CHAPTER 21
I woke to the sound of the phone jangling beside my bed. Without opening my eyes, I fumbled for the receiver and brought it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello. May I speak with Miss Milanni, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Oh, I didn't recognize your voice. This is Wendell Knotts. I'm calling about the Mostriak Folio, which we discussed earlier this week.”
Now I was awake. I opened my eyes, tossed away the sheets, and swung my feet to the floor. “Did you find the original appraiser?”
“Indeed I did. I tracked down the appraisal company in New York, explained who I was and what I was looking for. And they, most obligingly, agreed to search their archives. In fact, I received a call from them this morning. They found their copy of the original certificate and will fax it to me this afternoon.”
“That's wonderful.”
“Interestingly, when I spoke with them this morning, they told me that someone else had called them about this very document yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Apparently, it was a man claiming to be a member of the Mostriak family.”
That
was
interesting. “So what did the appraiser say to him?”
“Why, they said they would fax it to him, like they did for me. There are no protections for a document like that. The certificate without the Folio is little more than a piece of paper, albeit with modest historical value for a small number of people.”
Except that it would have considerably more value to whoever possessed the Folio.
“Do you think you could ask the appraiser for the fax number the person provided?”
“Certainly. I'll be calling them, anyway, when I'm ready to receive the fax myself.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate your help.”
“Not at all, I'm happy to help. Now, I have a proposition for you. Would you come to LitCon tomorrow morning? I'll meet you there to give you the faxed document, as well as the information I learn from the appraiser. And you might find the convention enjoyable. Besides that, we could use more attendees. I've seen an unfortunate decline in the numbers year after year.”
“I'll be there,” I promised.
I now had two reasons to attend the Literary Convention. Maybe I would even catch some of the Shakespeare in the Park performance while I was at it.
Later that day, as I headed out for a jog, I received a third compelling reason to go to the fair. I had a phone call from Wes, my own private hot and cold rock star.
“Hey, Keli. I've been meaning to call you. How have you been?”
Just peachy
, I thought.
I always love spending five days of radio silence following a date with a guy I like.
“I've been great. How about you?”
“Well, less than stellar, to tell the truth.” Wes heaved an audible sigh. “My family's going through some stuff. I've actually moved in with my folks for a little while. You know, so I can help my mom out until my dad returns, try to give her some peace of mind.”
Right. And get off the cot in the bar.
But he did have a point about helping Darlene. “How
is
your mom? I've been thinking about her lately.”
“She's doing better.” Wes paused, and I began to wonder why he had actually called. “So, listen, uh, I had a nice time last Sunday. But since we didn't get to have a proper picnic, I was wondering if you'd want to try again tomorrow. My uncle Kirk is performing in the play at the Renaissance Faire. Want to meet up and have a picnic on the lawn at the park?”
I couldn't help smiling. I
absolutely
wanted to have a picnic in the park with Wes. “Well, there's something I have to do in the morning, but I should be able to meet you there. What time?”
“There are three performances. Ten a.m., one, and four. Can you meet up for the one o'clock? I'll bring the food. All vegan, I promise.”
“Sure. Sounds great.”
“Terrific. I'll find a spot front and center, but call me if you can't find me.”
“Absolutely.”
After the call, I took off for my run, all aflutter again over Wes. I took my usual route, through Fieldstone Park and over to the rail trail. At the two-mile point, I turned around and ran back the way I had come. Only this time, as I approached the spot where the trail passed behind the Woodbine Village housing development, I slowed my run to a walk. Without quite knowing why, I stopped to look toward Rob's apartment.
A narrow strip of trees and brush separated the trail from the parking lot in front of the apartment complex. Peering through the trees, I located Rob's sad little stoop with the neglected lawn chair. Then I started when I recognized the car parked in front of the apartment building, next to Rob's own dusty sedan. It was a black SUV, and I was almost certain it belonged to Scarface.
Then my eyes slid to the car on the other side of the SUV. This car was also familiar. It was Wes's car.
As I stood there wondering, Rob's front door opened and Wes himself came out. He walked, eyes on the ground, toward his car.
My heart clenched at the worried expression on his handsome face. I longed to go over there to comfort him and be his friend.
But what I still didn't know was if this was a man with deep concern for a brother in trouble or if Wes himself was the one in too deep.
Either way, I intended to find out.
* * *
After a quick shower and a bite to eat, I threw on a long T-shirt and a pair of black cropped leggings, wrapped my hair in a silk scarf, and dug out my old mirrored aviators. It was the closest thing to a disguise I could come up with. To top it off, I applied a thick coat of uncharacteristically bright salmon-pink lipstick I had once bought by mistake. Then I hopped into my little silver-blue car and headed toward the River Queen Casino.
On the way, however, I felt my resolve seep right out of the bottom of my wedge-clad feet. When I reached the street leading to the casino, I kept right on going. Why hadn't I called Farrah? I didn't want to skulk around the riverboat by myself.
Feeling a little silly and a lot frustrated, I drove around town with no particular destination in mind until I found myself nearing the check-cashing facility where Farrah and I had started our crazy car chase the day before. Not that I expected to see Scarface again, but there was something odd about how he seemed to keep popping up. I couldn't help wondering what he was up toâand what it might have to do with Rob and Wes.
And then, like a mad case of déjà vu, I did see him again.
I had to blink twice and lift the shades from my eyes to be sure. The imposing figure coming out of the check-cashing facility was definitely Scarface. I was still half a block away, so I hit the brakes and proceeded slowly, watching as he climbed into his SUV and sped away.
Without pausing to formulate a plan, I maneuvered my car into the curbside parking space he had vacated, slipped out of my car, and marched right up to the Miller Avenue Cash Mart.
The place was empty except for the large woman perched on a stool behind one of three small transaction windows. She looked at me expectantly, her broad features and double chin visible through the clear security barrier. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers.
“Hi, there. Maybe you can help me. Uh, I think I just missed . . .” I trailed off, gesturing toward the door and tracing a line on my face in the spot of Scarface's scar.
“Mr. Derello?”
I let out my breath and nodded vigorously. “Yes. Mr. Derello. From the River Queen? Uh, he said that I should stop by here if I ever have need of . . . of the services thatâ”
“Honey, you don't have to be nervous.”
“I don't?” Wiping my palms on my pant legs, I managed a tentative smile.
“Now, just relax. Fill out this form here, and we'll take care of you.” I watched as she slid a sheet of paper through the opening at the bottom of the window. “You can fill it out right here, or you can go sit down at that little table over there.”
I looked at the paper, which appeared to be a loan application. The top third contained blank spaces asking for my vitalsâeverything from my name, address, and birthday to my bank account number and Social Security number. The rest of the page, and all of the back, was a blur of fine print.
“Hmm. I think I'll just take this home andâ”
Before I knew what was happening, the woman reached through the opening and snatched the application out of my grasp. “Didn't Mr. Derello tell you how this works?” she said sharply. “You fill this out here, and you'll get your money right away. No wait. No questions asked. Isn't that what you want?”
I opened my mouth to respond but was too startled to speak when a door to a back room suddenly swung open. An armed security guard walked toward me, narrowed his eyes, then stationed himself against a wall, where he surveyed the empty room. I swallowed hard.
“You know,” I said hoarsely, “I do want all that. I think. It's just that I don't have all this info on me. So, I'll come back later.”
Without waiting for a reaction, I fled the room, letting the door slam shut behind me. I didn't dare look back until I was safely in my car. And well down the road.
CHAPTER 22
The University Ballroom had been transformed into a book lover's paradise. Across the wide floor, lines of display tables represented every genre imaginable. At one end of the room, a local independent bookstore sponsored a book-signing table featuring a different author every hour. And at the other end of the room, rows of folding chairs faced a podium, at which various speakers were scheduled to appear. It was there that I found Wendell Knotts, looking very much the part of an English professor in his tweeds and brown oxfords. His cane was propped on a briefcase at his feet.
As I approached the front of the room, grateful I had opted for a pretty summer dress instead of shorts or leggings today, Wendell spotted me and waved me over with a pleased smile. He patted the chair next to him, then nodded toward the podium. So I sat down and directed my attention to the speaker, an earnest middle-aged man with humorously unruly hair. I suppressed a grin as I politely tuned in to his talk.
According to the large poster taped to the front of the podium, the topic was Edgar Allan Poe. After a couple of minutes, I gathered that the focus was Poe's three stories featuring the original deductive-reasoning, crime-solving sleuth C. Auguste Dupin. A detective. How appropriate.
Letting my gaze wander around the convention, I wondered if the notorious Stenislaw was here someplace. More to the point, was the book thief here? From what I could tell, the crowd seemed to consist mainly of librarian and professor types, with a smattering of college students out for extra credit, plus the odd lord, lady, knight, or wench who had wandered in from the Renaissance Faire. So far, I hadn't seen anyone I recognized.
I turned back to the speaker, who announced that he would now read Poe's third Dupin story, “The Purloined Letter.” The whole thing.
Seeing that Wendell was engrossed, I crossed my legs and settled back in my seat. It took a mighty effort to resist pulling out my cell phone. Soon, however, I found myself drawn into the short story, too, and I remembered reading it in college. It really was a clever little tale, with the twist at the end being that the stolen letter was hidden in plain sight all along.
As the speaker read the final words, and as I recalled knowing the ending already, I had a sudden flashback to my interrupted vision the other day. In the midst of the finding spell, I had seen Eleanor's garden. Then I had seen shelves upon shelves of books.
In my mind's eye, I saw those shelves again. Even as the speaker ended his reading and we all clapped, I thought about the hall of books and realized it could be a library. Wouldn't it be something if the Folio was hidden in plain sight like the purloined letter?
“The simplest puzzles are sometimes the most vexing, aren't they?”
I turned to find Wendell regarding me with interest. I smiled. “The problem is, you don't know they're simple at the time. It's not until you have the solution that the puzzle appears simple.”
“True, true.” Wendell nodded, tenting his fingers under his chin.
I shifted in my seat. “I was surprised I didn't find you at the Shakespeare table,” I said, inclining my head to the floor displays.
“Oh, been there, done that, as the young people say.” Wendell grinned cheekily, and I had to chuckle. Then he leaned over to retrieve a manila envelope from the briefcase on the floor. He lifted the flap and slid out a paper, which he handed to me. “Your certificate, my dear.”
Signed and sealed by the New York appraisal company, the certificate attested to the authenticity of the First Folio acquired by Alexander Mostriak at auction in 1898 and later bequeathed to his nephew Frank Mostriak. I stared at the document, which included a detailed physical description of the Mostriak copy. Once again I felt the weight of the loss.
Thanking Wendell, I replaced the certificate in the envelope and slipped it in my tote. “So were you able to find out who else asked for a copy of this?”
“Not a name but a number.” Wendell took out a slip of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “It's an Edindale number, but that's all I know.”
I raised one eyebrow. “A number, huh? Well, let's see whose number it is.” I whipped out my phone, opened the search screen, and typed “reverse lookup.”
Wendell handed me the paper. “Is there anything those little gadgets can't do?” he murmured over my shoulder as I typed in the number.
“Hmm. Apparently so.” I sighed and looked at Wendell with a shrug. “Nothing's coming up. Must be a prepaid cell phone or something.”
“Prepaid?” Wendell looked perplexed.
I smiled at him, dropped the slip of paper in my tote with the envelope, and stood up. He stood up with me.
“No worries. I'll keep trying. Professor, thank you again. I'm not sure how, but I am hopeful the Folio will be recovered. And this might help yet.” I patted the tote, which was hanging from my shoulder. “By the way, do you know a book dealer by the name of Stenislaw?”
Wendell scowled. “We've met once or twice. He's out of St. Louis. Doesn't come here often.”
“I get the feeling you're happy about that.”
“Well now, I try not to take stock in rumors. But Mr. Stenislaw is not the most reputable dealer around. Why do you ask?”
“I had a tip to watch out for him.”
“Good advice. I haven't seen him today. If I do, I'll let you know. Good luck, Miss Milanni, and enjoy your day.”
Wendell headed over to talk to the Poe expert, while I wandered among the book displays. The crowd actually seemed to be growing, and I realized the first Shakespeare play outside must have finished. I maneuvered around tables, trying to make my way to the rare-books section I had spotted off to the side, and was actually jostled near the popular fiction table. Apparently, there was a flash sale under way on a steamy new best seller. I rolled my eyes.
“Sex sells, don't you know? Always has, always will.”
I turned to see a familiar redhead wearing a wry smirk.
“Professor Eisenberry. How are you?”
“Call me Max. I'm harried and hurried at the moment, but otherwise okay. I've got to work the Shakespeare table here in between performances outside.”
I walked with her over to the Shakespeare table. Draped in a long burgundy cloth and backed by large cloth-covered display boards, the table exhibited a dazzling array of Shakespeare collections.
“I'm going to the next performance,” I said, picking up a glossy copy of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
and placing it back down.
“You'll love it,” she said. “Did you ever reach out to Professor Knotts?”
“I did, yes. And I just saw him again a few minutes ago. I can't thank you enough for putting me in touch with him.”
“My pleasure. He's a sweet man and still sharp as a tack. I still call him for advice now and then.”
“Say, do you know T.C. Satterly?”
“Sure I do. Just passed him outside, carrying a turkey leg in one hand and a pint of mead in the other.”
I laughed and cast my eyes to the ceiling. “Guess I won't find him at the rare-books table, then.”
“He was there first thing this morning. He'll probably find his way back in later on.”
“How about Stenislaw? Book dealer from St. Louis?”
Professor Eisenberry slowly shook her head. “Can't say I've heard of him.”
After leaving Professor Eisenberry, I made it over to the rare-books table, only to find a university student who knew all about the antique books on display but nothing about book dealers from St. Louis. I was gazing around the room again, not sure what to do next, when I felt a buzzing from my tote. It was a text from Farrah.
Â
Are you at the fair yet?
Â
I replied,
Yep, @ LitCon.
Seconds later, Farrah wrote,
Meet me at the archery contest. I have something for you.
I was glad to have a reason for leaving the convention. I wasn't learning anything here. Slipping my phone back in my tote, I walked along the edge of the room toward the exit. Then I glanced back in my tote, where something unusual caught my eye. Next to the envelope from Wendell was a postcard, which I didn't remember picking up.
Standing by the door, I pulled out the postcard and frowned. The image on the front was a ghastly-looking skeleton dripping blood on a black backdrop. According to the crimson caption, the picture was a depiction of one of Poe's more macabre stories, “The Masque of the Red Death.”
I flipped the postcard over and found something equally sinister. Scrawled across the back in thick black marker were four capital letters:
MYOB
.
* * *
I swirled around, scanning the ballroom. LitCon was the picture of innocence. Strolling book lovers went about their business, browsing the tables, lining up for author autographs, discussing the latest
New York Times
book review.
Narrowing my eyes, I marched over to the Poe table. But then I thought better of it. Whoever had slipped the postcard in my tote could have done so anytime over the past hour. It would be impossible to identify the person now. Besides, Farrah was waiting for me.
So I left the building and headed out into the bright sunshine. I followed the paved walkway through campus and soon found myself entering the imaginary world of Ye Olde Edindale Village Marketplace.
With vendor booths lining both sides of the wide center aisle, face-painting stations, ball-toss games, and the smell of beer and carnival food permeating the air, this could have been any other Saturday festivalâexcept that at least half the fairgoers were dressed in medievalesque garb. Ranging from the authentic to the fantastical, the costumes alone provided ample entertainment as I strolled through the fair. I grinned as I imagined this was what the back lot of a movie studio might look like, with mingling cast members from the likes of
Xena: Warrior Princess
,
Pirates of the Caribbean,
and
The Lord of the Rings
right alongside women in brightly colored dirndls, men in kilts, and unknown individuals in full-body devil costumes.
In fact, several of the participants wore masks. I passed fairies in feathered Mardi Gras masks, pirates in black cloth half masks, and even one of the Shakespeare actors wearing a fully enclosed donkey head. This last individual I recognized as Bottom from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. To the amusement of a few spectators, he appeared to be antagonizing a jester by snatching his juggling pins.
Maneuvering past a trio of minstrels, I cut across the quad to an adjacent parking lot that had been cordoned off for jousting demonstrations, pony rides, and an archery contest. I found Farrah retrieving her arrows from one of three targets in front of a wall of hay bales. She replaced her bow and joined me on the sidelines.
“You missed my stunning performance,” she said.
“How'd you do?”
Farrah laughed. “Well, Katniss I ain't. But at least I hit the target.”
We walked over to a picnic table on the edge of the green, near the kids' tent. Not far away, some of the Shakespeare players were putting on a little skit. I spotted the donkey-headed Bottom again, this time the brunt of the other characters' antics. They appeared to kick him from behind, causing him to engage in all sorts of amusing pratfalls.
I turned back to Farrah. “No costume for you?”
“Well, I would have, but my corset's at the cleaners.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Actually,” said Farrah, reaching into her roomy cross-body purse, “we would have fit right in wearing our Old West costumes.” She handed me a manila envelope much like the one Wendell had given me. I opened it to find an eight-by-ten photo of Farrah and me in all our sepia-toned glory.
“Aw, you made me a copy? It's not bad, really.” I studied the photo, recalling how Wes had come up to me shortly after it was taken.
“Not bad? Look at us hotties. We're awesome. In fact, the photographer that night asked me if he could use our picture on his Web site.”
I looked at Farrah and raised my eyebrows.
“I told him it would cost him,” she went on. “Ten thousand dollars each for all rights or else a percent of all sales as long as the image remains on the site. I told him I'd draw up a contract if he was interested.”
I whistled, then laughed, as I looked at the photo again. It was cute. I knew where I'd hang it as soon as I could find a good frame. Then I squinted and held the photo up in front of me.
“I wish I had my new magnifying glass on me,” I said.
“Why? What do you see?”
“There's a reflection in the mirror behind us. It looks like a person standing off to the side.”
“Let me see.” Farrah came around to look over my shoulder.
Shifting the picture out of the glare of the sun, I caught my breath. “I think it's Scarface. Look.” I handed the photo to Farrah, who sat down next to me on the bench.
“Oh, my God. You're right. He was watching us. How creepy is that?”
“You don't know the half of it,” I muttered.
“What do you mean?”
I told Farrah about seeing Scarface's car at Rob's apartment and then later seeing the man himself leave the check-cashing place again. Swallowing my embarrassment, I also told her about my little charade in the facility.
“You nut,” she said, lightly pushing my shoulder. “You should have called me. But good work, though. So this Mr. Derello really is some kind of loan shark?”
“Sure looks like it to me. I plan on calling the Attorney General's office first thing on Monday so they can look into it.”