“No offense, Detective, but I’ve got to leave now with Warrior. The hostage can fill you in. The suspect’s handcuffed to the basin pipes. Oh, and don’t turn on the water in that basin.”
“Why?”
“I threw the coins down the drain and they’re trapped there.”
“The coins?”
“Yeah, keep them safe. And don’t forget the Pelikan pen in Katya’s jeans pocket. Take pictures. It’s evidence.”
“Huh?”
“It ties her to the Whitmore shooting.”
“Come on, lady,” Billy says, as I continue pressing the Open button in the elevator. I jump in.
“Hold it,” Rossi calls out, reaching her arm out to keep the elevator from closing.
“Detective, let her go,” Will says.
The last thing I hear as the doors close is Rossi asking, “What is it with that woman and her dog?”
~~~~~
Several hours later, I sit in an exam room, so relieved that Warrior has successfully come through the surgery to remove the bullet. He’s fortunate, because there are no broken bones from the gunshot.
Will and Detective Rossi open the door to the room just as the vet tech wheels in a stretcher carrying my groggy German shepherd. I wave them in.
Warrior has a serious bandage wrapped around the wound. The enormous cone-like collar around his neck to prevent him from licking or chewing the bandage is a big part of why he looks like such a sad-sack.
“Oh, Warrior, my sweet Warrior.” I sniffle and bury my face in the soft furry coat on his back.
I glance at Will and then at Rossi, who’s looking down at her feet uncomfortably. She looks up at me. Before I can say anything, she jumps in. “Will told me about Warrior and your son. I lost my brother in Afghanistan, so I… I get it about your dog. I’m glad he’s okay.”
“Thank you. I couldn’t be with my son at the end, but Warrior was. And for that I’ll always be grateful. He means the world to me, and I’d do anything for him.” I give him a kiss between his ears.
Will comes close and carefully rubs Warrior’s head. “Hey boy, you gave us all a scare.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Everything’s under control back at Sally’s.”
“We’ve placed Alessandro under arrest, and Sally’s filled in a lot of details,” Rossi says. “Still, I’m going to need to talk to you. Why is that leaky pen so important? I got the pictures of it in her jeans and I took it into evidence, but how does it fit in?”
“I think I have the ink-stained Pelikan case that goes with it. I found it among the boulders where she took the shot that knocked Casey off the Watsons’ roof. I saw her at Jamie Gordon’s skeet course, and she’s an expert marksman. In any case, I’m betting the Pelikan case has her prints and ties her to the scene.”
Rossi defaults to her predictable expression of annoyance at me, and I quickly add, “I have pictures, and I have the case in a safe place at home in an evidence bag.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything as I continue stroking Warrior’s back. But it’s just a moment. “Where do those coins fit in?”
“It’s a long story, and I’ll fill you in tomorrow at my house, since I’m on Warrior-recovery-duty all day.” I nod at my dog, then remember something and say in a panic, “Will, don’t let anybody turn on the wash basin in the laundry room at Sally’s until you’ve removed—“
“I’ve already taken care of that,” he says.
Rossi jumps in. “And they’re temporarily in police custody.”
“But they belonged to Casey,” I say. “He wanted Sally to have them.”
“I said temporarily.” She shakes her head. “Do you always interrupt so much?”
We look at each other for a long moment, and then I glance at Will. “Ask him.”
I carefully circle my arms around Warrior and kiss his forehead.
Epilogue
It’s been several days since Jamie and I returned from Lambertville. The recent events have shocked the community.
Katya’s fingerprints were identified on both the leaky Pelikan pen and its ink-stained holder. The police located the murder weapon, that Remington rifle, with more of her prints, hidden away in her New York apartment. They also confirmed that she used that same rifle to shoot at me when I went to Casey’s house the first time.
Katya, who was teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, has pretty much confessed everything. Her lawyer is negotiating a deal, although she’s probably going away for a very long time.
Still, her desperation was painful to witness. She grew up obsessed with finding the coins and even ended up in the book business in her quest to find the pieces of the ASE. But in this case, the stakes were high. The police are now looking for her ex-husband, believed to be hiding out in Cuba with their daughter until he gets the pay-off that Katya promised him.
Last night, Marilyn came over to my house and we shared a bottle of wine by the fireplace. She looked more relaxed than I’ve seen her since this mess all started. She even tried to pay me for my investigative work regarding her husband.
“No way will I accept money from you. I was officially Win’s client anyway, and he’s already cut a check for Will and me.” I sipped my wine. “Besides, I didn’t really prove that your husband was faithful or unfaithful, even though I would swear nothing was going on there. Marilyn, Win’s crazy about you.”
“It’s still hard to trust again when you’ve been hurt.” Marilyn drank from her glass. “Win and I did sit down for a heart-to-heart, and it turns out Katya was pressuring him with some hair-brained business scheme.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. It involved priceless first editions. Her demands and expectations had escalated to the ridiculous, and when Win saw Casey Whitmore on the ground dying, he thought Katya may have sent him. It was all part of why he had been meeting with his lawyer…he wanted guidance. Win didn’t tell me about it, because he was worried about upsetting me.”
“I had a feeling there was perfectly good reason.”
“Oh, before I forget,” Marilyn said as she pulled out her phone, “I’m texting you the name and number of a highly regarded coin expert from Win. He’ll do a great job for that girl. He already took a quick preliminary look, and the coins appear to be genuine.”
“That’s great of you to help Sally,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I think she’s misguided, but basically harmless. Win and George have agreed not to press charges against her, and she’s promised to not borrow any more valuable books. George even offered her a job at his warehouse, now that Alessandro’s is no longer in business.”
~~~~~
This morning, when I took Sally out for breakfast and told her the good news, her response wasn’t what I quite expected.
“I can’t take those coins,” she insisted as she pushed her wild hair out of her face.
“It’s not the coins, it’s the money from selling the coins,” I clarified. “Just think, you can finish school and go to grad school if you want.”
“Casey was my friend, but he was a thief, and I can’t take the money,” she said, digging into her pancakes.
“Stop a minute. These coins were not stolen. They were his inheritance from his father, and now they belong to you.” I drank my coffee and took a bite of toast. “That’s what Casey wanted.”
“But he broke into the Watsons’ house. And when you think about it, I kind of broke in, too. It doesn’t feel right.”
“He has no police record as a thief, so we don’t really know about his past. Sure, he broke into their house and slipped Marilyn’s necklace into his pocket, but it never left their property, because…well, he fell off the roof and died.”
Sally gave me a look and took another bite of her pancakes.
“Sure, sure…it’s pushing it, I know. But in this instance we know that Casey was not the one who did anything wrong.” I broke off a piece of bacon. “He never even found the coins, much less touched them. And if something happened to
him, he definitely wanted you to have them. End of story.”
Sally crinkled her brow. “But how did his father get the coins?”
“That we’ll never know—”
“Do you think his father stole them?” She put her hand up to stop me from answering as she gathered her thoughts. “How did Casey’s dad end up with three such valuable coins? Not a single one is a dud. I mean, come on, how’d he get so lucky?”
“Sally, we’ll never know if they were a gift from a friend who was maybe a coin collector, or if they were simply an innocent family heirloom, or if they were ill-gotten gains from a theft. And it’s unlikely we’ll ever know who owned them before Casey’s dad…anybody who knows the truth about those coins is long gone.” I finished the piece of bacon and took another sip of coffee. “Look, the proceeds from the sale of the coins are yours. If you don’t want to spend it on yourself or your education, then go out and do something else good with the money, something that benefits others.”
There followed a long silence at the table, until Sally said, “Well, when you put it that way—”
“Here’s an idea. How about an anonymous donation to the public library where Jamie Gordon and I found the coins, where Casey’s father hid them decades ago? It’s a miracle that they were there. I still can’t believe it. Anyway, a library’s a good place to start, and you’ll come up with other ideas, too.”
“That’s sounds like a good donation,” she agreed. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” She quickly twisted her hair up into a sloppy knot.
I pulled a large orange Hermès shopping bag from under the table. “Here, I found this at Casey’s house, and he wanted you to have it.”
Her eyes grew huge at the sight of the paper bag. She pulled on the leather handles sticking out the top and removed the handbag. “Wow, he said he was going to do this. I didn’t believe him, but he did it. My very own fake Birkin bag.” Sally beamed from ear to ear.
“He told you it would be a fake?”
“Of course. Who can pay full price? But these aren’t cheap either.” She raised it to her face and inhaled deeply, and a small tear rolled down her cheek. “I love the smell of the leather. And I love even more that Casey picked it out for me.”
I waved to the waitress for a check. “I think it’s time we drive to my house and have a visit with Peachie. I feel confident that Casey would want you to look after her.”
Sally said nothing. Now her eyes overflowed with tears, and she put her head down on her arms and began to cry for her lost friend Casey.
I placed my hand on her arm. “There’s no hurry, but whatever you decide, please promise me that Peachie and Warrior can plan some play dates.”
She rubbed her eyes and laughed.
~~~~~
It’s afternoon, and I find it odd that I still haven’t heard from Jamie after several days. I finally dialed moments ago to learn Jamie’s cell phone has been disconnected.
This doesn’t make sense. Something strange is going on, and I deserve to know what it is. I drive up to Sheffield Hall, while Warrior, his leg still bandaged, sits in the front, staring at me nervously.
And now the radio just has to play another old Gerry Rafferty song, “Right down the Line,” and my heart feels ready to break.
Get a hold of yourself, Ronnie.
I climb the hill and pull over a couple of times, as two large trucks pass me coming down the winding, narrow road. One is a moving van, and my heart skips a beat. I continue driving, and it feels like it takes an eternity to get to Jamie’s house.
As I exit the woods and come into the open, I see more huge vans parked around the big house. I also see crews of men carrying wrapped furniture and large boxes to the trucks. Now my heart races, as well as my breathing. I pull over as another truck approaches to exit the property.
I drive up, park, and jump out. Running up the stairs and into the huge formal foyer, I’m shocked to see it now stripped of its massive pieces of furniture, ancient tapestries, and enormous paintings. I look into several of the rooms and they, too, are bare.
“Jamie,” I call out. My voice echoes off the walls. There’s no answer, except the pounding of my heart.
In a panic, I run up the stairs to find several movers packing books in Jamie’s small library. I move quickly to the end of the hall and throw open the doors to his vacant master bedroom.
“Jamie?” I call out again, feeling a slight tremor in my throat as I look around the emptiness of the space.
“May I help you?” The female voice startles me.
I turn and stare at a young woman in black horn-rimmed glasses, who barely looks out of college. I ask her, “Is Mr. Gordon here?”
“No.”
“When will he be back?”
“Uh, never, I think,” she says. The shock on my face must alarm her, because she steps back.
I try to calm myself and then ask, “Where did he go, why are they packing up his house?”
“I, I don’t know,” she answers. “Mr. Westerly gives me my instructions. He’s Mr. Gordon’s lawyer.” She rummages in her tote bag and extends a business card. “I can give you his card, if you would like to speak with him.”
I stand there dumbfounded in the doorway to Jamie’s bedroom. I feel like I’m in an episode of “The Twilight Zone.”
The silence is deafening, and then the young woman registers a look of recognition. “Are you, by any chance, Mrs. Veronica Rutherfurd Lake?”
“Yes,” I respond. “Why?”
“Please follow me.” She walks past me into the bedroom to the one remaining table and chair by a window. There’s a package on top of the small table. She picks up the parcel and reads, “Mrs. Veronica Rutherford Lake,” and looks up at me. “Mr. Gordon left instructions to give you this.” She gestures toward the chair. “Please. Take your time.”
I continue to stand in the doorway, and the young woman senses something is off. She comes over to me and says in a gentle tone, “I’m Sarah, and I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” She goes into the hallway and disappears.
I walk over to the table, pick up the package, and sit in the chair. Tearing off the brown paper, I uncover a book encased in bubble wrap. I carefully remove the plastic and the tissue paper to find a hardcover of The Great Gatsby, protected by a clear archival cover over its dust jacket.
“It can’t be,” I say to myself. I turn to the copyright page to confirm that it’s a true first edition, and I discover a folded sheet of ivory stationary. I feel a lump in my throat as I open it.
Dear Ronnie,
If you’re reading this, you‘re most likely sitting in my empty house, wondering what-the-hell is going on. Where to start…
Meeting you has been the best thing that has happened to me since Diana and the children died. But I need to put my house in order to be worthy of you, and I need to do it by myself where no one knows me. I’m leaving for a while and haven’t decided where I will land. My lawyer, Jack Weatherly, is handling the sale of Sheffield Hall. Even if I stayed, it’s too big, too many rooms, and too empty.
This first edition may not be as valuable as Win’s, but it’s close, because Fitzgerald wrote an inscription to his editor, Max Perkins, on the title page. I’ve treasured this book for many years, and I want you to have it. Think of us every time you look at it.
I don’t know how long my soul-searching will take, and I do not want you to wait for me. I want you to live life to the fullest and be open to all the good that comes your way.
I love you.
Jamie
A tear falls on the clear cover protecting the book, and I quickly wipe it away and dab my eyes. I cover the volume loosely in the plastic and paper and put it in my bag, give the empty room one last look, and leave quickly.
I open the door to my Mustang, and my beloved Warrior sits there obediently and quietly, his brown eyes staring into mine. He gives me a low whine, he knows something’s up. I get in and lean over to put the bag in the back foot well
. Warrior nuzzles my neck and whines again. I bury my face in his soft, furry neck for a moment and take a few deeps breaths, tears still pricking behind my eyelids. My phone beeps with a text from Will.
How bad is it? Ice cream or wine?
I smile as his message swims in front of my eyes, I don’t even need to ask how he knows. I tap out the letters on my screen.
This one’s going to take wine
I’ll be right over
I start the car and head down the drive, leaving Sheffield Hall behind.
Acknowledgements
Without the kindness, support and expertise of the following people, Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery would still be a work in progress:
First, Jim Cummins, of James Cummins Bookseller, and Harry O’Mealia, collector of first edition 20th century American and English fiction, who introduced me to the world of rare book collecting. A conversation with them about books at a wedding provided the inspiration that would develop into this novel;
My fabulous editor, Mercy Pilkington, who challenges and pushes me in my growth as a writer, as well as working with me to deliver the best book I can;
Lt. Vito Abrusci (Retired), Mendham Township Police Department, New Jersey, who is my go-to resource when it comes to his invaluable input on correct law enforcement procedures in the Ronnie Lake mystery series;
Walter Sutton, senior training manager for The Seeing Eye, Inc., who continues to share his extensive knowledge of the German shepherd breed, so critical to writing the character of Warrior, Ronnie’s trusted four-legged companion;
Karen De Paola, 6th Dan, SkylandsAikikai.com, consultant for Aikido and fight scenes, who helps me keep it real;
Other wonderful colleagues, friends, and family, especially Jane Balaguero, who have served as an informal focus group and have read my advance review copies for final input.
Words cannot fully express the gratitude I feel for all their help.
N.D. November 2016
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 22