Will heads in my direction, and we give each other a quick hug. I catch a glimpse of Jamie as he returns to the terrace. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware that he watches Will and me sit down off to the side, away from what’s left of the crowd.
“Did Win hire you?” I ask. Will looks surprised, and I continue, “I saw you two talking over there, so I figured he hired you to work on the case.”
“He brought it up, but I’m pretty busy. I’m here because I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Will’s expression is one of concern. “Ronnie, what were you thinking, poking around the place in the dark while you waited for the police? I thought I taught you better than that.”
“You know me,” I answer, softly rubbing Peachie’s head, “too curious for my own good.”
My private eye friend gestures toward the body. “This man was robbing the place, and he could have had help close by. And who knows, an accomplice could still be out there. Maybe that’s who knocked you out.”
Surprise must register on my face because he shakes his head and sighs. “I heard the chatter on the walkie-talkies.”
The woman in jeans squats down close to the body. She appears to be looking at the intruder’s abdominal area. Her chin-length chestnut-brown hair falls into her face, and she pushes it back. “Who’s the woman with the badge on her belt?”
“That’s Detective Sofia Rossi. She’s in charge of the scene. Let’s stay focused. Once again, you put yourself in harm’s way.” Will brushes a strand of hair from my face, and his eyes convey the affection he still has for me. His eyes are not dark brown like Jamie Gordon’s, but a beautiful blue; Will is a first-class hunk.
“Now start at the beginning, and tell me everything,” he says. And I do, still holding the dog as Peachie’s eyes dart nervously around the scene.
Chapter Five
It’s early Friday morning, still dark outside. I sip my steaming cup of coffee. Warrior, curled up next to me on the rug, quietly snores while I sit cross-legged, leaning against the bottom of an overstuffed chair in my kitchen. I gently scratch the top of his head.
It’s been more than three years since my son Tommy died. My heart aches for him every day, especially when I look at Warrior, who’d been Tommy’s K9 partner. I fought to bring Warrior home after he was too shell-shocked to continue his service, and it’s a comfort to know that Warrior’s sweet face was probably the last thing my son saw.
I lean over and kiss the top of his head and rub his neck. Warrior’s eyes crack open, but a moment later, he’s back asleep.
I switch my focus and scroll online to learn what the local press is reporting about last night’s death at the Watson dinner party. There doesn’t appear to be much on the internet that I don’t already know, having been a witness to most of what happened. I do learn that there will be an autopsy, but so far, the police have not identified the robber. His fingerprints aren’t in the system for any past crimes, so the investigation is ongoing.
It’s strange that this guy chose to break in during Marilyn and Win’s busy fundraiser. Why wouldn’t he pick a better time, when no one was at home? I do come across articles about a burglar who specialized in stealing silver and often broke in while the residents were at home. There was speculation that he got an adrenaline rush from the possibility of being discovered, and maybe it was the same for the thief last night.
I sip my coffee and continue to speculate about that grizzled old burglar with expensive shoes who tried to snatch Marilyn’s diamond necklace. I can still hear his last words before he died—I always said if it’s the last thing I do…
And what was that about a book? How odd.
~~~~~
Warrior sits on the front seat of my Mustang, his canine seat belt holding him firmly in place as I drive along the twisty roads not far from where the Watsons live. In the back seat, Peachie also sits quietly inside a canvas dog carrier that I borrowed from my brother on my way to pick her up at the police station. The carrier is also strapped in with a seat belt. She watches my every move through the windows of the small crate, emitting a steady stream of squeaks, yips, and barks.
Last night, I offered to provide Peachie with a temporary home. And even though Will vouched for me, Detective Rossi turned me down flat and hauled the terrier off to animal control. She wanted to find out ASAP if the “mutt” had an ID chip that could help them identify the dead thief. Animal control confirmed there was no chip and returned the dog to Rossi, saying their kennel and the shelter they use were both full.
After a night at her house of listening to Peach whine and bark, Rossi had her fill of the dog and took me up on my offer. Forget any friendly chit-chat when she called this morning. Just a clipped, “Come get the dog.”
And when I arrived, there was no cheerful good morning, how are you greeting. All I got as I lifted Peachie into my arms was a grouchy command. “Don’t let her out of your sight. That dog is my only lead right now…so don’t screw this up.”
Rossi’s winning personality cannot bring me down. I sing along to Joni Mitchell’s “Free Man in Paris” as my convertible whizzes along the narrow road and its many blind corners. Even though it’s late September, it’s not so chilly that I can’t have the top down and enjoy the scenery.
Suddenly, a low growl comes from the back seat. As we pass a sign that reads Willowbrook Natural Lands Trust Hiking Trails, Peach lets loose barking for what feels like an eternity, but is probably only thirty seconds.
I pull over and look into the carrier. “You okay, girl?” Peachie, now quiet, is stretched out with her head resting on her paws. The terrier looks at me with deep sad eyes. “I wish you could tell me what you’re thinking.” I look around. “Was it an animal that you saw?”
I shift into drive and continue down the road, but I don’t get far. I’m still thinking about Peach barking near the hiking trails sign, and my inner P.I. gets the better of me. I slow down as I approach a small dirt triangle where the road splits for a left or right. I drive around the triangle instead and backtrack. “Peach, you’ve got me curious.”
A mile or so later, the low growl again comes from the carrier, and it picks up volume as we get close to the same spot on the road. Then Peachie shifts into full out barking as I brake at the Willowbrook Natural Lands Trust Hiking Trails sign.
I turn into what appears to be an overgrown, empty parking area, and Peachie goes ballistic. Deep growls next to me tell me that Peachie’s racket in the back seat agitates Warrior, too. His posture stiffens slightly, and I know he’s on alert.
“What is with you two? It’s just an empty parking—” I glimpse the back end of a car. “Hey, what do we have over there?” I drive slowly toward the parked vehicle, tucked in behind a stand of bushes, and stop.
The barking continues. “Peachie, Warrior, quiet. I can’t hear myself think.” Both dogs settle down.
“That’s better.” With the top down, it’s easy to look around the entire parking area. There’s no one here from what I can see, but I’m also on alert. Peachie alternates between whimpering and sharp barking.
I reposition my car so that the front end points toward the road and keep the engine running—just in case I need to make a sudden getaway. I stare closely at the thick brush that surrounds the parking area. You never know who might be lurking nearby.
I unsnap Warrior’s seat belt. “Stay,” I command as I step out, leaving the driver’s door open. On the other side of the car, I reach in to open Peachie’s carrier, snap on her leash, and lift her out of the back seat.
We walk toward a tired-looking old Honda Accord. The Jack Russell makes happy yipping sounds and dances around my feet.
“You seem to know this car.” Together, we circle the vehicle. I photograph the Honda’s license plate and its VIN number, which is visible through the front windshield. I peer inside the other car windows, where there are several boxes and paper bags of books and other stuff surrounding a pile of sweaters. The sweaters have an indentation in the
middle, as if they served as a nest. Warrior, still calmly sitting in the Mustang, stares at us.
“Is it possible that this car belonged to your master?” Peach pees next to a tire and then puts her paws up on its side, as if claiming the vehicle as her own. I pick her up, and we look inside the back windows. She goes nuts when she sees the pile of sweaters in the back, almost wiggling out of my arms to get closer.
I hurry back to the Mustang, despite Peach wanting to stay close to the Honda and tugging on the leash. I call Will to let him know that it looks like I’ve found the robber’s car.
“Why don’t you call the police?” he asks.
“Well, I thought you’d want to see it first, since you may end up investigating for Win Watson—”
“Investigating for Watson is a different matter than checking out a car that may belong to a murder victim. You were right, by the way. The guy was shot before he fell, so at the very least it’s a suspicious death. Anyway, call Detective Rossi.” He pauses and then adds, “And don’t touch anything. I’m tied up at the moment, but I’ll come as soon as I’m finished here.”
~~~~~
“…so you see, it was really Peach who found the car. I was driving along, minding my own business, when she started acting up. So I decided to stop and take a look…” Why do I feel a need to make small talk with this unfriendly woman?
Detective Sofia Rossi glances toward Warrior, holding a slim metal tool. “Do I need to worry about that dog?”
“No. He’s exceptionally well-trained.”
In silence, the cop slowly circles the car, looking inside and out. I stand close by with Peachie in my arms, her leash hanging loosely around my wrist.
“Will should be here soon,” I say.
“And why do I care?” She continues moving around the Honda.
“Well, I guess not,” I answer. “Forget it.”
Rossi uses the slim jim to unlock the driver’s door, and the exact second it opens, Peach squirms from my arms and lunges toward the car, tearing the leash from my wrist. She hops into the vehicle.
“Now, wait a minute,” Rossi hollers as the terrier scurries around the inside of the car, happily yipping away. “Get that dog out of there. It’s ruining the scene.”
As Peachie paces back and forth across the rear seat, I throw open the door and try to make a grab for the leash. But the little dog jumps into the rear footwell between some bags and under the front passenger seat.
“Peachie, what are you doing?” There’s a lot of scurrying and growling. Then the Jack Russell’s hind end pokes out from the front of the driver’s seat, her little tail wagging furiously. It appears the dog is pulling on something.
Detective Rossi tries to grab her, but Peach is too quick and slides back under the driver’s seat. “Damn! I’m going to wring your neck…”
More growling, sniffing, and tugging noises come from the floor under the seat. Squeak! Squeak!
“Peach, what did you find?” I run around to the driver’s side, open the back door, and lean down in the footwell to try to see underneath. It’s too dark.
Peachie dislodges the item, but she’s stuck because the leash is caught on something. So I unclick it, and she jumps onto the sweater-nest on the back seat with something fuzzy in her mouth. She plops down and curls up contentedly with a well-loved toy chipmunk in her mouth.
“Peachie, what is it?” I ask. “Is that your favorite toy?”
Rossi reaches toward the stuffed animal, and the dog snarls ferociously, dropping the toy. Her paws clamp down over it as she snaps at the woman.
Peachie’s mouth immediately grabs the toy chipmunk as the detective jumps back. “Get that annoying excuse for a dog out of here—”
“Don’t you want the stuffed animal—“
“I don’t give a flying-F about that ratty toy,” she shrieks. “Get them both out of here. That mongrel is ruining my scene.”
All the commotion is upsetting Warrior, who barks and jumps out of the car.
“Warrior! It’s okay. Stay,” I command, and he returns to the car. I turn my attention back to the terrier and cautiously reach inside the car toward Peachie. “Come on, girl. I won’t try to take it from you, but it’s time to go back into your house.” I scoop her up, but she wiggles and whines and wants to stay put.
“Let’s go.” I carry her toward the Mustang, and the terrier stares at the Honda, maintaining a death-grip on the toy chipmunk as I scoot her into the carrier.
I look back to see Rossi still glaring at us as Warrior, Peachie, and I drive onto the road.
Chapter Six
I take the dog carrier inside the house as Warrior and Peach dance around my heels. After I place it on the kitchen floor, Peach darts inside the little khaki crate. She dashes right back out and races around the kitchen, her jaws once again clamped on the toy chipmunk.
“Oh, right. Let’s not separate you from that toy.”
I go back outside to bring in a bag of groceries from a quick trip to the supermarket. As I unpack it, my cell rings. I click on the speaker and continue putting things away.
“Hi, Will. Are you at the scene?”
“Yes, and they’re towing away the car with everything in it,” he says.
A fierce growling sound comes from the little dog as Peach dances around Warrior with her toy, taunting the bigger dog.
“What’s that racket?” Will asks.
“Peach! No!” I command, and the terrier stops and looks at me. “In your house! Right now!” The little dog hides behind a large upholstered chair, peeking out defiantly and growling.
“Peach, that’s enough.” I point toward the khaki carrier. We’re at a stand-off, staring at each other. “Peach, now,” I repeat and drop my voice an octave. She looks at me, surprised by my new pitch and trots inside the crate with the chipmunk. Resigned, Warrior lies down, his eyes moving back and forth between the carrier and me.
“What’s going on?” Will asks again.
“That’s just Peachie teasing Warrior with her beat-up toy. Oh, I meant to tell you, when Peachie jumped into the Honda, she dug that old thing out from under the front passenger seat. I haven’t been able to get it from her…when I do, should I take it to the police station.”
“I’m sure that toy is so full of dog slobber that it’s useless. Don’t worry about it.” Will tells me he’s off to meet a client and will not be reachable.
The two dogs play tug-of-war with the terrier’s chipmunk. Their escalating growls cause me to look up from my newspaper and cup of coffee at the kitchen island.
Without letting go, Warrior changes strategy and now stands calmly as Peach dances around his front, tugging on her beloved chipmunk. Maintaining a death grip on the toy, she shakes her head furiously, trying to loosen Warrior’s hold. No such luck.
I head for the mudroom and reach into a drawer where I store dog paraphernalia. I select a squirrel and a duck that are approximately the same size as Peach’s chipmunk.
Back in the kitchen, I hold up the toys. “OK, you two. Take a look at these.”
Warrior and Peach stop tugging to stare at the new prizes I offer. But neither lets go of the chipmunk.
“Warrior, drop it.” He lets go. “Sit.” This time both dogs sit obediently, Peach still hanging on to the old toy.
“Warrior, come.” He does, and I give him the duck, whereupon the German shepherd walks over to his nest and happily curls up with the toy tucked beneath his chin.
I squat down, offering the squirrel in exchange for the chipmunk. Peach eyes the new toy with interest. I toss it into one corner of the kitchen, and the terrier immediately drops the chipmunk in her haste to retrieve the squirrel.
I snatch the old toy, ready to toss it aside in the mud room, when I feel a protrusion from its furry underbelly. I move my thumb over it. It’s long, kind of snake-like.
I flip it over. “What do we have here? Peach, did you injure your chipmunk?” Contentedly curled up next to Warrior, Peach mimics the German
shepherd and has the new toy squirrel tucked under her chin, too.
I examine the chipmunk with its matted fur more closely and discover a narrow Velcro flap. Carefully pulling apart the Velcro, I find a zipper that was sewn in by hand. I gently unzip it to reveal a pocket. My fingers feel around inside and touch a small paper roll. “What do we have here, Peachie?”
I put on some thin cotton gloves, remove the paper tube from the toy, and unroll it. There are two small notepad-sized pages taped together and filled with writing. I stretch out the roll, placing a salt shaker and pepper mill on the top corners and two small juice glasses on the bottom corners.
The first thing I see at the top of the page is an elegant logo and the name Alessandro Rare Books.
That name echoes in my head. And then I remember the place card with Katya Alessandro’s name and also Marilyn’s voice telling me…do your private eye-thing and get the goods on Win and that Alessandro witch. I need to know the truth.
I don’t believe in coincidences, and Alessandro is not a name you hear every day. That woman who left their dinner must be somehow connected to this rare book business. At the bottom of the first page I read a Summit address, website, hours of operation and phone number, and this repeats on the bottom of the next page, too. I quickly go to the website, but it’s all about the rare books, and there are no bios about the owner and staff. I Google Katya Alessandro, but there’s not much about her except for social events that she’s attended.
So I shift back to the unrolled pages. I study what I can only describe as nondescript printing in black ink. The heading is odd—
The Great Gatsby (ASE)
What is ASE? Someone’s name? It’s followed by a list of dates and initials.
1944 J.W., L.A., M.G.
W. 8/8
S.,J. 10/12
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 4