Midsummer Night's Mischief

by Jennifer D. Hesse

  “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.

  If only the Folio would just reappear.

  “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.

  Meet me @ the Loose in 10?

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

  Be there in 15.

  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.

  Make it the Cozy Café instead.

  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.

  Farrah came in just as I got back to the table. “I already ordered. Sorry,” I said. “I was starving.”

  “You okay?” she said, taking the seat opposite me. Then, to the waitress, she said, “I’ll just have an iced tea. Thanks.”

  I leaned forward, propped my elbows on the table, and began rubbing my forehead. “I’ve had better days,” I said. I filled her in on the scene with Darlene. “I just came from seeing the appraiser dude. He told me he didn’t think Eleanor had insured the book yet.”

  “Well, that’s not your fault, of course,” said Farrah, defending me at once. “All you were hired to do was draw up a will, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And I was going to represent her in the sale of the thing, too. And I was looking out for her interests.” I remembered Darlene’s accusations and felt my face getting hot again. “I advised Eleanor to take the Folio to the bank. And I would have told her to have it insured . . .” I trailed off and shook my head.

  Farrah reached over and patted my hand. “I’m sorry she died, sweetie. And it really sucks that somebody stole her Shakespeare book. I mean, who would do that? Who even knew where it was?”

  The waitress, a college student with short strawberry-blond hair and a tiny nose ring, arrived with my food and Farrah’s tea.

  Addressing the waitress, I said, “Do you happen to know Wes Callahan?”

  She tilted her head, nose ring flashing in the sunlight. “Wes Callahan,” she repeated. “I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “I thought he might have come in here a little while ago. Was there a good-looking guy here? About six feet, dark hair, blue T-shirt. Tattoo around his arm.”

  “Not lately,” said the waitress. “I think I would’ve noticed. Too bad, though. Sounds nice.”

  After she left, Farrah looked at me accusingly. “Is that why we’re here? You’re stalking Rock Star now?”

  I bit into my burger and shook my he
ad. Farrah snatched a fry from my plate and waited for me to answer.

  “I saw him in the alley behind here,” I said, then took a sip of water. “I just thought it might be nice to run into him, you know? We’ve hung out, briefly, only a couple of times. But each time, I’ve felt like there could be something there.”

  “Oh, there’s something there, all right,” said Farrah, nodding. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

  I laughed shortly, then frowned again. “Well, there’s not going to be much of a chance for anything if he blames me like his mom does.” I heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I just wish that book would turn up.”

  “Turn up?” echoed Farrah. “That’s not likely, is it? It could be anyplace, right? I mean, like, in a million possible hiding places from here to Belarus.”

  “Yeah, but wait,” I said, leaning forward. “I’ve been thinking about this. There may be a million possible hiding places, but there aren’t a million possible suspects. Not very many people knew about the book.”

  Farrah raised one eyebrow. “Go on,” she said. “What are you getting at?”

  “Eleanor had the book for only five days. Five days. And it’s not like she went to the press or anything. She told very few people, I’m pretty sure. Let’s see.” I raised my thumb as I started counting. “There’s her family, of course. And the book dealer, this T.C. character I just met. And me. And, well, my law office knew about it.”

  “Okay,” said Farrah. “What about friends? Neighbors? Acquaintances?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t think she was spreading it around that much. I don’t remember hearing anyone talking about it at the memorial service. I kind of think she was keeping it as a surprise for her friends.”

  “Hmm,” said Farrah thoughtfully. “I suppose we know she didn’t tell her banker or insurance agent, because she didn’t lock it up or insure it.”

  “Right.” I winced. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Sorry,” said Farrah. “But, you know, you may be right about the short list of suspects. Too bad you can’t talk to her daughter about who else knew about the book. What about the cousin you were telling me about? Sharon?”

  I shrugged. “I’m really not sure where I stand with the rest of the family. But I’ve got to assume they’re all about as happy as Darlene. Honestly, I’m not in such a big rush to talk to her again.”

  “Okay,” said Farrah, stirring her tea with a straw. “So, do we know when exactly the Folio was taken? You said the family called the police yesterday?”

  “Yeah. But here’s the thing. Darlene remembered seeing it before the visitation, at around four o’clock or so. And then, afterward, she noticed it wasn’t where she had seen it before. That was around eight thirty, I think. The family was heading someplace for a late potluck dinner or something.”

  “So the robbery occurred during the visitation?”

  “It looks that way,” I agreed.

  “Unless Darlene was lying,” said Farrah. “She may have conveniently manufactured her own alibi.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I mean, anything is possible, but I’d bet my next paycheck she was being sincere. If I were a betting woman, that is.”

  “Okay. Then does that mean the whole family is off the hook? Weren’t they all at the visitation?”

  I pondered these questions. “I’ll have to make a list of all the family members who were in town. I believe Eleanor’s will names all of them. I don’t know if it’s possible to get ahold of the guest book from the funeral home. I imagine Darlene has that. Anyway, it wouldn’t really prove anything. People were coming and going throughout the whole thing.” I stared out the café window as I recalled all the people I’d met and observed at the visitation. And the ones I hadn’t seen.

  “What is it?” said Farrah, reading my thoughts.

  “There were two family members who left early. And from what Eleanor told me, they were among the first to see the Folio after she found it.”

  “Who?”

  “Darlene’s sons. Wes and Rob.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning, when I arrived at my office, I was surprised to find a bouquet of pink and purple roses in the middle of my desk. No card. Puzzled, I lifted the flowers to my face, closed my eyes, and inhaled the heavenly sweet scent. I didn’t know who had left the gift, but I was cheered by it. I took it as a sign that this day wasn’t going to be as bad as I thought.

  I walked up to the reception area to see about a vase. Julie was already pulling a large mason jar out from under her desk as I approached. She handed it to me with a pleased expression. “You have a secret admirer,” she said teasingly.

  “Did you see who brought them in?” I asked. “And was he dark-haired, well built, and sexy-scruffy?” I wanted to ask.

  “Well . . .” She shrugged, with a sly grin. “Some people might call him a brownnoser, but I’d call him supersweet.” She tilted her head toward the hall and rolled her eyes toward Jeremy’s office.

  All morning I kept looking for an opportunity to catch Jeremy alone, but it never happened. Between that and worrying about Darlene and the Folio, I was finding it hard to concentrate on work. But I did manage to photocopy the pages from Eleanor’s will that listed all her living relatives. I put a line through the ones I knew weren’t in town Saturday evening, based on what Sharon had told me. After hesitating for a second, I went ahead and put a line through Darlene’s and Sharon’s names, too. I started to cross out Kirk’s name, as well, assuming that both of Eleanor’s children would surely have been at the visitation the whole time. But then I remembered he had come in from outside while I was talking with Darlene. Better hold off on ruling him out.

  I finally had a chance to see Jeremy that afternoon at the in-house seminar the partners had arranged. As all the attorneys gathered around the long table in the conference room, I snagged the empty spot next to Jeremy. He glanced at me and winked. While Crenshaw set up his PowerPoint presentation and began introducing himself—as if we didn’t all already know everything we wanted to know about him—I opened my notebook and wrote the words Thank you on the first line. I slid the notebook in front of Jeremy, and he looked down at it. I was watching him, expecting to get another wink. Instead, he leaned over to whisper in my ear.

  “You had a rough day yesterday, with that bitch screaming at you and everything. I thought you could use some cheering up.”

  Okay, now I was confused. The flowers had nothing to do with the other night? These weren’t “I’m sorry I made a drunken fool of myself and created a totally awkward work situation” flowers?

  Before I had time to analyze it, a couple of latecomers squeezed in at the table, causing Jeremy to move his chair closer to mine. Then the lights dimmed and the presentation began.

  Five minutes later I nearly jumped out of my seat when I felt Jeremy’s knee touching mine under the table. What the holy hell?

  I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the screen and noticed in my peripheral vision that Jeremy seemed to be watching the screen, too. Then he started taking notes, as casual as can be. I waited for him to move over, and he did, all right—even closer. Our thighs were touching now.

  Okay, I reasoned to myself. This is probably just that guy thing, where they gotta spread out and let their boys have some breathing room. Right? As oblivious as Jeremy often was, he probably wasn’t even aware he was encroaching on my space.

  I was so irritated with myself for not moving away. Even worse, I was sort of liking it. Damn. Damn. Damn. Here I was, touching the Untouchable. I really needed to get myself a boyfriend.

  The second the presentation ended, I scooted my chair back and darted out of the room. I was nearly to my office when I was stopped by a sharp voice behind me.

  “Keli! Could I see you in my office, please?”

  Oh. Shit. How could she have seen what happened under the table? Was it that obvious? Burning with embarrassment, I turned to see Beverly a
lready walking away, expecting that I would follow her.

  We passed through her cozy lounge and went directly into her spotless office. The mahogany desk gleamed under orderly stacks of legal documents. Souvenirs from her travels decorated the room, including a large African mask, which now seemed to stare reproachfully down at me. Judging me.

  Beverly took her seat behind the desk, and I sat down in one of the client chairs facing her. She regarded me over red-framed bifocals.

  “Keli, you didn’t tell me you had a visit from Darlene Callahan yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Of course. “Well, there wasn’t much to tell.”

  “That’s not the way I hear it,” Beverly said. “A number of your colleagues informed me that Ms. Callahan was quite upset.”

  “She was upset, understandably. She just lost her mother and then the Folio. And, unfortunately, her mother passed away before having the Folio insured.” I tried to keep my voice steady. If I didn’t make a big deal over this, maybe Beverly would let it go.

  “Yes,” said Beverly. “These are unfortunate circumstances. Also unfortunate is the fact that another client overheard your exchange with Ms. Callahan.”

  I cringed. “I am so sorry, Beverly. I should have closed my office door.”

  “That might have been a wise idea. However, it wouldn’t have solved this problem. The fact is, not only is Ms. Callahan upset, but it also sounds like she blames you.”

  “Beverly—” I began, but she held up her hand, cutting off any excuse I might offer.

  “You need to get a handle on this, Keli. You need to undertake major damage control. Fix things with the family.”

  “I know Darlene’s son,” I offered. “Maybe if I talked to him . . .”

  “If you think that might make a difference, then by all means talk to him. The sooner the better.”