Our friendship was the highlight of these last years for me.
Your devoted friend,
Casey
She turns back to the other side and places it on the table, so that Will and I can see it. It looks familiar.
“I think I know this painting,” I say, snapping a couple of photos. “It’s at Casey’s house.”
“Yeah, it is,” Sally says. “Hanging on the wall in his living room.”
She flips it back over, so that we can all read the letter. I take pictures of it, then click to the dog toy list. The handwriting looks like it matches, so Casey wrote it.
“Wonder how much the painting’s worth?” Sally asks.
“Hard to know. I didn’t spot an artist’s name anywhere on the canvas,” I say. “Maybe it’s hidden under the frame.”
“Maybe Casey wanted me to sell it to pay for school?” Sally looks at the letter side again. “He knew how much I wanted to finish college.”
“If that’s the case,” Will says, “that’s a thoughtful present.” He looks closely at the photograph. “I had a client some years back, and he had a painting of his own house. And this one has a similar style. Can’t remember the name of the artist off the top of my head, but it was someone here in New Jersey.”
“Did your client sell his painting?” I ask.
“Yeah, he got about twenty-five-thousand for it.”
“Wow,” Sally says. “That would really help pay for school. I can’t believe Casey would do something so nice for me.”
“Slow down, kid,” Will says, still peering at the photo. “I’ve learned the hard way and through a lot of experience not to go necessarily with the first assumption about evidence.”
“Huh?” Sally asks.
“You think there’s something else?” I ask Will.
“Maybe what’s in the painting is more important than the painting itself. You never know.”
“So, it has to do with this actual house in the picture?” I ask.
“Too early to say,” he responds. “I just think it’s smart to slow down.”
“I’d be happy with the twenty-five thousand for school,” Sally says, but her sad tone at the situation that led to an inheritance belies her words.
“Hold on,” I caution her. “Let’s follow Will’s advice and first see if there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
We tell Sally that she should go about her different jobs as she normally would, and that we will be back in touch. The next order of business is one that I’m dreading: telling Win Watson that I know what happened to his book.
~~~~~
Will and I get out of our cars. “How can you be so naïve?” he asks.
“I realize the entire story is far-fetched, but I believe her,” I counter. He looks at me. “Do not eye-roll me, Will Benson. You know how I hate that. Anyway, Sally had nothing to gain by putting the book back.”
We approach the front door at the Watsons’, and Will argues, “Maybe she heard the book was too hot—”
Before we can get there, the door swings open, and Win steps through. “You said you have some news?”
Will nods at me to tell him, and I do, grinning. “You got your book back.”
“What? Who stole it?”
“It’s a long story. Let’s go upstairs.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re upstairs in the small library. Marilyn joins us, and Win sits in his wing chair, astonished that his book was back on its shelf. He carefully examines his cherished first edition for any new flaws.
“Unlike that Whitmore thief, Sally seems to have taken good care of the book. I don’t see any further damage.” He takes his copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the table and examines it, too. “And this was going to be her next read?”
“That’s what she told us.” Will shakes his head.
“I thought I’d heard everything in the book collecting world, but this is a first for me.” Win puts the book down. “I know Sally from the shop. She’s the last person I would have pegged for this…” Win stares at the two books, lost in his thoughts. Marilyn quietly watches him.
Finally he looks up and asks, “And you say she’s done this at other people’s houses?”
Will and I nod.
“I always thought she was a nice kid. You know, helpful,” Win says. “Not weird like this.”
“I think she is nice, but misguided,” I pipe up.
“So what do you want to do about her?” Will asks. “You know, bring in the police? And Ronnie and I still need to check in with George.”
I jump in. “Please consider the fact that she brought your book back—”
“But borrowed another,” Will counters.
Marilyn’s head turns back and forth, watching the two of us as if she’s at a tennis match.
Win puts his hands up signaling us to halt. “I want some time to think about Sally and her borrowing habit. I’ll let you know how I want to proceed.”
Will gets up to leave at the same moment I plan to speak but stop myself.
Marilyn notices and nods at me to go on. “Ronnie, is there something else?”
“Well, the expensive book is back now. But the police are no closer to knowing who killed Casey Whitmore, so that investigation continues, of course.” I pause to gather my thoughts. “I feel like your first edition was almost an accidental diversion from the real prize—the two pieces of that beat up paperback.”
“Go on,” Win says.
“I have a theory that the paperback with all those penciled-in clues was more important to Casey, and who even knows where the third piece is.”
“If it hasn’t been destroyed at some point, you mean,” Will says. “And if not, it could be anywhere out there. That’s a total crapshoot.”
The room goes quiet for a long moment.
“Humor me,” Win says. “Even though the book is back, I think I’d still like to keep you on the payroll. Ronnie, you brought up some excellent questions at dinner last night.”
“I can see where this is going,” Marilyn says, smiling. “The treasure hunt, darling. Nothing I like more.”
“I want you two to figure out the puzzle scribbled in the pages,” Win says. “And take a shot at finding the third piece of the book.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The police are finished processing Whitmore’s house, so I return for another visit the next day. Maybe looking around again with Peachie will shake loose some new ideas. After all, I’ll be doing most of the work on this puzzle angle while Will attends to his other clients.
After parking on a side street, Peachie and I stroll up the walk and quickly move around behind the house. Before looking in the windows, I decide to try the back door, just in case. I carefully turn the knob and discover the door is already unlocked. I pause. I open it a crack and peek inside. The room looks disheveled, as if the police were here searching, but not ransacked as if someone had broken in.
Hmmm. I weigh my options about going in or not. The owner is dead, so the house should be uninhabited. The police have finished investigating, so I wouldn’t be disturbing their work. The door is unlocked, so I’m not really breaking in. I may even learn something by looking around, and it’s unlikely I’ll get caught. This would seem to be one of those gray areas that Will and I have discussed where private eyes take a more flexible approach than the police.
As I open the door, Peachie bounces up and down with excitement and little yips. I try to quiet her, but the little dog knows that she’s come home. We don’t enter until she settles down.
We walk into the kitchen, and I’m immediately drawn to Casey’s papers, books, and coffee cup on the table, all of which show the residue of fingerprint dust from the police investigation. I see an open notebook that has no residue sitting on top of the papers. Someone else has also paid a visit after the police left. I listen again for any noise as I pull out my camera phone and focus on the notebook.
There’s a list of book titles encased in a plastic sle
eve. I quickly shoot some pictures. The facing page to the book list is another plastic sleeve that contains a sheet of paper with some writing in blue ink. At first glance it’s a threatening phrase with a smudge at the end that catches my eye.
Stay away,—
I look again.
Stay away,—
I must have all of the book to finish what our families started. It’s my heritage, not yours.
My mind is swirling with thoughts, as I quickly shoot more pictures. I observe from the notebook’s edges that it’s a black leather diary, and it looks similar to the one that sat on the back seat of Katya’s car.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a woman crying.
“Bianca…Bianca…” The keening voice continues repeating the name in between sobs. The hair stands up on the back of my neck because I know who it is. Even though I’m not in the same room, I feel as if I’m intruding in a deeply private moment.
I accidentally fumble the leash and drop it as I tuck my phone in my pocket. Peachie tears away, running through the house. A moment later, I hear Katya’s voice directed toward the dog, perhaps coming from the living room.
“Where did you come from?” A scuffling sound, and then Katya calls out, “Who’s there?” Peach growls from the other room.
“I’m in the kitchen,” I call back, flipping to the next page in the diary but looking up at the sound of her heels clicking on the floor.
Katya walks into the room with that same expensive bag swinging from one arm, Peachie still barking at her heels. Seeing me standing by the table, her slightly red eyes look at me with suspicion. She quickly walks over and slams her diary shut but not before I get a glimpse of an old photograph.
“What are you doing here?” Her tone is not only unfriendly, but her deep voice is somewhat higher in pitch, sounding tense.
Thinking fast, I say, “I’ve come for some dog food for Peachie. She’s staying with me during the police investigation, and I wanted to see what Mr. Whitmore fed her. You don’t happen to know where he keeps her food, do you?” She doesn’t respond as I move toward several cabinets to look around. “FYI, I’m also here working as a private investigator for a client. What are you doing here?”
Her eyes register surprise as she quickly picks up the diary and tucks it inside her purse.
But I direct my attention to the orange Hermès shopping bag among the book piles beneath the wall cabinets, the same one I saw through the window during my prior visit. “Whoa. This looks nice.” I reach in and remove a brown leather Birkin bag. “Isn’t it like yours?”
Katya approaches me cautiously. Half-way to the kitchen counter, she announces, “It’s a knock-off.”
“How do you know?”
“The stitching is a dead give-away.” She stops next to me. “It’s too perfect because it’s done by machine instead of by hand.” She points at the stamped-in logo on the leather. “And the stamping sits on top of the leather on the fake, rather than being part of the leather the way it is on mine.” Even though her tone is haughty, she can’t resist showing me her authentic bag side-by-side with the counterfeit brown purse.
“Wow, somebody gave you a very generous present,” I look at her red purse but pick up the brown one to examine the stitching more closely. “I looked these up online for the latest prices.”
“Mine was a gift.” Her tone is patronizing.
“Someone must think really highly of you to give you a present like that.”
She pauses for dramatic effect and then continues with that superior tone, “Darling, I’m exceptional company to deserve a present like that.” Then Katya seems to remember herself and pulls back. “Who hired you as an investigator?” I can hear that slight nervousness back in her voice.
Peach scurries around Katya and dashes for the table, and I walk over to reach for the dragging leash. “That is confidential, but I can assure you I’m here on business.” Then I stare at the small stack of books by the diary. They don’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary, but wait a minute—they’re children’s books. How curious. I pick up a couple of them and flip through the pages. “Again Ms. Alessandro, what’s your story? And how’d you get into the house?” One of the pages has a written dedication to Bianca, but before I can read it, Katya grabs the book from me.
“Since you’ve been so busy investigating, you must surely know that Casey Whitmore was my employee, and he had some books here from my store. I’ve come to retrieve them.” She scoops up the rest of the books.
“Are you sure that’s the only reason you’re here?”
We stare at each other. If eyes could kill, we’d each be at opposing ends of a battlefield, ready to fire.
“So what are you trying to hide?” I ask.
“It’s not important.” Her tone is defensive.
“I was instructed not to tamper with the scene, and I’m sure the same applies to you,” I say, feigning nonchalance, and her black eyes fill with rage.
Suddenly Katya heads for a broom closet and removes a shopping bag. She stuffs the books into the bag and then sweeps past me with her parting shot. “Don’t be fooled by that Jamie Gordon. He’s not everything you think he is,” she hisses. And then she’s gone.
The comment about Jamie certainly came out of nowhere. I guess she picked up on the chemistry between Jamie and me when we were all skeet shooting yesterday. Even though I consider the source, it still throws me off balance somewhat. I get to work quickly.
First I dash into Casey’s bedroom where I see the empty frame that used to hold the picture of the four GIs. My heart drops. Katya got to it first. I scroll through my phone to look at the blurry stills of that photograph from my first visit.
“How could I have been so stupid?” I rake the fingers of both fists through my hair and feel my shoulders slump in disappointment. “That photo just walked out of here in that diary. Shit.”
I return to the kitchen and pull on gloves. I start with the table in the center, carefully looking through all the papers and books. There’s nothing here except for plenty of fingerprint dust. I move on to the kitchen cabinets, but don’t find anything especially interesting in them either.
I walk into the living room. Even though Casey has given the painting of the big house in the village to Sally for some reason, I’m still not sure it’s relevant. I carefully lift it off the hook, sit on the sofa, and examine it. Then I flip the picture over, but find nothing on the back side.
I search the rest of the house, but I return to the kitchen when nothing interesting turns up. Peachie whines, and I let her out the back to pee.
I need a break and walk back to the kitchen counter for another look at the designer knock-off purse. It’s a pretty good fake, and the leather feels soft.
I look inside and in one pocket I find a birthday card. It’s sealed, and I flip it over.
To Sally
Happy Birthday
The police must have missed this as they did their search. I speculate how many other people will come and go from Casey’s house before the dust settles. This gift is too easy for someone to grab. I take it with me to give to Sally.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I walk down the gravel road at dusk with Warrior and Peachie, and my head feels as if it could explode. I’ve learned a lot in the last few days, and it’s hard keeping everything straight.
Even though I consider myself a newbie investigator, I feel more determined than ever to get to the bottom of things. There’s no way I’m close to the skills of a pro like Will, what with his background in the military, a lot of years on a police force, and then some time as a detective before he became a private eye. Still, I’ve got a good head on my shoulders, and I can try to think things through.
I take the dogs inside then open up a package of poster boards. I decide on a mug of herbal tea instead of my usual treat of a glass of wine and grab a black marker to begin the initial steps of my brain-dump. The first board cuts to the chase, the reason Win still
has me on the payroll.
#1 Casey Whitmore had 1/3 of ASE Gatsby
Win has 1/3
Where’s the other 1/3?
Whenever I think of the elderly Casey Whitmore, I imagine him as an old-fashioned cat burglar like Cary Grant in the 1950s flick, To Catch a Thief. While I write, two sets of canine eyes in the corner study me. Peach is tucked next to Warrior on his oversized dog nest.
There’s a message from Will on my phone, but I’ll return the call later after I’ve finished writing out what I know. I grab a second board and continue writing, although Win has not hired me to find out the following—
#2 Who Killed Casey? And why?
Shooting connected to paperback?
Since the police investigation of Whitmore’s shooting is ongoing, both Will and Detective Rossi would tell me to not even think about it. I’ll try not to spend too much time on this board.
I move the boards upstairs and lean them against one wall of my bathroom underneath a large photograph of Sean Connery as Secret Agent 007. It’s the iconic one of him as James Bond, wearing black tie and holding a gun. It’s the only picture hanging on my bathroom walls because a chat with my favorite spy while soaking in the tub is one of my preferred ways to unwind.
I turn on the faucet of my deep white ceramic tub that stands in the center of the room and click on some music. The first cut is Lee Hazelwood and Nancy Sinatra singing the psychedelic “Some Velvet Morning.” As Hazlewood’s gravelly voice comes through the speakers, I take off my clothes and lower myself into the warm water. It feels really good, and I sigh with pleasure. My phone vibrates, but I ignore it. This bath is heavenly. The dogs watch me by the door.
I take a sip of my tea, lean back in the tub, and look up at the photograph. “Well, James, anything to add that’ll lead me to the final chunk of that paperback? And you never know, maybe it’ll even help solve the shooting, which I am not investigating, by the way.”
I hear a low growl from Warrior and notice that he’s restless. Still, I let my mind wander and relax, and eventually his vocalizations fade into the background as Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence” replaces Hazelwood and Sinatra.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 14