Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3)

by Danforth, Niki

  “…I’m trying to talk Win into selling it,” says George Smithson, the other man in the conversation. He’s a barrel-chested, professorial type and a rare book dealer who lives in Willowbrook with his family but has his business in the city. “I think I have a client who would pay almost five hundred for it.”

  “Five hundred?” Josh repeats. “Really?”

  I take the glass from Josh. “Five hundred what? Dollars?” I ask. “For one of your rare books, George?” The two men say nothing, but have amused expressions on their faces.

  I finally get it. “You don’t mean five hundred thousand?” They nod at me as if saying, But of course. My eyes pop open, and Josh and George laugh. “What book could possibly be worth five hundred thousand dollars?”

  “In this case, it’s Win’s very special first edition of The Great Gatsby,” George answers. “But his copy was slightly damaged during that attempted robbery. It appears that intruder had a thing for rare books and may have dropped it when he was snooping around upstairs.” George looks at me. “Don’t look so shocked, Ronnie.”

  “I thought he wanted Marilyn’s diamond necklace…at least that’s what was on his body when he fell. So, what…he also went after Win’s priceless first edition but didn’t take it?” Because I promised Will, I do not tell them that I have discovered the identity of the intruder, and that he also happens to be a rare book expert.

  “That book is worth more than the necklace,” George adds. “So, I take it back, maybe he doesn’t know much about old books.”

  “Go figure,” I say.

  “Plus Gatsby is small in size,” Josh adds. “He could have easily slipped it inside the vest he was wearing.”

  “Well, that prize is already at my New Jersey warehouse, ready for some restoration work,” the book dealer says.

  I jump in. “One of these days I’d love to see the warehouse. Is it close by?”

  “It is. Come over any time. How about tomorrow?”

  “You work on Sundays?” I ask.

  “I work all the time, and I’ll be there,” he says. “I’d be happy to show it to you. You too, Josh, and bring Susan.”

  “I’ll see if she can come,” he says.

  “Sounds great.” I smile and nod as two prospective customers walk up. One orders a box of cookies and the other four pastries. We settle up, and I turn back to George and Josh.

  “Not to change the subject, but tell me about that glamorous woman you were talking to at the cider stand before you came over here.” I try to keep my voice kidding and light.

  Josh jumps in. “Ah, she happens to be a competitor of George’s.”

  “You mean Katya?” George asks, then harrumphs. “Well, I guess you’re right.”

  “Ooh, tell me more,” I say, wanting not to sound too curious.

  “Katya Alessandro owns Alessandro Rare Books, a half block from my shop in the city. She’s got another store in Summit,” George answers. “Why do you ask?”

  “I thought I saw her at the Watsons’ party, but she left early.”

  “I half-expected she’d be there,” Josh says. “But then again, Marilyn might not be crazy about that idea.”

  “Oh?” I ask, hoping Josh will offer more.

  “Probably just rumors,” George cuts in, ending the topic.

  “Okay, okay, let’s not gossip.” But I’m a tad disappointed. “Next topic. Is there a lot of rare book theft out here in New Jersey?”

  “Hardly ever,” George says, and then corrects himself. “Well, except for some twentieth century American fiction disappearing from a few collections in the state lately. The strange thing is they turned up again right back on those same shelves. Do those count as thefts? I don’t know.”

  “Hold that thought while I help this nice customer over here.” I assist a young girl who eagerly chooses an apple pie with her mother, while George and Josh look over the cookies and pastries.

  After the mother and daughter leave, I ask, “Josh, you’re a book collector. Are there a lot of you in the Garden State?”

  “You’d be surprised how many people collect books,” he answers. “Getting the really good editions of The Great Gatsby can be expensive—so that’s a smaller group.”

  “Any other collectors out here?” I continue, with a twinkle in my eye. “Important ones like you two?”

  “Well, you met a third one at the Watsons’,” George points out. “Jamie Gordon’s a serious collector. He’s been a client of mine for a while, even before he moved to New Jersey when he was still on the West Coast.“

  I respond, probably a bit too enthusiastically. “I did notice him looking at some of Win’s books after dinner.”

  “We noticed you noticing him at Win’s dinner,” Josh says and chuckles along with George.

  “Was I that obvious?” I can’t hide a small smile.

  “Only to us.” George smiles, too. “Anyway, he grew up in California, and early on, all he wanted was forgeries of famous first editions or real first editions with forged author signatures or inscriptions.”

  I look at him quizzically. “What? Forgeries?”

  “Believe it or not, there’s a market for them,” Josh adds. “Hey, anything can become collectible if it’s rare and hard to find. Of course, the category of forgeries is nothing compared to the price a book like Win’s could fetch. That’s where the serious investment is.”

  I smile. “I guess there’s something for every taste in the world of books.”

  “There sure is. Like a sexual fetish, there’s something for everyone,” George says with a wilting smile.

  “Isn’t that a little twisted, or at the very least, cynical?” I laugh nervously at his joke.

  “Some might say that, but the money’s spot on,” George adds. “Jamie did broaden his focus, and he’s built a fine collection—” George stops mid-sentence when he sees someone. “Excuse me, Ronnie. We’ll be right back. Josh, come on. I want you to meet that guy.” He gestures toward a man in khakis who’s leaving the market. “See him? I’ll explain later. Hurry.” And they rush off.

  As I tidy up the display of pie tins and other baked goods on the table, an explosive noise from behind startles me and hurts my ears. Dropping to the ground, I seek cover under the table. Did the shooter find me here?

  I hear the crash of something falling down and people yelling. Not again. I look behind me. Nothing.

  I stand up very slowly, keeping cover behind my booth, and look around. The flower stand behind me is fine, with its owner also cautiously looking around.

  Katya rushes by. She looks me straight in the eye, and the stare sends shivers up my spine. Then she’s gone.

  I look further down the row of booths behind the one I’m manning, and I see that a vegetable stand has collapsed completely. There are already people helping the farmer pick up his produce.

  I look back in the direction that Katya was heading. What is her story? Was she somehow responsible for that stand falling down? And if so, why?

  Chapter Eleven

  “Of course. I’m on my way! Well, actually right after I drop off Peachie at the groomer’s,” I say to Juliana over the speaker phone in my Mustang. I don’t tell her about the stand collapsing at the farmer’s market earlier this morning. I’ve calmed down since then. “Yes, of course I’m bringing Warrior. Didn’t Frank say it’s okay to bring dogs to this fundraiser as long as they’re well-behaved?”

  After I drop off Peachie, Warrior and I drive into Willowbrook and the post office parking lot where we pull in right behind my brother’s Porsche. Frank and Juliana turn to look back, and we wave to each other and then take off as I turn on “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys. It’s an upbeat song for a beautiful day. My hair whips in the wind as Warrior and I drive with the top down in my convertible.

  Fifteen minutes later, we drive through an entrance and cruise up a tree-lined road. Teenage boys walk in small groups across grassy lawns and past clusters of tall sycamore trees, some beginning to d
isplay autumn colors. A sprawling two-story clapboard building with black shutters comes into view, perhaps the original farmhouse on the property.

  We pass several institutional-looking buildings—most likely classrooms and dorms—and arrive at a gigantic open meadow. It’s surrounded by cars and SUVs. I wonder how many football fields would fit inside the lines marking this playing field. Eight riders on horses, swinging mallets, gallop toward the goal at the other end of the meadow.

  Frank and I park our cars toward the center of the field and near the Watsons. We all greet each other.

  “Ronnie, you decided to come after all!” Marilyn hugs me and then continues fussing around a table filled with baskets of sandwiches, fruit, and cookies.

  “I was supposed to finish something for Will,” I say, “but the bottom line is I had to get out of the house.”

  As Marilyn places pitchers of iced tea and lemonade on the table, Win gives her a quick squeeze. Things seem normal between them. She gives no sign of how upset she was two nights ago when we talked about her husband and Katya. Either she’s gotten over her suspicions, or she’s a great actress.

  The polo match is well underway, and I climb onto the top of the back seat of my car for a better view of the field. Warrior crawls onto the back seat, too, in order to sit next to me.

  With the sun in my eyes, the players are almost silhouetted against the blue sky. It’s a beautiful site—the strong polo ponies galloping across the field, their helmeted riders deftly swinging mallets to move the ball down the field toward the goal. The sound of the thundering hooves only adds to the drama.

  For a moment I think I recognize one of the riders even though I don’t personally know any polo players. His dark brown pony is being shoved to the side by another player’s white horse, and he hurls obscenities at the offending rider. The umpire fouls the aggressive rider and tries to calm the angry player, who definitely has a bad temper.

  Still, it’s hard to ignore the beautiful physicality of the sport as the angry player settles down and resumes playing, guiding his brown pony with his sculpted thighs. The muscles in his shoulders and arms ripple through his shirt as he twists and turns in the saddle, then smoothly swings the mallet backhand to strike the ball, passing it back to a teammate. I can’t see his face against the sun and contemplate if it’s as beautiful as his body, or is it still angry?

  The riders stop for a moment, and the player I’ve been watching looks down at his stirrup, his helmet blocking his face. I glimpse his firmly set jaw, and I catch my breath. No, it can’t be… I raise my binoculars and adjust the focus slightly. As the man comes more clearly into view, he looks up and straight at me with those penetrating dark eyes.

  Where a moment ago there was anger, now a slight smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and Jamie Gordon mouths the word, Hey.

  I slowly lower the binoculars, never breaking Jamie’s gaze and mouth a greeting back to him. How is it that a simple word can feel so intimate when quietly tossed between two people who barely know each other?

  The moment passes as he gallops away to join his teammates. What is it about this man? My days of schoolgirl-crushes are long gone. I’ve been divorced a couple of years, and there’s been no one during that time.

  Well, except for almost Will Benson a year ago, when I hired him to investigate a family matter. Our friendship grew into a strong attraction, but ultimately the fifteen-year age difference bothered me. When push came to shove, I didn’t want the man in my life to be that much younger. So we agreed to be best friends, and that’s worked out fine.

  I glance over at Juliana and Marilyn, who are smiling at me. “You go, girl,” Marilyn says quietly. Suddenly my face feels flush, realizing they’ve seen the quiet exchange between Jamie and me.

  “That’s some temper he’s got,” I say to Marilyn. “Did you see Jamie and the other rider shoving their ponies at each other?” I wonder if he always flies off the handle so easily.

  Marilyn pours an iced tea and hands the glass to me. “Ronnie, Jamie’s a nice man, and he’s been asking Win about you.” She refills her own.

  “Well, well, Mrs. Watson. Are you playing matchmaker at a benefit to raise money? Shouldn’t we be focusing on the students and this wonderful school instead of romance?”

  “We can do both.” Marilyn clinks my glass with hers and glances toward Jamie on the playing field.

  “For god’s sake, don’t look at him.” I stare into my iced tea glass.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “I’ve exchanged a handful of words with the man…I hardly know him.”

  “You do like him, I knew it,” Marilyn interrupts and laughs. “Okay, here’s what I know. He’s a self-made guy just like Win—those are the best kind, and I should know. No offense to inherited money—you turned out great and worked all those years as if you didn’t have a dime.” All of a sudden she narrows her dark eyes, looking past me, and her husky voice gets raspier. “Son of a bitch!”

  I look around to see what she’s talking about. Further down the field, where a dozen horse trailers are parked, I see Win with two pretty women and another man. He’s refilling their glasses from his bottle of wine. Then Win dips his head toward one of the women as if he’s telling her a secret. She bursts out laughing.

  “Damn him.” Marilyn glares in his direction, seething. Will she ever realize that Win really only loves her, no matter how much he may flirt…at least I think he does.

  Marilyn pulls it together pretty quickly. “Now let’s get back to the very sexy Jamie Gordon. I’m pretty sure you’ll be hearing from him. Soon.”

  I shrug. “We’ll see.”

  “None of that we’ll see.” Marilyn smiles. “Darling, it’s time for some fun.” She lets loose with her signature throaty laugh, and my German shepherd emits an enthusiastic woof. “See, even Warrior approves.”

  Frank, Juliana, and Win join us just as Jamie scores a goal. The crowd erupts into cheers, and the first half of the match ends.

  ~~~~~

  Forty-five minutes later, after Jamie’s team wins, the school’s principal awards the trophy, thanks the crowd for their support, and reiterates the important work they do for the boys. She invites the audience to meet some of the teachers.

  I walk along the sidelines with Warrior on his leash and chat with friends. As I stride in the direction of my car, a steady masculine voice comes from behind.

  “Well, well, Mrs. Veronica Rutherfurd Lake.” I turn to find Jamie Gordon leading the gray pony he rode at the end of the match. His eyes twinkle.

  Mine twinkle back at him. “It’s a mouthful, I know, but if I dropped Rutherfurd, I’d be Veronica Lake, and I hardly fit the role of a movie femme fatale.” I laugh. “Anyway, everybody has always called me Ronnie as far back as I can remember.”

  “Done,” he says.

  “How about you? Is Jamie an old childhood nickname?”

  “No, it’s always been Jamie.”

  “And how about your pony?” I stroke the animal’s forehead.

  “How about my pony what?” Again, that slow smile emerges as the corners of his eyes crinkle.

  “Does your pony have an interesting name?” I could drown in those brown eyes of his.

  “Persia,” he answers.

  “Why Persia?”

  “Polo is thought to be the first team sport, and the Persians were among the earliest polo players around 600 BC. So I named her in honor of the sport’s proud history.”

  “It’s the perfect name for this gray beauty,” I say.

  “I have a soft spot for Persia. She’s been with me for six years.” Jamie rubs the top of the pony’s nose affectionately. “This one I trained myself. She and I have a close relationship.”

  Warrior, sitting quietly by my side, finally can’t stand it anymore and whines. We look down at him as his tail revs up to supersonic speed, and we laugh.

  “He and I also have a close relationship.” I lean over to rub Warrior’s neck. “Jam
ie, this is Warrior, and I’m happy to see how calm he is this close to your pony.”

  “Animals have an infallible instinct about their fellow creatures,” he says as we walk toward his horse trailers.

  The thought crosses my mind that Jamie’s really talking about people instead of animals. I also can’t help but think of his family’s tragedy.

  “If you’re not busy tomorrow…” Jamie’s voice startles me from my thoughts. “Well, once a month I host a party, an open house, if you will.”

  “An open house?” I ask.

  “I never know who will turn up, because I tell people to bring their friends.” He grins.

  “That’s awfully brave of you,” I say, and he breaks out in a wonderful deep laugh.

  “Please come and bring some of your friends.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  We arrive at the trailers, where Jamie hands off Persia to one of the grooms. “Let me walk you to your car.”

  “How long have you been at Sheffield Hall? Has it been about a year?” I ask. “Word has it—” I stop, not wanting to sound like a gossip. “Didn’t you do a lot of work on the place?”

  “Yes, I did.” We continue strolling. “Word has it? Is that so?” He pauses for just a beat and then smiles. “I brought in a first-rate architect and contractor. They started two years before I moved out here, because the house needed a lot of work, and now the outside is fully restored. Six months ago, we finished the inside. I guess the word is out, and people are curious, so sometimes they come from all over. Let me give you the address—”

  “Oh, Jamie, everybody knows where it is. It’s the most famous house around here!” We both laugh.

  “See you Sunday at six-thirty?”

  I nod. “See you then.” He leaves with a wave.

  I’ve never heard anything about the parties at Sheffield Hall, not even from Win and Marilyn, and they know everything about everybody around here. After Frank and Juliana, they’ll be my second call to go with me to Jamie’s party on Sunday.