Murder at the 42nd Street Library: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Book) by Con Lehane Read Free Book Online

silent for very long. “I wish Harry hadn’t given Professor Big Shot access to the collection before we processed it. I don’t know why he’s so deferential to that ass. Now, he’s letting him into the stacks. No one ever gets to work in the stacks.… You’re dripping.”
    Ambler caught the drips with the roller and went back to painting the wall in front of him. Harry’s kowtowing to Max Wagner bothered him, too. “Nelson deserves a biographer who tells the truth, someone better than Max.”
    Adele’s expression softened. “The truth isn’t so easy, Raymond. Harry thinks you’re conspiring with Nelson Yates. Maybe that’s why he’s teamed up with Wagner.”
    They worked in silence again, until Ambler saw there were tears in Adele’s eyes. He touched her shoulder and she turned to him.
    “My mother’s dead, Raymond. As we were burying her, someone was murdered in the library. It’s so awful.” He reached for her other shoulder to hold her. But before he could comfort her, she walked away from him. “I’m sorry,” she said, stifling her tears. “I miss my mother.”
    The afternoon wore on until darkness seeped into the room where they painted. When Adele flipped on the light switch, the bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling, reflecting off the fresh paint, created a stark brightness. She stood with her hands on her hips, a spot of paint on her nose and a streak along her cheek. Ambler watched with interest as she lifted the bottom of her T-shirt as far up as her bra to see if she’d gotten paint on her torso.
    He helped her wash out brushes and rollers and close up the paint cans. To get away from the fumes, they went to a small wine bar on Ninth Avenue for flatbread pizza, salad, and charcuterie, and shared a bottle of wine.
    “I told you Nelson’s wife didn’t want him to give the collection to us.” Adele put down her wineglass. “She’d been negotiating herself with a university. Whitehall.”
    “Where Max Wagner teaches.”
    Adele nodded. “Mary Yates is young, forties at most, Nelson’s in his eighties; she’s his third or fourth wife. I didn’t like her. Nelson insisted the collection go to the NYPL, and he got his way. It’s touchy, though. He’s not … how do I say this? It’s not that he’s not all there. He goes in and out.”
    “Of where?”
    “Don’t be a jerk, Raymond. He forgets, loses track of what he’s saying, forgets who he’s talking to.”
    “Alzheimer’s?”
    “Some kind of dementia that comes with old age.”
    “You’re afraid she’ll have him declared incompetent?”
    Adele cut a piece of salami into quarters. “Harry was careful about notaries and witnesses when we did the deed of transfer, so I think we’re okay. And he has that woman from the Board of Trustees on his side—”
    Ambler paused, the wineglass halfway to his mouth. “What woman?”
    Adele pierced a small piece of the salami with her fork. “I shouldn’t tell you this. A society woman donated the funds to purchase the Nelson Yates collection. This woman’s pretty important, New York Upper Crust and all that. I think that caused Nelson’s wife and Max Wagner to back off.”
    “Who is she?”
    Adele shook her head. “I can’t tell you. But you’d know her if you saw her. Her husband’s a lawyer with one of those white glove law firms, a philanthropist. You see her picture in the Times at those black tie charity balls.”
    “I doubt it. I didn’t know you kept up with high society.”
    “I read about British royalty, too.” She smiled.
    Ambler nodded, thought of nothing to say, and took a sip of wine. After a moment, he said, “I wonder why she did that.”
    “What?”
    “Financed the acquisition.”
    “Funny. I didn’t think about why she would. Rich people make donations. I let it go at that.” Adele’s eyes were round with worry, her eyelids drooping with tiredness, and for the moment, she seemed small and scared, so that Ambler felt protective of her. He looked