by Ali Brandon
“Well, let me see. Of course, I remember the executor . . . no need to look up that name. He was a charming gentleman named Mr. Lawson.”
“And the gentleman whose estate it was?”
“Oh, dear, let me try to remember. Montello . . . no, Madera . . . no,” she finished triumphantly, “Modello. It was definitely Modello. But why do you ask?”
Darla and Jake exchanged glances, and she was pretty sure the PI was thinking the same thing as she was. Given that the dead man was Vinnie’s father, the Mr. Lawson in question could only be Vinnie’s half brother, Daniel. But why would the deceased man choose his stepson over his son to be his executor?
“I ended up buying this edition for myself,” Darla replied in answer to Mary Ann’s question, “and I found a rather important document glued under the front endpapers. I just wanted to be certain I returned it to the right person.”
“That’s very good of you. I know that Brother and I have done the same thing on more than one occasion.” Then, her tone expectant, she asked, “Was there anything more?”
“Not for now,” Jake told her, smiling. “So, promise us you’ll stay out of chains, and we’ll get out of your hair.”
Once out on the stoop of the antiques store again, Darla paused there despite the cold.
“That’s it, then, isn’t it?” she excitedly asked Jake. “Vinnie somehow found out that the secret trust existed, and that it was hidden in the book. He must have killed Mr. Plinski while he was trying to find out where the book had gone after the sale. Motive and opportunity, both. We have to get hold of Reese again and show him this trust document so he can arrest Vinnie.”
“Jumping the gun, kid,” Jake warned her. “Right now, that trust is about as secure a piece of evidence as that trick chain and padlock of Mary Ann’s.”
When Darla would have protested, Jake added, “Remember that Vinnie saw the book right there in your dainty little hands yesterday, and all he did was offer to buy it from you. If he’d really kill for it, he would have figured out a way to take it from you right then. You know, spill some champagne on it and rush it to the back to clean it up, and pry the document out without your ever knowing.”
“I guess. I did tell him I’d consider selling it to him, so maybe we can coordinate it with Reese somehow.”
Jake nodded. “We’ll tell Reese what we know and give him the paper. He can take it from there and build a case, if there’s a case to be built. But in the meantime, maybe you should let me hold the book for safekeeping.”
Nodding, Darla handed over the volume to her friend. “Here you go, but make sure Reese knows I want it back. After all, I paid twenty bucks for it,” she said, trying for a light tone despite the fact that the situation surrounding the book had suddenly become all-too-serious.
The PI gave her an encouraging look as she tucked the book under her arm. “I still don’t think Vinnie is our guy, but you can’t be too careful. Now, you go sell some books. I’ll call Reese and see if he can meet us later to talk. And just in case someone comes poking around my place looking for it, I think I’ll scan that trust and send it off to Reese once I get back to the apartment.”
But by the time Jake stopped by later with an update, it was midafternoon, and all indications were that Reese would be unavailable until morning.
“Hang tight, kid,” Jake told her. “He’s got that scan I sent him, so we’ve done as much as we can for the moment. And since there’s no spotlight on him, I don’t think our friend Vinnie will be going anywhere, or trying anything, in the next twenty-four hours. But, just in case, it might not hurt if you camped out at my place tonight along with your book.”
Darla considered that a moment, then shook her head. “I’ve got Hamlet and my alarm system, and I’m not going to answer the door after hours, so I should be fine. Besides, you’re just a phone call away, right?”
“I am tonight,” the PI confirmed with a faint smile. “But if you change your mind, let me know.”
The remainder of the afternoon passed without incident. Since it was Wednesday, James had worked his usual half day, so it was only her and Robert—and, of course, Hamlet—when they began getting ready to close at a few minutes to six.
“Go ahead and make the final rounds upstairs,” she told the youth, “and I’ll take care of things down here.”
By the time she’d checked for stragglers—none—and picked up any wayward books—only a copy of The Brothers Karamazov that had ended up in the cooking section—Robert was there waiting for her, his usual backpack slung over his shoulder. He gave the lounging Hamlet a final scratch under the chin and asked, “Can I go? I need to walk Roma real quick, and then I’m going to meet Sylvie at the Ice Cream Shop.”
Which wasn’t, Darla knew, a literal ice cream parlor but was instead an ironically named goth hangout that had just opened a few streets over near the e-cigarette store.
“Go ahead and go,” she told him with a smile. “I need to finish filling out this order form and then I’ll lock the door behind you.”
He gave her a cheerful wave and then rushed out, the bells clanging enthusiastically after him. Pretty bad when your teenage clerk has twice the social life that you do. But the last jingle had barely faded when the bells rang again.
“What did you forget this time?” she wryly asked, not bothering to look up from the computer when she heard the door fly open once more. Despite the backpack that should have kept all his stuff safely stowed, the youth had a habit of forgetting a random book or bag of chips when he left each day.
“I know what you forgot,” replied a voice that, while vaguely familiar, was not Robert’s.
She jerked her gaze upward to see Vinnie Modello headed toward her, ski cap pulled low on his forehead and bundled in a heavy coat. Definitely BookBuyer75, she thought, taking an involuntary step back.
“I’ve been waiting for your call all day,” he told her, sounding accusatory. “Why didn’t you phone me about selling me that copy of The Marble Faun?”
SEVENTEEN
“Vinnie—Mr. Modello—I’m afraid we’re closed for the evening. You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Darla said in as firm a voice as she could muster, even as she could have kicked herself for not immediately locking the door after Robert.
Vinnie apparently realized he’d come on too strong, for he raised his well-manicured hands in a “hey, take it easy” gesture.
“Sorry, let’s try this again,” he replied. “I’m not trying to be a jerk or anything. It’s just that I really want that book. I’m willing to pay a fair price for it . . . more than fair, if that’s what it takes. Can’t we talk about this?”
Darla hesitated. After talking with Jake, she wasn’t sure any longer that Vinnie had anything to do with Mr. Plinski’s death. On the other hand, the man was being scarily persistent in his pursuit of the book. If he’d only admit what he wanted, she’d feel more comfortable.
She glanced over to Hamlet for moral support. The store mascot still was on the counter, but he’d roused himself and was now seated neatly at attention. Sleek and unmoving, he resembled one of those tomb-guarding Egyptian cat statues as he fixed the bridal shop owner with an unblinking green gaze.
She gave the big cat a puzzled look. Usually when danger threatened, Hamlet became a yowling, bristling, feline ninja warrior with razor-sharp claws that he was not afraid to wield. But he didn’t seem overly distressed by the current situation. Maybe the canny cat had decided that Vinnie didn’t pose the sort of threat that warranted feline ninja warrior skills.
Even so, she kept her guard up as she took a seat on the register stool, so that the counter remained between them.
“Agreed, let’s start again. If I didn’t already own the book myself, you could buy it outright from the store. But since it’s mine, I’d really like to know first what’s so important about it that you’re basically stalking it al
l around town.”
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and shifted nervously on his feet. Would he admit to being on an inheritance treasure hunt of sorts, she wondered? Or was he trying to think up some logical-sounding lie that would induce her to part with the book?
But before he could speak, the front door bells abruptly jangled again.
“Ms. P.?” Robert called, rushing in from outside. “I, like, forgot my cell, and—”
He broke off abruptly at the sight of Vinnie standing there at the counter. Expression wary, he asked, “Everything okay? The front door wasn’t locked like it was supposed to be.”
Unasked, she knew, was the question, Is this guy supposed to be here?
“Robert, this is Mr. Vincent Modello from Davina’s Bridal Shop. You know, the place where Connie bought her wedding dress. He was in here the other day talking to James about a book, and now he’s come back for more discussion.”
Which actually meant, Now everyone knows who he is and how to find him, which means he’d be an idiot to try anything crazy.
Robert slowly nodded as he went around the counter to retrieve his cell phone from the shelf beneath it. Vinnie, meanwhile, smiled a little, obviously having no problem understanding the subtext. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card.
“Here you go,” he said, handing it across the counter to Robert. “Name, address, phone number. No secrets.”
“Sure . . . like, okay,” Robert answered as he took the card and stuck it in his coat pocket. With a questioning look at Darla, he asked, “Should I, you know, stick around a minute?”
“I’m sure Mr. Modello wouldn’t mind,” Darla said, smiling, though her voice was firm. Even though Hamlet hadn’t raised any alarm, no way was she going to hang out with Vinnie all by herself. “He was just about to tell me why he was so interested in my particular copy of The Marble Faun.”
Vinnie nodded, though his smile hardened just a bit.
“The more, the merrier,” he replied. “Like I said, no secrets. So, here’s the short version of my story. There’s a name written inside the front cover of your book. It says V. Modello. That was my grandfather, the first Vincent Modello. He got a grant to study overseas in Italy for a semester when he was in college, and he told me that book was better than any tour guide. When I was a kid, I’d stay with him over summer vacation, and Grandpop would read chapters of it to me each night.”
He smirked a little. “It’s not exactly a kid’s book, know what I mean? But I guess I found all the descriptions of the temples and sculptures fascinating. That book came to mean a lot to me, mostly because it meant a lot to him.”
The smirk faded.
“He’d always promised he’d give the book to me one day,” the man explained, “but it vanished when he died approximately twenty years ago. I figured my grandmother maybe donated it to the church sale or something. I figured it was gone for good. But after my father died, it showed up on a list of books that were supposed to go in the estate sale. It got sold before I could lay hands on it, so I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to track it down. It turned into kind of an obsession, I guess.”
Darla nodded, giving him a considering look. “I’m curious about one thing, Mr. Modello. You say this book means a lot to you, but what you originally came to the store to buy was a two-volume set, not a single book like my copy. Why did you commit to that auction listing, when it clearly was something different?”
Vinnie shot her an irritated look, obviously not expecting this question.
“I don’t know, I was confused. It’d been, what, twenty, twenty-five years since I’d seen the book. I figured it had to be the same one, since your place was next to the antiques store. I was taking a chance the listing was wrong, but I knew the minute I saw it I’d made a mistake. I’d just about decided I’d never see it again, and then there you were in my shop with the book in your lap. It was like Grandpop reaching out a hand to me and saying, Here it is, Vinnie.”
He choked a little on those last words and then, to Darla’s astonishment, broke down into harsh, dry sobs that seemed ripped from his chest. She exchanged glances with Robert, who seemed equally stunned. And then, to her surprise, the youth rushed around the counter to the anguished man.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, giving Vinnie a consoling thump on the shoulder while Darla pulled a box of tissues from beneath the counter and left it within reach of the man. “I, like, just lost a friend who was like a grandpa to me. It’s pretty tough.”
Vinnie quickly regained his composure, swiping at his face with a handful of tissues.
“Sorry,” was his gruff response, not glancing at Darla or Robert. “I’ve been under a lot of stress the past few weeks since my father’s death, what with my brother, and the will, and all.”
Will? Maybe that would shed some light onto the issue of the secret trust. At the very least, Vinnie might say something that would be helpful to Reese. Her tone sympathetic, she told him, “I’ve heard it can get pretty tense, trying to settle an estate. Did you and Daniel clash a lot over things?”
The bridal shop owner snorted. “There wasn’t much to settle, nothing to clash about. My little brother got it all.”
“Daniel got everything?” she echoed. Then, recalling her earlier conversation with Mary Ann about the Modello estate’s executor, she said, “I don’t understand. I know you two are half brothers, but why would your father leave all his assets to someone else’s son, and not you?”
“We both have the same father . . . it’s our mothers who are different.”
Darla gave him a puzzled look. “But you two have different last names.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Danny’s thing,” Vinnie said with a smirk. “Lawson’s actually his middle name. He decided halfway through college that he wanted to be an actor, instead. Our father agreed to finance him on the condition that he use a stage name. He wasn’t half bad. He actually landed a couple of off-off-Broadway parts, but he decided if he couldn’t be an A-list actor by the time he was twenty-one, then he wasn’t going to waste his time auditioning. But he kept the stage name to impress people.”
So where in the heck did owning a bridal shop come into it, Darla wondered. But that was a question for later. What interested her now was the will . . . and, by extension, the secret trust. For, the more he revealed of his story, the more it seemed Vinnie might have had no idea that the trust existed.
“That’s still pretty awful, the fact your father didn’t leave you anything,” she said. “Talk about driving a wedge between you and your brother.”
So saying, she reached over to give Hamlet’s fur a fluff. He was still in Egyptian cat mode, but at her touch he hunkered down with paws neatly curled to his chest. Apparently, this human’s youthful history was starting to bore the big feline.
Vinnie, however, seemed oddly recharged by having an audience. Which made sense, since he couldn’t let out all that childhood angst on unsuspecting brides-to-be . . . not if he wanted to keep customers.
Increasingly warming to the subject of himself, he replied, “It wasn’t a big surprise, since my father never had much use for me. I was a big disappointment to him, I guess. I had asthma when I was a kid, so I was sick a lot, and it didn’t help that my father smoked like a chimney. I didn’t play sports, and I was always behind in school. Who wants a kid like that?”
Darla shook her head, feeling a rush of sympathy for the man despite herself. Getting kicked to the curb when one was a kid had to leave scars.
“My mother took off when I was eight,” Vinnie explained, not noticing or else not caring that his tale had stirred a bit of concern on her part. “And bottom line was that my father really didn’t want me around after that. I guess I reminded him too much of her. He found himself a new wife a few months later, and then along came Danny, the golden child. That’s why I liked spending summers
with Grandpop so much. He saw something in me that my father didn’t.” Vinnie gave a humorless smile. “I guess you guys are getting the long story now. Serves you right for asking.”
“No, uh, that’s okay.” Robert replied for them both, and Darla realized the youth felt some solidarity with Vinnie, given his own rocky relationship with his parents. “I’ve got a new half brother who’s going to be born soon, and he’ll probably get everything my dad has someday. I don’t care. I mean, you can’t get mad at a baby.”
The man shook his head. “I never was mad at him. Sure, we had our disagreements over the years, but Danny’s a good guy,” he insisted. “He even wrote me a check after the will was settled. He didn’t have to do that.”
And yet Darla had seen Vinnie and Daniel arguing that day through the bridal shop window, and it hadn’t looked like a simple disagreement. But maybe she was giving that one incident too much weight. Still, something else occurred to her that seemed to not quite mesh with his story.
“About Daniel,” she began, trying to word her observation as delicately as possible, “I’m surprised your father favored him over you, especially since you were the older one. Also, well, many people of your father’s generation—men, especially—wouldn’t be so accepting of a gay son, unless maybe he didn’t know?”
Vinnie laughed outright at that.
“Danny’s not gay. It’s an act he puts on for the bridal shop customers. He says they spend more money when they can treat him like a girlfriend. And it works, believe me. I keep the books.” He sneered a little. “Of course, every so often he lets a really cute bridesmaid turn him straight, at least for a night.”
Darla raised her brows at that. Bad enough that Daniel put on the gay act as a calculated business tactic. Pulling a trick like that to lure an unsuspecting woman to bed was pretty darned low, in her book. Apparently, the man had honed his craft quite well during his time on off-off-Broadway.
Then she shook her head. While she wasn’t one hundred percent convinced of Vinnie’s honesty, if his story was even partially on the level, she’d feel like a jerk holding on to the book. But she wasn’t ready to turn it over to the man yet . . . not until she had that conversation with Reese in the morning. After all, it could be that Vinnie was as much the actor as his brother.