Chapter 7 - The Blue Heron Label Led Somewhere
Blue Heron Bindery was still operating.
I called the owner myself.
Her name was Lydia Marsh, and she remembered my account immediately because my wife had been one of their earliest private clients.
“Mr. Hale, we haven’t handled anything for you in years.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I sent her a photograph of the packing tape from my service vestibule.
There was a long silence.
Then she said:
“That’s ours.”
“When was it delivered?”
“Not to you.”
My pulse rose.
“Explain.”
Someone using my household account had placed a restoration order three months earlier.
Not for repair.
For custom facsimile bindings.
Seven of them.
Lydia sounded increasingly uncomfortable as she explained. The client supplied detailed scans and measurements. Blue Heron had produced museum-quality replacement covers and archival cases.
“Who placed the order?”
The answer came immediately.
“Celeste Hale.”
I closed my eyes.
“And where were they delivered?”
Lydia checked.
“Blaine Mercer Restoration.”
I looked through the glass doors of the breakfast room toward Blaine, still sitting with an officer.
His “restoration studio.”
That explained the skill level of the copies.
Celeste had not randomly found counterfeiters.
Her brother had the training and equipment to make convincing replacements.
“Did Celeste order anything else?”
Lydia hesitated.
“One thing last week.”
“What?”
“A travel crate.”
“For what book?”
“She never provided the title. Only measurements.”
I looked toward the empty space where The Lantern Boy belonged.
I gave Lydia the dimensions.
She went quiet.
“That’s almost exact.”
There it was.
Seven books had already been replaced.
The eighth was scheduled to move now.
And Mike had removed it before they could.
“Was there a pickup?”
“Yes. Yesterday afternoon.”
“By who?”
“A courier under Mr. Mercer’s account.”
“Destination?”
“North House.”
I went still.
I knew North House.
An old guest residence on the far edge of my property, nearly half a mile beyond the formal gardens. We rarely used it anymore. Blue-gray roof. Stone exterior. No staff.
Blue.
House.
Hadley had said Mike’s route had two places.
First blue bird.
Then purple house.
I had thought the blue bird meant the bindery.
It didn’t.
Mike had used it to point me toward the place where the shipping crate went.
North House.
I stood so abruptly my chair scraped the floor.
The police officer looked over.
“I think I know where Mike was taken first.”
But Hadley had been very clear.
Two places.
Which meant if Mike had been at North House—
May you like
he might already be gone.
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