The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

New York City, 1993

Wait.”

Sadie turned away from the cage door, where she had been fumbling with the lock. Nick stood where she’d left him, hands at his sides. “Yes?”

“What’s the book about?”

She looked down at the worn cover of the Surviving Spinsterhood book, wondering what on earth she was thinking, finding comfort in this ancient volume. The world had changed, and here she was, stepping back in time instead of moving forward. Studying the appropriate tipping etiquette for a lone woman traveler in the late 1800s, learning how best to budget on sixty dollars a month. Useless knowledge, all of it. Her mother had been right all along.

She handed it over to him, cringing inside. How pathetic she must seem. There was no explanation as to why she’d have the book in her bag other than the fact that she was deficient, a loser who couldn’t hold a man.

Or the book thief.

“Any good advice inside?”

He had the tiniest of smiles on his face. But not like he was making fun of her, like he was curious.

“The author, Abigail Duckworth, says to find a passionate interest.”

“I like to dance. Check. What else?”

Sadie rose to the bait. “That every lady should have the makings of a manhattan at hand.”

“Rye, bitters, and vermouth. Yup.”

She wasn’t called “No Stumpin’ Sadie” for nothing. “Miss Duckworth suggests owning at least four bed jackets, including one of quilted silk and another in velvet.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Check and check.”

The incongruous image of Nick reclining in bed in a quilted bed jacket made her laugh. She regarded the battered volume. “I’m fond of this book. It’s a quirky slice of history, published in 1896, part of the original donation from the Berg brothers. Certainly not the most valuable, but still.” She paused, breathing hard, like she’d run a mile. “I really must go.”

His face grew serious. “Actually, I came down here to find you. Claude said you had headed to the stacks.”

“What is it?”

“Something else is missing.”

God, no. “From the Berg? Another book?”

“Not quite. A page from a book.”

“Which one?”

“Shakespeare’s folio.”

Up in the Berg, Claude and one of their regular scholars, a rabbity fellow named Mr. Blount, stood staring down at an oversized volume laid out on one of the tables.

Mr. Blount had been studying it for over six months now, part of a project with Harvard University, and he looked up with huge eyes as Sadie and Nick approached.

“The title page. It’s gone.”

She could see it clearly in her mind’s eye. A portrait of Shakespeare, high forehead and lashless eyes, above which were the words Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies. Dated 1623. So very long ago.

The page had been cleanly cut out, only a narrow column remaining.

“When did you last request this, Mr. Blount?” she asked, her voice faint.

“Before this morning? Two days ago. You retrieved it for me.”

This was more than an act of vandalism. This was war.

Nick spoke up. “Tell me more about it.”

“The First Folios,” said Mr. Blount, “were published by Shakespeare’s friends seven years after his death in 1616. They’re the closest thing that scholars have to his original works, since no handwritten copies survive. There are two hundred thirty-three in existence.”

Sadie addressed Claude. “How could this have happened?”

“One of us has been in the room consistently,” said Claude with a hint of aggression. “I haven’t seen anyone pull out a knife or a razor. Have you?”

They were turning on each other, and she welcomed the challenge. “Certainly not.”

Nick broke in. “In this case, someone didn’t take the whole book, just the page. Why would they do that?”

“I’m not sure,” said Sadie. “It’s not like a rare map, which can be resold after it’s been cut from an atlas. This is just destruction, like the thief wanted to make a point. It’s almost as if someone is trying to sabotage the exhibit. The folio was to be part of it. Open to this exact page.”

Nick considered her reply before turning to the patron. “Mr. Blount, I’m a security consultant, working for the library. Would you mind emptying your pockets and briefcase?”

“Of course not.”

Mr. Blount opened his briefcase and stepped back as Nick went through it, item by item, flipping through several legal pads filled with notes. Sadie wished more than anything that the missing page would flutter out, anything to have it back. Mr. Blount also handed over his coat and emptied out his pockets. Nothing.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Blount. Please keep this to yourself, and I’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

After Mr. Blount collected his things and left, Sadie locked the door behind him. She caught Nick’s eye and tipped her head. “How about Claude?”

“How about me?” Claude’s neck turned red with indignation. “How about you?”

“I’ll need to look at each of your desks,” said Nick. In the back office, he started with Sadie’s and, of course, found nothing out of order. Then Claude’s, with both Claude and Sadie peering from behind his shoulder. When he pulled out the skinny drawer at the top, the one that held pencils and pens, Sadie let out a bellow. “Look!”

Nick sifted through the detritus of erasers and nubby pencils. “What?”

She plucked out a small plastic holder. “This!”

“You’re mad,” said Claude, checking in with Nick to make sure he understood how mad she was. “It’s dental floss.”

“Dental floss is a traditional tool of rare map thieves.” She addressed Nick. “They put it in their mouths and get it wet; then, when the librarian isn’t looking, they lay it down on the page they want, right against the binding, and close it back up. After a few minutes, the page slips out easily, and voilà, the job is done. Our map department bans dental floss specifically.”

Claude slammed the drawer shut. “I had work done on my teeth, and the dentist recommended I use it after every meal. I can have him attest to that personally, if need be.”

They glared at each other, at a standoff.

“Why would I try to sabotage the exhibit?” Claude pointed a finger in her direction. “You’ve been out to get me for the past few months. Don’t deny it.”

“I have not.” She didn’t want to get into it, not in front of Nick.

But Claude was incensed, unstoppable. “We kissed once, at a fucking holiday party. Ever since then, you’ve been acting all weird, first happy and then mad, like it was some kind of big deal. It was a stupid, drunken kiss, that’s all.”

She stared at him, mouth open. His male vanity had been shot down when she’d rejected him, and now he was trying to pretend she was some kind of giddy schoolgirl. That was unacceptable. And mean. Her mind raced through responses, but it was as if she’d been rendered mute in front of Nick. Nothing came out.

Claude’s eyes were hard, cruel. “That’s what holiday parties are for, letting your hair down. Although it was obvious you’d never done anything like that in your life.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re the crazy one, not me. Don’t be putting this on me, no way.”

Sadie grabbed her jacket from the coat stand in the corner, breathing hard. If she didn’t get out of here, she’d fall apart. Her brain was spinning, shocked by Claude’s disdain and the terrible embarrassment of having had that discussion in front of Nick. Then there was the vandalized book, on top of everything.

But the appearance of Dr. Hooper in the Berg Collection’s main room prevented her from fleeing.

She nonchalantly draped her coat over the nearest chair, as if she hadn’t been running for her life. Nick and Claude joined her as soon as Dr. Hooper’s voice rang out.

“I cannot believe we’re dealing with another theft,” said Dr. Hooper. “This is terrible. Sadie, you were the last one to handle this?”

“I retrieved it from the cage this morning, yes.”

“Did you notice the title page gone?”

“I didn’t check.” It would be lunacy if the librarians had to check every page of every volume requested.

Nick tapped his finger on the desk. His face was a neutral mask, giving no indication of what he’d thought of Claude’s outburst. “What if Mr. Blount stole it and then pretended to find it missing?”

“Either Claude or I have been here, we would have seen it,” said Sadie. “It’s a small room. Any noise or odd movement would have attracted our notice. Especially after the earlier thefts. We’ve been on the lookout, I assure you.”

Even Claude nodded in agreement on that.

“Look.” She addressed Dr. Hooper. “I strongly suggest that we get this out in the world. If you like, I can write up a press release.”

“No.” The syllable erupted from Dr. Hooper, short and sharp. “We’re about to launch a massive capital campaign. The board does not want the fact that we’re losing valuable items getting out, as it might give potential donors pause. It would mar the objective.”

“‘Mar the objective’?” Sadie couldn’t help herself. “Our objective is to be stewards of history, and if things are being stolen, we’re not doing our jobs.”

“You’re not doing your job.” Dr. Hooper stared hard at Sadie, then Claude, then Nick, like they were misbehaving students, before turning on his heel and leaving.

That was enough. Sadie grabbed her coat and left as well, not looking at Claude or Nick. Claude, because she already knew he had a smirk on his face. Nick, because she couldn’t bear to see the look of pity that must be there. Pity at what an ass she’d made of herself, between the Surviving Spinsterhood book, her failure at her job, and that awful showdown with Claude.

She mulled it all over as she headed downtown on the subway, staring at the filthy floor and strangers’ shoes. She hadn’t misread Claude’s signals: he’d wanted to pursue the relationship with her after that kiss, right until she’d shut him down, hard, without an explanation. And even though her reasons for doing so had been sound—he was a big flirt, and other than work, they really didn’t have much in common—the mature thing would have been to have a private chat with him. Either way, she knew deep down that she’d made her choices out of fear. Because after Phillip, she simply hadn’t had the courage to take any risks. The thought of loving someone again and then losing them cut her to pieces inside.

She entered CBGB, asked the bartender to hold her purse and NPR tote bag behind the bar, and pushed her way into the crowd. Even though it was early, some kind of band marathon was already in full swing.

The kids on the floor didn’t bother to make room for her, but that was fine. She wanted to have to force her way in, to be pushed by shoulders and elbows and arms, knowing that tomorrow’s bruises would be the price of admission. The band members onstage were five tattooed, skinny boys who screamed unintelligible lyrics to the appreciative crowd. Being inside the mob made her feel part of something, never mind the danger. She found her footing and bounced up and down in time with the bass drum, eyes closed, her senses on fire, filled with energy. The air smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat. She’d open her eyes for a moment and catch a glimpse of a nose ring, a tattoo on a neck, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of a cheek. It was as if the crowd were providing the electricity for the amps and guitars with its wild gyrations, not the other way around.

Finally, after a few songs, she retreated to the bar.

Nick was sitting there, waiting.

She asked for her bags from the bartender and walked by him without saying anything, but he followed her outside. She whirled around, the cool air evaporating the sweat on her skin. She must look a treat, with her hair a mess, smelling of smoke and beer.

“If you think I’m the thief, stop trailing me around and just arrest me or whatever you’re supposed to do,” she said.

“I followed you because I knew you were upset.” He gestured toward the club door with his thumb. “You letting off steam?”

“Exactly right, Mr. Tango.”

“Mr. Salsa, to you. I think it’s great.”

She paused. “You do?”

“Sure. It’s anarchy in there. I like the contrast. Prim librarian during the day, punk rocker at night.”

“They think I’m a joke in there.” Tears came to her eyes. Why was she telling him this? “Just like with Claude.” She paused. “This is all so embarrassing.”

With Nick last night, first dancing and then talking in the diner, Sadie had opened herself up to the possibility of taking a risk. She loved how his brow furrowed when he was really concentrating, and the fact that he enjoyed poetry as much as he enjoyed tracking down thieves. She could continue guarding against betrayal and hurt by shutting herself off from even the idea of love, but in many ways, that was no different from protecting the folio from vandals by locking it away in a sealed vault, or attempting to protect her job by hiding information from the past that might be relevant to the present.

It was time to come clean. No more secrets.

“Can we go somewhere?” Sadie said. “I have something to tell you.”