The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery)

by Abbott, Victoria

  I waved as I drove away. Maybe the wave was a bit too frenetic. But the coincidence of Tyler Dekker showing up on that exact street did bother me just the tiniest bit.

  • • •

  I CHECKED MY iPhone as soon as Officer Smiley was a dot in the rearview. Dead. It’s not like me to forget to charge it, but I was a bit off my game worrying about these missing Sayers books and feeling lonely without a word from Tiff and getting saddled with Kev and all the dangers that could present. I felt almost naked without my phone, so I weighed the pros and cons, pun intended, of bringing Uncle Kevin back to my flowery garret while I recharged the phone, instead of ditching him with Mick. The anxiety of not having the world at my fingertips was too great. I don’t like to drive alone without it. I have my reasons. Kevin gunned it and headed for the Van Alst House, chirping away at my side as he drove.

  Boy, could he chatter. He could have talked for the US of A in the Olympics.

  I tried not to think of the disastrous implications of my uncle and Vera coming face-to-face.

  When Kevin volunteered to remain in the car, I felt relief at getting away from the constant conversation. The relief was mixed with anxiety that he might get restless, leave the vehicle and encounter the signora or, worse, Vera.

  As fast as my little legs would carry me, I was up the stairs and through the door into my cabbage rose–clad garret, the very best perk of this job. It was a bit messy at the moment, which I truly tried to avoid at all costs, lest there be some sort of impromptu inspection by the boss. And yes, I’m sure she could manage to find a way around the lack of wheelchair accessibility. All witches can fly, right?

  After a desperate scan of my morning chaos, I spotted the car charger. It was sitting on top of four very nice New English Library reissues of Sayers books on my Lucite coffee table. I loved the cover designs. I gracefully dodged piles of my favorite vintage summer clothes, on the way to winter storage. The inheritance of my mother’s stunning wardrobe had started my love of all things vintage. Her clothing—in pristine condition—had been saved until I grew into it, another of the many reasons I felt so grateful to Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky. Seeing the stacks of bright summer wear on every surface in my sitting room lit a flame of pride in me. But there was no time to fondle my treasures. I practically tumbled down the narrow back stairs to get myself outside before Uncle Kev got on the loose. To my utter, breathless amazement, Kevin sat, round eyed and expectant, still belted in the car. He was hardly even chatty on the way home. That was a relief after the ongoing verbiage of the drive over, but I didn’t pay much attention to the change in one-sided conversation. I was delighted to have my recharged phone buzz with a text message from Lance.

  Would the lovely lady like to join me for dinner, dancing and dishing? Say 6 o’clock at the Hudson Café?

  I texted back.

  Well, I’m up for dishing, but over coffee! Dinner, drinking and dancing some other time. Lol. See you at 6.

  I decided my day might still turn around. Being at a dead end with work and on the hook for Uncle Kevin must have settled some Karmic debt. An evening with Lance would keep me from missing Tiffany too much and could actually pan out as far as a lead on these swindled books. I got to hang out with an oh-so-good-looking friend who loved to flirt like a devil. Or an angel. Something.

  I was still smiling when I arrived at Uncle Mick’s. I happily regained my former identity, abandoned Uncle Kev to park the Kia, took a deep breath, reclaimed the Saab and was off.

  • • •

  KAREN’S APARTMENT WAS beyond stuffed when I arrived at the Cozy Corpse and hustled up the stairs. The presence of Uncle Lucky was key to that. As you have probably figured out, he’s a man who fills any room. And Walter added to the general chaos of the place. Karen was lounging in her brown corduroy chair, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks red. Walter was busy cavorting and knocking over stacks of books, happy to be home again. Uncle Lucky was perched on a nearby dining chair, one of one. He made me think of a lovesick moose.

  Uncle Lucky keeps his thoughts to himself, but Karen couldn’t keep her eyes off him. I really needed her to pay attention to me so that I could talk to her about the Adams residence and the possibility that these people were the clients.

  After picking up seven toppled stacks of books, I gave Uncle Lucky a meaningful look. “Walter looks like he needs to go out. I’ll keep Karen company if you don’t mind doing that.”

  “He’s fine, just a bit excited,” Karen said, with a girlish giggle.

  I shot Uncle Lucky an even more meaningful look and he located a plastic bag and lumbered to the stairs with Walter. The Kellys know how to take a hint.

  Karen gazed at Lucky the way a teenage girl stares at Justin Bieber. At any moment I expected her to declare him dreamy.

  I said, “Watch out for Walter and the neighbors’ lawn. They’re ready to go to war.” I took over his chair, leaned forward and said, “Karen, I think I found the house. Does the address 87 Lincoln Way mean anything to you?”

  She frowned, concentrating.

  Please, please, remember, I thought.

  “How about the name Adams for the clients?”

  She bit her lip.

  I hated that sinking feeling.

  I held up my iPhone and showed her the shot of the house.

  It was hard to keep breathing while I waited.

  Finally, Karen’s smile was back. “You know, I think that is the house. At least I’m pretty sure. Well, it might be.”

  “And, as I said, the name is Adams.” My voice shot up an octave, showing my near desperation.

  She shrugged.

  I tried to stay optimistic. “Well, we’ll go with what we have. We need to get over there and find out if we can get those books back without alerting this Mr. Adams—if indeed he is the client—to the fact that Vera wants them back and is beside herself over their loss.”

  Karen looked up. “Oh yes, I had forgotten why we were doing this. We have to get the books back. Are you sure I should go?”

  “Absolutely. You need to produce something that you think he’ll want for his collection. Something absolutely tantalizing. Worth trading. I’ll coach you and we’ll tell them that I’m . . .”

  “Thinking of buying my business?” She beamed at the idea.

  “What? Oh, right. That’s a great idea. So that would explain my presence. I’m shadowing you. That will work. But I need you to make the contact. Tell them you might have to go to hospital again or something and want to see him as soon as possible, as there’s other interest in whatever we’re dangling in front of him.”

  All of sudden, Karen lit up. “I do remember! It was Randolph Adams. Of course. Let me see if I have the number.” She fumbled through her client files. Finally, she squealed with joy. I squealed with her.

  Karen made the call to the Adams number and I hovered. I was happy to see that she hadn’t lost her touch.

  “I remembered we talked about Edith Wharton among other writers during my visit. I have acquired two very fine Edith Wharton firsts that I thought you would like to have a look at. I have some other people who will be interested too, so feel no pressure. I thought as you had been so pleased with the Sayers books, you should be my first call.”

  Just as Uncle Lucky and Walter shook the walls thundering back up the stairs, Karen gave the thumbs-up to me. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Adams. See you tomorrow morning at ten. I look forward to it.”

  We were set.

  • • •

  LANCE THE MAGNIFICENT had come up with information about several series of Sayers reprints and bibliographies listing each series. This was good. He also wanted to talk in great detail about the one thing I was trying to avoid: Tiff. This was not good.

  “Yes, I miss her terribly. Things are in a mess now because of the Sayers collection. Tiff always kept me grounded. It’s hard when your best friend drops out of your life. So, moving on, back to the books. You say there was nothing? Not even a teeny, tiny shred of somet
hing for me to go on?”

  Lance was wearing his “I feel for you” face. It ranked far below his “I am devouring you with my eyes” face. Lance kept talking, but I zoned out on his sweet concerned look and missed every word.

  “You know, you remind me of her. It’s eerie almost.” For a split second his charming twinkle returned. “I would totally have fallen for that dame.”

  “Wait, what? Who? Tiff?” Just as I’d always suspected. We were three friends but she was more than a friend to—

  “Not Tiff. I’m talking about Harriet Vane. I didn’t even need to do any research on her. I’ve read all the Sayers books more than once. And she is so you, Jordan.”

  I tried to suppress a goofy grin.

  He said, “She’s strong, self-made and lost both her parents early on. She falls into bizarre mysteries and gets herself quite the notorious reputation. Brilliant and dangerous all at once.” Twinkle, twinkle, sparkle.

  Brilliant and dangerous? I’ve been described with far less generosity.

  “You are like someone from another time, Jordan, and not just the clothes.” He locked his eyes with mine. “Wimsey and I share impeccable taste.”

  I did my best to get through the rest of our get-together. Pretty sure this is why people say men and women can’t be friends; sometimes one of them blushes to death.

  Chapter Four

  HARRY YERXA WAS busily clipping his boxwood hedge as I drove up to 87 Lincoln Way with Karen. At this rate I figured the hedge would be no more than six inches high at the end of the week. Thousands of bright leaves swirled around the lawn. He had chosen to dress for hedge clipping in yet another version of tartan. I wasn’t 100 percent sure, but this one looked like Clanranald. Whatever the tartan, someone should have been kind enough to tell him that tartan shorts do not do the wearer any favors, no matter what his age is. At least he’d changed his cap. This one was a subdued tweed affair, but not subdued enough to save a person’s eyes from the shorts.

  Karen didn’t even notice. She was happy to be able to remember the client and the house. She clutched her large tapestry handbag in excitement. “This is it! I’m sure of it. This is wonderful, Jordan. We shouldn’t have any problem. I remember Mr. Adams as a lovely older gentleman with lots of interests, from Wilkie Collins to George Pelecanos and lots of authors in between, although usually he liked the boys rather than the girls, with the exception of Edith Wharton, for some reason. That could help us get the Dorothies back. He didn’t confine himself to mysteries either. I seem to recall a fascination with Hemingway.”

  I was also happy. A glossy Audi sedan in an icy shade of silver was parked just in front of the garage. The Adams family was home! We were getting closer to finding the Sayers collection, and I felt optimistic about getting the books back.

  “Maybe I’ll regain my old life after all,” Karen mused.

  “Absolutely. I know you will.”

  As I helped Karen from the Cozy Corpse van and set up her walker, Harry Yerxa looked up from his boxwood shaping and squinted at us suspiciously. I had to remind myself that Jordan Bingham hadn’t actually ever met him.

  I tried to make eye contact rather than stare at the shorts or the knobby knees that should have been under cover.

  “Hello,” I chirped as we made our slow way up the walk.

  He frowned and stared at me with an unwelcome flicker of recognition. “Have we met?”

  I paused and pretended to consider that. “I don’t think so. I am taking my friend to see Mr. Adams.” I deliberately left my name out of the conversation.

  He sputtered, “What happened to the good old days when funeral homes were quiet and dignified? Everything in this world doesn’t have to be a joke.”

  Karen and I exchanged stunned glances. I was surprised that my jaw didn’t smack the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry?” I said. Had someone died and we missed it?

  He pointed to the van we’d just emerged from. “The Cozy Corpse? What kind of business is that? Did someone die?”

  It took every muscle in my face to keep from laughing out loud.

  “It’s a reference to mystery books. I have a business specializing in used and rare crime fiction,” Karen said gently. “See the smaller print?”

  We left him peering at the van’s lettering and tried not to collapse howling as we got to the door. The security cameras must have captured the hilarity. I hoped the neighbor didn’t hear. I didn’t want to burn any bridges with Harry. He was observant and he took himself and life very seriously. It was a safe bet that he’d be a person who was a very good source of information.

  Stairs were still a challenge for Karen, and I did my best to help as she struggled up the six steps to the front entrance of the Adams house. Despite the struggle, we were still smothering our grins when we reached the red front door.

  The door opened with a slow creak, and the song lyrics—“the Addams Famileeeeeee”—vibrated in my brain. I half expected to see Lurch answering, but a tall, slender woman faced us instead. She was elegant and entirely without angles, seemingly almost boneless, with a pale face and translucent skin with an otherworldly glow. Her ankle-length jersey outfit, a faded taupe, seemed to have been chosen to not draw attention from that face. Her long straight hair was a paler shiny shade of the same taupe color, and she wore it parted in the middle and rippling down past her shoulders. This was the long hair Karen had mentioned. I could not remember when I had come face-to-face with a more beautiful woman. This wasn’t the beauty of a supermodel, but rather the stuff of romantic Arthurian legends and tragic ballads. But she was not wearing an expression of ethereal bliss. In fact, if looks could kill, Karen and I both would have been dead and long buried. When she shot a glance in my direction, I flinched and Karen stood speechless.

  A flaming paper bag filled with doggie doo-doo couldn’t have received a worse reception at that entrance. At least she didn’t stamp on us.

  Maybe not that far off from Morticia after all. I extended my hand and said, “So nice of you to have us, Mrs. Adams. I am Karen’s friend.”

  She didn’t deny the Mrs. Adams bit, but she scowled at Karen, who gripped the handles of her walker to steady herself. Mrs. Adams appeared to be blocking the door. “You didn’t tell us you were bringing anyone,” she said in the tone of a DA bringing a charge. Her voice was strong and bitter, a strange contrast with her lovely face and willowy body.

  I said in my most harmless tone, “You may not be aware that Karen has been in the hospital for quite a while and is recovering from a head injury.” I left out the details of the attacks and the memory loss. “I am just here as friend and chauffeur. I also pack, carry and unpack boxes as required.” I smiled to show how harmless I was. I also decided not to tell this woman that I was thinking of buying Karen’s business. One less lie.

  Karen interjected along with her lopsided grin, “I could get addicted to this service. I’m not sure how I’ll survive without staff. I’m spoiled rotten now.”

  The smile, the grin, the little jokes fell flat. From the look on this woman’s lovely face, we were as unwelcome as a pair of skunks at a garden party. It takes more than that of course to derail anyone with Kelly genes. My experience may have been limited, but I was old enough to know that this kind of stalling was usually because someone had something to hide.

  I stepped into the doorway, causing her to have to step back into the house. Before she could regain her door-blocking spot, I turned and gave Karen a hand to get over the threshold. I kept babbling about how much I loved Craftsman designs, and Karen made an effort to make her way farther into the house. “We just need to speak to Mr. Adams for a couple of minutes,” Karen said, moving steadily toward what would be the living room.

  “He is not at all well,” the woman said, now attempting to insert herself between us and the figure in the leather chair by the fireplace where a warm fire beckoned. “He shouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “We won’t be a sec.”

  “Delilah,
my sweet,” came a mellifluous voice from the leather chair in front of the flickering fire. “You must make our guests feel welcome. Stop worrying. I am just fine. More than fine.”

  I thought she swayed at the sound of the voice. At that moment she seemed like a pale, beautiful ghost, a shimmering reminder of a long-ago tragedy.

  Karen took advantage of the moment to press forward and grasp the hands of the man in the chair. “Thank you so much for seeing us. I know it may not be the best of times.”

  I tried to concentrate on the conversation rather than drooling over the interior of the house, which was indeed quite drool-worthy with all that fabulous woodwork. The living room had three luxurious cognac-leather chairs and a matching tufted sofa that could swallow you whole while you cried out with pleasure. Not the type you got as a set from a bargain furniture store, but original pieces that were custom-built for thousands of dollars each.

  The modern art on the walls contrasted nicely with the traditional Craftsman interior. Two large canvases in the living room had punches of red, streaked with what looked like thin gold leaf swirls in abstract patterns. Not a style I recognized and not my taste, but masterful and obviously investment pieces. A third one was visible through the arch to the large dining room, as were the floor-to-ceiling custom wine racks. Like the books, the wine would have been better in a controlled climate.

  Although it partly explained the security, all the art and fine wine did seem wasted on these Adamses. Despite everything, 87 Lincoln Way seemed anything but homey. They hadn’t even completely unpacked, although the nosy neighbor had mentioned they’d been there for nearly three years. I counted five boxes stacked outside the dining room. I reminded myself to be a bit kinder, as it couldn’t be easy for Delilah looking after Randolph and having an adolescent son to boot.