Midsummer Night's Mischief

by Jennifer D. Hesse

  I glanced at the clock behind Beverly’s desk. It was only 3:50 p.m.

  “Go ahead,” said Beverly, looking grim. “Go home early if you need to. Just nip this in the bud.”

  I walked home quickly, the scene in Beverly’s office looping in my mind. She might not have reprimanded me, not officially, but I still felt scolded. I hadn’t felt this way since my parents chewed me out in the ninth grade for skipping school. It was not a good feeling.

  I let myself in, dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight for the living room couch. After flopping down on my back, I stretched out and closed my eyes. Breathe, I commanded myself. My house was so quiet, I could hear the clock ticking in the small guest room I used as an overflow closet. Maybe I should adopt a cat, I thought halfheartedly. I longed to call Farrah, but I didn’t want to bother her at work.

  What should I do? After a couple more long breaths, I sat up and rubbed my temples. Then I reached for my laptop on the coffee table, propped it on my knees, and started typing. Wesley Callahan, Edindale. Bingo. He had a Facebook page, and, damn, what a cute picture. I stared for a second, then shook my head and clicked. Private. It figured. Did I want to send a friend request? Um . . . maybe later.

  I searched the other Callahans and found an address and a phone number for Darlene. I wasn’t about to call her. I also found an address, but no phone number, for Wes’s brother, Rob. I recognized the address, an apartment complex called Woodbine Village. As I recalled from one or two parties I’d attended during law school, it was occupied mainly by older university students. It was in a woodsy area near the campus lake. The rail trail passed behind the place.

  But forget Rob. Wes was the guy I really wanted to see. Might as well return to the place where I’d found him twice before. I took about ten minutes to freshen up, trade my trousers for skinny denim capris, and remove my blazer. The black cami would do. Then I ran a brush through my hair, slipped on some cute beaded sandals, and walked out to find my silver-blue Fusion where I’d left it parked on the street.

  It was just past five o’clock when I arrived at the Loose Rock, and happy hour was already well under way. I went straight to the bar, hoping to get lucky again, but Wes was nowhere to be seen. I would have chatted up the bartender, Gary, but he was clearly too busy to talk. Instead, I walked toward the back and peeked through the kitchen door to look for Jimi. No sign of him there, so I went around to a door marked PRIVATE and rapped loudly. A couple of seconds passed, and the door swung open. Jimi wore a scowl, which he promptly dropped when he saw me.

  “Oh. Hey, Keli. What’s the matter?”

  “Hi, Jimi. Nothing’s the matter. I was actually looking for Wes. Have you seen him?”

  “He’s not here. Sorry.”

  Okay, this was really awkward, but I had to do it. Swallowing my pride, I pressed on. “Could you give me his number? I really need to talk to him.”

  Jimi hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” He pulled out his phone. “Ready?”

  I took my phone from my purse and entered the number as Jimi read it. It had a 212 area code, which made me wonder if Wes would eventually be going back to New York.

  “Thanks a bunch,” I said. Then, as an afterthought, casual as can be, I added, “Hey, so where is Wes staying, anyway? Not with his parents, right?”

  “Uh, no.” Jimi looked away, stroked his goatee, and glanced at the floor.

  What’s with the evasive maneuvers? I wondered.

  He shrugged again. “He’s staying with some friends or something, I think. Look, Keli, I gotta finish up with inventory and check on things in the kitchen. See you later, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.” I said it to myself, as he had already closed the door. Strange.

  But I didn’t waste any time worrying about Jimi. I hurried out to my car, where I could sit quietly and call Wes. Nervously, I punched in the number and waited. Two rings, three rings, four.

  “Hi. This is Wes. Can’t take your call right now. Leave me a message and I’ll catch up with ya later.” Beep.

  With my heart in my throat—What was I? Twelve years old?—I left a message. “Hi, Wes. This is Keli Milanni. Give me a call when you get a chance. I’m calling from my cell. Um, I know your mom is upset with me. And, uh, I was hoping I could talk to you. Bye.”

  Ugh. I felt like such a dork. I immediately called Farrah, but she didn’t pick up, either. So I started driving, no clear destination in mind. Sitting at a stoplight, I absentmindedly fingered the charm Mila had given me, which now dangled from my keychain. When the light changed, I turned left and soon found myself heading toward Woodbine Village. It seemed doubtful that Wes would be staying with his brother, considering the chilly relationship they seemed to have. Still, maybe I would learn something from Rob.

  From the outside, number 103 looked like a lot of the other apartments. Except this stoop had a lawn chair instead of potted flowers. The worn welcome mat looked like an artifact from the 1970s, and the black handrail suffered from rusty measles. A crushed beer can lay forlornly on the ground by the steps. Classy.

  On the other hand, the trees surrounding the complex were mature and beautiful. Before knocking on the door, I fixed my gaze on the leafy branches and took a deep, centering breath. Now I was ready for whatever reception I might get from this Callahan son.

  Rob opened the door as I raised my arm to knock a second time. For a moment I felt a little flustered, as I took in how cute he looked, standing there barefoot, in gym shorts and a fresh white T-shirt. His sandy hair was damp, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.

  “Hi,” I said brightly, recovering myself. “Rob, I’m sorry to drop in unannounced like this. I’m Keli Milanni. We met at your grandmother’s house on Sunday.”

  “Sure. I remember,” he said. Was that an amused look in those crinkly blue eyes? “You’re the lawyer, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

  “Uh . . .” He paused, looked over his shoulder, then ushered me in. “Sure. Uh, don’t mind the mess. I’m barely home long enough to clean.” Moving quickly, he cleared off a fuzzy brown armchair, tossing a stack of newspapers to the floor and wadding up a wrinkled shirt, which he then lobbed into an open doorway around the corner. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying my best not to look at the crumpled tissue lying on the floor by my feet. “Is this a bad time?”

  Still dashing around the room, Rob gathered an armful of empty cans and tossed them noisily into a kitchen trash can. He spoke to me through an opening under some cabinets built over a countertop bar that divided the living room from the kitchen. “No, it’s fine. I just got home from the gym a little bit ago. I worked just a half day today. The job was slow. Want a beer?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. Might as well be sociable. “What kind of work do you do?”

  Rob came around the bar with two cans of beer. He handed me one, then sat on the couch and popped open the other. “I’m a CPA,” he said. “I work for Boone, the tax preparation service. It’s pretty seasonal, as you can imagine.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, nodding my head. I took a sip, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Now that I was here, I had no idea what to say. And Rob, with that disconcerting twinkle in his eyes, stared at me, not making this any easier.

  I cleared my throat and tried for honesty. “So, Rob, I feel really bad about the Folio being stolen. Your mom came to see me yesterday, and she seemed really upset.”

  Rob looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Then he nodded his head slowly, so I went on.

  “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?”r />
  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 morning—like “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 some—or if Perry Mason were here, ha-ha—I’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 no
t 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 just—”

  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, but—”

  “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.”