The top shelf was all books on language origins and etymology, along with a huge two-volume set of the Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary.
Louis’s eyes paused on the second shelf. New Latin Grammar, Wheelock’s Latin, Grote’s Study Guide to Latin, Aeneas to Augustus: A Beginning Latin Reader for College Students. There were more than twenty textbooks and dictionaries, some of them with little flags of colored paper sticking out, marking certain pages.
Louis extracted a well-worn paperback called Teach Yourself Latin and flipped through the pages. He put it back with a sigh.
He could barely read college French. What in the hell did he expect to find here? A word-for-word translation of what Frank had said back in the restaurant?
He bent to look at the third shelf. Copies of The Iliad and The Odyssey. The Early History of Rome by Titus Livy. Our Roman Roots: A Student’s Guide to Latin Grammar and Civilization. He pulled out one well-worn paperback. It was another copy of The Iliad, this one a Latin translation.
Diane had said her father hadn’t gone to college. Landeta hadn’t even been able to find a high school record for the man. So what in the hell was all this? Louis thought of his partner Jesse up in Michigan. Jesse had prided himself on being an autodidact. Well, reading The Great Gatsby was one thing, but teaching yourself to read classics in Latin was another.
Louis spotted a copy of Bullfinch’s Mythology. He remembered having to buy a copy of it back at the University of Michigan for a freshman literature course. There was a yellow bookmark sticking out of it. He pulled the book out and opened it to the marked page.
The Legend of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. There was a picture accompanying the chapter. It was a bronze sculpture of a wolf nursing two baby boys. The caption said: ROMULUS AND REMUS WITH THEIR WOLF FOSTER-MOTHER, BRONZE SCULPTURE, C. 500-480 B.C. IN THE CAPITOLINE MUSEUMS, ROME, ITALY.
Louis stared at the photograph for a moment then closed the book and set it aside. He turned his attention to the bottom shelf. It held only four books, stacked on their sides. Louis pulled them out, scanning the titles.
Of Wolves and Men by Barry Lopez. Mother Was a Lovely Beast by Philip Jose. The Wolf Children: Fact or Fiction? by Charles MacLean. Man Into Wolf: An Anthropological Study of Sadism, Masochism and Lycanthropy by Robert Eisler.
Louis stood slowly, holding the four books. He wiped a sleeve over his sweating face.
Jesus...What in the hell was this?
Wolf mothers? Werewolves? Had Frank Woods been some sadistic animal who hunted down women and killed them? Is that why he had bookmarked that photograph of the weird wolf statue? Was that what he had been trying to say with the Latin?
Louis went to the bedside table. There was a single book there and he picked it up. The Myths and Customs of the Asturian People. There was something sticking out of the book that didn’t look like one of Frank’s color-coded bookmarks. Louis slipped it out.
It was a picture of Frank and Diane. Diane was smiling and had her arm linked through Frank’s, her head lying on his shoulder. Louis stared at the picture, trying to reconcile the affection he saw in the picture with the reality he had seen between Diane and Frank. He turned it over. Someone had written in pen -- Sophie, October, 1952.
Of course it wasn’t Diane. She had probably never felt close enough to her father to touch him like that. Louis slipped the picture into his pocket. At least now when he went to St. James City, he would have a picture of Sophie Reardon to show. And if he found Sophie’s past, maybe he could find the real Frank Woods.
Louis added a Latin dictionary and the Bullfinch’s Mythology to his pile of books and left the stifling bedroom.
It was past four by the time he reached Pine Island. At Stringfellow Road, Louis turned south, heading in the opposite direction of Bessie Levy’s home up in Bokeelia. The sun was sinking in a pale orange sky when he pulled into St. James City.
It was more a village than a city, a pleasant collection of small homes clinging to the edges of canals like some Florida cracker version of Venice.
Louis had found a James Reardon listed on Carombola Lane. He pulled up in front of the neat white house and got out. Lights were on inside, a car parked in the drive. Louis went up to the open front door and rang the bell.
A white-haired woman came to the screen door, wiping her hands on a towel. She stiffened slightly seeing Louis. He had his private investigator ID ready.
“Yes?” she asked warily.
“I’m looking for James Reardon,” Louis said, holding the ID against the screen so she could see it. “I’m working with the Fort Myers Police Department.”
“Oh...dear. Is there something wrong?”