The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery)

by Abbott, Victoria

  It occurred to me that Uncle Kev might also have been injured and admitted. It went without saying that he wouldn’t have ID.

  I said, “It’s just that my uncle didn’t come home last night. I am very worried about him. And he hit his head earlier in the day. He’s about five foot eleven with reddish hair, very fit and has ginger eyebrows and very blue eyes. The nurses will love him until he rearranges all the furniture and medical equipment and—”

  “We have no notes about an unidentified patient,” she said, flustered. “Usually they tell us when that happens. Tyler Dekker, you said?”

  “Um, sometimes when he hits his head he may call himself something else. Kevin, maybe.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?” She glanced around and over my shoulder, looking for cameras, I supposed.

  “No joke. Just a worried niece. I’ll be glad if he didn’t end up needing medical care.”

  So there was that. No Tyler Dekker. No Uncle Kev and apparently no unidentified males lying in emergency or ICU.

  That was either very good or very bad.

  • • •

  I TOOK A minute to send yet another text to Smiley. There was nothing smiley about that text though. Then as I was in Grandville, I popped over to see if Karen needed anything. I wanted to unburden myself about the books I’d taken too. I found Uncle Lucky’s Navigator parked in the driveway, a collection of boxes in the rear storage. He had some kind of project going and I would have to find out all about it when this nightmare was over.

  The male neighbor gave me the stink-eye as I made my way to the back of the building and Karen’s door. I waved. Upstairs, Karen was having a nap and the spare dog had joined her on the bed. Walter was keeping Lucky company in the living room.

  Lucky had a notebook and pen, and was fiddling with notes for some project. He declined to share the info with me. Walter also had a project: a rawhide chew.

  There was no reason to wake Karen and disturb her. I imagined it would take a day or so to recover from our adventures. She was in good hands with Lucky, Walter and whoever that new dog would turn out to be.

  I had nothing much to do but go home and worry.

  • • •

  TO SAY THAT dinner was tense was an understatement. Vera was feeling very hard done by without her complete collection and continued to badger me about it. The signora was a bit quieter than usual, and even the cats were keeping a low profile. I spotted one tail swish into the kitchen and then another vanish into the corridor.

  I could not bring myself to tell her that I had located some of the books. The fact I only had eight might have sent her over the edge, but that was only part of it.

  I didn’t know what to do. Yes, Vera’s books had been stolen, but Randolph hadn’t stolen them. I had stolen them from him. A direct violation of my principles, not to mention my plan to go straight.

  She grumbled at one end of the long table while I ruminated at the other. The signora shook things up a bit when she arrived with polpette con funghi—which I now know means meatballs with mushrooms. She served the meatballs in tomato sauce over rice. Heaven. Of course, that wasn’t all.

  “Is that green, Fiammetta?” Vera thundered.

  “What? I no hear you, Vera. Eat! Eat!”

  “Green. Is that zucchini is these meatballs?”

  “Parsley! Is parsley! Eat!”

  I ate. I was perfectly happy that there was zucchini in the meatballs. A lovely taste sensation and one that took the heat off me, for the time being anyway.

  At the end, when Vera seemed to mellow a bit and forget about the zucchini takeover, I bit the bullet.

  “I need to ask you to do something for me.”

  I didn’t say favor. I didn’t beg. I didn’t even say please. This was Vera, after all.

  “I know you are still on the board of Grandville General Hospital.”

  She nodded gravely. I was aware that she hated being on the board, but felt it was the duty of a Van Alst.

  “I need to know if there was an unidentified man admitted to emergency either last night or sometime today.

  “At the risk of being painfully obvious, Miss Bingham, I suggest that you make inquiries at the hospital.”

  “They were immune to my charms, I’m afraid.”

  Vera actually smiled at that one and then snapped back to her stern self.

  “And who might I be inquiring about?”

  I took a deep breath. “One of two people. Officer Dekker seems to be missing and was seen near the scene of the murder. He may be injured. He has not been at work. His dog was left behind.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They say he called in sick. I don’t want to make trouble for him. I think he’s working on something on his own.”

  “Fair enough. And the other man.”

  “Tall, nice looking, red hair, bright blue eyes, engaging manner.”

  “A relative, I take it?”

  I nodded.

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “It’s complicated. And very important.”

  That’s the thing about Vera. Just when you think she couldn’t be any more self-focused and obsessed, she’d turn around and do the right thing.

  “Thank you,” I said, just as the signora started another round.

  She was disappointed that I turned down coffee and dessert, as I planned to meet Lance to talk about my troubles.

  • • •

  LANCE AND I took a booth at the back of Café Hudson, a place where we had a long history. We each had ridiculously large cups of coffee with “coffee art” on top. Apparently they had been “handcrafted,” making me wonder how else you could make coffee. Footcrafted?

  I checked my iPhone again nervously while nibbling a chocolate croissant. The ringer was on: no new texts, no news.

  “Expecting a call?” Lance scootched closer on the banquette. I could smell his cologne, shampoo and what I think was Gain detergent. I caught myself before I actually huffed his neck.

  “I am expecting many calls. All of them involve Uncle Kevin and/or the police.”

  Lance winced, but I spotted the glint in his eyes. Here was a man only too happy to jump into an adventure. I hesitated to get him too involved. I wouldn’t want him to vanish like Randolph, Tyler and Kev.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  I stood the menu on end as a screen and pulled the books from my bag. Then taking a deep breath, I started my twisted tale of suspicion and light burglary. Lance listened intently. Dying to get to his role in the drama.

  “I need you to hang on to these, just for a little while. I know it’s asking a lot, considering that I basically stole them.” I sighed. “But if I keep them at my place, the signora might find them and tell Vera. I need them kept safe, with someone I trust.”

  “Say no more. You’re doing the right thing as usual, Jordan.” He put his hand on mine on the books.

  “I’m not really, but it was the only thing I could think of. So thank you so much for saying that.”

  Lance locked eyes with me for a long moment. My pulse pounded in my temples. Why did he smell so good?

  “One thing though,” Lance said.

  “What?” I squeaked, very much aware of the sweat forming on my lip.

  “I get to read them!” he said with glee, patted my hand and swept the books into his satchel.

  “They’re collectors’ items. Pristine. They’re not for casual reading. And you work in the library. You could borrow books anytime. And didn’t you say you’d already read them all? Anyway, I think I have to go now.”

  “Always the heartbreaker, Jordan.”

  Ouch. Well, never mind. I had no time to make out, or deal with the messy consequences of fooling around with a good friend. A very good-looking friend. A very nice-smelling, good-looking and flirtatious friend.

  “I’ll take care of them. And I promise not to read them. Why do you have to go?”

  “Unfinished business. Don’t let anything
happen to the books. My life is in your hands.”

  “What are friends for?”

  • • •

  CANDY TOOK ME by surprise. First of all, she walked up behind me and tapped on my shoulder as I was unlocking the back door to the Van Alst House. I shrieked and shot about a foot off the ground.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  She didn’t look all that sorry.

  “It’s me. Remember? Candy Mortakis, from over in Burton? Guilty conscience?”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Taking a cop out of uniform is the same as putting her in a disguise. Candy looked like a normal person, although this was hardly a normal thing to do.

  As I was gasping for breath, the back door opened and the signora peered out, brandishing a rolling pin. Va via! Ladra! Ladra!”

  “Get out of here, thief,” was the gist of the signora’s hollering.

  “What the hell?” Candy said.

  By the time I could speak, an upstairs window opened and Vera said, “Get off these premises, whoever you are. I have phoned the authorities.”

  “Well, that puts me in my place. All that sweating through police academy wasted,” Candy said with a snort. She seemed to think the whole situation was pretty funny.

  Vera said, “Be off with you!”

  Candy called up to Vera, “Good luck with that. I am the authorities, ma’am. Here to speak to Jordan Bingham about an incident in Burton.”

  Vera slammed down the window. I was glad Candy was “the authorities,” because I knew Vera would have tossed me to the wind if I’d been arrested.

  Candy was grinning, even if I wasn’t. “What is this place? You live in some kind of Shakespeare play? Gotta love the way these people talk.”

  “On a good day, it’s Shakespearean,” I said. “On a bad day more like something from Dante’s nine circles.”

  She stared at me and smacked her gum.

  I changed the subject. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, you know. We seemed to hit it off and I’m new to this area and I don’t know a lot of people and I thought we could maybe have a chat. Or maybe we could arrange a girls’ day.”

  I decided I was probably having one of those weird dreams I’d been troubled by lately. That would be about the only thing that would explain this visit.

  Vera’s window shot up again. “I demand to see your identification. Immediately.”

  “It’s all right, Vera. This is the full force of the law right here on your back doorstep. There’s nothing to worry about. Oh, unless you’re here to arrest me, um, Officer Candy. Are you?”

  She grinned wickedly. “Now why would I want to do that?”

  The books! Shut the front door! my guilty conscience screamed.

  From upstairs, Vera’s gravelly voice asked, “And why, Miss Bingham, is the full force of the law making you jump like a scalded cat at ten thirty in the evening?”

  I didn’t think I’d shrieked. “Purely social, Vera.”

  The window slammed shut again.

  The signora was still there, however, rolling pin raised. I figured she was prepared to use it.

  I held up my hand. “Friend, Signora Panetone.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You okay?”

  “I’m okay. Thank you.”

  “Well that was all quite dramatic,” Candy said, continuing to grin. “I knew you’d be fun to be around.”

  “And you probably also know why I prefer not to scream around my back door.”

  “Next time I’ll just text.”

  The signora said. “You hungry? Yes. Yes.”

  Candy said, “No thanks, I—”

  “Save it. Resistance is futile and I think you’ll find you are hungry after all.”

  She shrugged and we stepped into the house. We ended up in the conservatory, which is not all that cozy on an autumn night, but this was the Van Alst House. Nothing was cozy except my apartment, and I wasn’t about to invite this cop up there, no matter how cute her name was. She’d need a warrant for that.

  The signora flitted and swooped about, bringing a vast tray with plum torte and whipped cream, almond cookies, delicious little anise-flavored pizzelle and a pot of tea.

  “What are those?” Candy pointed.

  “Pizzelle. They’re little waffle cookies. She makes them with a special press. The others are almond cookies.”

  Candy said, “Huh.” We sat staring at each other across the table and munching the delicate waffle cookies. Outside, in the blackness, trees waved and leaves swirled.

  “Must be nice,” Candy said, looking around.

  “You should see the catacombs.”

  She snorted.

  The signora crossed herself and said, “No catacombs. Madonna santa! No! You eat. Be nice, Jordan. Eat now!” I thought her vocabulary was improving and I grinned at her to show my approval. Her black eyes glittered. “You want fruit salad?”

  “No thanks, this mountain of food is just fine.” It occurred to me that all this food at bedtime might be contributing to my weird dreams too, especially when combined with the mayhem in my life.

  “That sounds great,” Candy said, smiling.

  The little gap between her front teeth was kind of endearing if you liked that sort of look. I found myself wondering if all cops had some kind of tooth identifier. But that reminded me of Tyler Dekker, and my heart sank where no cookie could rescue it.

  The signora scurried back to the kitchen. Candy leaned forward. “This is awesome. I want to live here. Can you adopt me?”

  “It comes with a job that is not all tea and cookies and fruit salad, let me tell you.”

  “Just what is your job?”

  “Before we chat too much, how about you tell me what you’re really doing here?”

  I really didn’t want to talk about my job, which involved getting books for Vera from many sources, in case Candy got an inkling of what I had been up to at the Adams place.

  “So,” she said, “guess what?”

  That was all I needed. Games.

  “Not good at guessing.”

  “It’s about your friends.”

  I blinked. “What friends?” Did she mean Tyler? Lance? Or Tiff? But how could she even know about them?

  She gave me a skeptical glance. It might have made me nervous if she hadn’t just popped an entire pizzelle into her mouth. Food is the great leveler.

  I waited until she’d swallowed. “Duh,” she said, scattering a few crumbs. “The Adams family.”

  My heart did a little flutter and I stood up. “What about them? Did something happen to Randolph? Did he turn up at the hospital after all?”

  Why hadn’t I looked for him when I was checking for Kev and Smiley? I felt desperately stupid.

  “Nope. He didn’t turn up.”

  “Did they?”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head and reached for a piece of plum cake.

  “What, then?”

  “Not what. Why.”

  It was the end of a long day and I had more than a few worries and I really didn’t need these games. But I seemed to have no choice but to play along.

  “Okay. Why?”

  She beamed. “The Adams family didn’t turn up because they don’t exist.”

  I plunked back in my seat. “What?”

  “They do not exist.”

  “But they do. I saw them. I met them. They were real.”

  “Well, I’m sure they were flesh and blood, Jordan. But there is no record of them anywhere before they moved to Burton. Wow, this cake is amazing. I don’t suppose there’s any more?”

  There was the better part of a cake left, so that made me wonder what she had in mind. However, the signora practically levitated with joy at those words. “Yes! You eat. I give you one to take.”

  I waited until calm was restored.

  “So,” I said, “explain to me how you know this.”

  “Not so very hard to find out these things. I am the full force of the law, remember? And there has t
o be an upside besides getting free cake.”

  “No doubt. But again, how?”

  “Well, I dug a little and these people—whoever they are—their cover is only skin-deep. If that.”

  “Huh. So I was right?”

  “About what?”

  I tried not to glare at her. “About Delilah and Mason being con artists out to fleece Randolph.”

  She grinned again.

  “Afraid there’s more to it than that.”

  “Can’t you just come right out and tell me? It’s getting to be past my bedtime here.”

  “Cute. Well, I suppose I could. But where’s the fun in that?”

  “I haven’t actually been having fun. I’ve been worried about Randolph and what’s happened to him.”

  “You think something happened to him?”

  I fought a frisson of annoyance. “You know I do. He’s not there and now his so-called family is not who they say they are. There was a murder in his backyard. So what else would I think?”

  She shrugged. The signora distracted us by arriving with an entire plum cake quadruple-wrapped in plastic wrap and a container of fruit salad, ready to transport back to her cop cave, wherever in Burton that was. “You eat tomorrow!”

  “You betcha.”

  “So,” I said. “Randolph?”

  “That’s the thing. He’s not who he claimed to be either.”

  I blinked. “Who is he?”

  “You got me. The whole crowd of them didn’t seem to exist before three years ago.”

  “Well, they must have existed.”

  “Sure, physically those three bodies were living and breathing, but their identities didn’t. And after all that time, any trail leading to them is bound to be cold.”

  “The next-door neighbor said they moved in three years ago.”

  “Right, and prior to that: nothing.”

  “There must have been something. They bought a house. You need money for that. Bank accounts.”

  “About three years ago a lot, and I mean a lot, of money was deposited into an account in Randolph Adams’s name from a bank in Trenton, New Jersey. Turns out that money was transferred from the Cayman Islands.”

  I searched for the right words. How much could a fairly new police officer in a small town in upstate New York find out about the Adamses in such a short time?