After losing myself in the song for couple of minutes, I stand up dripping wet, and reach for the mug. I recall the two things I heard Whitmore say right before he died. He stared hard at Jamie Gordon when he said, “The book,” although Jamie didn’t seem to recognize him. And Whitmore’s, “Last thing I do,” dying words were directed to Win.
I step out of the tub and write on a new board as the first bars of “Outlaw Man” by the Eagles play through my sound system. It’s a little chilly in here, and I feel goose bumps on my arms as I write. It would help to put some clothes on, but I can’t stop. I have to get it all down.
#3 Casey Whitmore?
“The book…” to Jamie
“…if it’s the last thing I do…” to Win
My damn phone vibrates to voicemail again, but I’m remembering Win’s subtle flinch when Casey addressed him. The memory of that flinch is all it takes for me to write some more.
Does Win know Casey or not?
I’m surprised that this even crosses my mind. Is it possible the man who employs me on this case knows more than he’s saying?
Warrior and Peachie’s growls distract me for a moment, and the little dog nips at one of Warrior’s heels. “Better watch it, girl. Don’t push your luck with him.” I sit against the edge of the tub.
My German shepherd barks, which startles me. “What is it, Warrior?” He ambles out of the room and seems very relaxed as I hear him go down the stairs, making whiny noises. The sound of his footfalls and voice recede as an old Tina Turner song starts playing, “River Deep, Mountain High.”
I again look up at 007. “Anything else, James?” Warrior barks downstairs, but I ignore him.
“You’re right,” I say to the photograph, grabbing an empty board. “I may as well put it all where I can see it.” I start a new one.
#4 Peach’s toy with list
I click on my phone. There are three messages from Will—I’ll get to those in a moment. Instead, I examine the photos I took of the list and copy the mysterious dates and initials.
The Great Gatsby (ASE)
1944 J.W., L.A., M.G.
W. 8/8
S.J. 10/12
As Tina Turner wails in the background, I hear footsteps racing up my stairs, and I freeze.
Will, Warrior, and Peachie burst through the open door of my bathroom. They bark while he yells over the music, “Ronnie, are you okay—” He freezes when he sees me standing there nude.
“Will!” I shriek, staring back at him and covering my body with my arms. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry!” he shouts. He politely averts his gaze, reaches for a terry cloth robe hanging on the back of the door, and tosses it to me.
“Hey, can you turn down the music?” he hollers as he rubs his ears with his fingers, which I do quickly, and the dogs settle down, too. “I’m pretty sure I saw someone trying to look in your windows, but whoever it was took off when I drove up.”
“Oh my god,” I respond. “We never have any problems out here. Should I call the police?”
“Don’t bother. I scared him off when I pulled in.” He looks over at my phone. “Don’t you answer your phone? I saw your car here, but you didn’t respond to me calling out and knocking on the door. So I opened it, because I got worried that something had happened. Warrior knows me so he didn’t growl, and I came in to check that you were okay.”
“Well, I am. Thank you for making sure.” I tie the belt of the robe securely. “I’m embarrassed to admit how often I sing along at the top of my lungs. I guess that’s why I didn’t hear you downstairs.”
“You should keep your doors locked. Anybody could waltz in.”
“You’re right. Uh, what brought you out here?”
“I’ve got a last-minute surveillance assignment for tonight that I can’t do, and I want you to handle it.” His voice drifts off as he looks around and sees the boards. “What exactly are you up to?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’ve been working on the case.” I gather up the boards. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll pour you a glass of wine and show you what I’ve got.”
He looks at his watch. “I’ve got ten minutes.”
Leaving Will with the poster boards and a glass of wine, I quickly throw on jeans and a sweater for the surveillance job. When I come back downstairs, I find Peach and Warrior curled up by him and the poster boards leaning up against the back of my sofa. Will points at my second poster board with a scowl.
#2 Who Killed Casey? And why?
Shooting connected to paperback?
“Now, Will, don’t get mad. I’m not working on this one, I promise, but humor me, because I have some thoughts on the murder.” I write quickly and add—
Premeditated
Who was shooter? Hired gun?
Same guy at Casey’s house shooting at me?
Who knocked me out? Shooter? Somebody else?
“Think about it.” I put the board face down on the kitchen counter. “Someone knew Casey Whitmore would be at the Watson party. That shooter was out there waiting for him.”
“I agree, but the police are working on the murder. By the way, it’s now officially a murder.”
“I’ve always thought so.” I hope I don’t sound gloating.
“Again, Detective Rossi reminded me that she does not want you involved at all in her investigation.” He takes a deep breath. “Here’s a copy of the police reports so far. I had to pull strings to get them because this is an ongoing investigation. Remember, this information is not known to the public, and it has to stay that way right now. Take a look when you have a moment, but Ronnie, focus on what Win wants and not the murder.
“Okay, okay. Take a look at this other board.”
He reads board #3 about Casey. “What do you mean, Does Win know Casey or not?”
“I know he’s our client, but it’s something that’s nagging at me. I need to think about it more.”
“Remember, you cannot talk about this to Marilyn,” Will cautions me. “Right now, we work for her husband.”
“I know, I know. I told her that. We’re cool.”
“So, you’ve got my attention. Go on about Win and whether he may or may not know Casey,” Will says as he rubs the top of Warrior’s head. Peachie nudges his arm for some head-rubbing, too.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out. Now, tell me where you want me to go this evening and what I’m supposed to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Ouch,” I shriek after a sip of scalding coffee burns my tongue and my hand. I almost drop the cup while I drive on I-287 in my brother’s Toyota. “Damn. That hurts.” Warrior, who’s strapped into the front seat, looks at me with his big brown eyes and whines in sympathy, I‘m sure.
I maneuver the cup into the car holder as the Range Rover—maybe black but hard to tell in the dark—cuts into my lane two cars ahead. We both pulled off the highway five minutes ago for a bathroom and coffee break—she for the bathroom and me for the coffee, where I could discreetly keep an eye on the tall, lanky woman with chic short brown hair. (I’d love to know who did that haircut.)
Her husband, Will’s client, thinks she’s having an affair. The client wants Will to follow her tonight because of a supposed girls’ night out that came up at the last minute. He thinks his wife is really going to meet her lover instead, and wants the pictures to prove it. As I’ve already learned from doing work for Will on other occasions, a lot of bread-and-butter P.I. work consists of spying on cheating spouses.
We drive another twenty minutes, and the Range Rover exits the highway and turns into the business district of a small community. After a few more turns, the SUV finally drives into the parking lot of the local library. I pull over to the sidewalk and turn off my lights. The woman goes inside, where I watch her through the windows as she takes a magazine from the rack and sits down to read. The scene doesn’t look like any ladies night out that I’ve ever seen, but maybe it’s a book club that meets
at the library and she’s the first one there.
A Porsche zips into the lot, and Warrior sits up in his seat. Illuminated by the library’s lights as it parks close to the window, the vehicle looks like a silver bullet. The woman looks up from her magazine, sees the car, and a happy look of recognition comes over her face. She puts the magazine back in the rack and walks toward the door as I grab my camera.
The moment the woman walks out of the library, I snap pictures as she gets back into her Land Rover. Only when the Porsche pulls out and she follows does my camera stop clicking.
I tail them to a motel fifteen minutes away. I hear a couple of explosive noises nearby. Police sirens start up, and a cruiser races past. The neighborhood isn’t great, and I’m glad I’ve got Warrior with me.
I click on Gordon Lightfoot singing “Sundown”—it seems appropriate somehow. I keep the volume low while I shoot more pictures as a man, dark-haired and probably in his mid-forties, gets out of the Porsche. I duck down and continue photographing as he loosely drapes his arm around Will’s client’s wife. These photos are time-stamped, and it’s now almost eight at night.
They enter a room, and from the looks of the establishment, it’s probably forty-dollars a night. Oh well, they’re probably well past the romance stage, if they ever had one in the first place.
Waiting for something to happen is the tedious part of surveillance. I sit there with the dregs of my cold coffee and try to imagine being in a marriage where I don’t trust my partner. Even though my husband and I were married for almost thirty years, I never suspected him of cheating on me. No, our marriage came apart for other reasons. I glance at my German shepherd, then affectionately rub the top of Warrior’s head.
I try to put myself in Marilyn’s shoes and imagine what it’s like to be worried about whether or not my spouse is planning to dump me. I take my yellow pad from between the two front seats and pretend it’s one of my poster boards from earlier this evening.
Marilyn pointed out on the phone just this morning that my cover while investigating Win is to help solve the ASE paperback puzzle. She wasn’t thrilled when I reminded her that I can’t work on her case while working for Win. I wish I could have told her that I’m discreetly looking out for her and reporting back to Will, but I can’t.
This is a tough one. I like Marilyn, and she’s a friend. She’s an unlikely candidate for any kind of crime, but you know what they say about a woman scorned, so I start writing.
Marilyn Watson
Win’s diary about lawyer meetings
Thinks mystery note to Win is from Katya
Upset over possible Win-Katya affair
Repeat of Win’s other affair when they lived in Summit?
Worried about being traded-in
What would she do to stop it?
I think back to our conversation the other evening about Sydney Ballantine, Win’s former lover, a socialite who disappeared. It was still thought to be an unsolved murder.
I let my imagination run wild—is it possible that Marilyn got rid of her? She did admit to fantasies of Katya going poof and disappearing. Ascribing it to the realm of very slim possibility, I add—
Hire Casey’s shooter to set up Katya? Or to shoot Katya?
There, I’ve put it on paper, but I don’t believe it for a second.
I’m feeling a little sleepy so I call my youngest daughter, Jess, the one in school over in Pennsylvania. My call goes straight to voice mail, and I text her.
r u ok?
yeah, why not?
u didn’t answer your phone
I’m busy
everything ok at school? classes? boys?
you’re being weird. what’s up?
on a stakeout
words I never thought I’d hear. my friend’s mom does zumba but then you’ve got aikido. why the stakeout?
love triangle
ok, be home Sunday. we’ll eat at our fav diner & tell me about the love triangle?
just sunday? come friday or saturday?
got a paper to finish. can’t come sooner
what time Sunday?
around ten at the diner
love you, Jess
love you, too, Mom
I almost doze off when Warrior whines softly at a squirrel, and I sit up quickly. I’m wide awake when the guilty couple leaves the room, so I grab my camera from my lap and start clicking. As she turns to walk toward her car, he grabs her arm and pulls her to him for one last passionate embrace and a long kiss. I click away. When will cheating spouses learn to never, ever show public displays of affection?
Once they’re gone, I let Warrior out for a pee while I stretch. I pour water in a travel bowl, and he takes a drink. When he’s finished, he does a big down-dog stretch and then hops back into the car where I click him into his seatbelt.
I email Will that I have the amorous pictures of his client’s wife, and head home where I will download and send them to him. I turn on one of my favorite classics, Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street,” feeling the loneliness of the haunting saxophone and wailing guitar between the song’s verses.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After emailing Will the photographs, I decide to forget about husband-clients who don’t trust their wives.
My mind is back to searching for Gatsby.
I settle the dogs for the night, sit on top of my bed, then spread out the poster boards I worked on earlier. I read over the police reports that Will left with me and sip another hot cup of herbal tea. The police found a shell casing on the hillside where the shooter positioned himself to fire at the thief. From that casing, they’ve determined that he used a .308-caliber Remington rifle.
I grab my board about the dead guy who’s the focus of the police reports.
#3 Who is Casey Whitmore?
“The book…” to Jamie
“…if it’s the last thing I do…” to Win
Does Win know Casey or not?
…and add more to the list—
Took Marilyn’s necklace
Worked at Alessandro Rare Books in Summit
Behind-the-scenes at store
Gatsby his store pick-of-week
His house full of books
War-time photo of soldiers
Dropped 1/3 of paperback Gatsby during fall at Win’s house
Looking for Win’s 1/3 paperback, that fits with his
Handled Win’s $500K Gatsby, but did not steal it. Why?
Damaged $500K Gatsby?
Purse gift for Sally
Painting of house for Sally
I hear two sets of snores, one softer than the other, coming from Warrior’s dog bed and Peachie’s crate. I look down and laugh. It’s little Peach who has the noisier snore. Another sip of tea. I tell myself to stay focused.
The players. The players. Think of all the players related to this case. I already wrote out my thoughts about Marilyn during the stakeout, and I transfer it to a poster board. Then I switch to my employer, start a new board with his name at the top, and scribble everything I can think of.
Win Watson
Collects 20th cen. 1st editions
Dying Casey seemed to know him
Nasty talk with Katya (affair?) at store & his party
History of affair in Summit?
What am I missing?
I move on quickly. The next board is devoted to the femme fatale.
Katya Alessandro
Expensive taste (car & purse)
Affair with Win Watson?
Fight with Win at Watson dinner & bookstore
History with Jamie Gordon?
Tears & Bianca?
Owns Alessandro Rare Books
Casey’s boss
Casey’s dog toy list on Alessandro memo paper
‘Stay away’ note about the book & what our families started
I consider that stay-away note and add one more to the Katya list.
Does Katya want the ASE? And why?
The one who’s makin
g me feel the most confused is Jamie Gordon. I can’t shake that image of Jamie embracing Katya at his party. I continue to wonder if they’ve had a relationship that goes beyond book collecting.
Damn, I hate that he’s gotten under my skin. And as much as I’m attracted to him, I have to assign Jamie a board, which I reluctantly write.
Jamie Gordon
Collects 20th cen. 1st editions & forgeries
Dying thief seemed to know him
Mob business rumors
Client of Alessandro
History with Katya?
Friend of Watsons
Dead wife and kids
Although I find this far-fetched, I remember that he disappeared for a while at the end of the Watson dinner party. What if it was Jamie who dropped the treasured first edition, not Whitmore? The possibility intrigues and disturbs me.
Did Jamie damage $500K Gatsby? Opportunity at party
I pull out another board and list a few bullets about our friendly rare book expert.
George Smithson
Respected book dealer
Robbery of $500K Gatsby at his warehouse
Chased Sally, fell & knocked out
I think back to the visit Josh Brown and I paid to George at the warehouse and that strange phone call. “Why are you calling me here…” It’s probably nothing, but still—
Strange phone call at warehouse?
I sit back in my bed and slowly read through all my boards, sipping my tea. There’s something missing, and it’s tickling the edges of my memory, driving me crazy.
After a third attempt at slowly reading through all the poster boards to figure out what I’ve forgotten, I go downstairs for a late night snack. The dogs come, too.
I’m holding an overflowing scoop of strawberry ice cream mid-air when it hits me like a Mack truck, and the scooper tumbles to the floor. The dogs pounce on the ice cream, licking it up and smearing it all over the floor in the process, but I hardly notice. Really, I don’t even see them as I mentally run through the clues, first chronologically and then in order of importance, and I realize the one I left out.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 15