by Ali Brandon
She had turned from the window in time to see the cat pounce on her book, kicking open the front cover as he did so with his big back feet. And then, to Darla’s horror, he began clawing at the pretty vine-and-leaf-design endpapers.
“No! Hamlet, stop!” she shrieked again. And then, “Jake, I’ll call you back.”
Not waiting for her friend’s reply, she ended the call and rushed over to the sofa. By that point, Hamlet had seemingly exorcised whatever wild hair had gotten hold of him and was now sitting placidly on the sofa’s arm. Shooting him an outraged look, Darla carefully picked up the abused book to examine it for actual damage.
To her surprise, it seemed that the book had suffered no major harm after all, except for the spot where one corner of the glued endpaper had come up.
“Hamlet, whatever possessed you to do that?” she demanded as she examined the endpaper more closely. “You know better than to tear up a book. You’ve always been so good around the stock, and—oh!”
She looked up from the book to the cat, who was watching her with interest. “You weren’t trying to rip it up, were you?” she slowly asked. “You were trying to show me something.”
With that, she carried the book over to her desk and switched on her task light. Sure enough, beneath the lifted edge of the endpaper she spied what looked like a second bit of paper. Hadn’t James said something about the volume’s endpapers not being original when he’d first estimated its value?
Frowning, she reached into her desk drawer for the flat, almost knife-sharp letter opener she had there. Then, carefully, she slipped the opener’s blade under the loose section of paper and began to slowly work the glued edge.
It was a tedious process as she took care not to damage either the book or the endpaper. From what little she knew of book repair—mostly gleaned from conversations with James—whatever glue had been used did not seem to be any of the traditional bookbinder’s animal-based glue. Definitely an amateur job, even if quite neatly done. After about fifteen minutes, she’d slit open an entire edge, so that the paper beneath was clearly visible.
“Keep your paws crossed, Hammy,” she called back to the cat, who’d decided his part was done and was holding down the sofa once again.
She tilted the book so that the hidden paper slid a bit toward her. Then, using an old pair of flat-edged tweezers she had stashed in the desk, she caught one edge of the paper. Holding her breath, she gently tugged until a folded sheet of paper slightly larger than traditional letter size slid out. Carefully, she opened the page and gently smoothed its crease so she could read it.
Darla read the page twice, just to be sure. Then, reaching for her cell phone, she dialed Jake. “Hey,” she said when her friend answered, “Hamlet found something kind of interesting hidden in my book. Can you come up for a minute and give me your opinion?”
Then, hanging up on Jake, she sent a text message to James.
I think I know why Vinnie wanted my book.
SIXTEEN
“Are we certain that this is a legal document?” James asked the next morning in the bookstore once he’d deliberated over the paper that Darla—or, rather, Hamlet—had discovered secreted in Darla’s 1912 edition of The Marble Faun.
“Jake was pretty sure it was,” Darla replied, “though she said there’d probably be a big peeing contest between attorneys before it would be accepted, let alone enforced after all this time. But I have to admit, I’d never heard of a secret trust before now.”
James studied the page again.
“I am no expert in that field, either,” he conceded, “but my understanding is that it is a somewhat antiquated version of a will. The testator—the individual originating the trust—arranges that his bequest will be transferred to a trustee upon his death, with the understanding that said trustee will then transfer the money or property to the rightful beneficiary. But as this document is meant to be secret, it is not mentioned in the testator’s actual will. And thus, the beneficiary will usually have no idea that he is due that settlement.”
Darla frowned. “Let me get this straight. Since it’s a secret, if the trustee decides to keep the bequest for himself, there’s a good chance the beneficiary wouldn’t ever find out about it?”
“Nor would anyone else. It is a form discouraged by most attorneys these days, but you can see that the notary date is almost twenty-five years ago. I believe these trusts were most commonly used in the case of mistresses or illegitimate children.”
He handed the paper back to Darla, who refolded it and tucked it safely beneath the book cover again.
Fortifying herself with a long sip of latte, courtesy of Robert, she said, “So, it looks like Vinnie was due a nice chunk of change from his grandfather—the original Vincent Modello—that he got cheated out of. But, somehow, Vinnie knew the proof was in this book. No wonder he was so eager to find it.”
“Well, I am certainly relieved to know that my appraisal skills were not entirely off in this matter. I suppose we should contact Mr. Modello and let him know we have the document he has been searching for.”
A customer stepped up to the counter before Darla could reply. James graciously did the ringing up, giving Darla a chance to take another sip of latte and gather her thoughts.
Of all the reasons she’d thought Vinnie might have coveted the book, a hidden secret trust had not been one of them! On the other hand, while Darla was helping with the estate sale prep, hadn’t Mary Ann emphasized that people tended to hide money and documents in old books?
Estate sales. Documents in old books.
Abruptly, a couple of mental puzzle pieces snapped together. She should call Mary Ann, and—
“Hey, Ms. P.,” Robert called, rushing down the steps from the coffee bar and breaking her train of thought. “I just heard from Sylvie. There’s good news and bad news about the mystery cat.”
Momentarily distracted, she asked, “So what’s the scoop?”
“It turns out the cat was, you know, chipped, and she’s healthy as Hamlet. And Sylvie’s mom even got hold of her owners.”
“That sounds like great news. So, what’s the bad?”
“The owners don’t want her anymore.”
Darla stared at him, appalled. “But she’s a beautiful girl, and I’m sure when she’s not afraid she’s friendly as can be. Why in the world wouldn’t they want her back?”
Robert rolled his kohled eyes in disgust. “Sylvie said they told her mom that their kids were allergic. That’s why when the cat ran away”—he gave those last two words finger quotes—“they didn’t go looking for her or put up any signs.”
“Right. And what that really means is they got tired of the cat and so they dumped her out on the street.” Darla shook her head. “I swear, it makes you embarrassed to be a human sometimes. So, what happens with the cat now? Can she be adopted?”
“The owners have to sign surrender papers or something, and then I think it has to go through, like, the animal control people. But they’re going to let Sylvie foster her in the meantime.”
He turned to head back up to the coffee bar, only to halt again. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you, Ms. P.,” he said as he glanced back at her. “Guess what her name is?”
When Darla shook her head, he grinned and said, “Ophelia.”
She smiled at that as she took another sip of latte, while phrases like meant to be and Fate came to mind. To be sure, Hamlet would never stand for another cat in his domain. But maybe Jake or Mary Ann would be interested in a furry little friend.
Mary Ann.
At the thought of her elderly friend, Darla hopped back on that lost thought train. Talk about meant to be and Fate. Surely it had to be more than coincidence that the very book Vinnie was looking for just happened to show up in a box that came from the Plinskis’ store. What had James told her originally? Some of the books were leftover stock they were t
rying to move, and some had come from their most recent estate sale.
An estate sale that had taken place only a couple of weeks before Mr. Plinski’s murder.
And there was one other thing, she realized, abruptly putting down the latte cup as a new thought hit her. That was what had bothered her when Reese had talked about Mary Ann’s strange behavior that morning. Mary Ann had told her the day before the murder that she would be speaking to the executor of her upcoming estate that next day. She’d already set the excuse for being gone a portion of that day, likely to hide something else—another visit to Hodge, perhaps?
“James.” She called to her manager, who was straightening the history section. “I’ve got to run over to Jake’s apartment for a minute. Can you cover things here?”
“Of course,” he replied. Then, noticing that she’d tucked her copy of The Marble Faun under one arm, he asked, “Would this have anything to do with Mr. Modello?”
“I think so,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”
Brain on fire—or so it felt!—Darla rushed out of the store, for once welcoming the resulting blast of cold air. Hopefully, the PI was “In,” to borrow a certain running gag from Charles Schulz. She wanted to run her theories by Jake first before calling Reese.
To her relief, she found Jake at her desk when she walked inside, though Jake was embroiled in what seemed to be a heated phone conversation with someone. Spying Darla, she gestured for her to take a chair. The conversation continued another minute, until Jake finally growled into the cell phone, “I’ll call you back tomorrow, and you’d better have that answer.”
Then, hanging up, she gave Darla a wry look.
“I sure miss the good old days of landlines where you could slam down a receiver when you were ticked at someone. Pressing the ’End’ button just doesn’t have the same effect.”
“I know what you mean. I still have one of Great-Aunt Dee’s Princess phones hanging in my kitchen, and that sucker weighs a ton. Maybe Mary Ann has a refurbished model you could buy. Speaking of which . . .”
She set down The Marble Faun on the desk across from Jake and pulled out the copy of the secret trust. “I showed this to James, and we’re all pretty much in agreement what it is. Obviously, Vinnie knew the document existed; he just had to find the book where his grandfather had hidden a copy. James said we should call Vinnie and let him know we found it, but I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean, kid? It’s not worth anything to anyone but him . . . if that.”
“Maybe. But before I give it to him, there’s something we should check out. James isn’t sure if this was one of the books that came from existing stock the Plinskis had, or if it was one of the estate sale books, since he bought everything as a lot. The only way to put this to bed is to find out the name of the dead guy whose estate the Plinskis were selling.”
Jake frowned as she considered Darla’s words; then, abruptly, her dark eyes widened.
“Hold it. Remember that day at the bridal shop, when Connie thought she’d seen a dead body, and Vinnie went bonkers? Daniel told us that his half brother was under stress because he’d recently lost his father. If the Plinskis were the ones who’d held his father’s estate sale, and Vinnie knew it, then maybe he didn’t stumble across it—and you—by accident.”
“And maybe he paid a visit to Bygone Days trying to find out where his book had gone,” Darla finished for her.
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Jake shook her curly head.
“It fits, but it’s almost too perfect. How would he even know the copy of the trust was hidden in the book? Isn’t that the whole thing about them, that they’re secret?”
Darla shrugged. “In the old movies, there’s always a deathbed confession, or else the under parlor maid overheard something, or an anonymous letter shows up in the mail telling exactly where to find the hidden document.”
“Right.” Jake pursed her lips, but Darla doubted she was considering anonymous letters and under parlor maids. Then, her words slightly bitter, she said, “Before we go off half-cocked, we need to see Mary Ann and get that estate sale name. If it matches, we dump all this on Reese. If it doesn’t, I say give Vinnie his birthright, or whatever it is, and let’s move on from all this the best we can.”
With that, she shoved back her chair and reached for her keys. Grabbing the book, Darla followed her out of the apartment. Jake paused to lock the place, so Darla was a few steps ahead of her. And so she was the first to notice that Reese’s car was parked in front of the antiques store.
Darla felt her stomach clench. No doubt the detective was there to question the elderly woman about the discrepancy in her official statement. But maybe that would become a nonissue if it turned out Vinnie’s grandfather’s estate had been Estate1507.
“What’s he doing there?” Jake asked as she came up behind her.
Remembering she’d been sworn to secrecy, Darla replied as honestly as she could, “I’m not sure. I think he had more questions for her.”
She and Jake entered the antiques store cautiously, the bells barely jingling behind them. For the moment, it seemed there were no customers within. Darla could hear Reese’s voice, though she couldn’t quite make out the words. And then came a sudden, single sharp word from Mary Ann.
“No!”
“Oh, boy,” Darla murmured, glancing over at her friend. “We’d better see what’s going on before Mary Ann gets hustled out of here in handcuffs.”
Jake nodded and gestured her forward. “Hey, Reese, it’s me and Darla. Anything wrong? We stopped in to visit with Mary Ann a minute.”
“Might as well join the party,” they heard Reese clip out before they rounded the aisle and saw him.
He was standing on one side of the main counter, while Mary Ann stood at the other. And then Darla gasped as she saw that the old woman had a heavy silver chain wrapped and padlocked around her thin waist. The end of that chain was, in turn, wrapped and padlocked around her old-fashioned boat anchor of a cash register, effectively holding her prisoner.
“What the—? Reese, how could you?” she and Jake chorused as they rushed over to the old woman.
Setting down her book on the counter, Darla quickly hefted the chain, which was surprisingly heavy. “Where’s the key to this thing?” she demanded of Reese.
Jake, meanwhile, was tugging on one of the padlocks. “I know interrogation techniques have changed since I was on the force,” she said with a disbelieving look at him, “but was this really necessary?”
“Wait. You think I did this to her?”
Reese gave his head a disgusted shake and sank into the chair beside him.
“I came in to question Mary Ann about Mr. Plinski’s case,” he said, his attitude that of a man doing his best to hold his temper. “She had a few discrepancies in her original account, and I told her we needed to resolve it. She said she felt faint and asked me to bring her a shorter chair. When I came back with it”—he indicated the ladder-back chair he sat on—“she was chained up like one of those crazy tree-hugging protesters.”
“Girls, thank you for your support,” Mary Ann broke in, her tone dignified, “but Detective Reese is correct. This is my own doing.”
To Reese, she said, “I do apologize for my rude behavior, but I’m afraid this was necessary. I just couldn’t risk your trying to take me downtown, as I believe you police officers say.”
“I wasn’t going to take you anywhere,” he replied, obviously striving to be reasonable. “All I want is to know where you really were the morning your brother was murdered.”
“Detective, I told you—”
“Mary Ann, what you told me wasn’t the truth.” He cut her short. “I talked to the executor for your next estate sale. He said you were there with him on Thursday, not Friday. If you can’t tell me the truth about where you were, I can’t eliminate you from m
y suspect list.”
“And I told you, Detective, that I am sticking to my story. So I suppose I must remain on your list.”
“Fine.” Reese got to his feet and shoved back on the mirrored sunglasses he’d tucked into his shirtfront. “Let me know when you’re ready to tell me the truth.”
Not bothering with a good-bye, he grabbed his overcoat from the counter and stalked off down the aisle. A moment later, they heard the bells on the front door jangle after him. Then Jake said, “First things first. Mary Ann, tell me where the keys to these locks are, and we’ll get you out of this contraption.”
“Oh, no need for that, my dear,” the old woman said.
As the two of them watched in surprise, she gave the lock at her waist a twist. It promptly gave way, so that the chain slipped down her hips and clattered to the ground. She did the same with the register lock and then smiled at them both.
“It’s a magician’s trick. Brother bought it at a sale once. I thought it was a foolish thing, but he got such a kick out of it. And I suppose it did come in handy, at that.”
She gave a small, hiccupping sob; then, quickly regaining her composure, she asked, “You girls said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Please, sit down, Mary Ann,” Darla urged, sliding over the chair Reese had just vacated, while Jake gathered the length of chain into a roll. “There’s something we need to know about a book Mr. Plinski sold to James.”
She reached for her volume of The Marble Faun and handed it to the old woman. “Do you recognize this? From what James said, it was either old stock you were trying to clear out, or else it came from the estate sale about two weeks ago.”
“It does look familiar . . . but then, I do tend to remember any works of Mr. Hawthorne that pass through our hands. Let me see. Yes, I do believe it was from the estate sale.”
Taking back the book, Darla persisted, “The number on the box James brought back was Estate1507. Can you look up the name of the person whose estate you were selling?”