodded at a waitress, and came over to join the group.

"Pull up a chair;" Sol invited, "you can be Joh's date."

"I'm not sure she'll have me," came the easy reply with a smile at familiar friends.

 

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

Mack Rainey was a book scout in Pratt's Hollow, a tiny community set beautifully in a little-noticed area of Madison County, sixty miles from Ithaca. From that forgotten corner, he scoured the region, finding material for book and paper dealers with whom he had established a working relationship. Eccentric and touchy, he would not, as a rule, sell to the general public, but was well loved by people like Margie and Sol who depended on him to ferret out things which took more patience and time to find than they might be worth.

The Moosewood food was up to its usual originality and quality, but in such company, all attention turned to books and paper and things that are old. Like fishermen bragging, or deploring "the one that got away," Sol, Margie - even Anna - forgot the strange journey on which one of them was about to embark. Matching anecdote to anecdote, they coaxed stories from Mack, then came back with adventures of their own. It was part of their trade, and not the least of the fringe benefits of the peripatetic life. [return to Treasures Past]

Mack was one to keep his own counsel, primarily to keep the right hand from knowing what his left was doing: so many dealers vying for whatever rarities he might obtain! The stories he told were of old conquests, finds long-since passed through series of hands to wealthy private or public collections, at figures well above the original dealer prices he had charged. Like the provisional Native American treaty signed in pictograph in the late 1700s, directly below the signature of a future United States President. Quickly broken, it was not remembered in American history, but passed from the President's daughter through several generations, finally ending up on Mack Rainey's desk - for about two hours. Cash changed hands, and within days a cashier's check graced the mailbox of some fortunate bookseller who had sent the document to his favorite collector of Native Americana in an unnamed city in the Midwest.

This was the kind of success which Rainey enjoyed. He knew full well what prices his material ultimately brought. But his was a life of order and quiet. No petulant collectors calling to complain that he had not offered an item to them first. No dickering and counter offers, or requests for a "discount" from wealthy businessmen who Mack knew would take months to pay. No officious institutions taking weeks to reply, then insisting he hold the merchandise until their order departments could prepare formal paperwork and get around to mailing it to him. Just smooth, easy transactions with fellow dealers he counted as friends, who were prepared to show up at his door with thousands of dollars in hand the morning after a simple phone call alerting them to his latest discoveries on their behalf.

Such conversation was the true inside of the rare book and paper trade, to which the average collector - no matter how beloved or rich - was seldom privy.

Mack turned to Sol. "Was it you who turned up that 1850 guide to the bordellos of New York City?" he asked with a glimmer in his eye.

"It was 1849, and yes," Sol grinned. "Let me know if you ever find one from the 1700s: we need a new car. Speaking of the seamier side of life, I just found an anti-Mormon pamphlet with caricature drawings of people dancing naked in the temple at Novoo."

"Nauvoo?" Margie brightened. "What, - who wrote it?"

"It's in the box I brought downstairs at the house. There are several things in it for you, although the pamphlet is the best. 1850s, I think, by someone named . . . Dusenberg?"

"Van Deusen!" Margie exclaimed. She couldn't believe her luck. Two choice Mormon items in one trip to Ithaca. This certainly made up for the usual dry spells in her business.

"Increase McGee Van Deusen," she lectured, "and his lovely apostate wife hawked outrageous temple exposé brochures on the streets of New York City and other places. There were a number of different versions and illustrations. What kind does this one have?"

"I can't remember for sure," Sol answered. The wrappers are pretty worn, but the illustrations are in good condition, and I think you'll like them. All I remember were a lot of bare breasts."

Anna did her eye-roll and Mack chuckled. But all Margie could think about was how badly the pamphlet covers might be damaged, how good the illustrations would be, and (of course), the bottom-line question:

"How much do you want for it?"

"Just look through the pile, add it up, and leave a check with Anna for whatever you think you should give me."

"Thanks a lot!" Margie retorted, sarcastically. Everyone at the table knew what she meant. Sol was putting her on her honor as a friend. She would have to pay him a fair amount; he was not about to gamble on pricing the pamphlet too low. Depending on the edition, condition, and relative rarity of the item, she would likely have to give Sol between $500 and $2,000 or more, representing from 30% to 50% of the amount she expected to charge her own customers for the piece once she had it repaired. It sounded like a great thing to have. But, being anti-Mormon in nature, it would take longer to sell than something like the Book of Mormon. Latter-day Saints with money usually wanted only the faith-promoting stuff. Institutions (such as universities - or the Church in Salt Lake City) collected anti-Mormon things, but stood a good chance of having an example of this pamphlet in their vaults already. Such acquisitions were always a serious gamble, but it was a delicious, enticing game.

As the waitress brought out dessert and coffee, she asked if everything was alright with the meal.

"Delicious as always, Marla!" Anna recognized most of the people who worked in the little mall, and tried to remember their names.

The girl seemed pleased, and hesitated before leaving their table.

"I . . . overheard you mentioning old books a few minutes ago," she began. "Do any of you know someone I could ask about my great-grandmother's Bible?"

Four faces smiled, but no one got excited.

"I'm afraid," Sol volunteered, "that most Bibles have little value, except as sentimental keepsakes. Unless it's a first-edition King James Bible, or one of a number of other . . ."

"Oh, it's not a printed Bible," the waitress interrupted. "It's hand-written." It was given to my mother's grandmother by her aunt, who was one of the Shakers near Albany in the 1850s.

Four sets of eyes widened. Sol looked over at Mack anxiously.

"We're in your town," Mack sighed good-naturedly. "Go for it."

"Do you own this book yourself?" Sol asked the girl.

Yes, Grandma left it to me when she passed away two years ago. Do you think it might be valuable?"

"Well, I doubt that it's actually a Bible," Sol ventured, carefully. "But I think I had better take a look at it for you. Would you feel comfortable giving my wife your phone number? I'll be out of town for a few days, but when I get back, we ought to get together."

"No problem," the girl smiled casually. "I can leave the book here at the restaurant for you to see, in case you stop by when I'm not at work."

"Thanks," answered Sol, "but I think you had better take care of the book at home until we can make an appointment to meet with you."

When the waitress had gone, Anna asked Sol what the book might be.

"It's hard to tell," he replied. "Certainly not a Bible. There would be no reason for a Shaker to re-copy a lengthy portion of the Bible. I'm banking on a compilation of revelations from the Shaker spiritualist period, or perhaps a hymnal of hand-written Shaker lyrics."

"Either way," Mack joined in, "figure five to fifteen thousand. If it's what we think it is."

As the four finished their dessert, Mack pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and extracted a colorful card illustrated with two little girls asleep in bed with their cat.

"Look what I picked up before dinner in Kirby Jones' store," he smiled. "It's a trade card from the late 1800s advertising cough syrup."

"How beautiful!" Margie exclaimed. "They're positively adorable. I want a tabby like that so much, but it wouldn't be fair to keep a pet in my little apartment when I'm gone so much. Oh!"

Mack had been holding the thin card next to the candle on the table. As Margie admired the charming picture, he moved it suddenly to a position between the flame and Margie's line of view, back-lighting the image. As if by magic, the little girls' eyes opened. Even the cat woke up!

"That's wonderful!" Margie cried out.

"A 'hold-to-the-light' card," Sol commented. "Look! the eyes are printed on the back side in the appropriate places, and only show through when lit from behind."

"Ooh- let me see," squealed Anna like a little girl. Mack performed the same display which he had done for Margie, and got a freshly enthusiastic response.

"How much?" asked Anna.

"It's not worth much," laughed Mack, "maybe twenty dollars. But it's for my cat collection at home."

"Find me one," insisted Anna. "I don't care what it costs. I have to have it."

"It will cost you ten dollars, someday, if another comes along. But don't hold your breath. This is only the third one I've had. I sold the first two, and promised myself I'd keep the next one I got."

"What time is it!" Anna asked suddenly.

Sol started, then relaxed.

"It's only 6:30. Plenty of time. But we'd better wrap up and get going."

Mack Rainey looked surprised. "Are you going somewhere tonight? I had hoped to come over and pick through your wares."

"And pick you shall," Sol reassured him. "I'm the only one who will be gone. Anna can show you anything that's priced. Take off 20% as usual. Anything not priced, set aside, and I'll price & mail it to you when I get back."

"Back from where?"

"Idaho."

Mack issued a low whistle. "Must be something big to travel that far. I've never even seen the Midwest. Bring me some corn when you come back."

"Idaho, Mack, not Iowa."

"Oh, right. Potatoes, then! So what are you after?"

Margie spoke up. "A crazy fool - a rich, crazy fool in Utah is convinced that the greatest treasure of Mormonism is waiting to be picked up out West, and he doesn't trust us Mormon dealers to get it for him."

"Wise customer," Mack winked. "The prices you get away with, I wouldn't buy from you either."

"Ah, but you love to sell to me," retorted Margie. "Admit it."

"Mea culpa," Mack confessed. "Why? Because I like you. M-A-R-G-E."

Anna started to roll her eyes, but signaled the waitress instead, gave her a credit card, and calculated the tip.

"What are the damages?" asked Mack. Margie reached for her purse.

"It's on us," declared Sol. Just give Anna nice big checks when you go through the stuff at the house this evening."

There was no need to protest. Between the two dealers, Sol and Anna would make at least a thousand dollars that night, probably more, and there was no question that they could justify picking up the tab. It had been a very productive day, financially. But as Sol contemplated the trip on which he would embark in a few minutes, he wondered frankly what he could do to justify the $10,000 which Preston Young had given him in advance. He actually felt insecurity, an emotion which - in the business sense - he had not experienced to this degree for a very long time.

 

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

Preston Young looked at his watch. The flight was twenty minutes late arriving, but he was not irritated. He had driven his own car to the Salt Lake City airport to meet Solomon Slyde. At this time of night, there was little traffic, and he felt relaxed, looking forward to meeting the man to whom he had just given $10,000 plus air fare. He could have routed Slyde directly to Boise, but thought it best to see the man face to face and prepare him a bit before sending him on the quest to Idaho.

At midnight, the waiting area next to the gate was all but empty. Young relished these few minutes. No telephone calls, no one rushing in with questions. Just time to think. To ponder the excitement of collecting and wonder why he spent so much money on this rarified pleasure which even his wife refused to comprehend. He had never found the right words to explain it to others. "Origins, heritage, actual" - even "investment potential" - failed to touch anyone but fellow collectors, who understood already. He had ultimately turned inward, exulting privately in holding, protecting, controlling little books and pages printed when his Church was adventuresome and new, freshly revealed to a world unaware.

Now that Mormonism had become a mighty stone (from his perspective), rolling ever larger into the corporate and political world, Preston craved desperately to secure the earliest remnants of his faith, from a pristine time when it was but a tiny pebble chipped from the mountain of God. He sensed that with care and proper expertise, he might finally touch the very sources of his Church, so far as they existed in tangible form. Hand-written papers and sacred artifacts were also available from earliest Latter-day Saint history, and Young wondered what had caused him to ignore and avoid these relics for so long. It all came down to taste. Sixty years of age, and his proclivities were still emerging.

It was one thing to walk into a corporate board room, sit at the head of the table and feel twenty men and women hang on his every word. It was nice to be interviewed on national television. He enjoyed signing seven-figure checks. His was a life of control and domination. What Preston Young needed in his private life was to reverse roles and worship the Lord, let Someone else take over. He had little energy to manage family or discipline grandchildren. While other men of his stature golfed, or cruised the Caribbean, Young was in his study at the back of the house, door closed, turning the combination lock to a massive, trembling vault where presided a legacy he had assembled which was greater than himself. Too sacred, almost, to touch.

There was his Holy of Holies. The books preserved there were things he could adore, admire, but never truly control. Blissful irony to own something he could not ravish: a harem of lovelies to protect and serve. Whenever he was under pressure at his office in the lavish corporate headquarters, when demands became more than his increasing years would tolerate, Preston held this sacred place in mind, where the soul found peace. Several times a day, even as his people rushed in with proposals and reports (or his accountants laid spread-sheets across the table), Preston's mind could rest, rejuvenating back home in the quiet sanctity of the archive, the place where holiness dwelt. It was almost unconscious, something he had not planned. It saved his life emotionally - maybe even his physical health, and . . .

"Mr. Young?"

Preston opened his eyes and stared dumbly, slouched at a precarious angle in the waiting room seat.

"Sorry! Are you Preston Young?"

He sat upright with a jolt. Many people in Utah would have liked to answer that question in the affirmative, but the man himself felt embarrassed at the moment. Young forced himself awake and on his feet in a second, brushing his hair back unnecessarily with his left hand while extending his right.

"Mr. Slyde! - Sol. I see you've arrived safely."

"In one piece. How do you do?"

"I'm doing well, particularly now that you're here."

Preston glanced uncertainly at Sol's shabby-genteel attire as he continued. "I'm a direct man - brusque, some would say - and I've pulled you from your life in the East to search for the Golden Fleece. I wasn't sure you'd come."

Sol was amused. "For $10,000, I'd search for the golden tablets, if that would make you happy."

A quizzical look came over Young's face. Then he understood. "You mean the Golden Plates of the Book of Mormon? Moroni took them back from Joseph Smith once the translation was completed in 1829."

"Moroni?" Sol repeated the unfamiliar word which ended strangely with a long "i." Muh-RONE-eye.

Young concealed his pleasure. Here was a dealer who knew virtually nothing about Mormonism. Someone who would perform the necessary search without creating problems or stirring up competition.

"Moroni! The Angel. I'll point him out to you on the way home. On top of the Temple."

The Mormon CEO smiled slyly, and gestured in the direction of the airport baggage retrieval. "Shall we? It's past 2 A.M. Eastern time, and I'm sure you're ready to turn in. You'll be a guest in our home for the night. Then, after you're rested in the morning, I'll explain whatever you need to know."

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

Sol did not know automobiles. If he should ever have to describe a getaway car to the police, he might be reduced to terms like "green, rusted, old." As they drove toward the city, however, Sol felt certain he was sitting in a very expensive vehicle. It was disarmingly clean, inside and out. When Young paid the parking attendant, he retrieved small change from the vehicle's spotless ashtray - another reminder that Sol was entering a world rather different from the one he knew. He felt the pipe in his jacket pocket, and wondered when he would find a discreet opportunity for a few puffs. Good thing he wasn't a chain smoker! But where he would get his cup of coffee in the morning?

"Preston," Sol ventured, "you're paying me rather handsomely, and now you've offered to put me up for the night. I really ought to have you drop me off at a hotel at my expense and allow you and your family some privacy."

Young laughed with enthusiasm. He seemed human for a moment.

"You have nothing to worry about, Sol! I brought you out here to find my manuscript, not to be converted. The guest suite at the house will give you all the privacy you'll want. And," Preston's eyes twinkled as though he were sharing some nasty joke in a locker room, "you'll find an ashtray on the bed stand, a cappuccino machine in the kitchenette, and what I am told is a well-stocked liquor cabinet in the sitting area. In the morning, the maid can fix whatever you want to eat, and I promise not to bother you before nine o'clock. I've entertained non-Mormons before!"

It sounded good after a long day. Sol chuckled back at his unusual host.

"Is that the Mormon Temple?"

The car had turned onto West Temple Street, and Sol perked up as he looked at the lighted structure.

"That's the Tabernacle, built in 1867, without nails. The acoustics are so good that one can hear a pin drop on the podium without a microphone."

Sol wasn't sure why one would want to hear a pin drop, but he knew the story well from numerous travel accounts he had sold over the years - books and articles from the nineteenth century. The building was interesting, certainly, with its elliptical roof like a giant turtle shell.

"The Temple is on the other side. See? I'll circle around Temple Square so you can get a better look."

Like so many structures which were considered grand a century ago, the Temple was somewhat eclipsed by larger, modern buildings nearby. It bore a curious Gothic aspect. No gargoyles, yet haunting. Everything was so clean. Antiseptic. Not a scratch on the building, as if it could be seen but not touched. Young stopped the car for a moment, directly across from the front.

"HOLINESS TO THE LORD. THE HOUSE OF THE LORD. BUILT BY THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS. COMMENCED APRIL 6, 1853. COMPLETED APRIL 6, 1893."

Forty years. Like Moses in the wilderness. Sol was unaccustomed to landmarks so new. The stately Clinton Hotel in Ithaca by which he drove by every day was built in the 1830s.

"There's Moroni: I promised to point him out."

Sol put his eye against the car window and craned his neck to see the top of the building. The center spire was capped with the statue of a man in a robe. He was gold, like the tablets. With one arm he raised a long horn to his lips, summoning the antiquarian from New York State into a world which was difficult to understand.

The car jerked slightly. There was no sound of the city. Sol had dozed off for some time, apparently. He faced the inside wall of a garage. The dashboard clock told him it was after 3:00 a.m. back home, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed. He stirred himself to action as the car doors unlatched automatically. Preston popped open the trunk from some unseen button on the driver's side of the cockpit, and the men got out.

Sol knew they were in a garage because the car was indoors, but the walls and ceiling were finished. Everything was painted and immaculate. Short curtains covered the windows, and where one would expect to see a workbench or ladder and tools, there were only large cupboard doors, neatly closed, the latches polished.

Sol was still a bit groggy, and Young broke the silence. "Everyone has gone to bed by now, but if you can manage your suitcase, I'll get the other bag and your computer."

Sol nodded sleepily and smiled to himself. Normally, he didn't like anyone else to handle the $2,500 laptop. Preston Young, however, could easily buy him twenty more, or at least one with the most recent upgrades and a larger memory. With any luck, the man might drop and break it.

Surprisingly, the door to the guest quarters was barely ten feet down the hall from the garage, and Sol found himself in a remarkably appointed room leading to a patio. The full-length drapes were open, and discreet ground lighting had been left on, perhaps for his benefit, highlighting manicured shrubs and a small birch tree.

"Very nice!" Sol was awake and speaking again.

"The bathroom is over there," Young gestured to his left. "Help yourself to anything you find in the refrigerator." A small but elegant kitchenette was set off from the sitting area by an island counter, and suddenly Sol felt hungry.

"Your bedroom is right through there." Young indicated a short hallway beyond the bar to the right. "Use either bed. I'm sure you're tired and want some time to yourself. The TV remotes are on the nightstands. If you need something in the night, there is a little button on the side of the phone. George will answer."

George was evidently the butler or whatever, and Sol decided that perhaps it wasn't such a hardship to visit Utah.

"I could get used to this!"

Preston relaxed a little and offered a winsome smile. "I have. But there's more to be found in life. Always more. Sleep well, and I'll ring you at nine in the morning. You can fend for yourself out of the fridge, or buzz for the maid to fix whatever you normally like for breakfast."

Sol rarely slept well, and really needed nine hours of rest to operate at full capacity. Tonight there would not be that much time, but something warned Sol that Young might hear a protest to sleep late as some form of moral turpitude.

"You're a great host, Preston. I look forward to hearing the whole story in the morning!"

"The whole story," Young echoed, assuming a self-conscious shaman-like tone like one beginning a sermon. "Or at least, as much as I have been able to learn . . ."