Midsummer Night's Mischief (7 page)

“Mom!” the girl hissed. “I don't want to be seen like this!”

I couldn't blame her. She had on a string bikini, which wasn't so bad in itself. But for a cover-up, she wore a tentlike gray painter's shirt. Her legs were bare, except for the shiny oil she'd slathered on. And on her feet was a pair of clunky orange Crocs. A crooked topknot fell limply over her forehead.

As the officers came up behind her mother, she quickly pulled the band off her head and shook her hair loose. Then she pulled her shirt closed.

“Brandi,” said the woman sternly. “There was a robbery over on Willow Street, just across the alley from our garage. These officers are asking around to see if anyone saw anything. Probably last night.”

The girl held back, doing her best to stand behind her mother as the police officers questioned her. I watched as she shook her head and muttered one-word responses. Even from where we hid behind the SUV, I could see Brandi darting her eyes, looking anyplace except at the officers. She looked so guilty, I almost began to wonder if
she
had stolen the Shakespeare book.

The cops must have thought the same thing.

“Where were you yesterday between four and eight thirty?” asked Buchanan.

Brandi glanced at her mother, who answered for her. “Brandi was grounded yesterday, so she was in her room reading all evening—except for when we had dinner from six to six thirty or so. I don't suppose she would have seen anything, unless it was out her bedroom window.” She turned to her daughter. “Did you see anything?”

Brandi shook her head quickly and examined her cherry-red fingernails. The officers stared at her for a second. Officer Shakley handed a business card to Brandi's mother.

“Give us a call if you think of anything,” he said.

They left and moved on to the next house, and Brandi followed her mother into their home.

I looked at Wes, eager to speculate about what little Miss Teen Spirit was hiding. But he stood up with a groan and stretched his back.

“Time to get back,” he said. “I guess those cops know what they're doing.”

The walk back to Eleanor's house was much less fun than before. Wes didn't say a word. I imagined he was thinking about his grandma or maybe his mom. But something about the telltale worry lines around his eyes made me wonder if little Miss Brandi wasn't the only one with something to hide.

CHAPTER 7

Monday morning I started the day at a mortgage company's office, representing the buyer at a real estate closing. It was pretty routine; I'd done a million of these, so no big deal. But I felt distracted and anxious. Every time someone mentioned insurance, I got this uneasy flutter in the pit of my stomach.

My worst fears were realized when I returned to the office. Darlene Callahan was waiting for me in the reception area. Although she was dressed neatly in slacks and a short-sleeved blouse, the dark circles under her eyes and the neglected gray roots made her appear drawn and harried.

Julie gave me an apologetic look. “She didn't want to make an appointment,” she said quietly. “She's been here about twenty minutes.”

“That's okay. Ms. Callahan. It's nice to see you again. Let's go back to my office.” I tried to keep my voice bright, but I felt uncommonly nervous. The worried look on Darlene's face didn't help.

Darlene followed me into my office and sat down in one of the two armchairs facing my desk. I set down my briefcase and took my seat. Sometimes I sat on the same side, next to a client, but this time I felt like having the protective barrier the desk provided, at least psychologically.

“I didn't expect to be going through my mom's things so soon,” Darlene began. “But between searching for the book and then looking for the insurance policy, I feel like I've turned that place upside down and inside out two times over.”

“No luck?” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“I found her bank papers and the safety-deposit box key. I just came from the bank. But all that was in the box was the deed to her house, the title to her car, and her marriage certificate. So, that's why I came here next. I figured you must have a copy of the insurance policy for the Folio.” She looked at me hopefully.

I swallowed hard. “Well, no,” I said as gently as I could. “Eleanor was taking care of the insurance. She didn't ask me to . . .” I trailed off, feeling extremely lame.

A deep mottled flush rose from Darlene's neck into her cheeks. She took a slow, ragged breath. “Ms. Milanni, this is a multimillion-dollar piece of property we're talking about here. You were handling Mother's affairs, taking care of all the business involving that Folio. You were representing her in the sale, and . . . and . . .” She stood up, her voice rising. “What do you mean, she didn't ask you to? Was she supposed to
ask
you to cross every t and dot every i? Isn't that your job? To protect her interests? Didn't you have a
duty
to her?”

By this time, I could feel that my face had to be as red as Darlene's. I understood why she was so upset, but all I could think of at that moment was that I had to get her out of my office. This was not a pretty scene, and I had to put an end to it.

She continued shrilly, “You don't drive out of a used car lot until the vehicle is insured, for Pete's sake! And something this valuable . . . Shouldn't you have kept it in your custody?”

“Darlene,” I said as calmly and firmly as possible. “Please don't be so hasty. Let's not jump to conclusions until we have all the facts.” I stood up, as well, and walked around my desk. “I'll go see the appraiser right away. Maybe he'll know something about the insurance.”

Darlene's eyes still flashed, but she didn't say anything. I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door, which stood ajar.
That's just great.
The whole office had probably heard this mortifying exchange.

“Besides,” I said, “it's been only two days. The Folio may turn up yet. The police are working hard to track down the thief.” As if I had any insider knowledge of what the police were doing.

I held the door open for Darlene. She hiked her purse on her shoulder and took another deep breath.

“Okay,” she said. “Let me know if you learn anything useful.”

As soon as she left, I rushed over to my file on Eleanor and grabbed the paper on which I'd written the local appraiser's name and address. Then I hightailed it out of my office, trying not to see which of my colleagues were staring at me from their own office doors.

Satterly's Rare Books was a short drive from the office. That is, if you had a car. Since I lived so close to the square, I usually didn't have my car at work. Luckily, Edindale's bus system was pretty reliable. I walked the three short blocks to South Central Illinois University, waited about five minutes, then hopped on the bus. Four stops later, I stood on the corner of Main and Whitney, looking at the piece of paper I'd grabbed from Eleanor's file. Then I crossed my fingers, walked two doors down, and entered the dimly lit, climate-controlled bookshop owned by one Theodore Cornelius Satterly.

With a name like Theodore Cornelius Satterly, I imagined the proprietor to be a neat, bespectacled gent in tweeds. Crenshaw's long-lost twin maybe. So when I saw a portly fellow sporting faded jeans, an even more faded Smokey the Bear T-shirt, a bushy mustache, and one courageous gray comb-over walk in from the back room, I thought I must be meeting the janitor.

“Howdy, miss. What can I do you for?” he said, squeezing past a sky-high stack of books to fit himself behind the counter.

“Hi,” I said, putting on my friendliest face. “I'm looking for Mr. Satterly. My name is Keli Milanni.” I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to ole Smokey.

“You're lookin' at him,” he said, glancing at my card. “I'm not being sued, am I?”

I was opening my mouth to respond when Satterly burst out in melodious laughter. “Just kidding, just kidding.” He hefted himself onto a stool, eyes twinkling and mustache twitching. I had a feeling this man liked to find amusement in the smallest things.

“Mr. Satterly,” I began.

“Call me T.C.,” he said. “Everyone does.”

“T.C.,” I said, trying again. “I represented Eleanor Mostriak. She brought in a copy of Shakespeare's First Folio for your appraisal. I'm not sure if you heard—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said, sobering instantly. “So sorry to hear of her passing. Saw the obituary Saturday and couldn't believe it. Such a nice lady. Seemed healthy, full of life.” T.C. shook his head and examined his fingernails.

“Did you hear about the theft, as well?” I asked.

“Theft?” He looked up questioningly.

“Yes. Um, unfortunately, on Saturday someone broke into Eleanor's home. At least, I think they broke in. Anyway, it appears they took the Folio and nothing else.”

T.C.'s eyes widened, and his gray eyebrows rose halfway up his broad forehead. “Good Lord! Someone stole the Folio? It wasn't locked up in a bank?”

I shook my head sadly. “It wasn't in a bank,” I said.

I watched him closely as he processed the information. He did seem to be truly surprised. After a moment, he stared wistfully out the shop window behind me. Almost to himself, he murmured, “The First Folio. Amazing condition. I held it in my hands. Right here, in my hands.”

“You were confident it was legitimate, even though it hadn't been authenticated yet?”

“Oh, yeah. I've been in this business a long time. It looked like the real deal to me, and I was very interested in acquiring it. Mrs. Mostriak told me she wanted to keep the sale local.” He heaved a sigh and shook his head again.

“I've never been so close to owning something so special as that. I wish to heck I could've purchased it before . . .” He stopped himself and looked at me. “Of course, my loss, if you could call it that, is nothing compared to the family's. First, they lose their mother, their grandmother. And then they lose their inheritance. What a blow, huh?”

“I know,” I agreed glumly. “I feel terrible about it, too. Um, I take it Eleanor didn't mention anything about an insurance policy to you?”

“Well,” T.C. said, “I know for a fact the Folio
wasn't
insured as of the time she was last here on Thursday. She asked me for an extra copy of my appraisal letter for her to give to her insurance agent.”

“Then she was probably going to go with her current agent,” I said half to myself. So much for the hope that there might be some unknown insurance policy out there.

For a minute, neither of us said anything, each feeling the weight of the loss.

“T.C.,” I said suddenly. “How easy will it be for the thief to sell the Folio? And, for that matter,
where
could he or she sell it?”

“Well, now, that all depends,” T.C. mused. “If it was a professional, someone with contacts in the art and antiquities world—and someone who's willing to travel anywhere in the wild blue yonder—it could be done relatively quickly. But if it's a small-time thief, they might hold on to it longer. They'll want to be careful about who they talk to. As for
where
, well, a place like my store here might be a good start.”

Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

T.C. chuckled. “Not because I'm a known dealer in stolen books, let me assure you. I mean a place
like
mine. Any dealer in used books would be a potential buyer for the Folio. Or a potential broker—someone who could put the thief in touch with interested private buyers. Of course, you know the first question any bookseller worth his salt will ask is, ‘Where'd you get it?'”

I pondered what T.C. had said. “It seems unlikely to me that it was a professional book thief,” I said. “I mean, first of all, how would they know Eleanor even had the Folio? She had just found it and wasn't making it widely known. She took it to you initially on Tuesday, and—”

“I didn't tell anyone, except my wife,” T.C. cut in. “No sense in drumming up competition.”

“She came to see me on Wednesday,” I continued. “She mentioned she had made some phone calls to arrange a trip to the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C., but I don't think she had actually made an appointment with anyone yet.”

My wheels were spinning, but I decided I'd taken enough of T.C.'s time. “Well, I guess the police will check out all the angles,” I said. “Come to think of it, though, I'm a little surprised they haven't been here to see you yet.”

T.C. stroked his mustache and slowly shook his head. “I've been here all day. Haven't seen any cops, that's for sure.”

I frowned. Weren't the cops trying to find the Folio? You'd think the book dealer who had valued the thing would be top on their list of people to question.

T.C. must have read my thoughts. “On Saturday I was at my in-laws in K-Town, trying to install a new dishwasher most of the day, or so it seemed like. But we went out to an early bird dinner. Good pie. But I really should have passed on that second helping.” He patted his belly and broke out into another trill of laughter.

I smiled at T.C. and thanked him for his time.

Back on the bus, I stared out the window and pictured Eleanor's last days. In less than a week, she had discovered a historically significant family heirloom, carted her thrilling find around town, changed her will, and made plans for showcasing the treasure. Had the excitement been too much for her? Was that what had led to her heart attack?

Or, as Sharon intimated, had someone killed Eleanor to get the book? It was a troubling idea, but I supposed it was possible. Still, if that were the case, why not take it right away, instead of waiting until the visitation? Unless the killer had been interrupted and hadn't had time to look for it . . .

Ugh
. If there had been any indication of foul play, surely the police would have noticed. I shook away these unpleasant thoughts and wondered what to do next. I couldn't bear to go back to the office. I pulled out my cell phone, checked the time, and sent a text.

 

 

Maybe Farrah could get away for an afternoon break. Two seconds later, she replied.

 

 

Awesome.
I couldn't wait to unload some of this burden onto my best bud. Gazing out the window again, I suddenly caught my breath. Was that Wes wandering into an adjacent alley? Quickly, I pulled the cord and hurried to the front of the bus. When it pulled over at the next stop, half a block from the alley, I hopped off and ran back to the place where I'd seen Wes. I was sure it was him. He even had on the same T-shirt he'd worn the night I met him.

But there was no sign of him now. I walked the length of the alley, which ran between the backside of the public library to the east and the Cozy Café and Brickman's Shoe Store to the west. At the end of the alley was a road that ran along the length of a half-empty private parking lot used by the utility company. I looked both ways and didn't see anyone in the road. Turning back, I studied the back doors of the library, the café, and the shoe store. None of them were open to the public, but I felt sure Wes must have gone into one of them.

After making a quick decision, I sent another message to Farrah.

 

 

Then I walked around the corner and entered the café through the front door. By this time it was mid-afternoon and the lunch rush was well over. My stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten since 7:00 a.m., so I grabbed a booth by the window and ordered right away. I got the black bean burger, no cheese, and sweet potato fries. After placing my order, I moseyed on back to the ladies' room to wash up and peek in the window to the kitchen. I could see a couple of cooks and a busboy bustling about, but there was no sign of Wes.