The Shut Mouth Society
James D. Best
Paperback, 6x9 in, 332 pages
Wheatmark, June 2008
ISBN: 9781604940121
Endorsements
"It’s great! The characters are wonderfully drawn and
it’s an easy read . . ."
— Jonathon Lyons, Lyons Literary LLC
Description
When a rich Santa Barbara collector acquires a newly discovered
Abraham Lincoln document, he asks detective Greg Evarts and UCLA
professor Patricia Baldwin to authenticate it. Their research
launches them into a dangerous struggle with a secret society
formed during Reconstruction. Before they can solve the mystery
surrounding the Lincoln manuscript, a shocking murder forces them
to run for their lives.
As they race across the country, they discover a Civil War
secret that could upset the balance of power in North America. Now
Evarts and Baldwin must unravel the 150-year-old conspiracy before
it’s too late . . . and before they are silenced for
good.
About the Author
James D. Best is the author of The Digital Organization and another
novel, The Shopkeeper.
Excerpt
Greg Evarts looked at the mahogany paneling and red tucked-leather
booths and grew a bit anxious. The place looked more expensive than
he had remembered. When the host led another couple to their table,
Evarts pulled a menu from a wood rack and scanned the prices. High
for a hamburger joint, but he probably could get away with two
lunches on his policeman’s expense account. Hopefully, the
professor didn’t have a taste for pricey wine with the
noonday meal.
When the host returned, Evarts dropped the menu back in the rack
and stepped away from his podium. The young man was so good
looking, he must have been an actor slogging it out in an eatery
until his big break.
The host gave him a patronizing look. “Table for
one?”
“Two, but my companion hasn’t arrived
yet.”
“Yes, I have.”
Evarts turned to the voice behind him. He suddenly hoped she
liked wine for lunch. “Professor Baldwin?”
“Yes.” She faced the host and turned on a smile that
would probably get her whatever she wanted. “I have a class
in just over an hour. Can we be seated immediately?”
The host grabbed two menus. “Of course.”
Of course. Evarts let her go in front and admired her athletic
stride. He suddenly looked forward to lunch. As they slid into the
booth, Evarts handed her his card. She looked at it and said with a
touch of disdain, “Commander Gregory Evarts, Santa
Barbara Police.”
“Something amusing?”
“Do you like being called Commander?”
“Call me Greg.”
“I shall. Commander sounds far too authoritarian for my
taste.” With that she lifted two fingers and flashed her
smile. A waiter unceremoniously plopped two drinks at the next
table and scurried over. He was equally handsome, but Evarts almost
laughed at his purposely disheveled hair. Without preamble, she
asked, “Is your iced tea freshly brewed?”
“Daily . . . regular and mango.”
“Regular and a Cobb salad.” She threw Evarts an
expectant look.
“Hamburger, fries, Coke.” He saw disapproval on her
face.
“We serve over a dozen different burgers, sir.” The
tone was snotty.
“Just get me a basic burger.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thankfully the waiter disappeared to place their order.
For some reason the professor looked amused. “First time
here?”
“No. When I was a kid, my parents brought me to Westwood
to see the big movies—Star Wars, Superman,
Close Encounters. We made a day of it and we always ate
here.” He looked around. “But it’s been over
twenty years.”
Westwood Village was probably as close to a village as Los
Angeles could produce. A hodgepodge of exclusive stores, high-end
restaurants, nightspots, old-fashioned stand-alone movie theaters,
quaint shops, and 1930s Hollywood architecture made Westwood
distinct from other parts of Los Angeles. The sprawling campus of
the University of California protected Westwood’s northern
flank, and milling students mixed easily with those rich enough to
afford one of the neighborhood homes. The winding streets of the
business district were hidden from the major thoroughfares, so the
Village seemed isolated from the hullabaloo just outside its
parameter.
The rich and the students belonged. Most of the hired help,
however, only dreamed of a day when they would become famous and
someone in their current job would recognize them on sight and part
the riffraff from their path. Hollywood, after all, was just a
stone’s throw down the road.
The waiter returned and carefully positioned their drinks, but
he kept his eyes and his own edition of a dazzling smile on the
professor. Evarts wanted to arrest him, but instead turned his
attention to the task at hand. “Thank you for making the time
to see me.” He slid a legal-size brown envelope across the
table. “This is the document I mentioned on the
phone.”
She made no attempt to reach for the sealed envelope. “Did
you develop your taste for hamburgers on those little family
outings?”
“Is that a dig?”
Instead of answering, she pulled the envelope toward her but
made no attempt to open it. “This is a fraud case?”
“Preliminary investigation. A rich Santa Barbara collector
thinks this may be a forgery. He said you’re the best Lincoln
expert west of the Mississippi.”
She took a sip of the iced tea, and her expression confirmed
that it had been brewed that very day. “Is the victim Abraham
Douglass?”
“I’m not sure he’s a victim yet, but yes, Mr.
Douglass filed the complaint. Do you know him,
Professor?”
“It would be odd if the number-one Lincoln expert in the
nation didn’t know the most prolific Lincoln collector west
of the Mississippi.”
Evarts smiled. “Before coming, I googled Professor
Patricia Baldwin. You have very impressive credentials.”
“Associate professor, but my full professorship is just a
formality due to the recognition my book has brought the
school.”
“I’ve picked it up, but I haven’t had time to
read it yet.”
“I suspect you’ll find it exceedingly
dull.”
Evarts pulled a straw with a tiny white paper cap out of his
drink and tossed it on the table. After a healthy swallow of Coke,
he said, “I find arrogance dull.”
She didn’t flinch. Evarts decided they were both used to
controlling conversations. This should be fun. “If you know
Douglass, why didn’t he come directly to you, Professor? Why
ask for police help before he’s sure it’s a
forgery?”
“What’s a commander, by the way?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Am I being interrogated?” Evarts remained silent
until Baldwin eventually said, “That was two questions.
I’ll answer both, if you answer mine.”
“I’m head of detectives. Commanders are right under
the deputy chief.”
“So why didn’t you send one of your detectives?
Seems like a small case—excuse me, preliminary
investigation—for a commander.” She said the
last word of the sentence with distaste.
Evarts almost drummed his fingers, but he caught himself and
laid his hand flat on the table. He didn’t want to give her
the satisfaction of knowing she had annoyed him. When he finally
spoke, he kept his voice even. “When I asked you to call me
Greg, I was being polite. Now I think it’s a necessity to
keep our conversation civil.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You owe me two answers first.”
“Okay. Abraham Douglass didn’t come to me directly
because we dislike each other. Or at least, I dislike him . . . and
he knows it. He sent you because he knew I wouldn’t give him
the time of day.” She tapped the brown envelope with
perfectly manicured nails. “And this is certainly a
forgery.”
“How do you know without looking at it?”
She started to say something but stopped. Instead, she slumped
back against the booth and gave Evarts a self-satisfied smile.
“Because no preinauguration address in Lincoln’s
handwriting has ever surfaced. On the phone you said these were
handwritten notes for his Cooper Union lecture.”
“Yes. February 27, 1860. Before he was
nominated.”
Baldwin made a little salute with her iced tea. “You did
your homework.”
“I’m a detective.”
“Head of detectives. Now you owe me an answer.”
It was Evarts’s turn to feign a relaxed position against
the red leather. “Mr. Douglass is an important citizen in our
town. The mayor made it clear I was to handle this
personally.”
“The mayor?” she asked in mock surprise. “Not
your deputy chief? Nor even the chief?”
“The mayor and I are pals.”
“Nothing to do with our dear friend Douglass’s
political influence?”
Evarts shrugged. “The mayor runs for reelection soon and
the police department needs him to support our budget.”
The waiter arrived with their food. Evarts thought the Cobb
salad looked puny for nine dollars, but the burger startled him
even more. “What’s this?”
“A basic burger, as you requested.”
The plate held an open bun displaying a big piece of overcooked
ground meat. A half-dozen huge-cut fries filled the rest of the
plate. “You burnt the damn thing to a crisp.”
“Unless specifically requested, we cook our beef
well.”
Evarts laughed and shook his head. “I suppose if I had
asked for it rare, you’d have made me sign a legal
release.”
“I’m sorry you’re not pleased, sir.”
“It’s okay. Just bring me some lettuce and tomatoes
. . . and mustard.”
“That would be the John Wayne Burger, and I’d have
to charge you an additional dollar. Perhaps next time you should
examine the menu.”
Evarts wondered if a charge of police brutality outside his
jurisdiction would harm his career. He settled for his hard-ass cop
look. “That’ll be fine. I’ll deduct it from your
tip.”
The preening poser gave Evarts a nauseatingly sweet smile and
trotted off. When Evarts returned his attention to Baldwin, she
looked amused. “He’s going to spit in your
mustard.”
“Professional hazard.” To get by the embarrassing
moment, he asked, “Would you please look at the
document?”
“While I eat?”
“It’s only a copy. Douglass retained the
original.”
Baldwin set her fork beside her plate with deliberate care.
“That bastard,” she hissed.
“Excuse me?”
“He knows I can’t prove it’s genuine without
the original document.”
“He said you’d want to review the content before any
testing.”
“He wants to lure me up to Santa
Barbara.”
“What’s the issue between the two of you?”
Instead of answering, she practically ripped open the envelope.
As she studied the nine odd-sized pages, Evarts studied her. She
was pretty. Not Hollywood gorgeous but a fresh kind of pretty that
promised an evergreen sort of innocence. Except for the smile.
There was nothing innocent in that smile, and it surely snared any
male within casting distance. This was the outside. He had learned
from his Google search that she had done her undergraduate work at
Berkeley and had received her doctorate from Stanford. She had
written too many journal articles to count and published three
books on Abraham Lincoln: The most recent had been on the
nonfiction bestseller lists for months. Quite
Contrary—Mary Lincoln Critiques Her Husband had struck a
chord with the general public and garnered elaborate praise from
renowned historians and book critics. The professor was obviously
smart—with a streak of arrogance that seemed to come from her
intellect rather than her looks.
The one thing about her that didn’t seem to fit was the
glasses. Evarts supposed she thought they made her look more
academic and perhaps sent a signal to her colleagues that she
wasn’t vain. But if that was her purpose, she should’ve
avoided pricey designer frames and thin lenses that eliminated the
glare that usually concealed the eyes. Eyes? Green? No, emerald.
The eyes were what made her so striking.
Evarts had joined the Santa Barbara Police Force immediately
after his military service. For years, he had dealt with the
outrageously rich and merely wealthy in that exclusive enclave
nestled along the California coast. He had learned to recognize
two-hundred-dollar haircuts and unpretentious clothing that cost
more than his weekly salary. Patricia Baldwin sported both. He
guessed her cashmere sweater cost well over five hundred dollars,
and her short light brown hair had the kind of blonde streaking
that only exclusive salons could make look natural. She was either
rich or spent an inordinate amount of money on her appearance.
Evarts knew he had no chance with her. The professor not only
had an academic’s prejudice against police, but she had sent
none of the signals that Evarts normally got from interested women.
He kept fit, and females found his California beach-boy good looks
attractive, but they also said he was remote and uncompromising. As
a result, the women he had known seemed to prefer prolonged trysts
to serious relationships. A couple of times, just when he had
thought things might progress, he had become engaged in tricky
investigations, withdrawing into his own head and growing
increasingly obsessive. Then he had invariably endured a string of
accusations that he had found another woman or was just an
inconsiderate bastard.
The professor suddenly tossed the sheaf of paper on the
table.
“You look puzzled,” Evarts said.
“The notes look consistent with the style of his
presidential papers. Someone went to a lot of trouble to fake
them.”
“You’re sure they’re fake?”
“No, damn it.” She looked away. “I need to
test the originals.”
“Meaning you’ll have to go to Santa
Barbara.”
She returned her eyes to his. “Unless Douglass will
release them to your care.”
“He won’t.” Evarts finished his hamburger and
wiped his mouth with the oversized white cloth napkin. “But
you knew that. What’s puzzling you?”
“The last page. It’s just a column of numbers, and
it doesn’t look like Lincoln’s handwriting. Why’s
it included with these notes?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“It’s completely foreign to me. What did Douglass
say?”
“Nothing. Never mentioned the page, but I know what it
is.”
“You do? What?”
“An encrypted code.”
