“I’ll bet you’re right. The names of the fifty-two books will be on the library inventory list. They get filed by date. I can pull it up on my computer. Want to put this job aside for now?”
I didn’t bother to answer, just followed my aunt who was already halfway across the room on her way to her office.
She handed me the printout Pete had sent listing the books he’d taken from the stacks. I scooted one of the cherrywood chairs up as close as I could get to hers and watched as she logged into the library account. Her hands flew over the keyboard as she scrolled through myriad numbered categories. She landed on inventory-donations. “Okay. Here we go. What’s the date on the receipt?”
Glad I’d thought to bring it with me, I read the date aloud and added “fifty-two books—sports related. Signed by Sharon Stewart.”
“It’ll be so much easier when we have actual copies of the receipts, by date and topic all in one online file,” she said. “But this system is better than nothing. I’ll read the titles aloud and you check them off if they’re on Pete’s list.”
So that’s what we did. The first few titles on the inventory list yielded no matches but then we hit two in a row. I checked off A Day on the Bleachers by Arnold Hana and Ball Four by Jim Bouton. That was enough to energize us. Before too long we’d found an even dozen books whose names appeared on both lists. That was all, but we knew it was enough to prove that there was a real connection between the B&E at the Stewart house in North Salem where nothing was stolen, and the murdered man in the library stacks.
“Do you want to call Pete about this, or shall I?” Aunt Ibby asked.
“You call him,” I said. “This was your assignment and you did all the work. I’ll listen in.”
“I’ll put it on speaker,” she said. “Hello, Pete? Isobel Russell here. Maralee and I have done as you suggested. We’ve checked the donated books list with the list of the books you took with you and we’ve found a dozen matches.”
“Good work, Ms. Russell. And fast, too. Would you fax the material over to me?”
“Of course, and Pete, we’ve learned a couple of new things you might find of interest.”
“I’ll just bet you have.” I heard the smile in his voice. “What’ve the snoop sisters found this time?”
“Well, first of all . . .” My aunt ignored the “snoop sisters” designation. She’s come to like the name. “At least a dozen of the books on your list were donated to the library by Sharon Stewart. Does that name ring a bell?”
“Sure does. The break-in on Dearborn Street. Good work, you two. Anything else?”
“I noticed that all of the books on your list were published between the fifties and the seventies—if that’s important.”
“It might very well be, Ms. Russell. Thank you. Good night—and good night to your sidekick too. Tell her I’ll call her later.”
“I will, and I’ll fax all of this over to you right now.”
Her conversation finished, she turned on the fax machine. “Did you get the significance of the publication dates?”
“Larry Laraby,” I said. “The books were all published before he died. Wee Willie, Sharon Stewart, and Larry Laraby. I think maybe we have a three-way tie. I wonder if all of the books Sharon donated were around the same age.”
“That won’t be too hard to check,” she said, those green eyes lighting up at the prospect of more snooping. “Once we can get back up into the stacks we’ll do a thorough inventory of seven-ninety.”
“If we’re right, then Sharon Stewart is connected somehow to Larry Laraby. I’m going to need a bigger flowchart if this keeps up.”
“A flowchart?”
I told her about Rhonda’s idea of charting the various people involved and each one’s connection to Wee Willie. “You’ll be surprised when I tell you how many people I’ve found so far. Even the Templetons. Did I mention that they have a Wallace Williams on their guest list for the Halloween party?”
“It can’t be that Wallace Williams, can it?” She turned off the fax machine and we started back to the kitchen. “Not at the Templeton’s party.”
“Probably not,” I admitted, “but the way things have been linking up lately, I wouldn’t be too surprised if it is. I’m wondering about Sharon Stewart too. Pete said the Stewarts are a nice older couple.”
“Really? One of the women in my Zumba class lives on Dearborn Street. Maybe she knows them. I could text her.” She looked at the kitchen clock. Nine-thirty. “I don’t think it’s too late.” She didn’t wait for me to agree, just pulled out her phone and those flying fingers tapped in a fast message.
“What did you ask her about them?” I wondered. “Just if she knows them?”
“That . . . and if she does, what does she know about them.”
“You are a snoop!”
“I know. It’s such fun. Decaf and snickerdoodles?” She gestured toward the coffeepot.
“Absolutely.”
I’d just added French vanilla creamer to my coffee when my aunt’s phone buzzed. “Hello, Hazel,” she said. “Hope I didn’t call too late.” That was followed by a couple of “Uh-huhs,” at least one “no kidding,” and finally a “thanks so much, Hazel. See you in class.” She turned to face me. “Guess you can put Sharon on your chart all right, but you’d better write her in as Sharon Laraby Stewart.”
“Sharon Laraby Stewart,” I repeated. “Larry Laraby’s daughter. The books on the floor up in the stacks and the books on the floor at the Stewart’s house and the books on the floor in Larry Laraby’s study must be the same books. At least some of them.”
“Must be,” she agreed. “Want to call Pete?”
“I’ll do it this time,” I said, reaching for my phone. “I’ll just text him three words.”
She nodded. “Sharon Laraby Stewart.”
“Right.” I tapped in the text. “Now about those cookies. . .”
Chapter 20
Later, when I climbed the twisty back stairs to my apartment, it was with a feeling of achievement. My aunt and I had done a good job with our methodical approach to sorting out the question of the books in section seven-ninety of the stacks. The discovery of Sharon Stewart’s link to Wee Willie was frosting on the cake. Never mind that Pete and the police would have figured it all out anyway. Just as I liked being first with breaking news, I liked being first with this.
O’Ryan had followed me upstairs and had already staked out his spot at the foot of my bed. He turned around three times, then, with eyes closed, plunked himself down on the cushy blue quilt. It was nearly time for the late news. Carrying my phone with me to the bathroom so I wouldn’t miss Pete’s call, I showered and donned Donald Duck–print pajamas, turned on the bedroom TV, and joined the cat on the bed. The station’s popular night news anchor Buck Covington led with a story about estimated repairs on Boston’s beautiful gold-domed Massachusetts State House, followed by an update on the murder in the library. Yes, they were calling it murder. Howard Templeton had scored a brief statement from the medical examiner’s office verifying “foul play” in Wee Willie’s death. Covington followed it up with a reedited version of my most recent standup in front of the library along with one of Marty’s brilliantly constructed retrospectives of Wee Willie’s life from sports hero to ex-con. I relaxed against the pillows. Good job all around.
River North’s Tarot Time show would follow the news and I was still wide awake. I’d already seen the promos for the night’s scary movie. During October River featured appropriately witchy topics and tonight’s offering was Practical Magic. I remembered the 1995 hit starring Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock as witch sisters—I’d shown it myself on my Nightshades show. Good movie. I didn’t mind watching it again, but I especially wanted to see River’s tarot-card-of-the-day segment. Would it hold a message for me the way the Wheel of Fortune card had? I could hardly wait.
Sometimes Buck Covington stays around and makes a brief appearance on Tarot Time. Much of the audience has figured out t
hat River and Buck are “an item” and they seem to look forward to Buck showing up on set to shuffle the deck of cards or to read the first commercial. River was ethereally gorgeous in silver and lavender with her trademark silver stars and moons woven into her hair. Buck, with his perfect movie-star features, was a fitting companion for her. Together they made one of those “beautiful couples” we never get tired of looking at, like David Beckham and Posh Spice or Prince Harry and Meghan.
River asked Buck to draw the special card for the night’s extra explanation. He drew the King of Wands. I was somewhat familiar with the card. It’s rarely shown up in any of the readings River has done for me, but I recognized it immediately when the camera moved in for a close-up. I’d always been fascinated, not so much by the kingly image, but by the little lizard that sits beside him.
“The King of Wands,” River began, “wears exquisite royal robes and a long, flowing mantle. Lions and salamanders adorn the pillar behind him.” Salamanders, huh? They remind me of the little lizards I saw every day in Florida. “The salamanders, including the live one in the foreground, signify fire,” River continued. “Wands represent the scepter of the King and also can be read as the magician’s wand of power. This particular magician’s rod can conjure the elemental forces and use them for either spiritual or material gain.” She tapped the card with her forefinger. “Sometimes this card can indicate an unexpected inheritance.” She smiled. “Good news for somebody. But, be careful if the card is reversed.” She spun the card so that the King was upside-down. “It might indicate a man with high principles who can sometimes be intolerant of others.”
River replaced the King in the deck and Buck reshuffled the cards. He was getting very good at it, showing a bit of Vegas-like flair. River delivered a commercial for Harbor Sweets while Buck waved a reluctant goodbye and left the set. I tried to make the King of Wands message relate to me somehow the way the Wheel of Fortune card had, but other than the brief reference to a magician’s wand—when I was looking for a magician for Buffy’s party—there didn’t seem to be anything at all in it for me.
Why should there be? It’s just a TV show!
I plumped up the pillows and leaned back to watch the two witch sisters try to find a way around a curse that prevents them from finding everlasting love.
Everlasting love. Is there such a thing? I think so. Even though Johnny is gone, I don’t think my love for him has to ever die. And my love for Pete? That’s alive and well and growing, and that’s a beautiful thing. I’d put the phone on the bedside table and I looked over at it, willing it to ring. I was excited about our Sharon Laraby Stewart discovery and wanted to hear what Pete had to say about this latest Wee Willie connection.
O’Ryan had left his foot-of-the-bed position where he was probably faking sleep anyway, and now rested on my lap, unblinking golden eyes focused on my face. Disconcerting. “Stop watching me,” I told him. “Watch the movie. There’s a cat in it.” He did a little two-front-paw flex, which may be the cat equivalent of a shrug, and faced not the TV but the phone—which, of course, promptly rang.
“Hi, babe, sorry to call so late, but I promised.”
“Not too late at all,” I said. “O’Ryan and I are dying to hear what you’ve found out about the North Salem Stewarts and the Larry Laraby connection to what’s going on.”
“O’Ryan is interested too?” A smile was in his voice.
“Very. Sharon is Laraby’s daughter. Is that right? And she had some of his old sports books, which she donated to the library? Is that what happened?”
He laughed. “Slow down, Nancy Drew. You’re going too fast for me. Yes. Sharon Laraby is Larry Laraby’s daughter. She did donate more than fifty books that may have belonged to her father to the library, but she’d only recently acquired them herself.”
“Recently?” By this time O’Ryan had his head on my shoulder, listening intently. “But Larry died more than thirty years ago! Where have they been all this time?”
“Think about it. His widow, Annie Laraby, inherited his entire estate. She died in Florida two months ago, leaving everything to her two children. Sharon Stewart’s half included the books.”
“So the books—or rather whatever Wee Willie was looking for in the books—-was in Florida all this time?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly how?”
“Storage locker in Peabody. Books and other stuff have been neatly stored in air-conditioned comfort in a storage locker ever since Mrs. Laraby moved to Florida to live close to her oldest son in Palm Beach about six months after her husband died.”
I’ve had some experience with storage lockers myself. The beautiful antique carousel horse who adorns my living room bay window was rescued from one. “Was Sharon paying for the storage all this time?”
“Nope. Mrs. Laraby’s bank made the monthly payments and Sharon inherited that responsibility too. She chose to empty the locker and dispose of the contents herself.”
“So somehow, Wee Willie and whoever killed him figured out where the books had gone.”
“Apparently.” Do I hear cop voice creeping in? Is this all the information he’s going to share?
I pushed my luck. “Do we know yet what the heck they were looking for? Do we know if they found it?”
The smiley voice came back. “Where did that ‘we’ come from?”
“Come on, Pete. I’ll bet you didn’t know about Sharon being a Laraby until Aunt Ibby found out about her.”
“Okay. You’ve got me. I called Mrs. Stewart as soon as I got your text. She filled us in on quite a few things. We’ve lined up a couple of people to talk to about what it might be that Willie was after. I can’t name names though. You understand.”
“Sure I do. Listen, this might not mean anything, but the guest list for Buffy Doan’s Halloween party has a Wallace Williams on it. It’s probably just a coincidence, but I wrote it down along with the address. Want it?”
“Sure. It’s a fairly common name, but I’ll check it out.”
I retrieved my notebook and read off the name and post office box. “So in exchange, how about one little hint—without naming names of course?”
“We plan to talk to some folks who worked with Laraby on his collectible shows.” He spoke hesitantly. I understood the hesitation. He is, after all, really a police detective. And I am not, after all, really Nancy Drew. But he had given me the hint I was after. Aunt Ibby and I will begin researching sports collectibles—and collectors—starting tomorrow!
That flowchart just keeps growing.
Chapter 21
I don’t usually work on Sundays, but with my shortened hours it seemed like a good option. I woke up in the morning with a mental to-do list buzzing around in my head. The job must come first, of course. Start rounding up those old-time WICH-TV performers for the station anniversary wingding. Next, the boss’s wife’s Halloween party. Find a magician for Buffy. Preferably Professor Mercury. If he’s moved away or died, get the Fabulous Fabio instead. Next, and truly uppermost in my mind, tell Aunt Ibby about the sports collectible shows connections Pete had mentioned.
It promises to be an interesting day.
Maybe with a little luck, I’d even get to do a field report or two. I decided to grab coffee and a bite of something downstairs with Aunt Ibby while I caught her up on the Laraby situation. Then I’d head for the station and do as much as I could there about both celebrations—Halloween eve and the station anniversary. That way, I’d be available if anything good turned up that hadn’t already been handed over to the Templeton heir. And what about the Templetons? Maybe I could do a little digging about their possible connection with Willie.
I showered, dried my hair, and dressed quickly in jeans and black turtleneck sweater. I tossed a denim jacket over my shoulders. Chose the big leather Jacki Easlick hobo bag again because it holds a ton of stuff and still looks great. Did eyes and lip gloss—if any TV face time was going to be involved during the day Rhonda could do the ne
cessary makeup. Kit-Cat clock showed eight-thirty. “Come on, O’Ryan,” I said, opening the door to the upstairs hall. “Pretty slim pickin’s for breakfast here. Let’s go downstairs.”
O’Ryan didn’t need a second invitation. Like a stripy yellow streak he zipped down two flights of stairs and disappeared into my aunt’s living room before I’d even reached the second floor. Aunt Ibby welcomed us warmly as always. Because O’Ryan’s early arrival had announced my imminent approach, she’d already filled my cup with coffee and placed a hot baking powder biscuit on a plate along with a tiny ramekin of homemade strawberry jam.
This day was off to a good start.
I didn’t lose any time in catching my aunt up on the little bit—crumbs, really—of information Pete had been able to share. I knew that just the words “collectibles” and “collectible shows” would be enough to put her professional research librarian’s mind into gear. I was sure that it wouldn’t take long for her to start cooking up something worthwhile from those crumbs.
It took less time than I’d thought. I was still sipping my first cup of coffee and had just carefully pulled my biscuit apart into fluffy layers when she leaned back in her chair and smiled.
“Wee Willie,” she said. “Remember the team-signed baseball?”
I searched my memory. “Uh, no.”
“The kinescope of the Larry Laraby show that Phil Archer showed on your first interview. Wee Willie gave Laraby a team-signed ball. For his collection.”
“I see,” I said, remembering the grainy film, and saw where she was going with this line of thinking. “Laraby was a sports memorabilia collector as well as a broadcaster—and later a collectibles show promoter!”
“Exactly. And if that film was from the early seventies, I’ll bet that ball was worth something. Was his collection in that storage locker too?” Aunt Ibby wondered.
“Beats me,” I said. “But now that you mention it, I wonder what else Wee Willie’s big-name contacts signed for Larry’s collection.” I thought once again about the four book-reading symbols on the Wheel of Fortune tarot card, and repeated to my aunt Old Eddie’s story of Wee Willie bringing real sports personalities right into the station.
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