The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery)

by Victoria Abbott

  “It wasn’t. Some people thought it might have been Muriel, but it turned out she had an airtight alibi.” I could have sworn that Mindy was more than a bit disappointed in that airtight alibi.

  “Oh. Interesting. And what was that alibi?”

  “We never found out. There was never anything in the papers. We heard that she was with a credible witness. Tom knew someone on the Grandville police force and that’s all he would tell us about the crime. But the investigators believed Muriel and the witness.”

  * * *

  IT WAS AFTERNOON before Kev called, worrying about “the kitties.” I had to reassure him before I could get the information I needed.

  “Kev. The guys with the truck. You said there were a couple of guys.” I whipped out my notebook on the off chance that Kev might come up with something useful.

  “Just a couple of guys, Jordie.”

  “Close your eyes and think. Were they young?”

  I imagined Kev closing his eyes and scrunching up his handsome face. “The young one was.”

  Of course, this wasn’t going to be easy. “One was young?”

  “Yes, Jordan. The young one.”

  I put down the notebook to massage my temple. “How young?”

  Kev would be adding a shrug to the scrunching. “Twenties maybe.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “The usual.”

  I kept calm. “And that was?”

  “Jeans, work boots, gray hoodie, over a T-shirt.”

  “Okay. Anything special about them?”

  “No, just what you’d expect.”

  Be cool, I told myself. “And what would you expect?”

  “Bit of mud on the boots, same with the jeans.”

  “Any logos?”

  “Oh yeah. Metallica on the T-shirt. The hoodie was open. And he had a plaid jacket over it.”

  “Was the hood of the hoodie up?”

  “No.”

  “Wonderful. And what color was his hair?”

  “You know, that nothing color of brown.” Kev’s hands would be heading up to stroke his own splendid Kelly ginger hair.

  “Light brown?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Long? Short?”

  “Almost not there.”

  “You mean bald?”

  “The ways some of the young guys buzz their heads. His was due for a fresh buzz, but what was there was kind of brown.”

  I wrote down kind of brown buzz.

  “Tall or short?”

  “Depends on what you mean by tall or short.”

  Not to be hindered, I said, “Was he taller than you? Close your eyes and think about it.”

  “He was. I’m five ten, so maybe six feet.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. Now, about the other guy.”

  “The other guy?”

  I imagined Kev thinking hard with his eyes closed and his mouth open, looking quite deranged.

  “Uh-huh. The older one. Listen to me,” I said, to stop the next foolish question. “Let’s talk about him.”

  “Okay, you don’t have to be mean, Jordie.”

  “What was he wearing? Try to picture him.”

  “Let’s see, he was wearing, jeans.”

  “And?”

  “Work boots.”

  “Muddy?”

  “Yeah they were, now that you mention it. The signora made them take off their boots when they got to the door. Vera didn’t say anything, but they did what the signora asked. Muriel was really cheesed off about it.”

  “Good to know.”

  “The kid had on gray work socks and the older guy had red ones.”

  I was pretty sure the socks wouldn’t help us much to identify the driver of the red truck and his helper, but I didn’t want to make Kev nervous. He was bad enough when he wasn’t. “Okay, and what else was the older guy wearing?”

  “Plaid work jacket over a hoodie. T-shirt underneath.”

  “Same rock group?”

  “Nah, this was an old band, Steve Miller.”

  “All right then. And how old do you think the older guy was?”

  “Maybe fifties. I thought he might have been the dad.”

  “Hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Color? Style?”

  “Hard to tell. He was wearing a baseball cap. Wait. It had a logo.”

  “Great. What logo?”

  “Didn’t mean anything to me. Some letters. L-S-W maybe. Or S-W-L. Or . . .”

  “Keep imagining that and maybe the image will come back to you. So you couldn’t see any hair?”

  “A bit curling around his ears. He had curly hair. Gray. Look at that. I’m pretty good at identifying suspects.”

  “Amazing, Kev. Now was he tall?”

  “No. He was shorter and stocky. Maybe five seven or eight. Muriel towered over him. He was built like a fire plug.”

  “Who was driving the truck?

  He’d be back to face scrunching. “You know what?”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what, Kev.”

  “It was the young guy. He was driving.”

  “Very good. Now think about the truck.”

  “The green truck?”

  I had a pretty good idea why Kev had had so much trouble in school. “Yes, the green truck.”

  “What about it?”

  “What size was it?”

  “It was a big pickup.”

  “Big how?”

  “Big cab, would seat four, I guess.”

  “So it wasn’t a cube truck?”

  “No. It had a cab on it and a cover.”

  “Is that where the trunks and boxes were?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was there lettering on it?”

  “I think there was.”

  “We’re getting somewhere. What did the lettering say?”

  “Same as the hats.”

  I had already written down L-S-W and S-W-L in the hat description. I drew an arrow from that to the truck info.

  “In my limited experience, I’ve found that movers usually have cube trucks or vans, not pickup trucks. Did they look like movers to you, Kev?”

  “No.”

  “And try to remember the company name of the moving truck.”

  “I don’t think it had one.”

  I didn’t want to insist that it had, as it would just make Kev worse. “The initials, Kev. Try to remember what they were.”

  “Just a jumble, Jordie. Sorry. Can I open my eyes now?”

  “Okay, Kev. Open your eyes and tell me one more thing.”

  “Sure, Jordie.”

  “Do you have any trouble telling red from green?”

  “Well, I think everybody does.”

  I sighed. “No. Everybody doesn’t. So is there a chance that the truck that delivered Muriel was actually red?”

  I waited through the long pause before Kev said, “There might be a chance.”

  Better late than never. I said, “Okay, Kev. I’m looking for a red truck. And if you get a flash of any kind of memory about the letters on it, you have to let me know.”

  “I will. Absolutely. You know me, Jordie. You can always count on yer Uncle Kev.”

  Right.

  * * *

  IT WAS PAST five o’clock and Sullivan’s was dark and gloomy. Although no one had been smoking there for years, the miasma of old cigarettes still clung to the walls and the worn seating. The tired-looking man behind the bar was polishing glasses. I didn’t hold out much hope for the results from that particular cloth. He seemed to be keeping a sharp eye out on the place.

  The clientele was mixed. I spotted hardly any women. A couple of guys in suits sat at one of the wooden tables, heads
bent almost together in intense, whispered conversation, but mostly there were working men. Farmers, construction guys, factory workers. I listened to the occasional bellow of laughter and slap on the back. With the exception of mine, most eyes focused on the massive flat screens mounted at each end of the bar. A faraway game of football was somehow fascinating.

  There wasn’t much to like or admire about the place, although I had spotted a fantastic vintage jukebox off to the side that I would have killed to own. However, I had to stay put and keep an eye out for the guys from the truck. I wore an army cap, baggy wool pants and a Penguins jersey. It was a sacrifice that I’d had to make. My pal Archie had to don disguises from time to time, like the time he dressed as a funeral director in The Golden Spiders. He kept his sense of humor and so would I. After all, I was as incognito as I could get and I hadn’t had to dress as a funeral director. My job was to sit, watch and fade into the grimy woodwork.

  Of course, no one was looking at me because any eyes that could still focus and were willing to stray from the blaring television screens were on my companion. Cherie was way beyond splendid in skinny jeans that had that sprayed-on look. They were tucked into a pair of over-the-knee black leather boots. Her blond hair was a wild tangle of curls, her eyeliner dramatic and black, her lips glossy and smiling. Her cleavage kept trying to escape from her sparkly top.

  We found a spot in a corner where we each had a back to the wall and a good view of the bar. As mentioned, most of the customers were men, no big surprise. At the end of the bar, an older guy was slumped on his bar stool, his head resting on the surface, his glasses askew. Clusters of guys sat in groups of two, three or four. Voices were raised, laughter loud and maybe just a bit artificial. You could just about smell the testosterone. My friends didn’t know what they were missing.

  I did feel tension in the air. Perhaps the crowd was less relaxed than usual because of Cherie. That girl could shake a place up. On the other hand, I didn’t know what usual was for Sullivan’s and I was glad I didn’t.

  Cherie ordered us club sandwiches, fries and gravy and a pair of Coronas to wash them down with. My idea was that we would sit there in the hope that somehow we’d find out something about the people who’d been in the red truck. By osmosis maybe. We engaged in desultory conversation and did a pretty good job of feigning a total lack of interest in anyone on the premises. Our waitress plunked down the drinks with a sneer at Cherie and a nothing for me. My invisibility was working well.

  Five minutes later, the clubs arrived. Of course, I was starving. However, I was also worried that a bite at Sullivan’s might lead to food poisoning. But the fries were hand-cut, hot, fresh and just salty enough. The club had real chicken. The bacon and the lettuce were crisp. The toast was toasty. It was hard not to wolf it all down in four bites. I managed, but only barely. Cherie kept tossing her hair and ignoring the world. The world was not ignoring her, though.

  From my invisible station, I scanned the crowd. No one there really fit the description that Kev had given me of the two men who’d delivered Muriel’s belongings and who’d probably run me over.

  After a half hour, it seemed like every man in the place had sauntered past, giving Cherie the eye. She managed to seem supremely unaware and at the same time utterly flirtatious. I wondered how she did that.

  I was beginning to give up when Cherie beckoned to the waitress (who had taken quite a dislike to her) and ordered a caramel cheesecake and a piece of lemon meringue pie without consulting me. I wasn’t going to tangle with her about which one I’d get, but luckily both suit me. I got the pie as it turned out.

  Cherie got the cheesecake, a dirty look from the waitress and a lot of lingering glances from the guys in the bar. We made short work of the desserts.

  So far, except for the food, we’d come up empty.

  “What are you so worried about?” she said as I fussed a bit in my seat in the corner booth.

  “Well, it’s not like we can keep coming back until they show up, is it?”

  “Isn’t it? Why not? We’re just a couple of friendly girls who heard the food was good here.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “You betcha. Seconds?”

  What would Archie do? He wouldn’t worry about a silly thing like calories. Live while you can, I decided.

  “Oh sure.”

  Periodically, the door would open and a cluster of new people would arrive or one of the existing groups would depart, stumbling, but always with a backward glance at Cherie.

  Cherie signaled for the waitress and ordered the same thing again with another beer each. I figured we’d switch and compare the desserts. I didn’t think I could manage the dessert and the drink, and the dessert won hands down. It wasn’t the worst way to spend an hour, but I did feel that we had to come up with something concrete soon. Maybe Sullivan’s was going to end up a waste of time. And time was in short supply if we were to help Vera before Muriel plundered her and Van Alst House. Of course, I also had the motive to get my job back. Although a bit more self-serving, it was still a reality for me.

  My jeans were feeling a bit snugger when I finished the second dessert. Cherie still looked the same size, which was amazing as she’d polished off her cheesecake and my beer.

  “I can eat anything and not gain an ounce,” she said.

  “Wait until the signora gets her hooks into you,” I commented.

  “Looking forward to it. Here’s a couple more. Get a look at them.”

  A man in his twenties had arrived, accompanied by a fiftyish fellow who must have been a relative. Perhaps it was his father, because there was a strong resemblance. Both of them were wearing baseball caps with the letters FXR. They both had mud on their work boots. Instead of a hoodie the younger guy wore a Carhartt jacket.

  The younger guy bellied up to the bar and nodded to the bartender. He immediately produced their brew of choice. For sure, they were regulars. He carted the two large foaming glasses to the seat the older man had selected.

  Cherie took this opportunity to stand up and stretch, a vision that would have to be seen to be believed. If there had been a testosterone-o-meter in this particular bar, it would have hit the top range. Cherie sauntered past the newcomers to ask the bartender a question about a certain cocktail. I thought I heard her mention Sex on the Beach, but I really hoped I had imagined that.

  On the way back, the younger, taller man removed his hat, revealing a short buzz cut. We had scored. Our red truck guys were right in front of us. I headed out to the parking lot. I wasn’t worried about anyone noticing me because Cherie was now checking out the jukebox. She had to bend over slightly to do that. I hoped there were no heart attacks following that.

  Toward the back of the parking lot, I located a red pickup truck with the letters FXR. Right. Under that it said: “Landscaping and Snow Removal.” Of course, that explained the mud on the boots.

  The phone number was a help too. I wrote down the name, although I was unlikely to forget it, and added the phone number. There was a black tonneau cover on the bed of the truck, so you couldn’t see the contents. I checked the front of the truck and sure enough found a mud-covered license plate and a dent on the right front side, where it would have struck me. It doesn’t take much to make a dent these days. It wasn’t the only dent by a long shot. I hoped these guys were better landscapers than drivers. All of a sudden, I shivered. Maybe I wasn’t the only person they’d hit.

  Next, I walked around to the back of the truck, where that license plate was also obscured by mud. Apparently that mud thing was a way of life for these two.

  I looked around for something to wipe it off. No luck. But I really wanted to know that plate number, so I took off my jacket and used the lining to wipe the plate. I was glad I was wearing the hokey disguise, as I wouldn’t likely have done that with one of my good jackets. I wrote down the number, shuddered and put the jacket back on.
At least I had some information that might confirm our Muriel connection and something concrete for the police about my hit-and-run.

  After Sullivan’s and this mucky business, I looked forward to a nice shower and then a visit to the cop shop. Of course, my family might disown me for that, but I thought it needed doing.

  A new addition preceded me through the door of Sullivan’s. He looked slightly familiar, but I couldn’t see his face and his overcoat was nice enough but not one I recognized. It did cross my mind that Sullivan’s wasn’t a classy-overcoat kind of joint. Plaid shirts, insulated vests, hunting jackets, yes. Cashmere overcoats, no. As I sidled past the bar, I kept my face turned away. I was able to watch a bit in the mirror as I headed back to my safe corner seat. I couldn’t see the new arrival’s face, but I did get a gander at his shoes. Glossy cordovan tasseled loafers. I may have actually gasped. I covered the gasp with a cough and one of those “Excuse me, it’s just allergies” comments. No one paid attention. Not even Cherie.

  She was still at the jukebox, this time asking for suggestions for the next tune. Someone shouted out “Stairway to Heaven.” Cherie made that selection before sauntering back to join me.

  “And?” she said.

  “I got the plate number.”

  “That’s wicked.”

  “And there’s a dent in the front.”

  “Hey! Look at you go!”

  “I’m betting it’s the truck that hit me and as far as I can tell, these are the same guys that Uncle Kev described, the ones that delivered Muriel’s stuff.”

  “It’s all coming together.” Cherie’s giant baby blues sparkled. “Do you think we should do a citizen’s arrest?”

  “Nope. I think the police need to take care of it. But there may be a bit of a snag on the police side. Give me a minute, will you? And create a bit of a distraction. There’s a cop at the bar and I don’t want to run into him just yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he is going to want to know what we’re doing here in the same bar as these suspects. At least I hope they’re going to be suspects soon enough.”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “No argument on the free country side, but I, as you know, am disguised to look not at all like myself. That will make him very suspicious.”