Murder at Teatime by Stefanie Matteson

thought. If so, the idea of a hotel and nightclub on Gilley Island must be as distasteful to him as the thought of girlie magazines on display at Widener Library.
    Following a path leading around the side of the house, she emerged at a terrace at the rear. From a balustrade topped with urns of pink geraniums she could see a carefully manicured lawn bordered by tall spruces. At the foot of the lawn stood the gazebo at the summit of the Ledges. Beyond the gazebo lay the channel and the town of Bridge Harbor. On a warm and sunny June afternoon, the feeling was heavenly, like being on a cloud two hundred feet or more above the water.
    A table shaded by a yellow umbrella and elegantly set with blue and white Chinese export porcelain stood in the center of the terrace. Around the table sat the guests. With the exception of Fran, it was the same group as the previous evening. Charlotte greeted Thornhill and the other guests, and took a seat.
    “Felix and I were just talking about the psychology of book collecting,” said Thornhill as he mixed Charlotte’s drink. “Felix was saying that the drive to collect begins with bibliophilia—the love of books—and progresses to bibliomania, which is an incurable disease.”
    “Why incurable?” asked Daria.
    “Because the bibliomaniac is never satisfied,” replied Felix. “There is always another book that he must add to his collection. And—fortunately for the dealer—the more unique or unattainable a book is, the more he wants it.”
    “Then the real motivation is greed,” observed John.
    “ Ja . Sometimes uncontrollable greed.”
    “Now wait a minute,” protested Thornhill. “I must take issue with you there, Felix. Surely the collector is also motivated by the desire to take a part—however small—in the cultural heritage of mankind. The book collector is, after all, on a higher plane than the beer can collector.”
    “ Ja , this is true. The interest of the book collector is in culture, just as the interest of the philatelist is in geography or the interest of the numismatist is in currencies. Or the interest of the beer can collector is in breweries. But the basic instinct—the drive to possess—is the same.”
    “Then, what produces the instinct?” asked Daria.
    “Aha,” said Felix, raising a manicured forefinger. “That is a question for the psychiatrist, not for the book dealer.”
    “The Freudians would say it’s an expression of the need to control,” said John. “A manifestation of the anal retentive personality.”
    “I daresay you know more about it than I do,” Felix replied. “But in that case, Homo sapiens is not the only species to exhibit the anal retentive personality. Why do magpies carry off trinkets, or dogs bury bones? No, the collecting instinct is very basic.” He paused to refill his glass and then proceeded to empty half of it in a single swallow. “And very potent. The lengths to which a collector will go to acquire a book are legendary.”
    Thornhill handed Charlotte her drink, and seated himself at the head of the table. “I sense one of Felix’s biblioanecdotes coming on,” he said, adding, “My good friend here is the greatest book raconteur in the world.”
    Felix smiled smugly. “I am glad you say the world, my dear Herr Professor.” He turned back to the others. “ Ja , there have been many cases of book collectors—how do you say in English?—going off the rails. Murder has even been committed for a book.”
    Thornhill nodded. “The story of Don Vincente.”
    Felix proceeded to tell the tale with great skill. It involved a Spanish monk named Don Vincente who coveted a book that was said to be the only one of its kind. When the book came up for sale at auction, he staked his life’s savings on it, but was outbid by a rival. Shortly afterward, the rival died in a fire and the collection was destroyed. The prize volume, however, mysteriously found its way into Don Vincente’s collection. When the authorities