The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery)

by Abbott, Victoria

  When we pulled up in front of 87 Lincoln Way, an older man was puttering around the property next door. He checked us out, radiating suspicion. I figured him for a widower, because no one with a wife would be allowed in front of the house in black socks, sandals, baggy shorts and a tartan cap. Even if he was dutifully raking the lawn. He probably thought we were casing the joint, which we were, sort of.

  I waved. The last thing we needed was to attract a lot of attention, and it was important to put him at ease. And I didn’t want to give the occupants any advance notice before returning with Karen. Or cause some neighborhood busybody to notify the police about a suspicious car. Who knew what kind of provenance the Kia had?

  “Stop the car,” I said and hopped out. I approached the neighbor, smiling, my fabulous fake auburn hair blowing in the autumn breeze. I thought I was a good match for the red and gold leaves swirling around. I sniffed. Someone nearby was baking, apple pie if my nose was to be believed. The aroma made me smile, as did the neighbor’s tartan cap, Royal Stewart, my favorite, maybe because the Queen of England leans toward it.

  “Hello,” I said, extending my hand and continuing to smile brightly at the cap. “We were just looking for an American Craftsman house in this area and we spotted this little beauty. I can’t tell you how exciting this is. A thrill.” I gestured grandly toward Number 87 with its gabled roof and tapered columns supporting the roof over the wide veranda, with the deliciously exposed rafter beams. Trust me, I had done my homework. This one had it all: it was what they called a foursquare and had what looked like the original multipaned windows and the partially paned door that all real examples sport. I loved the earthy color of the house and the contrasting brick-red trim. The red door picked up the colors of the surrounding sugar maple trees. I wasn’t exaggerating about the thrill. In my childhood dreams of having a real home with a real mother and father—instead of the ever-changing parade of lovable uncles—I always imagined us being happy in a house like this. Other kids collected My Little Ponies. I collected photos of Craftsman houses and kept them in an album. I realized that the dream of the mother and father was lost, but someday, I told myself, I’d have a house like this. Somewhere safe and legal, a place to love and be loved. I did hope no one would ever be casing my house in a Kia and a red wig.

  Maybe I’d add a secret passage or two.

  The neighbor’s suspicious look persisted. He held on to his rake and ignored my outstretched hand. “You’re just driving around looking for a certain house? Why would you do that?”

  I let my hand drop but kept the smile plastered to my face. I realized I must have seemed slightly deranged, but it was too late to conjure up another faux personality. “I have a client who is very interested in a Craftsman house in Burton. And as I said, this is such a lovely example. We’d love to get inside, but the owners don’t seem to be around.” I pointed to the red front door and tried for a fetching little pout. This wig was starting to mess with my personality.

  Never mind. It seemed to do the trick. I suppose it was the not-too-subtle suggestion that I was a real estate agent—without coming right out and saying it—but surely the pout counted for something too.

  “They keep to themselves,” he said. I thought I noted a wistful tone.

  “Do they?”

  “Very standoffish. Never have a word to say. They certainly don’t add anything to the neighborhood.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And as you can see, they have let the property go. The foundation plantings have been chopped down and there’s nothing left of the garden at all.”

  “Oh. What a shame.”

  “Scandalous. It was pristine when they bought it.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just less than three years now.”

  I glanced back at the car, where Uncle Kevin was watching with interest. I hoped he wasn’t getting any fashion ideas from this gentleman. Uncle Kevin is far too easily influenced. I would have liked to take a picture of the house, but I debated whether that seemed too suspicious. On the other hand, this neighbor didn’t look all that tech savvy. If I used my phone to snap a photo of the house to show Karen, would he even know what I was doing? I decided to assume that you can’t assume much about people and appearances can be deceiving. Certainly I was proof of that. The neighbor seemed to find this new redheaded me quite fascinating, a nuisance for sure.

  Why is it that there is not a single person to be seen in the middle of the day on the average street in our area, yet whenever I need to snoop, there’s practically a neighborhood committee meeting?

  “Are the owners out now?” I asked. There was no car in the driveway and no sign of lights on inside on this gloomy day, so it was a good bet.

  “You just missed them. They drove off in their fancy car, not ten minutes ago.”

  “Darn. That’s inconvenient. Not my lucky day, I guess.”

  “Guess not,” he commiserated. I felt his attitude begin to thaw.

  “Fancy car, you say?”

  He nodded, disapprovingly. He was sort of a cute old geezer with that tartan cap. Just needed a wife to establish a few guidelines about pants.

  “Hmm,” I said producing the smile yet again. “I suppose I should just leave a note. Do you know their names? I like to personalize these things.” The neighbor looked very interested at that.

  “Adams,” he said. “I don’t know their first names. As I said, they’re not that friendly. They’ve never introduced themselves to me.”

  I resisted the urge to blame that on his cap.

  I was disappointed to hear the confirmation that they weren’t friendly. If this was the place, I was hoping for warmhearted souls who could be convinced to swap the Sayers collection for something else, thus saving my job, apartment and financial neck plus freeing Karen from her burden of guilt.

  “That’s fine. I’ll leave a note for Mr. and Mrs. Adams then. Thank you ever so much.”

  Ever so much? Wow, I was really getting into this role-playing thing.

  “Don’t you have a card?” he asked. “Usually real estate agents just leave their cards in the mailbox. Brochures too. And information sheets with photos of properties that they have sold in the area. When I think of real estate agents, I think of lots and lots of teeth.”

  “Of course, I do have all that kind of promotion,” I said, showing my teeth and pretending to reach into my shoulder bag for my nonexistent cards, brochures and information sheets.

  He frowned thoughtfully. “But, of course I always throw that bumpf straight into the recycling bin. Waste of good trees. If I want an agent, I’ll just call one.”

  “Exactly, and I’m eco-friendly. Plus I think a note would be better. More personal, as this is a very personal quest for my client.”

  “On the other hand, a card might be good. I wouldn’t mind getting one in case I decide to sell. Maybe your client would be interested in my house.”

  “Indeed,” I said, a bright smile glued to my face. Was he trying to jerk my chain? Whatever, I hoped a steady stream of information would distract him. “The client is obsessed with American Craftsman style. I could never deflect her from that. She has money, the kind of money that nobody says no to, if you get my point.” I could see that his interest was waning. “I think I might not have too much trouble finding someone interested in a unique Victorian like yours.” By unique, I meant marred by a couple of really bad remodels. I wondered who had stripped the gingerbread from the house and what he or she had been thinking. Some folks have no appreciation for history.

  He said, “Maybe I should sign you up right now.”

  This definitely called for a diversion. No point in going any further down the faux Realtor road. I pointed to the low, neatly manicured boxwood hedge that separated the two properties. “By the way, I am very interested in this greenery. Mine never seems to do well. My, um, husband does all our gardening. Would you mind telling him your secret? It seems so . . . luxurious, yet controlled.”

&nbs
p; Kevin was probably at the point of death by boredom by this time, and he perked up immediately and leapt from the car. He managed to insert himself between the nosy neighbor and me and bent over to examine the hedge.

  “Remarkable. What’s your secret?” he asked. “Bonemeal?”

  Bonemeal? Really? I almost fell off my stiletto heels. Who knew that Kevin had any idea at all about gardening? Where in the world would he have picked up that skill? Was it some special parole program that he’d never mentioned to us? Of course, Uncle Kev was nothing if not mysterious.

  Panicking that he wasn’t going to wander down the “garden path” with Kev, I continued my weird flirting offensive and reached out to touch the man’s forearm, a move that Lance and Tiff could pull off, but it just felt wrong to me. No more of that, I told myself.

  He said, “I don’t think I have a secret. It’s just a row of boxwood.” But the look in his eyes added, “Why is this weird woman touching me?”

  Kev was beaming. “It’s glorious! Do you feed it?”

  “Feed it? No, I just trim it.” The neighbor turned to his boxwood with new interest and respect.

  Kev leaned toward him. “I bet you talk to it. Makes all the difference.”

  Kevin actually seemed to be taking care of the problem, for once. That’s what it took to really thaw this neighbor. He leaned the rake against the bushes and stuck out his hand. “Harry Yerxa.”

  “Billy Bishop,” Kevin said. “Glad to meet you.” The World War One flying ace was a hero of his, but I worried that it was just a matter of time until someone recognized the name.

  “The flying ace!” Harry Yerxa said.

  “Yup. Named for him. My father was a big admirer.” Kev knew well enough, as we all did, not to elaborate too much. It’s the details that can trap us. I hoped he wasn’t going to blow our cover.

  Still, I was impressed despite myself. Although he was probably one of the world’s best improvisers, he sounded like he knew a thing or two. He may have had the neighbor fooled, but I’d kind of fallen for it too.

  While he was being his distracting best, I used my iPhone to take a couple of good shots of the Adams house from the sidewalk. It was not only heartbreakingly beautiful, it was also very photogenic. Then, leaving Harry Yerxa to fend for himself, I dashed up the path to the front door and pretended to leave a note. Actually, I was checking out the place in case I needed to have an “informal” and unauthorized visit at a later date. I was surprised to spot two separate dead bolts on the door. What a shame to see them marring that wonderful red front door. I rang the doorbell, just in case. I heard the bell echoing from the inside. I waited and then glanced around surreptitiously before peering through the small panes in the top third of the door. I couldn’t see a thing. Next I knocked loudly and long. Finally I tried peeking in the windows. I noticed that the windows were alarmed as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed a wall-mounted camera and then another tucked behind the exterior light. That’s a good trick. Amateurs disable the first camera and don’t realize that there are more. I wasn’t likely to fall for that, but I would be clearly visible on both of them. I was very glad I had the wig and hoped that my features wouldn’t be identifiable on the recording of my visit. I pulled a piece of paper and a pen from my bag and pretended to attempt to write a note. I thought I simulated the frustration of having my pen run out of ink. “Darn,” I said loudly. “My pen’s not working. Honeee!”

  I headed down the walk and interrupted Uncle Kevin and Mr. Yerxa, who were in a deep and meaningful discussion about the spectacular specimen of burning bush on the front lawn. I said, “So sorry to interrupt, but I just realized we are very late for our appointment with the lawyer. And you know what? My stupid pen ran dry so I couldn’t leave a note for the Adamses.” I smiled winningly at Mr. Yerxa. “Would you be kind enough to mention to the Adamses that we were here? Thank you so much. Must run! I’ll drop off a card later.”

  Kevin responded instantly, and within a second we were in the Kia and around the corner.

  Chapter Three

  “THAT WAS A good hedge. I like boxwood,” Uncle Kev said. “What’s our hurry?”

  “Crazy security there. I didn’t want to be too identifiable on the camera. So I hope he really does mention that some Realtor was here.”

  “What kind of security? Cameras?”

  “Yup. And not just one, plus double dead bolts. Not to mention connections on the windows and who knows what else. They’d even removed the foundation plantings. No one could hide there to gain access through a window.”

  “They had a murder in the neighborhood, Harry told me.”

  “A murder? In Burton?”

  “Yeah. Some guy got himself stabbed not a block from here.”

  “That’s terrible. Was it a robbery? A domestic assault?”

  Kev said, “Doesn’t look like it. Harry thinks it was some drifter. I figure more like a falling-out between gangs, but I kept my opinion to myself. The neighborhood’s spooked.”

  “I’m not surprised. So maybe that’s what the Adamses are worried about. But something tells me they also have stuff they don’t want stolen, such as a collection of first editions that includes some pristine Sayers first editions. I hope the cameras didn’t pick up me taking a shot of the house earlier.”

  Kevin grinned. “So should we come back looking very different?” As his mustache was half flopping off, the answer was easy.

  “Yes. Different. But first I’ll have to try the address, the name Adams and show the picture of the house to Karen, to see if any of it strikes a chord. I am betting that they have that security for some good reason. Did you find out anything about them during your gardening chat?”

  “Don’t knock the gardening, Jordan. People melt when they talk about their gardens. You can get anything out of them.”

  “And did you?”

  “There are three people in the family, an older man who is either the husband or the father of a very pretty woman, and an adolescent who is either the son or grandchild of the older man. The woman is definitely the mother, as the kid calls her ‘Mama.’”

  “The older man sounds right, and Karen remembers a woman when she delivered the books. Anything else?”

  “They’ve lived there about three years and they did a lot of interior remodeling when they first moved in. Harry says they’re well-off, driving an Audi, and he thinks they sunk a ton of money into the inside of that house, even though they have pretty well destroyed the landscaping and the foundation plantings. I gotta say I agree with him on that. And he suggests that you warn your client they will probably expect to recoup their investment when they sell.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. My imaginary client thanks you.”

  “Anything I can do to help, just ask,” Kevin said, stepping on the gas. It would have been a perfect getaway if we hadn’t passed a police cruiser idling by the curb as we shot by. I tensed, waiting for sirens and flashing lights before my brain processed the visual information. We were in the town of Burton. So what possible reason could there be for a Harrison Falls police officer to be—and there is only one way to describe it—lurking around so far from home.

  Sure enough. Kevin pulled over. But only after giving me his well-known “Should we make a break for it?” look.

  “There won’t be any way to trace this Kia, will there?” he said.

  “It’s a valuable asset to Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky. I’m pretty sure the documents will be in order,” I said. “And for the record, we haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Impersonating a real estate agent.”

  “Not sure that’s a felony,” I said. We both jumped at the knock on the window. Uncle Kevin turned the color of boiled rice.

  What do you know? The tall, slightly pudgy yet adorable Officer Tyler Dekker smiled his innocent smile as a serious blush raced from his neck to the top of his wavy blond hair.

  “Did you take a wrong turn, Officer?” I said.

  “Just t
aking a drive for my break,” he said. “You?”

  “Funny thing, I had the same idea. Just drive around. See the sights.”

  He nodded. “Nice way to try out the new hairdo.” That smile of his with the small chip in the left incisor always gets me.

  “What?”

  “Of course, I did like you as a brunette. A lot.” His ears were practically glowing at this point.

  “Thank you. It’s just a wig. I thought I’d try it before making a drastic color switch.”

  “Good thinking. And will you keep it?”

  “The wig?”

  “The red.”

  This wig had cost me some serious dollars and I hated the idea that I’d have to get rid of it because the law was onto me. On the other hand, I hadn’t done anything wrong. But talking to cops is something that no one in my family is comfortable with. Especially Uncle Kevin. I figured he was near death sitting next to me. I didn’t dare look at him, and I certainly didn’t intend to introduce him to Officer Smiley.

  He leaned in. “So, who’s your friend?”

  Even though I knew CPR, I hoped Uncle Kevin didn’t have an undiagnosed heart condition.

  “Friend?”

  He pointed to Uncle Kevin.

  “The one in the driver’s seat.”

  “Oh. Right. He’s an old acquaintance visiting from Denmark.”

  Officer Smiley blinked.

  Uncle Kevin was quivering like an aspen.

  I said, “Yes, he’s visiting and just wanted to see the sights.”

  “Guten Tag,” Kevin said.

  Dekker blinked.

  “Um, he has been touring. Most recently Germany, as you can hear. And now it’s time to get him back to catch his plane.”

  I smiled and rolled up the window before Kevin said “Arrivederci” or something even more Kevin-like.

  Really, it might have been better to have simply said that I was searching for a house of a collector who may have bought some of Vera’s missing books from Karen Smith. What would have been wrong with that? If it had just been me, I would have done it. I’ve developed a soft spot for Officer Smiley, but there was the matter of Uncle Kevin. If his business acquaintances were interested in getting their mitts on him, the forces of law and order were even more so. And according to Uncle Mick, cops are the biggest gossips on the planet.