I take off my gloves and, with my camera phone, snap close-ups of the mysterious rolled-out paper.
Then I call Will, but his voice mail tells me that he’s out of the office, as he told me he would be, and to leave a message. I hang up instead. I don’t want to bother him.
My mind jumps to the detective with the choppy haircut from last night, but I make an immediate decision to not call the hot-tempered Sofia Rossi. I’m already on her shit-list. No, this is the perfect opportunity to take some initiative.
I look back at the paper. If I learn more about the dead home invader, then perhaps this list will make sense. Did he just happen to pick up one of their memo pads to write this list, or is he also connected to this Alessandro Rare Books? I glance at my watch. They ought to be opening soon.
Chapter Seven
First, I load up my car with the dogs and head for Meadow Farm. There, I switch my bright red Mustang for an old beat-up compact that is part of a small fleet of cast-off, nondescript work vehicles at my brother’s farm. It’s best to have a car that doesn’t attract attention during an investigation. I spend a few minutes transferring Warrior’s canine seat belt to the Toyota, as well as Peachie’s carrier, and strap them both in.
We arrive in downtown Summit a half hour later and drive through the town’s shopping district. There are endless chic boutiques, restaurants and cafés, art galleries, antiques shops, and home design businesses. It certainly would be easy to blow through a lot of cash around here.
I roll past an elegant hunter green-lacquered storefront that surrounds a large multi-paned bay window. Carved into the lacquer above the window and painted black with gold edging is the name Alessandro Rare Books. Peering through the glass, I make out a couple of people browsing among multiple floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Once I’ve turned the corner, I park on a side street and crack open the windows for the dogs.
Upon entering the shop, I discover that it’s larger than it appears from the street. I walk around a table piled with hefty volumes, their intriguing covers face up. These appear to be newer publications, many of them art, travel, or garden books—perfect gifts to place on a coffee table.
I wander up and down the aisles until I spot a young woman with red hair twisted up in a messy knot, filing books down at one end of a row. She’s petite and up on the balls of her feet, trying to rearrange a shelf that I could easily reach. I’m five-foot-seven, so maybe she’s around five-two. She grabs the step-ladder nearby to climb up to finish her task.
The girl could be a college student maybe in her early twenties, and she’s completely engrossed in her work and unaware that anybody’s watching her. She spots a book on her way down the ladder, pulls it from the shelf, and sits on one of steps. She flips through its pages and reads, probably one of the benefits of working in a shop like this.
I walk over and say in my friendliest voice, “Excuse me, do you have a moment?”
Caught in the act, the girl snaps the book shut and quickly puts it back on the shelf, trying to cover her guilty expression. “Absolutely. Uh, hi.” She replaces the guilt on her face with a sheepish grin. “How can I help you?
“Well, actually, I’m looking for this very nice man who helped me here a week or so ago.” I smile at the girl, who’s now all eager attention as I make up a story. “He was rather elderly, maybe in his seventies. I wanted to find out about two books I ordered, and I also had another question for him. He’s a small, wiry guy, kind of grizzled and gray—”
“Oh, you mean Casey.” She breaks out in a huge grin. “Casey Whitmore. He works here. Has for a long time. He knows a lot about books. I can’t believe you actually met him.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’s not really a salesperson,” she says, reaching toward a different shelf and switching two books around. “Ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine-percent of the time, if you need to ask Casey a question, you find him in his teeny-tiny office in the very back of the building with Peachie.”
“Peachie?” I ask.
“Yeah, that’s his cute, little dog. He’s always got her with him, you know, talking to her, but he almost never ever talks to customers ’cause he’s very private.” She puts another book on a lower shelf. “Well, he talks to me, but that’s because we’re good friends.”
“I guess I got lucky and caught him when he had to come out front for some reason or another.” I’d love to see that office of his. “What does he do in the back all day long? Special projects? Research?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Casey checks out all the valuable first editions that come into the shop, because, like I said, he knows everything about books, especially old ones. He writes up descriptions and also decides which ones to post online on AbeBooks.com. Things like that for Ms. Alessandro, the owner.”
“So he’s the resident expert on old books.”
“He’s definitely the resident expert.” The redhead laughs. “Resident because it seems like he lives at the shop. Casey comes in first to open up, and he’s usually the last to leave, too.”
“If he’s the one, then he’s trying to locate two Edith Wharton first editions for me. Ethan Frome and The House of Mirth,” I say. “I hope he’s the right one—this Casey—because—”
“Follow me,” the girl says.
We walk toward the area of the store with the customer desk and cash register, passing another salesman I glimpsed when I first entered the shop. He says he’s making a coffee run and will return in fifteen minutes.
We stop in front of a large bulletin board filled with community notices. There, pinned to the top of the board, are photographs of all the store’s employees and their picks of favorite books in the shop.
I look at the photograph of the young woman helping me. “So you’re Sally Richards.”
She nods and points to a photograph of an older man holding a Jack Russell terrier. “Is this the guy who helped you?”
I step up and look at the photograph closely. The man is elderly, but clean-shaven, unlike the old burglar, who had a heavy five-o’clock shadow on his face. The picture also shows him with little round tortoise-shell specs and a dark brimmed cap—it’s like he’s got a John Lennon-thing going on from the 1960s. At first glance he looks too clean-cut, but I do recognize him as the old thief who broke in during the Watson dinner. And I do recognize his companion, Peachie, of course, who is sitting in my car with Warrior outside the shop.
“Yes, Casey Whitmore was definitely the nice man who helped me.” I think the now dead Casey Whitmore, but they don’t seem to know that here at the shop. “Is he in today?”
“Not yet,” Sally answers. “I know his car was in the shop, but I think he borrowed one from a friend and took a couple of days off. Anyway, he’s due back after lunch.”
I note Casey’s pick-of-the-week, The Great Gatsby, a rare first edition recently acquired from a private collector. It makes me even more curious about his office in the back.
“Do you know if he found the two Edith Wharton first editions I’d like to purchase? Ethan Frome and The House of Mirth?” I repeat. “I need them soon. They’re a gift for my daughter.” Do I feel guilty weaving my daughter into this fabrication…well, yes…
Sally flips through a stack of papers on the desk. “Let’s see.” She stops on one page and reads through it. “Here’s a list that Casey wrote out before he left of books we should expect to arrive at the shop. I don’t see any by Wharton, but why don’t you take a look while I check his office?” She heads down the hall.
The list is signed Casey Whitmore, and, once Sally’s out of sight, I whip out my phone and snap some pictures to get a sample of his handwriting, including his signature. This could prove useful, and I compare it with my photograph of the list that came out of the chipmunk toy. They look like a match.
I finish just as Sally sticks her head into the hallway. “No luck so far.” She chuckles. “It’s small but very cluttered. I’ll continue looking if you aren’t in a hurry.”
“Take yo
ur time,” I answer, and she disappears again.
I glance to the right of the hall through a picture window that offers its inhabitant a view of the store. This office looks spacious compared to Casey’s probably closet-sized room. It must belong to the boss. Mid-twentieth century furniture decorates this elegant, sparse room.
Sitting on a small table as if it’s a priceless sculpture, under a painting that also looks mid-twentieth century, is a red leather Birkin bag. With at least a ten-to-twenty-thousand-dollar price tag, this purse may as well be a priceless sculpture. If the owner of this bag is the temperamental woman that Marilyn wants me to investigate, then she certainly has expensive taste. My mind drifts to Win Watson. Was this a gift, or could she afford to buy it for herself?
A moment later, Sally reappears at the desk. “Any luck?” I ask.
“No, I don’t see them,” she says. “But I’ll keep looking, see what I can find, and call you.”
“Thank you. Hey, I have to ask, because I melt at the sight of a beautiful handbag.” I nod toward the big picture window showing the glamorous office. “Is that the owner’s Birkin bag?”
We both glance at it sitting on the small table. Sally looks nervous. “She helps other people collect books, but she collects purses.”
“I have a couple of friends who are clients of Ms… or is it Mrs. Alessandro?”
“Oh, she’s not married,” Sally says, almost too quickly. “I don’t get it, because she’s soooo beautiful and has some very hot guys who like her.” Something about her enthusiasm sounds slightly forced, but I try not to show that I’ve noticed.
“Win Watson may be a client here,” I say conspiratorially, as if he could be on the hot guy list. Sally nods with a knowing smile, and I go on. “He and his wife are friends, and I’d like to find a small gift for them—it’s a surprise, so please don’t tell him I was here.”
“Got it.”
“Thank you, Sally.” I glance at my watch and feign surprise. “But I’ll have to do that another day. I’m late and due for an appointment.”
I hand Sally a card. “Here’s my phone number. If the Wharton books come in, please call me. See you next time.”
The young woman smiles. “Glad to help.”
Chapter Eight
I drive to the corner to turn onto Summit’s main street and I spot a chic woman in huge shades with her dark hair twisted up. Even from three blocks away, it’s not hard to make out her mile-high heels and the expensive coat worn over her shoulders. She’s walking in the direction of the shop and towards me.
Rather than make the turn, I cross through the light and pull into an empty parking space right at the corner. I open the window and slide lower in the seat, then tilt the rearview mirror so that I can discreetly watch her. This splendid woman strides down the street as if she owns the entire town.
Then from the opposite direction, a silver Jaguar races through the intersection and past the shop. The sports car suddenly screeches to a halt and makes a U-turn on the main drag in the middle of light traffic. I turn in my seat to look through my side window. Who in the world…
The Jag’s window rolls down, and sure enough, Win Watson hollers, “Katya, we need to talk.” He doesn’t use the friendliest tone of voice, and the woman stiffens slightly, glancing around quickly. There aren’t many people around, and no one appears to have noticed anything more than a driver pulling his Jag into a parking space and hopping out to greet a beautiful friend.
With an unobstructed view of the scene, I watch the woman continue walking briskly, her head now low as if she wants to avoid a confrontation. But Win marches up quickly and demands, “You stop when I call out to you.” He grabs her arm roughly. This is a side of him I’ve never seen before.
“Please don’t make a scene out here.” She shakes him loose.
They’re in front of the shop, and he roughly backs her up against the entryway with its glass windows and points his finger right in her face. “Don’t you dare ignore my calls…” Her oversized shades create an extra barrier of protection for her, and it’s hard to make out the details of her face. Is this really the same woman who threw a drink in his face last night? Where did all that audacity go?
I can’t understand any more of the conversation, so I study the body language between them. Katya has her arms crossed high on her torso and her chin tucked down, as if she’s trying to put space between herself and Win, which is difficult to do since she’s right up against the glass.
Suddenly she slaps him hard across the face. He steps back, stunned. Speechless, he can’t believe it, and his hand goes to his face, lightly massaging it.
Unexpectedly, Katya throws her head back and laughs, angering Win. “Don’t you dare play me,” he hisses. At least that’s what I think he says. This is unbelievable. She sells books; he collects books. This is unlike any business disagreement I’ve ever witnessed.
I glance toward the shop window and notice that Sally stands transfixed near a book case. She’s probably also watched the entire scene unfold. When Katya and Win turn to enter, Sally quickly scoots down an aisle where she’ll be hidden.
I glance at the dogs, both looking very relaxed as they half-snooze while cracking one eye open every now and then. I take several slow, deep breaths. This would be a good moment to not jump to conclusions.
~~~~~
Now that I know his name and have looked up his contact information, I dial Casey Whitmore’s phone number and hit send. An older, gruff male voice picks up after three rings. “This is 973-376-5521. Leave a message, and I’ll call once I’m back. Thanks.”
Over a long beeping sound, I wonder if this is the same voice I heard coming from the thief at the Watson party. All I ever heard him say was “the book…” and “I always said if it’s the last thing I do…” At those moments, his voice sounded pretty ragged since it was right before he died. Then a digital voice cuts off the long beep, announcing that the voice mailbox is full, and ends the call.
I turn on my GPS and enter Casey’s address. I switch on another Joni Mitchell song. This time it’s “Raised on Robbery,” and I laugh a little at the irony. I drum my finger nails on the steering wheel to the beat while I drive.
Ten minutes later, I find myself outside of Summit in a neighborhood of modest houses and apartment buildings. Squeaky noises come from the carrier in the back seat. I figure Peachie is perking up because she knows she’s close to home.
I pass a light brick apartment tower on my left. Beyond that building’s parking lot, I drive by a row of small Tudor-style wood and stucco houses until I spot number twenty in this post-World-War-II mini-development.
Cruising around the block, my car passes the parking lot for the second time. I pull over so that I have a clear view of the half-dozen bungalows across the street. It’s quiet at the moment, since most people are probably at work.
A woman attending to a squirmy young child locks her front door and leaves number twenty-two. They walk in my direction on the other side of the street. Peachie gives a couple of quick barks. “Shhh, girl.” I wonder if Peach and the woman know each other and quickly hide behind my newspaper instead of staring out the window like someone casing the neighborhood.
All the other houses on both sides of number twenty appear to be quiet. Whining sounds come from the back seat. “Shhh.”
After ten minutes, I’ve had enough waiting around, so I grab a baseball cap off the back seat, twist up my hair, and put it on. I crack open the Toyota’s windows and rub Warrior’s neck. “You’re going to stay right here and guard the car.” I give him a kiss on his forehead.
As I get out, I slide on my sunglasses and reach for a small shopping bag in the back seat. I open the back door and clip on Peachie’s leash. My plan is to make like I’m walking the dog and dropping off a package. Warrior watches us intently. I give him one last scratch on his head. “I’ll be right back.”
Crossing the street, I discreetly try to look into the large front windows of numb
ers sixteen and eighteen as I stroll down the sidewalk, but I’m too far away to see much. I walk up to Casey Whitmore’s front door at number twenty, and Peachie perks up, excited to be home and bouncing like a little ball on the end of the leash.
I knock on the door but, of course, no one answers. Without any commands from me, the dog sits quietly and politely, as if she’s just returned from obedience school. While I wait, I look in the right front window of Casey’s house. The furniture is basic—a sofa with two end tables and lamps, a couple of upholstered chairs, and a coffee table.
Over on one wall and hanging over the sofa, there’s an oil painting of a very large house in a village. It’s hard to see the details from where I’m standing, but it doesn’t look like anything special, more like something you’d buy at a garage sale. Still, I take out my phone, discreetly zoom in as much as possible, and take some pictures.
There is something remarkable about this otherwise unremarkable room: the endless stacks of books everywhere. On the tables, on the sofa, on the chairs and on the floor. Some of the books lean precariously like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Others have tipped over, and the volumes lie toppled and scattered. This room telegraphs loud and clear that books not only comprise Casey Whitmore’s professional life but also his life in this house.
I lightly knock again and look into the picture window to the left of the front door. In the middle sits an inexpensive dining table and six matching chairs. They look like cheap motel furniture. The theme of book clutter repeats itself in this room, only this time there are no pictures on the walls.
Looking around and seeing no one, I inconspicuously pull one latex glove from my jacket pocket. There’s no need to leave my fingerprints around here. I try the door knob. Locked. There’s no flower pot or some other obvious hiding place for a key. I reach above the door. Nothing. I’m not sure what I would do even if there was a key, since I don’t want to be picked up for breaking and entering.
Next, I head around the house and open a small gate. A six-foot hedge lines the fence behind the house, and there’s a feeling of privacy back here. Peach bounces around, excited to be home, and pulls me toward a small enclosed pen with a little dog house inside. I open the gate and the terrier runs inside the house and stretches out with her head peeking through the opening. She settles down, and I leave her there.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 5