“Um, so the other day I was talking to Wes, and he said he was going to try to track down the thief.” At least he had implied he would. Hadn't he? “I'd really like to help, if I can. Is, um . . . Wes isn't staying here, is he?”
Rob snorted. “No,” he said flatly. “Big brother is not staying here.”
“Anyway, do you have any theories about the theft?”
Rob looked down at his hands and slowly shook his head. “No idea. I mean, it was really valuable. It shouldn't have been just lying around Grandma's house. But, of course, she didn't expect to die so suddenly. I guess she didn't have time to put it someplace safer.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I guess not.”
I looked around Rob's apartment, trying to figure him out. Evidently, he was employed, and he must have graduated at least five years ago. But from what I could see, his place was decorated much like a college dorm. Art posters covered one wall, and a large CD collection filled metal shelves on another. Directly opposite the couch, a flat-screen TV perched upon an overturned milk crate. In the short hallway, which presumably led to the bedroom and bathroom, I spotted an interesting wood carving hanging next to a small collection of felt sports pennants. I stood up and walked over to read the message on the carving. LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE.
Coming up behind me, Rob flipped on the hall light. “It's probably dusty,” he said, wiping a finger along the top of the carving.
For a second, the scent of Rob's aftershave made me slightly woozy. Or maybe it was his proximity. I took a step back. “This is nice,” I said, pointing to the carving.
“It was my grandpa Frank's. It was one of his favorite sayings. He said it all the time. Somebody made this for him, I think. He had it hanging in his study.”
“Did he quote Shakespeare a lot?” I asked.
“Shakespeare?” said Rob, his face a blank. “I thought it was from the Bible.”
I suppressed a grin. “I'm pretty sure it's Shakespeare,” I said.
Rob shrugged. “Well, whatever. It was pretty funny whenever Grandpa said it.”
“Who made it?” I asked.
Rob shrugged again. “No idea.”
“May I?” I took the carving from the wall and turned it over. Sure enough, there was a name written in black pen in the corner. “Wendell Knotts,” I read out loud. I glanced up at Rob, but he just shook his head.
I didn't think I was going to get any useful information from Rob, so I replaced the carving and walked back to the living room.
“I should get going.” I fished a business card from my purse and handed it to Rob. “But please give me a call if you think of anything that might lead to the Folio. I really do want to help, and I'm not sure how much success the police are having at the moment.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Rob, holding the door open for me. “It would be nice if the book turns up, but I'm really not losing any sleep over it. I mean, finding the book won't bring Grandma back. Plus, we were gonna sell it, anyway. It might take a little time for the insurance company to pay up, but they will eventually. So, it's all the same.”
Rob gave me a reassuring smile, as if I shouldn't be worrying my pretty little head over such a non-issue. I guess he didn't speak to his mother often. Well, far be it for me to set him straight.
I was stepping onto his front stoop when I turned back for one last question. “By the way, do you know where your brother's staying?”
Rob scoffed in reply. “Sorry,” he said. “What's that saying? I'm not my brother's keeper. Is that Shakespeare, too?”
I allowed a rueful smile as I shook my head. “No,” I said. “That one, I do believe,
is
from the Bible.”
CHAPTER 9
It was super early when I left for work Wednesday morningâlike “sun barely up, dark reception area” early. Still, Crenshaw's office light was on, and the door was slightly ajar. I also heard someone else's voice down the hall, possibly on the phone or maybe dictating into a recorder. I slipped into my office, flipped on the light, and shut the door. I wanted to work in peace for a while.
After turning on my computer and pulling out the thermos of hot orange pekoe I had brought from home, I listened to my voice mail. I had four new messages: an old client calling to make an appointment to update her will, a potential new client about to buy a house, a colleague asking if I'd had a chance to review the contract he sent me . . . and a surprise phone call from a familiar voice.
“Hello, Ms. Keli Milanni! T.C. Satterly here. Satterly's Rare Books. Listen, I cannot stop thinking about the Folio. The police never did pay me a visit, and, well, time is precious. Now, you asked me where somebody might try to locate a buyer for the Folio. I've already called all my book-dealer peers all over the area, telling them to keep a lookout. But that's about all I can do. I'm no Perry Mason, you know. Heh-heh. But if I did want to poke around someâor if Perry Mason were here, ha-haâI'd tell him he might want to pay a visit to the university. The university English program, I'm pretty sure, has a course on Shakespeare, and one of the professors there is a Shakespeare expert. Max Eisenberry's the name. An expert like that would know all about the Folio and might have some ideas on the market for such works. Anyhoo, just wanted to pass along that suggestion. Bye now.”
I sat there, looking at my phone, for a full minute after hearing T.C.'s message. Then I shook my head and grabbed a file folder from the top of a nearby cabinet. I had a contract to review and phone calls to return. Shakespeare was going to have to wait.
No sooner had I taken out my red pen than the phone rang. Caller ID told me it was Beverly. I swallowed hard and picked up.
“Good morning, Beverly.”
“Keli, could you please come to my office?”
“Uh.” I looked at the contract on my desk, and the words blurred together.
“Now please.”
Click.
“Shit.” I muttered under my breath, closed the file, and walked reluctantly to Beverly's office. When I got there, I found Beverly, Randall, and Kris in the lounge, having coffee and talking quietly, like they were in some secret meeting for senior partners only. Except that Crenshaw was there, too.
Beverly looked up when I entered and set down her coffee cup. “Keli, I need to ask you something.”
I sat on the edge of the couch and didn't say anything. The room was hushed, except for the sound of light raindrops that began to patter against the window behind Beverly.
“Did you have a retainer agreement with Eleanor Mostriak?”
“No,” I said, meeting Beverly's stern gaze. “I was charging her the standard flat fee for preparing a will. She paid it the first day.”
“And the book?”
“She said she'd like me to assist her with the sale, but we didn't discuss details. She was eager to complete the will. I planned to define my scope later. . . .” My voice trailed off, and my palms felt moist. The words sounded lame, even to my own ears.
Beverly picked up a piece of paper lying on the end table next to her chair. It appeared to be a letter. “This is from Pella Schumaker,” she said. “Darlene Callahan's lawyer. It's a demand letter.”
“Wh-what does she want?” Now I felt short of breath and wished desperately for a glass of water.
Randall answered, “Oh, just the value of the Folio, that's all. Either we pay to cover her loss, or else they slap our firm with a malpractice action.”
“That's crazy!” I exclaimed. “I didn't do anything wrong. And Eleanor was my client, not Darlene. She has no basis for a malpractice claim.”
Crenshaw cleared his throat. “I think the point, if I may, is the poor publicity. I had a disturbing conversation last night with Edgar Harrison regarding the loss of the Folio. He told me that, due to recent events, he is very concerned about our firm's trustworthiness. He is, in fact, on the verge of disassociating himself and his business from Olsen, Sykes, and Rafferty.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. Edgar Harrison owned half of Edindale. The firm had practically been built on the backs of the Harrison family and their legal needs.
It was then that I noticed the file folder and legal pad on Kris's lap. She seemed to be taking notes on this meeting. What was going on? I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Beverly was never one to beat around the bush. “Keli, I am not pleased to do this, but I feel we have no choice. For the good of the firm, we are asking you to resign.”
Two things happened in the next moment. I felt the floor drop away beneath me, and the phone in Beverly's inner office began to ring. She ignored the phone, and while it rang, I sank back into the couch and looked around incredulously. Everyone was looking anyplace but at me. Crenshaw watched Beverly, a grim expression on his rigid face. Or maybe it was smug. Kris wrote furiously on her notepad. Randall scowled out the window. And Beverly glanced at the portrait of her grandfather above the mantel. When the phone stopped ringing, Beverly stood up.
“Keli, we had intended to call you in at the end of the day. But since you arrived so early, we decided it was much wiser not to delay. So, now I think you should clear out your office before the others start arriving.”
My head was swimming. I could not comprehend what she was saying.
“Keli.” Kris spoke up for the first time, pushed her short hair behind her ear. “We all agreed we wanted to give you the courtesy of allowing you to resign, rather than terminating your employment. So, if you'll just sign here.”
I ignored the document she tried to give me and appealed to my mentor. My mother figure. My friend. “Beverly, please. I don't want to resign. This seems so rash, so extreme. Can't we justâ”
The phone began to ring again. Beverly raised a finger, indicating we should wait for her, and went to answer the phone. While she was gone, I closed my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Exhaling slowly, I visualized the release of everything negative that was pent up inside me: the shame, the guilt, the fear. I took another slow, deep breath.
I am calm
, I told myself.
I am confident. I am competent. I am okay, no matter what.
I opened my eyes and saw Crenshaw staring at me, eyes narrowed.
I am so screwed.
Beverly returned but didn't sit down. “Well,” she said, looking at her watch, “it's almost eight o'clock. Keli, I'm sure you understand why it would be best for the firm if you stepped down. I'm very sorry, butâ”
“I have another idea,” I said, cutting Beverly off. I sat up straight, trying to convey the confidence I so totally did not feel. But I rushed headlong, anyway. “What if I take a leave of absence instead? Harrison, and whoever else might be worried, can rest assured that you're dealing with me and thoroughly investigating and addressing any perceived breach of trust. As for Darlene and that wacky letter, I'm sure that's her attorney blowing smoke, hoping we'll freak out and offer a nice big settlement. There's no way she really expects us to pay two million dollars.”
Beverly frowned impatiently, but I thought I detected a slight softening in her countenance.
“Plus,” I went on, “the Folio may be found. Efforts are under way to trace several leads even as we speak.” Okay, that last bit might have been a slight exaggeration. But I, for one, would be tracing a lead as soon as I could hightail it over to the university.
Beverly looked at Randall, who shrugged, and at Kris, who shuffled through the papers on her lap.
“Keli has two weeks of unused vacation,” Kris reported. “Unpaid leave is also an option.”
“Okay,” Beverly said abruptly. “You can use up that vacation time. Starting today. After that, we'll see where we are.”
“Oh, thank you!” I stood up in a flood of relief. But Beverly was already turning back to her office. Randall and Kris headed to the door.
Before leaving, Kris looked back and said softly, “Good luck.”
I was preparing to follow them out when Crenshaw again cleared his throat. He stood by the window, hands behind his back, brow furrowed wistfully. “Let us hope,” he said, “that this unpleasant business will have been much ado about nothing.”
“Yeah,” I said, wanting to kick him in the “much ado.” “Let's hope so.”
* * *
“I was fired!”
“What!”
“Well, asked to resign. Same thing.”
Farrah ushered me into her spacious apartment, where I followed her around while she got ready for work. She was going to be “in the field” today, visiting various law offices to demonstrate her company's legal research software, and she didn't have to be at the first location until 9:30 a.m. It was one of the many perks of her nontraditional law job.
“Nuh-uh,” she said. “You were not fired. Impossible. They love you at that place.
Everybody
loves you.”
“I
nearly
was fired. I swear!”
Farrah looked at me skeptically in her bathroom mirror. But by the time she finished putting on her makeup, during which I relayed the details of my awful morning, she regarded me with more sympathy.
“That really blows,” she said. “And with no time to plan a proper vacation getaway. I take it you're not going away, right?”
“Of course not. I've got a thief to catch.”
“Right.” Farrah laughed. “Keli Milanni, girl detective. No problem.” Farrah stepped into her bedroom for a pair of earrings and put them in while she walked to the kitchen. “Coffee?” she said. “I'm making it to go, but I'll brew some for you, too.”
“No, thanks,” I said, sliding onto a stool at her granite kitchen island. “Listen, Farrah, I'm serious. Like I said the other day, the suspect list isn't that long. Plus, I don't think the Folio is going to be that easy to fence. I had a call from T.C. Satterly, and he suggested I talk with a Shakespeare expert at the university.”
“Hmm.” Farrah popped a raisin bagel in her toaster, then turned to face me. “You really are going to play investigator on this, aren't you?”
I nodded. “I have to. It may be the only way to save my job.”
“In that case,” she said, “count me in.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I'll be the Cagney to your Lacey. The Velma to your Daphne.”
“Um, don't you mean the Daphne to my Velma?”
“No way. I'm Velma. You're Daphne.”
“You are way moreâ” I stopped myself and hopped up to give her a hug. “Thank you,” I said. Then I opened a cabinet, grabbed a mug, and helped myself to some of her coffee.
“So, partner,” I said, “any suggestions?”
“Well,” said Farrah, looking thoughtful as she spread cream cheese on her bagel, “I know someone at the police station. A friend of Jake's. I'll make a call and see if there's any public info available. You go ahead and follow that lead you have today. Then we'll meet up this evening and do what any good detective would do.”
“What's that?” I said.
“Return to the scene of the crime.”
* * *
Without too much trouble, I found my way to McCallister Hall, a turn-of-the-century redbrick building in the original quad of SCIU's sprawling green campus. Unlike the shiny modern law school building, where I'd spent the bulk of my time at SCIU, McCallister Hall retained a quaint, traditional feel. It even had the musty aroma of old books and polished wood, like the old-fashioned county courthouse where I'd interned one summer. Without central air, the place was warm but not stifling. I climbed the marble staircase to the second floor, which housed the English Department, and located the office of Dr. Max Eisenberry. According to the sign on the door, Professor Eisenberry would be back for office hours in about twenty minutes.
To kill time, I wandered around, peeking into classrooms and perusing bulletin boards. Although the summer session had started a week ago, the halls were quiet and largely empty, save for two students reading in a small lounge area in one corner of the floor. I watched them for a second and felt a twinge of nostalgia for my own college days. All that knowledge just waiting to be lapped up. All those new ideas and theories to learn and research. All that reading. All the homework.
Okay, maybe I didn't miss it quite so much, after all. Besides, the education part was really only half the college experience. The other half was the newfound independence and pursuit of f-u-n. For the first two years of undergrad, this included a conscientious determination on the part of my friends and me to sampleâer, dateâa variety of new and interesting college boys. That is, until Mick came along. Once he and I hooked up, that was it. We were inseparable. We were in love. We were gonna take on the world together.
And then we weren't.
For a moment I stood in place, eyes ahead but unseeing, all my attention directed to the past. And then the past dissolved as the words on a flyer in front of me came into focus:
SHAKESPEARE'S
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
, PERFORMED BY THE SCIU DRAMA TROUPE. EDINDALE RENAISSANCE FAIRE, SATURDAY, JUNE 22.
Shakespeare. Right.
The reason I was here. I turned back toward Professor Eisenberry's office as two people approached, presumably the prof and a student. Dr. Eisenberry was younger than I expected, and sported a trim brown beard, Dockers, and a short-sleeved, buttoned-up cotton shirt. The student was an earnest-looking redhead who wore a denim skirt and was carrying a patchwork hobo bag. They paused before the office door and glanced at me as I walked up.