by Ali Brandon
After giving him a moment to compose himself, she checked to make sure Mary Ann still was dealing with her customer. Then, needing someone to use as a sounding board, she lowered her voice.
“I don’t know if you heard, but Mary Ann’s gentleman friend, Hodge, was taken in for questioning about the murder. I can understand wanting to cover all the bases, but I think Reese ran off the rails with this one. No way is Hodge a murderer.”
Doug cocked his head, his expression quizzical. “I don’t know the guy, so I can’t say. But you know how it is on those TV shows. It’s always the nice guy, the one you least expect, who done it.”
“Seriously, Doug? You know this is real life, don’t you?”
“Hey, I’m just playing, whaddaya call it, devil’s advocate,” he shot back. “Who else woulda had a good reason for killing the old guy? Nobody stole nothing, so it wasn’t some druggie or street thug. And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t having an affair with a married woman whose crazy husband found out about it. Whaddaya know about that Hodge character, anyhow?”
“I only met him once,” she admitted, “but he seemed like a decent sort. And the way Mary Ann talks about him, she’s pretty happy getting her old high school boyfriend back. I’m sure she doesn’t believe he killed Mr. Plinski, either. What reason could he have for doing it?”
The baker circled his thumb over his forefinger and middle finger in the universal gesture indicating cash. “Money’s always a good motive.”
Now it was Darla’s turn to give him a quizzical look. “They’re doing okay, I think, but it’s not like the Plinskis have a big stash of gold hidden in the storeroom.”
“Yeah, but they’re sitting on a small fortune with this building.”
Darla considered that and then nodded. Her own property was worth a pretty good chunk of change, so long as she could afford the taxes every year. “I suppose so,” she conceded, “but you can’t exactly steal a building.”
“Sure you can. With her brother out of the way, it would all be Mary Ann’s. And it’d be pretty easy for some smart guy to convince her she needed another man to take care of her. Stand up in front of a judge, and five minutes later half that building would be his. And if anything happened to her, well . . .”
He trailed off with a meaningful look, and Darla stared at him in alarm.
“That’s pretty cold-blooded,” she softly exclaimed, careful to keep her voice low lest Mary Ann overhear. “You don’t really think that could be true, do you?”
“You never know, maybe he’s done this kinda thing before. You know, like a merry widower. Google the guy, and you might find he’s got a whole line of late wives.”
Darla frowned. Hadn’t Mary Ann mentioned that Hodge’s wife had recently died? Of course, at his age, it wouldn’t be odd to lose a spouse. Unless, as Doug had implied, said late spouse was the latest in a series of deceased wives.
And then, unbidden, a mental image flashed in her mind of the book she’d found lying on the bookshop floor a few days before: The Fool’s Guide to Wills and Estates. Could Hamlet have come to the same conclusion about Hodge’s possible intent?
Even as she strove to dismiss that incident as pure coincidence—was Hamlet now a mind reader as well as a super kitty sleuth?—she heard Mary Ann’s excited voice as she came walking down the side aisle. Darla suppressed a smile as she saw the old woman carrying a vintage turkey-shaped tureen the size of a farmers’ market pumpkin. She was followed by two giggling young women wearing very short down jackets over very tight ski pants.
“Darla, these young ladies are going to make their very first Thanksgiving dinner for all their friends,” she said with an approving smile. “They’re going to put dried flowers in this old tureen for their centerpiece. Won’t it be cute?”
“I’m sure it will be,” Darla agreed, giving the girls a warm nod. She hadn’t made her own first Thanksgiving dinner until after she was married, and it had been only a marginal success. A nice turkey flower arrangement probably would have made the food seem tastier.
Doug took advantage of the distraction to come around the counter and give Mary Ann a quick peck on the cheek. “Gotta go. Doughnuts to fry and glaze. I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”
Grabbing the heavy wool jacket he’d parked atop a mid-century stereo cabinet, he gave Darla a wave and started toward the front of the store. Darla watched him go, debating whether she should follow after him to hash out his Hodge theory. But she’d come to the store to check on Mary Ann.
She waited while her elderly friend rang up the girls’ purchase, which was surprisingly more affordable than she’d supposed. Wondering if she should ask Mary Ann if she had another turkey tureen tucked away somewhere, Darla watched her carefully wrap the purchase in white paper. As the girls left with free doughnuts in hand and promises to return for more tableware for their next dinner party, Mary Ann gave Darla a satisfied look.
“It’s so good to see young people enjoying the nicer things,” she declared. “And there is nothing better than sharing happy times with friends.”
“Agreed,” Darla said, returning her smile. Then, sobering, she went on, “I was surprised when I stopped by Jake’s to find out you’d already reopened the store. But I guess Doug’s right that it’s better to keep occupied. I just want to be sure you know that you can ask for anything, and one of us will be glad to help.”
“I know that, my dear. Actually, Douglas was kind enough to move Brother’s chair to the storeroom and bring this one out,” she said, giving the vintage bar stool a pat. “I couldn’t bear to have him put it out on the street corner, but I couldn’t imagine seeing it sitting there empty every day. Maybe down the road I’ll reupholster it in some cheery fabric and bring it out again.”
“Good idea,” Darla agreed. Then, changing the subject, she said, “About Hodge being taken in for questioning—”
“He didn’t do it!” Mary Ann exclaimed, her wrinkled lips flattening into angry lines. “Hodge doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. If anything, Brother would have attacked him. He’s wanted revenge all these years.”
“Revenge?” Darla stared at her in surprise. “For what?”
“I didn’t know about it until the night before Brother died, when he finally told me the whole story about what happened when we were in high school.”
The old woman hesitated, as if screwing up her courage, and then plunged on, “When I was fifteen years old, my parents went to prison, and it was Hodge who sent them there.”
“Your parents went to prison?” Darla stared at the old woman in disbelief. “And what do you mean, Hodge sent them? He wouldn’t have been old enough then to be a police officer.”
Mary Ann gave her a sad nod.
“No, he wasn’t . . . but he was old enough to tell the FBI that my parents were Communists.”
TEN
“Your parents were Communists?”
After her initial shock, Darla mentally counted back. Since Mary Ann had been a teenager in the early 1950s, that would have been during the time of Senator Joseph McCarthy, which tied in to the Communist theme. Truly, the old woman’s explanation was getting stranger by the moment. “But surely Hodge was mistaken about that. Weren’t there a lot of false accusations back then?”
“Oh, no, he was quite right. Mom and Pop actually were Communists.”
Mary Ann gave a wry smile as she settled on her orange bar stool again.
“Don’t look so surprised, my dear. Many everyday people were involved in the Party in those days. My parents were labor union members and believed in all sorts of idealistic causes. They passed out leaflets and waved protest signs, but they didn’t do any harm. Of course, I had no idea until I was very much older that they were going to Party meetings when they went out at night. I thought they were going to the corner bar to have a drink with their friends. But Brother knew . . . and, somehow, Hodge fo
und out.”
“But why would Hodge care, especially if he was your friend? Like you said, they weren’t hurting anyone.”
“Darla, you have to understand, it was a different time . . . and I’m not talking about Father Knows Best. I’m sure you learned in school about the House Un-American Activities Committee and the so-called Red Scare.”
At Darla’s nod, the old woman continued, “I can remember watching the trials on television and being terribly frightened, myself. And much of this unpleasantness happened after the Korean War, so some people truly did fear that Communists might show up in their own backyards. That’s what happened with Hodge. His father died fighting in Korea, and so Hodge was doing what he thought was his patriotic duty in reporting my parents. Remember, he was only seventeen years old at the time.”
“So what about your parents? Did you have any idea why they were in prison?”
Mary Ann shook her head. “I never even knew that was where they’d been. I was at school the day they were arrested. They told Brother to tell me that they had to make an ocean trip back to Poland because they received a telegram that my babcia—my grandmother—who still lived there was very ill.”
“So you didn’t get to say good-bye to them. Didn’t you wonder about that?”
“Of course,” she replied, voice wavering a bit at the memory. “I found it all very strange and upsetting, but since Brother told me that was what happened, I suppose I accepted it. We even received a telegram from Poland a few weeks later to assure us that that Babcia was on the mend but not well enough for them to leave. Of course, Brother had arranged for a relative in Warsaw to send the telegram.”
“So how long were they away?”
“Fortunately, it was only six months before they came home again. By then, the tide was beginning to turn against Mr. McCarthy, so the government reversed many of the convictions, including theirs.” She smiled a little. “The first thing I did was ask my mother where my present was from the old country. She told me somebody had stolen the sack while they were disembarking from the ship. As far as I knew, that was that, and life continued on again as it always had. Although my parents did stop going out at night.”
“And what happened to Hodge?”
“He quit speaking to me at school the day after my parents left, and I had no idea why. Brother told me he’d probably found another girlfriend and was too cowardly to tell me. But Brother admitted the other night that he’d tracked down Hodge to tell him that I didn’t know what actually happened, and that Hodge better keep his mouth shut about it, or else.”
Mary Ann paused and sighed. “I guess Hodge figured he’d done enough damage, and so he never even hinted at the truth. By the time my parents came back, Hodge had already graduated and gone off to college somewhere. Of course, I was heartbroken for a while—remember, I was only fifteen—but I got over it. I never saw Hodge again after that until I found his profile online and contacted him.”
“So he doesn’t know yet that you finally learned what he did.”
The old woman shook her head. “No. And I don’t think I’ll tell him, unless someday he asks me outright about it.”
She reached again for her handkerchief and snuffled into it for a moment. Then, raising her head, she said, “Perhaps I did try coming back to the store too soon. I believe I’ll close for the rest of the day and go upstairs to rest. Steve Mookjai’s daughter brought by a whole tray of food right before you stopped by, so I don’t even have to cook my dinner.”
“Do you want me or James to check in on you after work?”
“No, dear, I don’t want to be any trouble. Though perhaps Robert can stop by for a few minutes. I’d like to discuss the estate sale with him. I’ll need an assistant at the actual event, so I thought perhaps he’d like to earn a little extra pocket money . . . but only if you can spare him from the bookstore, my dear.”
“Just tell me the dates, and I’m sure we can work something out,” Darla assured her.
Giving the old woman a hug, she retrieved her coat from the stereo cabinet and headed out. A glance at her watch showed that it was already noon. If she was lucky, she’d be back in time to see the mysterious BookBuyer75 come purchase his copy of The Marble Faun and, hopefully, at the upper price level.
And, quite fortuitously, when she stepped through her private side door into the store, she saw that a white-gloved James was already in conversation with a man who presumably was that customer. He stood at the counter in profile to her, wearing a puffy green down jacket that made him look almost as broad as he was tall. The black ski cap he wore low on his brow obscured most of his features from the side, save for a prominent nose. Still, for a moment she thought she recognized him from somewhere.
But she didn’t have time to dwell on that possibility. From his stiffly hunched body language, she could tell that the transaction wasn’t going well . . . as in, a plum sale falling through, she thought in disappointment.
“It’s the wrong book,” the buyer was saying as he frantically leafed through one of the volumes, voice raised to just below a shout.
He grabbed the second book from the slipcase and gave it an equally frantic examination. “It’s wrong,” he repeated. “You’ve got to have another set, right?”
“I beg your pardon,” James replied, polite as always, though Darla could hear the undertone of irritation at the man’s obvious disregard for the book’s age. “This is the set we advertised, and the only one in-house. If you are not going to purchase it, I must request that you cease manhandling it.”
By way of response, the man all but slammed the book onto the counter. “That’s not it. That’s not the one.”
“Enough, sir,” James declared, pointing toward the front door. “I am asking you to leave the premises immediately.”
But the man had already swung about and was stomping away.
“What in the heck?” Darla asked as she hurried to join James at the counter. “Should we go after him?”
“And force him to apologize? Frankly, I think we are well rid of the fellow.”
James gave his head a wry shake as he checked the abused book for damage. Apparently satisfied that it had suffered no injury, he resleeved both volumes and then stripped off the thin cotton gloves he wore when handling the collectible stock.
“Fortunately, no harm was done. But that was quite the strange encounter. The man came in and did not wish to discuss the price. The minute I placed the set before him, all he did was paw through the pages as if he were searching for something. You saw the rest.”
Frowning, Darla pulled on the gloves James had left on the counter and picked up the slipcased set. The characteristic aroma of old books swept over her . . . the faintly musty, faintly vanilla scent that always emanated from their pages. James had once explained to her it had to do with the chemical compounds in the glue and ink and paper that broke down with age. No matter the explanation, she always found herself remembering the old library in her grade school, a place where she’d spent many a happy hour.
She gave the set a once-over, sliding out each volume for a quick look. For their age, their condition was remarkably fine, with the gold embossing on the spines and slipcase almost as shiny as the day it was stamped.
“I suppose he realized this wasn’t the first edition he was expecting,” she said as she put down the set and removed the gloves. “But he should have known better if he was a true collector. Talk about an over-the-top attitude.”
James nodded. “I suspect he was not so much an antiquarian book collector as he was in search of this particular work. You know quite well that some volumes have a sentimental value—stories that one was read as a child, or books one’s parents owned, or even a favorite volume one read every summer in the local library.”
Darla nodded. “I hope he finds what he’s looking for, as long as he stays far from here. I guess you can go a
head and relist this one.”
“I shall. And that does remind me, I still have a few boxes of books I obtained from Bernard that I need to appraise. Several volumes came from their store, and others were leftovers from the recent estate sale that the Plinskis managed. After a cursory look, I do not believe there is anything of significant value, but most are quite decorative. They will probably go into our Yard o’ Books pile,” he said, referring to the pretty if relatively worthless volumes that they sold to decorators and real estate stagers.
He retrieved the Marble Faun set and carried it over to the locked, glass-fronted case where the shop’s more valuable books were displayed. Darla checked in with a couple of customers in the rear room who were happily browsing. Assured they didn’t require immediate assistance, she left them under James’s watchful eye and went up to the coffee lounge to check on Robert.
As she reached the top step, however, her barista was there blocking her way. “Shhh,” he softly greeted her. Pointing, he added, “Hamlet’s got a visitor and, like, I’m not sure he’s real happy.”
“What? Who? Oh!” Darla softly exclaimed as she looked in the direction he indicated.
For a moment, she’d assumed he meant Roma . . . but this was no leggy little gray pup that was perched on the farthest bistro table. Instead, standing nose to nose with Hamlet was his mirror image.
“The mystery cat,” she said with a gasp as she took in the sleek black feline that—other than being a bit shorter and slightly less muscular—could have been his twin. “How did it get inside?”
Robert shook his head.
“Maybe she came in with a customer. Or, you know how Hamlet has all his secret passages. She could have, like, snuck into the building and been hiding in the storeroom,” he added, gesturing to the small room off the lounge where James warehoused the extra stock.