Even though I’m not supposed to pursue it, I’m pretty sure I know who killed the old cat burglar. Means and opportunity definitely fit—motive I’m still working on. I need to set a trap to make sure I’m right and encourage the killer to make his move, and it may even help me find the rest of the paperback.
I don’t dare tell Will until I have all my ducks in a row. I clean up what’s left of the ice cream that the dogs haven’t already slurped up.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
His deep steady voice cuts through me. “I never took you for a coward, Mrs. Lake.”
We’re upstairs at Sheffield Hall. “Cowardice has nothing to do with it, Mr. Gordon. Thank you for inviting me to your lovely party. Good night.” I smile and turn to make my exit.
He grabs my arm. “Not so fast, Ronnie.”
As I turn back, he pulls me close, embracing me. My breath catches. His deep brown eyes stare into mine longingly, and time stops. Slowly, ever so slowly, our lips move toward each other—
A shrill ringing sound invades the moment, and I shoot up in bed, startled. “Huh?” My eyes snap open to darkness.
More ringing. Ugh. The clock says 5:15 a.m. I hear the rustle of the dogs near my bed.
I click on my phone and croak, “Hello.”
“Ronnie?”
“Damn. Timing is everything,” I moan. “Will, you’ve interrupted a very nice dream.” I rub my eyes. “What’s up?”
“I just got a text from early bird Win Watson.”
“Seriously?”
“He was involved in a hit-and-run late last night. Someone broadsided him on the driver’s side and fled the scene.”
“Oh my god, was he injured?”
“The air bags saved him, but he was knocked unconscious and didn’t really see the car that hit him. He just got home from being checked at the hospital and talking to the police. He’s still pretty shaken up and wants one of us at his house as soon as possible, before he heads into the city. I’m leaving in half an hour for a meeting in Philadelphia. How soon can you get there?”
“6:00? I need some coffee first. What’s so urgent?”
“He’s got it in his head that this is tied in with Gatsby.”
“I’ll get over there.” I switch on a lamp.
“Text him back and let him know you’re on your way. Thanks, Ronnie.” He clicks off.
~~~~~
“Win, calm down—” I urge.
“I am positive there’s a link,” he insists.
“Did something happen last night to make you think this?”
“Call it a hunch, Ronnie.” Win sits at his sprawling oval pedestal table in the kitchen, bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep and sipping a large mug of coffee. I sit with him.
“First, I drove home after supper with George Smithson. We stopped by his warehouse so he could pick up his car and show me a couple of books he thought I might like to see. Then he went his way, and I went mine.” He massages his temples before he continues.
“Take your time.” I keep my voice calm.
“I was on the back roads when this car comes out of nowhere and broadsides me. When I regained consciousness and dug my way out of the air bag, I saw the back passenger door to my car was open, and it looked as if someone might have gone through my things.”
“Your belongings must have been tossed around in the crash, so how could you tell?” I ask.
“I had several books in a satchel on the back floor. When I looked, the satchel was still there but unbuckled. It was fastened when I put it in the car,” he insists.
“That is curious,” I agree. “Did you report this to the police?”
“No. I only just realized it when I got home.”
Marilyn comes into the kitchen. “Darling, your driver’s here to take you into the city. Can’t you reschedule this meeting and rest?”
“I’d love to, but the guy flew in for less than twenty-four hours, and then he’s got to go back to London.” He finishes his coffee.
Marilyn leans against a kitchen counter, exasperated. “Ronnie, can you talk some sense into him?”
But Win jumps in. “Look. First, Whitmore gets shot off our roof and dies. Then my damaged Gatsby is stolen, or borrowed by that girl. I’m still not sure if I buy her story, by the way. Then another of these ASE pieces of a paperback Gatsby turns up. Then someone crashes into me and digs around in my belongings in the car. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”
“I do see your point,” I say.
“I think whoever crashed into me was looking for more pieces of the paperback.” He almost slams his coffee mug onto the table to emphasize his point.
“Ronnie, I’m so relieved those books are not here,” Marilyn says, “but safely with you.”
“I only hope that whoever smashed into Win doesn’t find out I have them.” I shake my head with worry and a slight scowl, but then smile confidently. “I agree, these incidents are tied to the paperback and, hey, probably that supposed treasure. Listen, you two,” and they both lean in. “There are enough clues to start searching for the missing coins with or without the third piece of the paperback…that is, if the coins are still in their original hiding place. It’s definitely worth a shot.”
Win leaves for the city, and I mentally shift gears back to the night of the dinner party, only now I look through a different lens of the thief searching for the paperback instead of the expensive first edition. I walk outside and circle the building, thoroughly examining my surroundings.
There’s a trellis on a guest wing wall that would have been far enough from the party to not be noticed. I step back to see that the lower roof above the lattice leads to a couple of windows that access the massive center of the house.
I go back inside, and as I walk along an upstairs hall, I pass those same two windows. I discover one of the screens hasn’t been reattached properly. There’s even a trace of fingerprint dust from the police, so this could be where Casey entered.
Once I’ve moved through the master bedroom suite and to Win’s small library, I sit in his big chair and look across at the cabinet with the glass doors above the desk. I glance down and a piece of furniture blocks my view of the bottom shelf in one corner, the one where Win kept his ASE Gatsby.
Maybe Whitmore took out the piece he brought with him as he tried to determine where Win stored his. If Whitmore hoped to find Win’s piece, then something must have interrupted him and caused him to act quickly. He must have stuffed the piece he already had into his pocket and left in haste.
I keep in mind that Jamie Gordon disappeared after dinner for a long time. Had Jamie come upstairs, and was that what caused Whitmore to make a hasty exit?
I consider the small window where the police thought Whitmore escaped, the only window in this room. I look through it and am surprised to observe Marilyn kneeling down behind several large bushes, digging a hole. What on earth is she doing out there? She has a gardener who takes care of the grounds. Her body blocks my sight line, but it appears she’s placing something in the hole, and then she fills it. Given all the weird goings-on lately, every strange occurrence feels suspicious.
My mind wanders to a sinister place: how well do we really know anyone? You can think you do, and still, sometimes the nicest people turn out to be sociopaths.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The small window creaks when I crank it open, and I find another loose screen. I scoot onto the ledge with my legs out, my shoes propped on the slate roof. I can feel that my sneakers have solid traction.
I imagine the gunshot, envisioning it hitting its target and the old burglar sliding down the slate shingles, his arms and legs flailing for anything to grab onto. During his slide to death, the paperback falls out of his pocket and drops to the ground. Staring down at the tree that broke his fall makes me dizzy.
I look out in the direction from which the gunfire had to come and scan the horizon, which is mostly woods. There is one hilly area that stands above the trees. It’s not that
far off, perhaps just beyond the deer fencing that surrounds the Watson garden.
A high-pitched scream behind me startles me. I defensively grab the sides of the window and brace myself in case someone wants to push me out.
“Ronnie, don’t go out there!” Marilyn screams.
I relax, turn around, and grin at her. “I wasn’t thinking of it.”
“Well, what on earth are you doing?”
“Trying to get inside the intruder’s head on his last evening.”
“Enough of that. Get yourself inside, right this minute,” she pleads.
“I’ve seen plenty. I want to get my binoculars.”
~~~~~
I walk through the garden in the general direction of the large shrubs, passing by the hole that Marilyn filled with dirt. There’s got to be something interesting in there, but now’s not the time to find out what.
Or is it? I look up at the window. No Marilyn. As a matter of fact, I don’t see anybody near any of the back windows or doors. The loose, soft earth covering the small hole looks tantalizing.
I pull latex gloves from my pocket, slide them on, kneel down on the grass, and scoop out the soil with my hands. I don’t dig very long before touching something solid. It feels like a handle, and I exhume…what? A silver letter opener? With a penny taped to one side of the blade? What kind of voodoo is Marilyn into?
I flip it over, and the engraving on the other side of the blade reads To my partner in life, Happy Anniversary on our 30th!
“Man, with an inscription like that, this would be perfect sticking out of his back.” I put a letter opener up there with a toaster or a bathroom scale as a dud of an anniversary present. But it’s the coin taped to the blade that makes it intriguing. I quickly snap a picture, drop the knife back into the hole, and fill it with dirt.
I scoot behind a wall of larger bushes and look for the opening in the deer fence next to the area where I found Peach. I spot some left-over yellow crime tape across the snipped wire in the fence, and I slip through.
The person who knocked me out could have carried the gun that shot Casey Whitmore, or could have been another thief looking for pieces of the ASE paperback. Whichever way this shakes out, I need to pursue this in order to find the third piece of the paperback.
I brush the dirt from my gloves as I continue along the trail that turns into a deer path up a hill. At the top, more crime scene tape runs around the top of an outcropping of boulders. I climb the monstrous rocks, step inside the tape, and plant myself in the middle. There it is—the perfect view of the Watsons’ roof.
Since the shooter didn’t know where Casey Whitmore would exit, this higher position was necessary to get the full view of the house. The way the rocks are clustered, I could even conveniently rest my gun while waiting for the thief to make his move.
Looking through my binoculars, I study the house more closely, especially the area around Win’s library window. This is not the side of the house where Whitmore made his original entry. He would have had to climb over the top of the roof in order to get himself back to the guest wing so he could climb down that metal trellis.
Meanwhile, the killer would have looked through the scope of the rifle, waiting for the best shot. As the burglar climbed close to the top of the roof, the shooter would have felt pressure to fire or lose the opportunity before Whitmore descended down the other side and got away.
Somewhere within this crime scene, the killer’s Remington ejected a shell casing that got stuck down among these huge stones. He couldn’t take the time to search for it and had to get out of there in a hurry, and so the police recovered it later on.
I turn to go and spot an easier way down, slightly less steep than the way up. As I scramble down from the boulders, I consider the shooter as a hired gun. If so, who was his boss, or his client?
When I get close to the bottom, I catch a streak of bright golden yellow between two jagged rocks. Crouching down, I try to see what the object is, but can’t make it out. I reach into the crack to retrieve it, but the opening is much too narrow. I get a stick, ready to poke it free, but stop myself. What if this thing is tied to the shooting? It’s probably not, but I’d better play it safe.
I pull out my phone and step back to take wider shots showing the area and the pile of boulders. As I move closer, I take more pictures, and finally move in for a close-up showing the faint outline of a shiny yellow rectangle. I do my best to zoom in, but I still don’t know what it is.
Breaking a long stick, I try to unsuccessfully fish it out and then resort to pushing it downhill. It finally pops out from the boulders. I’ve already got gloves on, reach down, and pick up a yellow patent leather case. I’m careful to hold it by its edges—there may be prints. On one corner of the yellow leather is a stamped-in logo that I don’t recognize. I flip it open to see a gray lining that is ink-stained at one end.
I carefully deposit the pen holder in a plastic baggie. It’s clean enough of dirt and other outdoor debris to make me think that it fell through these boulders recently.
~~~~~
An hour after starting my Internet search by visiting different pen companies, I decide it’s time to stop being distracted by the most beautiful, elegant, and outrageously expensive fountain pens I’ve ever seen. I bet they never skip, but if I owned one, I’d constantly be afraid of losing it.
I continue scrolling through images of pen holders and eventually locate the stylish leather case. I click open a link under the image that takes me to a website belonging to Pelikan, a German pen company, and I see the same Pelikan logo that is stamped into the yellow leather on this case. I speculate where the pen is that goes with it, and who the owner is.
There’s really no proof that it’s tied to the murder. It could have dropped between these boulders before the shooting. This pen holder definitely falls into one of those gray areas of what to report or not report to the police when investigating a crime.
First I need to find out more, but one thing’s for sure: Detective Rossi has made it clear that I’m not to waste anymore of her time.
Chapter Thirty
After my curious run-in with Katya at Casey’s house, I decide this is an appropriate time for surveillance. Her presence has moved beyond that of a clichéd femme fatale who may be having an affair with my friend’s husband to something more that ties in with Gatsby.
I switch my perky red Mustang for my brother’s old Toyota again. The car isn’t my only effort to fade into the background. I stay in the clothes I threw on early this morning—jeans and a barn jacket—and pull my hair back in a sloppy bun topped by a dark baseball cap, and finally add light-lensed sun glasses. It’s not even close to a disguise, just an effort to go unnoticed.
I hit the road. Since I have no idea where Katya is, I start with a quick phone call to her book shop once I’m on the highway. A man answers, and I ask for Sally Richards.
It’s not long before her cheery voice comes on the line. “May I help you?”
“It’s Ronnie. Please don’t be nervous that I’m calling you. How’s everything going?”
“Fine, thank you. How are you?” Still, Sally’s voice sounds a little wobbly.
“Everything is good. I’m calling on a different matter. Any sign of those Edith Wharton books I ordered?”
“I’ll check. May I put you on hold for a moment?”
“Sounds good.” Of course I know there are no Wharton books waiting for me, but I need to find out where the boss is without raising Sally’s suspicions.
She’s back on in a moment. “There’s no sign of them.” She sounds tense again. “If I can find the paperwork, I can make the calls.”
“Take a deep breath. Is your boss nearby? Is that why you sound upset?”
“She’s here in her office, but she’s leaving us all alone.”
“So no drama at work?” I ask. Good. Katya is there.
“She just told us not to disturb her. She’s busy working on something important.”
/> “Okay, keep me posted if those Wharton books come in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bye, Sally.” We hang up.
~~~~~
Once there, I drive around the block and spot the white Tesla parked behind the store. I position the Toyota so that I can see if Katya leaves. I’ve come prepared with my cup of coffee.
Finally, an hour later, Katya comes through the back door, carrying a couple of bulky shopping bags. Sally follows awkwardly, her vision obstructed by several cardboard boxes stacked high in her arms. She trips over a cement parking block and tries to catch herself. The highest box in her arms tumbles to the ground, landing sideways and opening, its contents scattering across the pavement.
Katya goes ballistic. She screams at her, telling her how worthless she is as Sally scurries on her hands and knees to retrieve the fallen books. What is this woman’s problem? Alessandro could be the kind of boss who treats all her employees this way and not just Sally. Maybe she’s extra-upset because of something that happened yesterday at Casey’s house?
Sally finishes putting the books back in the box. As she places it in the Tesla’s trunk, Katya dismisses her with a command of, “Get back to work.” Her head hanging, Sally rushes inside as Katya drives away.
Keeping my distance, I follow the Tesla all the way to Somerville. Katya drives to a large shopping mall, parks near Lord & Taylor, but doesn’t get out. I circle around and park where I have a good view of her car. I can see that she’s still sitting inside it. She looks like she’s busy writing.
A dark green Jeep Cherokee pulls in and also parks near L&T. Of all people, George Smithson gets out, glances toward Katya, nods at her, and walks inside. She waits a beat and follows.
Then it’s my turn. I grab a shopping bag filled with towels I’ve needed to exchange and quickly walk past her car. I glance inside the windows, and what I see is so odd, I stop. There are open books scattered across the front passenger seat and some more in the back. She’s penned the name Bianca and some short messages on the title pages.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 16