“Win Watson’s first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird? Is it signed, too? Like his copy of Gatsby?”
She looks at me in surprise and then blurts out, “Well, he knows I study 20th century American lit and lets me borrow books.”
“Really?” I ask.
The heavy tone of skepticism in my voice broadcasts to her that I’m not buying it. She says nothing as awareness washes over her face. She spotted me at the Watsons’ a short while ago, and she comprehends there’s also a good chance I know she was upstairs.
I nod. “That’s right. I saw you put the Gatsby back on the shelf in the library, and that really surprised me.”
She continues to say nothing, and the silence feels interminable. Will finally breaks it by asking, “Hey, Ronnie. What do you want to do?”
“By the way, young lady, meet Will Benson.” I don’t mean to sound like a scolding parent, but I think I probably do. “He’s a first-rate private-eye, and we work together. I know you didn’t borrow Gatsby because the Watsons hired us to find their missing book.”
Shock registers on Sally’s face. Her body caves in surrender, and she sinks back onto the chair. Tears begin to roll down her face.
I keep my voice soft and gentle. “How did you come into possession of the Watson Gatsby in the first place?” Before I can ask her about the warehouse robbery, she jumps in.
“I borrowed it from Mr. Smithson.” Sally’s voice almost squeaks as she answers.
“Borrowed it?” Will’s tone is one of incredulity. “Does he know that you borrowed it?”
“Not really,” she mutters.
“Where was the book when you borrowed it?” Will’s tone is sharp, and Sally flinches.
“Will, let’s hear her out.” I’m feeling slightly guilty for being in possession of Casey’s paperback, probably also stolen property, and I attempt to ignore the strange feeling of guilt. I try to convince myself that there’s stealing and then there’s really stealing, but I don’t do a good job.
“At his warehouse.” Her voice cracks as she speaks, and she’s so quiet that I find it hard to hear her clearly.
“Please speak up. Again, where did you get the book?” I hold the camera phone steady.
“At the warehouse, okay!” Sally blasts, startling both Will and me.
“And I suppose you thought it was alright,” Will jumps in, “to knock him over the head on your way out as you borrowed the book?”
“What? Knock him over the head? I did not! I just borrowed it to read.” She breaks down, sobbing.
“Calm down, Sally. Let’s talk and get to the bottom of this.” I sigh and turn off the video. Will looks at me and shrugs. He leaves the work area, and fifteen seconds later, he’s back with a box of tissues that he places on the table. We give her a moment, and I turn on my video again. “Now where were we?”
“I w-w-went to the warehouse to borrow the book, and before I got to it, I must have made a noise because he came after me down a row of book cases,” she says between sniffs and pulling tissues from the box. “I pushed a rolling ladder in his way. I guess it caused Mr. Smithson to fall, and I’m very sorry that happened.” She blows her nose. “He must have hit his head when he fell. I didn’t mean for him to get hurt.” She sniffs some more and then blows her nose again.
“And you just left him there?” Will says, crossing his arms and looking at her skeptically.
“No!” Sally says, her tone emphatic. “When I didn’t hear any noise behind me, you know, like him still coming after me, I stopped to listen. It was too quiet, so I tiptoed back to check. He was out cold, sprawled on the floor. I, I thought he was dead, that I had k-killed him.”
Sally starts to cry again and covers her face with her hands. I sit on the corner of the table, pull a tissue out of the box, and reach it to her. She blows her nose again, and dabs at her red eyes.
“Go on,” I say, using a calm voice that I hope will encourage her.
Sally inhales deeply and continues. “I felt his pulse, and it was beating fine from what I could tell, and then I checked his breathing. So I figured he’d come to pretty soon, and I’d hang out until he did and then sneak away, which is what I did.” She looks down at her hands and twists her fingers and bites her lip like a penitent child.
“So when did you take the book?” Will asks.
“While I was waiting for him to come to, I went to his desk just to see if the book was there. You know, maybe I could read a few pages while I waited. He had taken it out of his safe—which was open, by the way, I swear—and there it was, sitting out on his desk—this beautiful, rare, first edition Gatsby. I couldn’t believe my luck. He started to wake up, so I grabbed it and got outta there.”
“Oooh-kaaay.” I sigh.
“This is one of the weirdest stories I’ve heard,” Will says.
She looks up at the two of us. “Look I’m not proud of what I did. But I swear it’s the truth!”
“And how did you know about this book in the first place?” I ask.
“Well, first, I saw some papers on Ms. Alessandro’s desk…” She looks down at her hands, almost embarrassed. “Honestly, I wasn’t snooping, but I was looking for a book in her office, and these letters were right on top of her desk. I saw the title Gatsby, but the writing just looked like chicken scratch.”
At the mention of the letters, my radar goes on high alert and she’s got my attention. “What did you do with the letters?”
“Nothing. Ms. Alessandro walked in when I was standing over her desk and snatched them away.” She almost shivers. “God, she went ballistic, screaming at me, treating me like a criminal…whatever.”
“What does that have to do with Mr. Watson’s copy of the book?” Will asks.
“There was a lot of talk about it at the shop. Ms. Alessandro has been nagging Mr. Watson to let her sell it for him. It got me thinking it was all the same book—the one in the letters and Mr. Watson’s.”
“That’s a very interesting theory,” Will says.
“And everybody heard about it getting damaged during the robbery at his house and that it went to Mr. Smithson for repairs—” She freezes for a moment, and her eyes overflow with tears. She breaks down completely, this time her body shuddering as she weeps and sucks in air, trying to catch her breath.
“What is it?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds soothing as I push the Kleenex box closer to her.
“Ms. Alessandro told all of us this morning at the store that Casey died, that he was the man who fell off the roof at the party.” Her voice catches on every few words as her tears continue. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t see him doing something like that, you know, scaling a roof while all those people were there, and that he was a thief.”
“You’re right, and the police are looking into it.” I gently touch her arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He was my friend, always looking out for me…” She stares off into nothing for a long moment.
“So, let’s go back to where we were. What is all this talk about borrowing the book?”
Sally’s blotchy face lights up slightly. “All I wanted to do was reread it, and it had to be an actual copy that the author had touched. Mr. Fitzgerald had even written a letter inside on one of the pages.” She looks down. “It’s like I could pretend he was sitting right there next to me last night while I enjoyed his masterpiece. I swear I could feel his presence with me.”
Will and I glance at each other while Sally looks off into a corner of the room and quotes out loud from Fitzgerald’s book. “Gatsby believed in the green light…” She continues quoting from memory, finally stops, and looks back at Will and me. “It’s beautiful, an amazing story, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s a short book, and I finished reading it at three this morning. I knew I was working at Mrs. Watson’s house today and I couldn’t very well bring it back to the warehouse after what happened, so it was my chance to bring the book back to Mr. Watson.”
“How did you know where
to put it?” Will asks.
“I heard him talking with Ms. Alessandro in the shop about it belonging with his best books in the desk in his upstairs library, so I kinda knew where to put it.”
“Back to those letters you saw on Ms. Alessandro’s desk,” I say, and Sally looks at me curiously. “When she snatched them off her desk, did you happen to notice what she did with them?”
“I think she stuffed them in a folder, and she definitely made a big point of putting the folder underneath her purse. The whole time she was yelling at me to get out—”
Will interrupts, “What book do you have with you now, Sally?”
Her body slouches, as if she’s disappointed that we remember. “Just the next one I want to read.” She opens the copy of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, turning to the copyright page. “OK. Here—1960, first edition—”
“You expect us to believe this crazy story of yours?” Will interrupts. “That you were borrowing priceless, irreplaceable books because you just love to touch them? And you weren’t stealing them?”
“But it’s the truth!” Sally pleads. “I’m not a thief. It’s what I’m studying for my degree. And I love to read books that were printed when the writers first published. I could never afford these books myself so I borrow them for a little while. And then I bring them right back. Most of the time, the owner never even knows it was gone!”
“Exactly how many books have you borrowed before?” Will asks.
She looks at the ceiling and then counts on her fingers, mouthing the titles. She reaches in her bag for a folded piece of paper and hands it to Will. “I guess eight times, if you count Mockingbird.”
“Come to think of it,” I say, looking at the list in Will’s hands, “George Smithson told me that there have been some incidents out here of valuable books disappearing from different collectors and then mysteriously reappearing.” I turn my full gaze on Sally, who looks away.
“From the looks of this,” he gestures with the paper, “there would have been plenty more of these book disappearances.” He looks at Sally. “Oh, and I’ll take that.” Sally reluctantly hands over Mockingbird.
“How do you find out who has the books you want to read?” I ask.
“I hear about the collectors at the bookstore, and I see things when I work for different caterers part-time.”
We stare at Sally speechless for what feels like an eternity, but in reality is probably only a few seconds.
“I don’t doubt you love to read these books,” I say. “But come on. Katya Alessandro put you up to this, didn’t she? To get her hands on this book? That’s her real endgame here, isn’t it?”
Sally’s reaction is one of fright and panic. “Ms. Alessandro doesn’t know I borrow books. Please don’t tell her. She’ll fire me, and I need this job to help pay for college. I’m one semester away from getting my degree, please don’t take that away from me!”
“Honey, you’re looking at jail time, not just losing your job in some book store!” Will says. “And it isn’t up to us to decide what happens. My boss on this job is Win Watson, who hired us to find his Great Gatsby. You’ll have to talk to him. He’ll make the decision whether or not to bring the police into this.” Sally’s eyes register fear.
“And you’ll have to talk to George Smithson, too. It was his warehouse you broke into, and chasing you caused him bodily injury,” I say. “It’ll be up to him whether or not to press charges for theft and assault.”
Now she’s trembling. Maybe it’s finally dawning on her how serious a matter her book borrowing obsession really is.
“One more thing, Ms. Richards.” Will doesn’t take his eyes off her. “Where were you last week, Thursday evening around ten p.m.?”
Sally looks up at the ceiling as if she’s trying to think. “G-g-give me a s-second to remember.” Her teeth almost chatter from the trembling. She shifts her gaze to her shaking hands where she counts on her fingers. “Sunday at Mr. Gordon’s in Willowbrook, Saturday at the McDowds’ in Summit, Friday I was off, and Thursday I worked at a dinner for a foundation in Short Hills. I was there all evening, and we didn’t leave until about eleven. You can check with my boss.” She scribbles a phone number and name on a piece of paper from her bag and pushes it across the table.
Will does just that, reaching for his phone and calling to confirm her alibi. At least we’ll be sure she didn’t kill Whitmore, just in case she’s making up this whole story about him being her friend.
Chapter Twenty-Three
At her request, we accompany Sally home in order to confirm her story when we report back to our clients. She wants to show us that she has nothing to hide and offers up this plan if it means she will not end up at the police.
We arrive in a sketchy neighborhood a half-hour from the bookstore. She uses her key to open an inner door to the building, and we pass by a bank of about fifty mailboxes, a dozen of which have blocked keyholes.
Several young children race their tricycles down the dirty first floor hallway, and most of the lights are off or broken, leaving the corridor dark. The elevators have an out-of-order sign, so Sally leads us to a stairwell where we hoof it up to the fifth floor.
Her apartment is right next to the elevator—the noise must keep her up at night. Sally uses three keys to unlock the door, and with fierce pride, she says, “Come on in, and feel free to look around.”
It reminds me of my first place straight out of college, and I feel right at home. The apartment is tiny, clean, and everything in its place. It’s a studio with a kitchenette on one side and on the other a door that must lead to the bathroom. Between the two, her double bed is pushed against a third wall and neatly made. Mounds of pillows on the bed and several overturned open books tell me this may be where she does her reading.
There is one unmistakable similarity to Casey’s house in that are many tall stacks of books. Unlike Casey’s piles which filled every available surface and looked ready to tip over, Sally’s towers are straight and neatly lined up against the walls wherever there is space.
While Sally makes tea, Will and I look around. He idly browses her stacks of books starting at one end, and I begin at the other. I’m amazed to find a dozen or so copies of The Great Gatsby. A few minutes later, she hands us each a steaming mug.
As Will makes his way around the room, she follows and tidies up behind him. Finally they shift gears, and she shows him her school materials and coursework and ID, all of which confirm that she’s a college student and making good grades.
Meanwhile, I look at several framed photographs on her desk. “Are these your family? Friends?”
“They’re my best friends from school.” Sally picks up one of the pictures that shows her with two boys and another girl, all close in age, sitting outside at a picnic table.
I pick up a small framed photograph of her with Casey in the book shop. She stands a little behind him with an arm over one of his shoulders and her chin resting on the other, looking at him as if he were an adored uncle or big brother. They both look happy and comfortable in each other’s presence.
Sally takes it from me and sighs. “I’m going to really miss him.” She puts the photograph back down and sees me eyeing some folders. “Feel free to look through them. I’m an open book.”
I carefully go through her papers, trying to leave everything the way I found it. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, and I glance at a small two-drawer file cabinet next to it. Sally opens the file drawer. “Help yourself. Like I said, I have nothing to hide.”
I hesitate when I see a folder labeled with last year’s IRS return. She whips it out. “Look at all the people I’ve worked for…this is all to pay for school.”
I haven’t asked to see this folder, because tax returns are legally private, but she’s already opened it and shows me the attached tax forms from a half-dozen different caterers for whom she’d worked throughout the last calendar year. She must not have much free time, what with school, the book shop and all these j
obs.
Next, I find a folder with a dozen old photographs and I flip through them.
“Sally, are these of you as a baby and young child?”
“Yeah.”
I hold up one. “And are these your parents? Where do they live? In the area?”
“No. They died when I was little,” she answers. “I don’t really remember them.”
“What happened?”
She says nothing. I wait. Still nothing. It’s clear she doesn’t want to discuss it.
I figure it’s better to keep her talking. “Well, who took care of you?”
“An aunt, but she and I had a fight. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Will and I look at each other. “How old are you?” he asks. “You look like you’re still in high school.”
She looks at him, her eyes very determined, and snaps, “Twenty-two.”
“Will means that it’s tough to make your way in the world all by yourself,” I interject. “Is there anyone—”
“Just Casey, and now he’s gone.” Tears dribble down her cheeks and she wipes them quickly with the back of her hand.
I feel a large envelope in the back of the bottom drawer. “What do we have here? Something feels stuck.”
“Oh! Geez, I forgot all about that. I taped it to the back of the drawer to keep it safe. Let me get it.” Sally pulls loose a brown eight-by-eleven-inch envelope. The writing on it reads To: Sally Richards, Open only in an emergency. She tears it open.”Casey asked me to keep this for him.”
We all sit at the table by the kitchenette and she pulls out an eight-by-ten photograph of a painting of a big, old house, really almost a mansion.
Sally looks at it and then flips it over, surprised to see writing on the back and reads aloud.
Dear Sally,
If you’re reading this, then I am probably no longer alive, and I bequeath to you all my worldly goods. It’s not a lot, but there may be one thing that could do more than help with college…if you’re able to figure it out.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 13