116

By Rick Grunder

A Biblio Mystery with a dog . . . and a twist!

Sol and Anna Slyde sit down to dinner at their forest home in rural New York and hear a message on the answering machine that will change and threaten their lives. A bizarre manuscript has been missing since 1828, and the mysterious caller from the West is sending Sol a huge retainer to find it.

"I can't explain how significant this would be," warns their jealous friend Margie –known to her customers as "Joh" . . .

"Imagine if the Ark of the Covenant could be found, and in it, an older version of the Bible than anyone has seen before. Suppose George Washington's love letters turned up somewhere, and they weren't written to Martha. Hell, let's have a flying saucer land in Washington and actually stay around for photos and an interview. The hundred and sixteen pages are the ultimate quest of any Mormon historian, and we have to presume they were destroyed long ago. But if you can turn them up - and convince us they're real - your $10,000 won't be enough to buy a single page from the pile."

Plunge into an unfamiliar culture at a lake town in western Idaho, then on to Utah and finally East where Joh's expertise uncovers shades of New York Sol never imagined. Their billionaire client opens doors they can't afford to close, but there is always a price.

"We often hear," responds bookseller Mabel, "that one should avoid the very appearance of evil." Her tone is so dry that Sol can't tell if Mabel likes evil or not.

Perfect for mystery buffs who savor an atmosphere of murder more than the blood - and as much fun for Mormons to read as their friends –or a few of their foes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9780981470863

Book preview

CREDITS

PROLOGUE

End of summer, 1995 …

THE MANSION ON TOMPKINS STREET was supposed to impress people, but it was wasted on an apostle from the desert. The owner of the house sat stiffly on her Federal sofa, wondering why he’d come. He wouldn’t even notice the furnishings. She stared and asked him to spell his name again, though she’d known it for years.

People in the East aren’t as friendly (thought the man to himself). She’ll be harder to manage than folks back home.

The lady’s long skirt and jacket would have been warm enough for winter, but a painter in the hallway was peeling his shirt off in frustration. She might have enjoyed the sight, but she had to keep her eyes on the unexpected visitor. She could barely see him. Someday, not so long from now, she wouldn’t see at all. She ventured a sip from her cup and set it down carefully.

And you say Sidnie still lives?

Her voice was strong, but the question sounded fragile. Maybe insane. Didn’t the Virgin Lamb send checks here? Somebody had to be supporting this place. The visitor would have to play along and act gracious …

Sidnie is well, and sends greetings. Here is her letter.

The painter stretched on his ladder and looked across the room, curious. He watched the reluctant hostess accept something and unfold it. She messed with her glasses and fiddled the paper. But as soon as she started to read, her head began to drop. Was she weeping?

You come well recommended, Mr. Wenger.

Sidnie is such a dear friend, lied the apostle. She hopes you’ll show me some of your treasures while I’m here. I’ve driven a long way.

Treasures? Perhaps the word fit, but she never let people upstairs. Once breached, the fortress could fall. Her main business these days was to keep collectors hungry. If she let things go, who would come see her afterwards? This was life now, to tantalize without climax. It could be hard work. Tedious. Honestly, things were getting dull lately. Was today an exception she should make? Might it feel good to give in, sometimes, while she could?

Those were years of magic, she admitted, while Sidnie was here. Now it’s different, and time is almost done. She took a solemn, watchful breath. As you probably know, Elder Wenger, they’re her things too, and a treasure or two remains. Roses unplucked, wilting. She hadn’t meant to smile. "Very well. You may go up there for an hour, if you wish. For her sake. In Honor of the Lamb, as you people say?"

1

Monday, October 2, 1995

MARCUS THE DOG jerked from his afternoon nap and raised one ear. Something had woken him, but there was no sound in the driveway. He waited, then slid to a better tile on the kitchen floor where sunlight was streaming in. He craved company whenever he wasn’t sleeping, and now that he was awake, he also required a biscuit. What had stirred him? Was it that box on the counter? –because it was talking again.

Mr. Slyde, my name is Preston Young, calling from Salt Lake City, Utah. I wonder if you would return my call at your earliest convenience, on a matter of some interest. I’ll give you my private 800 number, and I should be here until 6:00 p.m., which will be eight o’clock your time …

Dogs are supposed to monitor things, but the talking box seldom answered Marcus’ call. He should jump up there sometime and bark louder. That could turn into work, of course, and this was quiet time. Marcus did have people, although sometimes they wrapped packages in heavy paper and went away in the loud-rider (a thing that smelled of rubber and oil, and took them places). There were also days when papers showed up in that bread box on the post by the side of the road - happy papers, called yeah! When that happened, things got frisky. Sol and Anna would rush Marcus and the papers into the loud-rider and drive to the place without pine cones, to the house made of stone where ladies counted money behind glass, and gave Marcus treats.

Today was one of those yeah-days, but they’d left Marcus home for some reason. They would come back eventually. They always did. That’s how things worked on Buttermilk Road. Retreating to his bed of crinkly old parchment, the terrier mix of dishwater grey gnawed thoughtfully on the corner of a land deed older than the Constitution and settled contentedly back to sleep.

Sol and Anna Slyde were a solid couple, even if their friends wondered what kept them together sometimes. Anna saw herself as a left-over flower child from the 1960s, suddenly into her forties. When did that happen? Her hair was still long, but now she tied it back more. To be honest, she liked how things were slowing down a little. Life was easier when it was sensible - even efficient. Calmness and contentment felt natural here on their wooded property at the center of New York State. If Anna wanted to take it to town occasionally, there was always Ithaca, five miles down the hill. She knew they’d made the right choice by staying out of the big city that lay at the hub of the world, four hours away.

For Anna, this was completion, but Sol wasn’t so sure. He was a few years older than his wife, which meant he’d missed the drug days and all the demonstrations. He was feeling mid-life lately and he craved a little excitement - some sort of safe adventure, as he imagined it. If it hadn’t been for Anna, he would have taken that job at Sotheby’s. He could have enjoyed the frantic metropolis, but not by himself.

Sol sported a graying beard these days and the gently growing Paunch-Not-Hidden (Anna liked to name things) beneath comfortable khaki trousers. His shabby-genteel exterior masked relative poverty and increasingly progressive sympathies. Nothing, on the other hand, could hide the rust of their car or muffle its plaintive insistence that the exhaust system was dying. Sol winced at the gravelly roar, and stopped a respectable distance from their bank.

–Be right back! he promised, stepping from the decaying wagon. He brushed back remnants of thinning hair and replaced his tawdry hat whose felted beauty he never thought to question.

Anna cranked the window. Shall I come, too?

I’ll just be a minute …

He knew what she meant. She was the one who dealt best with challenging details like filling out a deposit slip or holding back cash for shopping. But today he must do this alone. When it came to money, Anna could be conservative. Her otherwise ethereal nature might not comprehend the Treasure Fund, a sly stash Sol hoarded to pay for the discovery he was about to make –a Lincoln letter, perhaps, or a signed first edition of Grapes of Wrath in the right dust jacket. He had to be ready. Old attics wouldn’t wait, once their time came, nor could most of Sol’s antiquarian friends spare thirty days for him to pay.

The bookseller reached to the side of his corduroy jacket and retrieved a check that Anna hadn’t seen. Here was a happy paper indeed. It would add twelve hundred dollars to an account whose statements came to Sol’s private post office box. He laid his gloves on the marble table and filled out separate slips. He’d felt guilty when he first started doing this - like he was holding food from a baby. But there were no babies. Their daughter Susan had died seven years ago, and their son Marc was twice-graduated now, fending for himself. If things were tight, they were also static most of the time. Their deliciously private Cape Cod house in the country was generally cooperative, demanding only occasional repairs and predictable taxes. Anna wanted a new kitchen, and she would have loved a hot tub. But even if she’d known about the Treasure Fund, her earthy practicality would have compelled Sol to spend it on a vehicle that was dependable and didn’t roar so much. Better to keep this money quiet instead, ready to open doors of serious opportunity.

Sol checked the receipts and saw with satisfaction that his secret account had just topped $20,000. He tucked one slip to the back of his wallet, stepped past the security guard and strode to their car with an innocent smile. The Treasure Fund was safe. When he started the engine, they both flinched at the noise. How long had this been going on? Sol could hardly remember, but it was the sound of something that had long been with them. A hopeful bargain of better things to come.

2

Downtown Ithaca was full of cars, but Sol always knew where to park. They stopped near a quaint little mall where Sol had gone to school in the 1950s, years before it was renovated. Anna loved this place.

Let’s eat at Moosewood, he suggested in his usual certain style.

You won the lottery, Mr. Slyde? The restaurant was renowned, but it was not expensive. Wife was merely managing Husband who never thought twice about dining out.

The lottery on good days, he winked, plus a few other sources. How do you think I fund my secret harem?

They locked the car and ambled past college students on the sidewalk. They saw their favorite time-warp hippie, still aging in place. On the next block, a head-shaved adherent to some Far-Eastern persuasion clapped tiny cymbals near the entrance to the refurbished brick structure that housed a dozen granola establishments ranging from a little health-food grocery to the shop of a metal artisan currently displaying an ornamental chastity belt in the window. Anna relished this familiar, unhurried atmosphere. They turned down a hallway to the quiet restaurant, and she half closed her eyes to take in the marvelous aromas. Here was another world. It was somewhere to lose themselves for awhile, a welcome place to be.

She stopped suddenly and let out an uncharacteristic Damn! I forgot that Mom’s calling tonight, at 6:00. Anna delivered her recollection evenly but with an exaggerated back-rolling of her eyes. You know how she is. If we’re not home when I said we’d be, she’ll fret and call the police or something.

Sol paused but a moment. He had long accepted this particular trial. How about a quick stop at McDonald’s? If you’ll settle for a hamburger today (he offered his best Wimpy impression from the Popeye cartoons), I’ll gladly bring you back here to vegan heaven tomorrow.

Anna looked at her husband curiously. He was a good guy, but with layers. Simple airiness was not his style. Maybe he was hoping for favors tonight.

Instead of a hamburger, she insisted, flicking an imaginary Groucho cigar, show me something different, and I’ll make it worth your while.

Take-out from the deli?

She nodded, and Sol wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they turned back toward a little delicatessen at the center of the main hall. They edged through a door where everything was clean inside and curiously correct - a gracious establishment where good grammar could be heard on either side of the counter. Ithaca was, after all, an ivy league town.

A handful of customers sat at small tables beside a generous window framing shoppers who passed along the yellow-painted corridor. Directly across was a rare book shop with an array of vintage postcards displayed on a stand, out front. The owner of that store was eating in the deli, and he nodded to the Slydes between bites of his sandwich.

Greetings, Kirby, Sol returned. Any new finds for me?

Always, always, came the breezy reply half-chewed through alfalfa sprouts and freshly sliced mushrooms. I just left a message on your machine, in fact.

Oh? What is it?

An old Ithaca publication. I forget the title. Why don’t we step over, and I’ll show it to you ! He took his paper plate in hand and started to get up, wiping a share of crumbs from his over-bushy moustache.

"One step, Mister, and it’s coitains." Anna spoke to squelch what could turn into a two-hour browsing spree. Sol wanted to sneak over while Anna ordered the sandwiches, but decided against it.

Sorry this time, Kirby, but Anna’s mother will be calling us in less than an hour. She isn’t well, and we have to run.

Whatever Kirby was holding for them, it would wait faithfully beneath his counter until Sol could stop by again –soon, hopefully. A trusting rapport in the otherwise uncertain world of rarities compensated for some of the downsides of working for oneself: no regular paycheck or free benefits; no paid sick-days; little hope of retirement or even a non-working vacation. Folk of the book can have good times, but they work until they drop.

Anna paid for the sandwiches and checked her watch. It was 5:20. They hurried back to the car, negotiated Ithaca’s dense traffic, and roared the loud-rider up South Hill toward the other compensation of their challenging, independent existence: a private life in the woods.

At the top of a steep rise beyond Ithaca College, the highway opens and countryside begins, just in time to turn at Buttermilk Road. They slowed through a tight bend of its narrow gorge, then sped the high plain that overlooks Cayuga Lake from a forest of hardwoods. Thick foliage dimmed their long driveway until they stepped from the grumbling car into a welcome silence of apple air. October would soon transform these trees into a palette of stunning colors, and it would become their perfect time and place. Bucolic paradise, ten minutes from Cornell University. At moments like this, Solomon Slyde had to acknowledge to himself that Anna Stillmen Slyde kept them centered here. She had made life right - in this, their best of all possible worlds.

3

THE SLYDE HOUSEHOLD was often clean, but it lay in constant disarray from old books bulging from every shelf, and letters hiding in many drawers - treasures generally lost, temporarily, in unaccounted places. Sol and Anna had been away for hours today, which seemed a little too long. Smells of old paper combined with kitchen herbs and honey-cured tobacco to welcome them eagerly home.

Anna coddled the dog while Sol hung their coats on original Shaker pegs they’d installed behind the door. He reached into one of the white deli bags. Marcus would be offended if they forgot to bring something for him, and he jumped in glee at the expected bagel –plain, with no garlic or onion. He took the prize to his new bed at the corner of the kitchen where he began to chew contentedly, drooling only a little on centuries-old documents from Pennsylvania.

Mr. Slyde, have you been working in the kitchen again? Anna eyed the scene resignedly as she reached to the cupboard for plates and napkins. The telephone counter had been invaded by forms written ornately on crisp yellowing vellum with green ribbons emerging from red wax seals.

Uh, guess so. The phone rang yesterday when I came in for coffee. Some woman with an old Bible wouldn’t get off the line, and I was trying to sort through a bunch of …

He spotted the extra stack of deeds he’d left on the floor, now being enjoyed by Marcus The Dog whom he picked up gently, long enough to extract the merchandise.

… a bunch of William Penn land indentures. Looks like we’ve had some calls.

The answering machine flashed patiently. Sol looked around hopelessly for a place to pile the parchment. He finally stood the stiff documents on their sides, once more upon the floor but leaning against a lower cupboard door. Before he sat down at the kitchen table, he washed his hands in the sink, hit the replay button and gave Anna a peck on the back of her neck, all in two breaths.

Smoked turkey & Swiss on wheat - with lettuce, tomato and thin slices of home-tasting dill pickle; medium with the mayo but a hint of country Dijon. Anna brought two glasses of diet soda and joined him at the table.

Sol! It’s Kirby Jones. I have something here for you. Did you know there was a school primer done in Ithaca earlier than the one Jim Fife keeps bragging about? I’d sell it to him myself, but …

Sol, Artey Weaver in Palmyra. Just got a call from a guy in Utah who found my name somewhere. I told him to call you; hope you don’t mind. Something he’s chasing down. Let me know next time you come through, and we’ll have lunch at the diner. You can buy.

Marcus, with half-eaten bagel firmly in teeth, walked about distractedly in search of the right place to lie down again. His former station felt cold and uninviting now, so he pressed himself close against the comfortable parchment angled presently against the cabinet. As he resumed munching, the centuries-old deeds tipped smoothly as dominoes, one by one over his back like a familiar blanket. A particularly large example slid over his head when he stretched for the last bite of bagel, until a bright ribbon with red wax seals hung jauntily over one eye.

Hello. This is Donnalou Evans, calling from Trumansburg. I found your name in the yellow pages and wonder if you can tell me about some old books I have. I’m moving in with my daughter and her husband in Buffalo, and …

Sol knew the type. Nice but boring, with piles of Reader’s Digests and recent National Geographics; maybe a few crumbling sheep-bound textbooks from the late 1800s, generally worthless. He dug into the bag for one of the deli’s sinful fudge cookies with macadamia nuts.

Mr. Slyde, my name is Preston Young, calling from Salt Lake City, Utah. I wonder if you would return my call at your earliest convenience, on a matter of some interest. I’ll give you my private 800 number, and I should be here until 6:00 p.m., which will be eight o’clock your time …

Sol glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. A black cat’s eyes ticked back and forth in rhythm with its tail. It was nearly six o’clock. He got up to find a banana for post-dessert, and debated whether to answer this last message now, or wait until after his mother-in-law had called. At that instant, the telephone rang.

I-i-i-i-i-i-I-I-T’s MOther! Sol announced, with microphone in hand. Anna looked at him askance as he settled back into his chair with a boyish grin. It would be a good hour until he had the line, so he peeled the microphone, took a bite, and mused about deals to come.

Anna’s banter echoed tones from the other end of the line: concern, occasional fear, a little laughter. By the time she had turned twelve, Anna realized she would never achieve communication of intellectual substance with her parents - not really. So she learned to be, progressively, the angry young firebrand, then a tolerant thirty-something offspring, and finally an obliging, supportive daughter of a widow who needed to be heard sometimes without actually saying much.

Sol connected best with the merely-tolerant approach, but he had to admit that the mature Anna who could nurse her crotchety mother over the phone was the same woman who resolved his own idiosyncrasies so well. Her management of their lives left him free to accomplish what he did best. The undulating lilt of her voice gave perfect impetus now for Sol to ponder the vague but portentous message he had just heard on their answering machine.

Sol got calls every day from collectors who were seeking specific junk. He spoke as often with people who had strange things for sale. Bringing stuff together was what Sol did. He bought and he sold. Years of experience had taught him to see what others might not recognize. He knew where to buy and how to wait, when to entice - or simply to hoard. One man’s trash was another man’s dream, and sometimes, on good days, Sol could handle it all.

There was something compelling tonight in that voice from Salt Lake City, and it sounded like money. If Sol was right, then his first task might be to make himself indispensable. The intriguing caller had already found Artemus Weaver, and that much was unsettling. Artey was a decent fellow, but he was just one more dealer. His principal attraction might be that he lived in Palmyra, New York, where Mormonism began. But who out West knew Weaver? If the serious-sounding customer in Utah had already ferreted out a source so obscure as Artey, then what edge did Sol have - and for how long? Thoughts like this slid through Sol’s mind most of the time. Either you have it or you don’t, and you have to stay ready. Anna would be off the phone soon, and it was time for strategy. Before Solomon Slyde could respond to Mr. Preston Young, he would have to make a couple of quick calls.

4

MARGIE JOHANSEN slid the key into the lock of her apartment, inserting it right-side-up, this time. She wasn’t precisely drunk, but she had absorbed enough at the museum fundraiser to appreciate Phil’s offer to drive her home. The diffident curator seemed relieved when her door finally opened and he got her inside, safely standing. He turned quickly and sped down the stairwell.

Thanks! she called after him, It was good for me, too. He was on the ground floor already, hastening to his car.

It wasn’t the alcohol, entirely. Ms. Johansen’s veneer had worn thin this afternoon after three hours at the stuffy event. She needed to be herself again. Known to her friends as Joh, Margie actually liked the well-heeled patrons of Rochester, New York - most of them, anyway - and she enjoyed tradition wherever it was comfortable. But propriety didn’t always fit her. She’d suffered enough conservatism in her younger years to last a lifetime. Joh had grown up in Ogden, Utah as the daughter of a Mormon bishop. She’d bought into that system entirely for a time, attending church every Sunday and giving ten percent of her allowance to the Church, plus donations from babysitting. She’d espoused beliefs and principles which every good Latter-day Saint girl was expected to follow. She’d been formed to see as a Mormon sees; to think in the Mormon way.

Now she was thirty-seven, and Joh was reputed to be a non-believer. Perhaps even a feminist. After she left Zion to live not only "in the world, but of the world (as her aging mother still put it, shaking her head sadly on Sabbath mornings), Margie Johansen found friends she could visit for hours at a time without ever hearing the tedious question: Are you a member of The Church?" There were places where she could do things, and ask questions, and confront points of history and doctrine without getting branded with the facile and final mark of the Anti-Mormon. She could walk into stores and restaurants on a Sunday here without Saints scowling at her from gas-guzzling cars on their way to church. By the time Joh turned thirty, life had taken her far from the place of beginning. She was at a point now where Mormonism seemed something of an island, a distant land where her citizenship was in serious question.

Ironically, as soon as Joh had started questioning things, she became more confident all around. She was astonished to discover that what she had once identified as her spirituality had little to do with religion. She gradually learned tolerance instead, and she began to like herself and others.

Joh was still blond, with a little assistance. Her build was more medium than before, yet not entirely unsexy. But the real transition was inside. If someone had told her in the 1960s that little Margie Johansen would grow up to become a wicked city woman, unmarried and running her own business in the East, she wouldn’t have comprehended it. The plan had been to find a dreamy husband - maybe after she served a short mission for the Church in some exotic land (one with modern conveniences), afterward to live happily ever after - married forever, throughout all eternity. If she was a good girl, the Lord would bless her with everything she desired in righteousness.

As things turned out, Joh was not so very good as her family had hoped. The mini-sermons she once recited as little talks in Sunday School gradually insinuated their way into critical write-ups of rare books and manuscripts she sold to Mormons and their friends across the world. Things had been simple once, but Margie of the early years had become a regular Joh of the trade, more at home with history now than with faith.

Still, Joh had her roots, and still the treasured spirit called, hounding her from bed at nights and hovering in her air. Still, from the shards, the fragments rose to shape a sacred past. What Joh liked best were letters she found, written by hands long-since dissolved to dust. Despite all she might discover, there would always be parts that got away, so she kept looking. The past would always call, and she’d rescue what she could.

Six years ago, Joh had settled in Rochester, a short drive from Palmyra, New York. Only a Mormon would reference geography that way, but it worked for her. Things she’d hardly hoped to find began to surface. Her first big discovery was an original edition of the Mormon book of DOCTRINE AND COVENANTS, a compilation of early revelations or prophetic statements published in Ohio in 1835. The volume was valuable, but what made it exciting was a handwritten inscription on the front flyleaf from Mormon founder Joseph Smith himself to Elder Jonathan Childs, Joh’s great, great grandfather. There was a time in Margie Johansen’s life when no amount of money could have wrested such an heirloom from her grasp. But in Joh’s present existence, $30,000 was quite enough, thank you, to dispel any regret in letting it go.

There was also an artifact Joh referred to only as the letter. What it said, and who wrote it, she had agreed not to say, because the buyer didn’t want the world to know of its existence. She’d stumbled upon it at a second-hand junk shop, mixed in a pile of old paper from a local estate. All she was willing to tell these days was that it had been written in 1830, and its contents surprised even her. The amount the man in Arizona paid for it was enough to buy groceries for two years, plus long-needed repairs to her car and new tires all around. Joh had to think like that because she ran on a shoestring. Great finds came to her occasionally, but expenses returned every month, like clockwork.

Joh’s apartment was a two-bedroom walk-up with just enough space for bookshelves, a desk, and the indispensable computer, copy and fax machines. To print and send a single catalog to her Mormon customers cost hundreds of dollars these days, with postage. Other contingencies piled on relentlessly to reduce her personal luxuries to a minimum.

Tonight, Joh would think about the good parts instead. She would tumble into her couch and switch on the news and let the afternoon’s wine and cheese lull her gratefully to sleep, the curtains still unpulled with the television becoming the only light in the room. She would dream for awhile of books, and paper, and discoveries around the corner to make this all worthwhile - magical things that could transform the days and the solitary evenings of her life.

5

Hospital and University to Receive Grants

The Carol and Preston Young Foundation announced Monday that they will designate grants totaling fifty million dollars to LDS Hospital and the University of Utah Medical School, to be given in memory of the Youngs’ children Justin, Margaret, Lexie, Peter and Ann. Funds will go toward research and treatment for cystic fibrosis.

Mr. Young is the founder and CEO of YOUNG MINERALS, a major mining conglomerate headquartered in Salt Lake City.

This is a welcome and significant gift, said Dr. Nathaniel Lathrop of LDS Hospital. The Youngs are longtime friends of both recipient institutions, and the CF community will benefit worldwide from their generous donation. Further details will be announced. –AFFILIATED PRESS, October 2, 1995

6

SOL FINALLY HAD THE PHONE by 7:20, which didn’t leave much time for what he needed to do. He dialed a familiar number in Palmyra.

Weaver Antiques! Artey answered the first ring. He wouldn’t be out in his shop at this hour. He liked to watch quiz programs, and he usually had more answers than the hosts.

So what’s the capital of China? Sol’s standard opening line with this man.

Get this, Weaver came back. "Some guy just guessed Louis XVI as the most famous seventeenth-century monarch to lose his head! I guess that means we’re now living in the nineteenth century? Can’t people count?"

They would normally exchange stories at such a time, but Sol needed information fast.

Artey, thanks for your message. What was the guy in Utah looking for?

Oh, right. He sounded cagey. I think he was excited about something, but trying not to show it. A sermon, maybe, in the handwriting of Joseph Smith, the Mormon? He was pretty vague.

Why’d he call you?

Couldn’t say. Maybe he heard that something’s turned up.

If he’s going on gossip, Sol wondered, why wouldn’t he get a Mormon dealer to follow through and find it for him?

Probably hoping for a bargain. People think nobody here has a clue. I get long distance calls all the time asking if I have old books on religion, like for example, the Palmyra edition of the Book of Mormon, and what do I think one of those might cost?

If wishes were fishes, Sol mused, and if money grew on trees … Did you call Joh?

No, just you. Remember me if anything comes of this.

Thanks, Artey, I will. Guess I’ll call her, then, before I get back to the guy. He said to call by 8:00 our time, so I’d better run. Appreciate it!

No sweat. Hope you make a bundle!

Hey, every little thousand helps.

If only life were so simple. Sol dialed Joh’s number in Rochester from memory. Whenever he found something Mormon, he typically offered it to her first. Now he needed free advice.

This is Margie Johansen …

Joh! I’m glad you’re home. Listen, I …

I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message at the sound of the tone …

Hello? Joh’s live voice echoed over the recording. Hold on till it finishes.

… I promise to get back to you as soon as I can.

Hello?

Joh, you sound groggy.

Sol? Yeah, I went to the museum festival today. Spent three hours sipping wine. I was hoping to meet a few new customers, but I’m not sure if …

Listen, Sol cut in, I only have a minute. But speaking of new customers, what can you tell me about Preston Young in Salt Lake City?

Silence at the end of the line. Then, …

You BASTard!

She did not sound happy, but Sol knew Joh’s ways. What’s wrong? Unrequited love?

What … did you talk to him?

He called me.

More silence. Then almost sputtering, Joh demanded, How did he get your number? I wonder if he …

Artey gave it to him.

"Artemus? How would Preston Young know Artey? Are you guys advertising in the Deseret News?"

"The desert what?"

Never mind. What happened?

Sol obliged, but quickly. It was already 7:30. He summarized the situation as briefly as he could - from the phone message to the rumor of Joseph Smith’s manuscript sermon.

Preston Young, spouted Joh, "is the wealthiest collector of Mormon books anywhere. I’ve been mailing him catalogs for years. I’ve sent letters, and tried to call, but I can’t get past his secretary. He’s never given me the time of day. And now he goes looking for non-Mormon dealers in my own back yard!"

There’s no figuring, Sol sympathized.

Oh, I have him figured, all right. I’m not among the washed, the spiritually anointed of Mormon dealers. I lack the gospel sheen. Men like Young will buy from Harry Hyde, who positively reeks of righteousness, but not from me, even though my prices are lower.

"Harry Hyde?" Sol laughed incredulously. Are you talking about Dr. Jekyll’s counterpart? –or the NASCAR guy?

"He prefers ‘Harrison Hyde,’ but I’ll be damned if I’ll give in to that pretentious son of a …"

But why would this Preston Young be calling Artey and me, Sol insisted, if he only trusts Saints?

Joh lowered her tone to business mode.

Sol, the man has money. Lots of money. He’s the Bill Gates of Utah. Obviously, he thinks he’s onto something, although I’ve never heard of a sermon handwritten by Joseph Smith. Young must be calling dealers like you because he doesn’t want Harry or me - or anyone else who knows Mormonism - to hear about it.

Joh hesitated, then added quietly: One more thing. Preston Young has an amazing collection of Mormon books and printed items - pamphlets and stuff - but he never collects handwritten material. Ever. That much I know for sure. Something’s up.

Sol felt puzzled and intrigued. Young must have heard something good enough to draw him to manuscripts, but he wasn’t trusting Mormon sources. Instead, he was calling guys he didn’t know in New York.

So, Joh, how do I approach him?

I don’t know, she answered, still jealous. One thing for sure, don’t swear. Don’t say ‘God,’ even in tones of respect. Don’t mention coffee, booze, or smoking. Oh, and try not to say the word ‘Mormon’!

What?

You heard me. Say, ‘Latter-day Saint,’ or ‘LDS,’ or ‘members of your church.’ That should get you through. Speak slowly, deliberately, don’t laugh too loud. Try to sound reverent.

You’re kidding!

Not if you want to make a sale to Preston Young.

Sol thanked Joh for her advice, hung up the phone and stared blankly at the tick-tocking tail of the cat on the wall. It was fifteen minutes to six, Utah time.

7

Mr. Young? This is Solomon Slyde in Ithaca, New York, returning your call. How are you this evening?

Very well, thank you. The voice was strained and formal, like someone trying to sound cordial. I had about given up hearing from you tonight. But no matter. I understand you buy and sell old paper?

Yes, and rare books, pamphlets, an occasional artifact. I guess Artemus Weaver in Palmyra told you about me?

Preston Young hesitated a moment longer than necessary, then resumed. It’s true that I called him as well. I’m trying new people, so I have to be careful that I’m charged a fair price.

He would be a tricky customer: aggressive at the game but skittish, acting the part of a casual connoisseur. Clearly, Sol would have to be discreet. No more mentioning other dealers, for one thing. And it sounded like Joh’s advice might be in order.

No one wants to pay more than he should, Sol conceded. Would you like me to take down your address and send you my next catalog of Americana material for sale?

‘I … tend to be somewhat specialized. Young paused again. I have built up a fairly substantial collection of material relating to the Latter-day Saints: Mormon books and pamphlets. I’m always ready to acquire more …"

So the man had no problem using the term Mormon, at least here. Perhaps Sol would have an easier time with Mr. Young than Joh thought.

… so long as I am accorded the traditional dealer discount.

And then again, maybe not. You’re a full-time bookseller yourself?

Young was not used to being quizzed. He mumbled something about letting some of his duplicate items go to auction, from time to time. Then he manipulated the conversation back to his own control. I do not traditionally work with non-Mormon dealers, he warned, then adding quickly, that is to say, with dealers who don’t specialize in early LDS material.

Sol suspected Young’s first meaning was closer to the truth.

However, Young continued, I am on a bit of a quest, chasing after a manuscript of incredible importance. We’ve known about this record all along, based on some very old accounts. But now time is of the essence and I have to act quickly, spurred on by a lead which has just been shared with me at considerable risk, in the strictest confidence.

Sol suppressed a snicker at the thought of this conservative businessman in tailored suit, straddling a wild horse at full gallop, brandishing a whip in one hand and clasping his 1830 Book of Mormon in the other.

Well, Mr. Young, you have no need for concern. Whatever degree of success I may have enjoyed in my work thus far is in large measure owed to a deep commitment to history, and a respect for its sources, including discretion regarding the names of those who buy and sell. Not worthy of Conan Doyle, perhaps, but polished. Anna helped by rolling her eyes in the background, clasping both hands theatrically over her mouth in a heaving effort to suppress that which wanted to come forth.

The man softened measurably. Please, he condescended, call me Preston.

Joh would like that! Five minutes, and Sol was on a first-name basis with the unapproachable customer. Sol was good that way. But he had to play this softly, and he had to play it dumb.

Well thank you, Preston. Now, what is it that I may help you find?

Sol knew very little about Mormonism. If he found something good, he usually called Joh and split the profit with her. She could recognize an item and present it for all it was worth to Mormon buyers who would pay top prices - except not Preston Young, apparently. In the case of lesser books and papers, Sol would set them aside until Joh could come by, or until he was in Rochester. She’d pick through his pile, keep most of what he offered, and give him a check for a few hundred dollars. For someone like Sol who handled large quantities of general material, this was the most cost-effective way to sell esoteric pieces. But now Sol was faced with a situation he had to handle himself. Young wouldn’t deal with Joh anyway, plus he’d already approached Sol directly - armed with sufficient funds, presumably, to excuse any eccentricity.

The conversation plodded through social amenities, the theories of collecting, and finally the real point at hand …

How much, asked Young, did Mr. Weaver in Palmyra explain to you about what I’m looking for?

He was uncertain, Sol hinted. He suggested something about a sermon in the hand of Joseph Smith. Is this something you’ve heard on good authority? If such a manuscript existed, it could be quite valuable. –obviously; just to establish that Sol wasn’t a clueless dolt.

It exists, Young stated flatly, or existed at one time. The only question is whether we can get somewhere with the lead I’ve been given, … and whether I’ll want the thing if it is finally located.

You’ll want it, you rascal (Sol wanted to say), else why are you dancing with me now - a guy who’s never even read your Book of Mormon?

It sounds intriguing, Sol actually said. So tell me, Preston, what is it that you’re looking for exactly, and what information do you have?

This had better be good. It was starting to feel like work.

It’s rather a long story, Young responded, but interesting. I don’t suppose you’ve read the LDS book of Doctrine and Covenants?

Sol rarely had time to read the books he handled, but he did remember selling such a title to Joh. He knew better than to mention that fact to Young, at this point. He simply stated that he had heard of the book, but didn’t have any edition handy.

Do you have a fax machine?

Sol confessed that he did.

Perhaps the best thing would be to send you a few pages this evening. You’ll need to see them anyway, and this may give you the most appropriate introduction to the situation.

Sol had once bought and sold a George Washington letter with less fanfare than this, but the mystique was infectious. Perhaps he actually would make a thousand dollars on this deal, though he’d probably have to earn it. He thanked Preston for his interest, and promised to watch for the fax. Why couldn’t this man just spit something out, sweet and direct? Whatever this conversation was about, one might imagine that Mr. Young of Salt Lake City had something to hide, … or something to fear.

8

THE TELEPHONE RANG at a quarter past ten. Anna had started to watch a movie, but she’d soon dozed off in her overstuffed rocker with Marcus The Dog curled at her feet. She awoke easily, accustomed to late-night calls from insomniac collectors or fellow dealers with fresh discoveries that couldn’t wait until morning. She reached for the receiver and cleared her throat.

Hello?

She winced at the shrill insult of a fax tone, and grumbled her way dutifully back to the office room to push the start button. They received so few faxes that it made no sense to pay for separate lines. By the time Anna got to the machine, she could hear Sol coming downstairs. His real work was up in the proverbial back room such as every dealer uses to sort material, or to impress customers with the idea that there is always another treasure in the offing, just waiting to be shown to the right person for the right price. Sol had probably been listening for the phone. He stepped to the fax machine as the first page rolled out.

The copy was crooked, and there was no cover sheet. Not very professional. The 801 area code confirmed that this was the message from Utah. Under more normal circumstances, Mr. Young probably relied on secretaries for such tasks. The text had been photocopied from a book - evidently the Doctrine and Covenants, according to a header at the top of the copied page. It looked something like the Bible, with references to Elijah and the priesthood. Sol stared blankly, hardly comprehending. Was he dealing with a high-class kook here? A new chapter began in the upper portion of a page 5, and as Sol read on, he got his first real exposure to the peculiar nature of the Latter-day Saints …

SECTION 3

Revelation given to Joseph Smith the Prophet, at Harmony, Pennsylvania, July 1828, relating to the loss of 116 pages of manuscript translated from the first part of the Book of Mormon, which was called the Book of Lehi. The Prophet had reluctantly allowed these pages to pass from his custody to that of Martin Harris, who had served for a brief period as scribe in the translation of the Book of Mormon. The revelation was given through the Urim and Thummim …

However arcane the presentation might be, this mention of a lost manuscript was something Sol could understand. He appreciated the pagination information, and he easily imagined what such a piece might look like. Sturdy, off-white paper, about eight by twelve and a half inches (give or take a little): fifty-eight leaves written front and back, probably in black ink turning brown. The first two or three leaves would likely be worn and soiled; the same for a leaf or two at the end. They were probably assembled in gatherings like thin, hand-sewn notebooks, or else left loose in wide letter sheets folded in half to form two leaves each.

The pages were probably hand-numbered. Over the years, some of the leaves might have been lost from the group. Sol had handled so much paper from the 1820s that he could see the manuscript in his mind’s eye. He wondered about the spelling and the handwriting: Would it be neat and readable, or would he encounter a shambles of bad form in a messy hand?

Were lots of Mormon manuscripts lost during the early days? Sol certainly lived in the right region to find them. Yet in a quarter-century of business, few original Mormon writings had come his way. What little he did find struck him as strange and obscure. As he read the rest of the fax, he had to blink at the transparency of Joseph Smith’s refusal to attempt a re-dictation of the stolen material …

9 Therefore, you have delivered them up, yea, that which was sacred, unto wickedness.

10 And, behold, Satan hath put it into their hearts to alter the words which you have caused to be written, or which you have translated, which have gone out of your hands.

11 And behold, I say unto you, that because they have altered the words, they read contrary from that which you translated and caused to be written;

12 And, on this wise, the devil has sought to lay a cunning plan, that he may destroy this work;

13 For he hath put into their hearts to do this, that by lying they may say they have caught you in the words which you have pretended to translate.

14 Verily, I say unto you, that I will not suffer that Satan shall accomplish his evil design in this thing.

15 For behold, he has put it into their hearts to get thee to tempt the Lord thy God, in asking to translate it over again.

16 And then, behold, they say and think in their hearts—We will see if God has given him power to translate; if so, he will also give him power again;

17 And if God giveth him power again, or if he translates again, or, in other words, if he bringeth forth the same words, behold, we have the same with us, and we have altered them;

18 Therefore they will not agree, and we will say he has lied in his words, and that he has no gift, and that he has no power;

These verses appeared in the final two pages of the fax, photocopied from something called "SECTION 10. Revelation given to Joseph Smith the Prophet, at Harmony, Pennsylvania, in the summer of 1828." Sol realized suddenly that this awkwardly composed text was supposed to be a spiritual message direct from Jesus to Joseph Smith. But it rationalized, surely. The revelation explained that certain unknown thieves had taken the manuscript. It even told what they planned to do with it. So why couldn’t Jesus just tell Smith where the pages were? Sol began to fashion a reasonable excuse to offer Preston Young, some graceful way to get out of this project and be done with such nonsense.

The phone rang.

Hello?

Solomon? This is Preston. Did you get my fax?

Bright and clear. I just finished reading it. I take it that the manuscript which is discussed there is the thing you’re looking for?

Its … loss has been regretted for a very long time. Young spoke tentatively. The young Prophet learned a hard lesson when he let those pages go, especially when the Lord forbade him to fall into the trap of translating the stolen scripture a second time.

Sol had met his share of odd-balls. When he first started buying and selling rare books, he tolerated every customer who came his way. But after countless boring conversations over the years, and many lost efforts, he learned to offend certain people up front, and be rid of them quickly. Here was such a situation now. He would speak his mind politely, but without equivocating. Even allowing for the eccentricities of religion, Sol began, I have to confess, Preston, that portions of what you have sent me are troublesome, to say the least.

I know what you mean, Young replied. Who actually stole the manuscript, for instance, and who had custody of it at the time when the Lord …

Young wasn’t getting the point.

Obviously, Sol cut in, you realize that your belief system is your own, and it forms no part of mine. I’m forced to ask logical questions, like whether Joseph Smith was even capable of dictating 116 pages a second time, to match his original missing version. The excuse he gives in his ‘revelation’ for not re-translating the words makes no sense at all, at least not to me, and this forces questions about other aspects of the story as well.

That should dispose of Young quickly, but collectors can be obstinate, and they are often obsessed. Young’s unruffled response came as a simple question:

Even if you don’t accept Joseph Smith’s story, Solomon, why would that matter in our simple business transaction?

Cool. Very cool and determined.

Please, just call me ‘Sol.’ Clearly, Preston, you do believe in this, but I’d hate to see you taken advantage of by some unscrupulous person. Joseph Smith claimed that those stolen pages contained part of the ancient Book of Mormon. Yet the Lord wouldn’t let him re-dictate that part, because thieves were still holding the manuscript?

Yes, exactly, agreed Young, The Book of Lehi.

Sol had been reading the name wrong, apparently. Young pronounced it LEE-high like the Lehigh River in Pennsylvania.

In fact, persisted Young enthusiastically, the Lord knew in ancient times that this theft would take place. It was foreseen indirectly by a prophet who lived in the fourth century A.D.

Where … was this premonition recorded? In the back of his head, Sol could hear music rising from The Twilight Zone.

In the Book of Mormon!

Logical questions weren’t going to work with this man who seemed prepared to pontificate his way out of any dilemma. But Sol could resort to authority as well …

I have to tell you, Preston, that beyond the obvious self-substantiating character of your argument, the story has unmistakable problems. Let me confine myself to an area in which I have some expertise. Smith’s ‘revelation’ warns that if he re-dictates the missing material, the people who stole his first manuscript will produce it - with their alterations - as an unfavorable comparison to his second attempt. Is that right, so far?

Why yes! Young sounded jubilant. I must say, Sol, you phrase it almost more concisely than the Lord himself!

Sol kept his composure, and continued …

But this argument bears no comparison to the reality of the situation, Preston. I’ve worked with papers from that period for more than twenty-five years. Thousands of them. There’s no way anyone could have altered your Book of Lehi substantially without the changes being obvious. You can’t erase the ink they used without leaving a serious blemish in the paper. Nor could anyone insert text afterward. People wrote deliberately, and used every precious inch available. They left no room for words that would be perfectly evident as later additions. It doesn’t take an expert to see when something has been changed or added to an old manuscript.

Young thought for a moment, and continued unflappable: They could have re-written the whole thing on fresh paper, using Joseph’s translation as a basis for their altered text.

In which case, Sol persisted, leaving aside the pesky problem of handwriting, they would naturally have wanted to destroy the true original immediately afterward, in order to protect themselves from discovery and arrest, thus leaving nothing for me to locate for you in modern times.