disorderly pile of ledgers and billing statements. I entered just as she spooned hominy from a tin can directly into her mouth. I apologized for the intrusion, but she seemed unperturbed, even pleased to see me.
“That didn’t take long,” she said, looking at the book in my hand. She put down the spoon and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “What have you brought me?”
I handed her the
Book of Mormon
.
“Palmyra?”
“Yes,” I said. “Inscribed by Sidney Rigdon to Alonzo Stagg.”
She raised her eyebrows, peered over her spectacles at me, and opened the book.
“So it would seem,” she confirmed after a cursory look at the dedication. “Who owns it?”
“A local man named Emery Stagg. It’s an heirloom with a direct line of provenance.”
“Is he prepared to sell it?”
“Depends on the offer.”
“But why bring it here when you’ve got one of the foremost collectors of Mormon materials in nearby Independence? Delbert Hander recently paid a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for an LDS hymnal.”
“True,” I agreed, “but he’s tapped out because of it. Anyway, Delbert doesn’t have influence with the ABAA.”
She smiled very faintly. “Be that as it may, I’m in my waning years, Mr. Bevan. Even if I were interested, I’m not in a position to spend that kind of money.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, glancing at the pile of invoices at her elbow, “you might spread the word among your contacts. Rather than take it directly for auction at Swann’s or Heritage, I’m willing to share some of my commission with you. Say twenty-five percent?”
She knew from the first moment I entered her kitchen that I would offer something of that nature. Protocol, however, required that I tap-dance first so it wouldn’t look like she was seeking a bribe to support my ABAA application.
“I suppose I could mention it to Ken Sanders in Salt Lake.” She withdrew a pencil from behind her ear. “Or Henry Weiss in Phoenix. There are plenty of potential buyers in Mormon country eager for memorabilia of the early founders. If the inscription is real, it should create a bidding frenzy.”
“I assure you it is, Eula.”
“Do you, indeed? Since I’m not an expert on Mormonabilia, you can understand my concern. Leave this with me so I can have the archivist at the Spencer Library confirm its authenticity. Then I’ll begin making calls to my colleagues. Really, it’s the only way, my boy.”
Seeing my hesitation, she squeezed the pencil between thumb and forefinger, and reached for an unopened envelope. “Spell your name,” she said. “Mustn’t get it wrong in my letter to the ABAA.”
“It’s B-e-v-a-as-in-apple-n.”
“Thank you.” She finished writing my name then said, “I also accept your generous offer to split the commission fifty-fifty.”
“Split? But I said…”
I stopped in mid-sentence, remembering what the legendary Frances Steloff once said of herself: “You can’t be an angel and be a purveyor of books.”
Chapter 12
Eulalia Darp telephoned me at Riverrun three days later with good news.
“Spencer Library confirmed the book is legitimate and remarkably significant,” she told me. “I’ve spoken to half a dozen other dealers who have interested buyers. In fact, Marty Lowe in Santa Clara has a client so eager that the man is flying in tomorrow to inspect it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Marty wouldn’t say. The client doesn’t want word to get out that he’s interested until he’s had a chance to look at the book. He also insisted on meeting you.”
“When does he arrive at your place?”
“Four-thirty.”
“See you then.”
—
It was one of those midsummer evenings in the Midwest when all the world’s problems seem far away. Neighborhood kids played kickball in the yard next door as Josie and I settled on our patio to share a bottle of Two Paddocks wine. A massive blue moon rose above a line of sycamore trees illuminating a sky as clear as Saint
“That didn’t take long,” she said, looking at the book in my hand. She put down the spoon and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “What have you brought me?”
I handed her the
Book of Mormon
.
“Palmyra?”
“Yes,” I said. “Inscribed by Sidney Rigdon to Alonzo Stagg.”
She raised her eyebrows, peered over her spectacles at me, and opened the book.
“So it would seem,” she confirmed after a cursory look at the dedication. “Who owns it?”
“A local man named Emery Stagg. It’s an heirloom with a direct line of provenance.”
“Is he prepared to sell it?”
“Depends on the offer.”
“But why bring it here when you’ve got one of the foremost collectors of Mormon materials in nearby Independence? Delbert Hander recently paid a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for an LDS hymnal.”
“True,” I agreed, “but he’s tapped out because of it. Anyway, Delbert doesn’t have influence with the ABAA.”
She smiled very faintly. “Be that as it may, I’m in my waning years, Mr. Bevan. Even if I were interested, I’m not in a position to spend that kind of money.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, glancing at the pile of invoices at her elbow, “you might spread the word among your contacts. Rather than take it directly for auction at Swann’s or Heritage, I’m willing to share some of my commission with you. Say twenty-five percent?”
She knew from the first moment I entered her kitchen that I would offer something of that nature. Protocol, however, required that I tap-dance first so it wouldn’t look like she was seeking a bribe to support my ABAA application.
“I suppose I could mention it to Ken Sanders in Salt Lake.” She withdrew a pencil from behind her ear. “Or Henry Weiss in Phoenix. There are plenty of potential buyers in Mormon country eager for memorabilia of the early founders. If the inscription is real, it should create a bidding frenzy.”
“I assure you it is, Eula.”
“Do you, indeed? Since I’m not an expert on Mormonabilia, you can understand my concern. Leave this with me so I can have the archivist at the Spencer Library confirm its authenticity. Then I’ll begin making calls to my colleagues. Really, it’s the only way, my boy.”
Seeing my hesitation, she squeezed the pencil between thumb and forefinger, and reached for an unopened envelope. “Spell your name,” she said. “Mustn’t get it wrong in my letter to the ABAA.”
“It’s B-e-v-a-as-in-apple-n.”
“Thank you.” She finished writing my name then said, “I also accept your generous offer to split the commission fifty-fifty.”
“Split? But I said…”
I stopped in mid-sentence, remembering what the legendary Frances Steloff once said of herself: “You can’t be an angel and be a purveyor of books.”
Chapter 12
Eulalia Darp telephoned me at Riverrun three days later with good news.
“Spencer Library confirmed the book is legitimate and remarkably significant,” she told me. “I’ve spoken to half a dozen other dealers who have interested buyers. In fact, Marty Lowe in Santa Clara has a client so eager that the man is flying in tomorrow to inspect it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Marty wouldn’t say. The client doesn’t want word to get out that he’s interested until he’s had a chance to look at the book. He also insisted on meeting you.”
“When does he arrive at your place?”
“Four-thirty.”
“See you then.”
—
It was one of those midsummer evenings in the Midwest when all the world’s problems seem far away. Neighborhood kids played kickball in the yard next door as Josie and I settled on our patio to share a bottle of Two Paddocks wine. A massive blue moon rose above a line of sycamore trees illuminating a sky as clear as Saint
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