by Ali Brandon
“Look, Mr. Modello,” she told him, “you seem to have a pretty good claim to that copy of The Marble Faun. For that reason, I’m willing to sell it at our standard markup . . . say, thirty-five dollars.”
Then as his expression grew suddenly hopeful, she added, “But the book’s not here. I left it with a friend. The soonest would be tomorrow afternoon before it’s back here at the store to sell. Is that acceptable?”
She hesitated, reminding herself that she couldn’t quite yet dismiss him as a suspect in Mr. Plinski’s murder. His reaction to her offer would tell her whether he was on the up-and-up. If he insisted on laying hands on the book now—maybe even threatened her—she’d have to find a way to signal Robert to make a run for it and call Reese. But if he agreed to her suggestion, that likely meant he was being truthful about his interest in the volume. To her relief, Vinnie nodded.
“Yeah. So long as I know the book is safe, I’m willing to wait.”
“Good. How about three o’clock tomorrow, here at the store?”
“Right.”
With a nod in Robert’s direction, he turned and headed out into the night. Darla waited until the door had closed after him and then rushed to lock it. Then she turned to her clerk.
“Wow.”
“That, was like, intense,” Robert agreed with a disbelieving shake of his head as she walked back to the register. “I mean, I get him and all, but that was kind of, well, public.”
“I suppose if you keep it all bottled up inside, it has to come out sometime.” Although, once again, she couldn’t help but wonder if Vinnie had the same acting chops as his half brother, and this had been a performance for their benefit.
Swiftly, she told Robert what she knew of Vinnie’s Marble Faun search. She told him, too, how she—or, rather, Hamlet—had discovered a legal document that seemingly entitled Vinnie to a large bequest from his grandfather. A bequest that had likely been appropriated by his father.
“Jake and James and I discussed it,” she finished, “and we decided Detective Reese needed to know about the secret trust document before we gave it to Vinnie. The fact that the book got into our hands via the Plinskis concerns me.”
Robert wrinkled his brow for a moment, considering, and then abruptly gave Darla a horrified look.
“No way! You don’t think this crying dude murdered Mr. P. while he was tracking down that stupid book, do you?”
“I thought that, at first, but now I’m pretty sure he didn’t. I truly think he doesn’t know that the document was hidden in the book. I think all he wanted was the book, period . . . and that wouldn’t be enough reason to murder an old man.”
“Yeah,” Robert persisted, his jaw set, “but maybe he wasn’t trying to kill him. Just, you know, scare him into telling where the book was.”
“Maybe,” she repeated, trying for Robert’s sake to keep her tone steady. “Or maybe this whole Marble Faun thing came out of left field and doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Plinski’s murder at all. From what he’s said, Detective Reese still has a few different suspects he’s looking at.”
Like the random street thug.
Or else Hodge.
Or else Mary Ann.
Darla winced a little at that last name. She knew in her heart that the old woman could never have hurt her brother. Still, she couldn’t dismiss the fact that Mary Ann certainly gave off the most suspicious vibe of anyone, what with her lies and mysterious travels. Putting Vinnie on the list at least spread the perceived guilt around a little more.
Robert, meanwhile, was glaring at the business card he held, the previous solidarity with the bridal shop owner apparently evaporated.
“Yeah, well, crying dude better not have had anything to do with Mr. P.,” he muttered. Tossing the card onto the counter, he added, “You want me to, you know, stick around? I mean, in case he comes back?”
Darla shook her head.
“Hamlet didn’t seem overly upset about the guy, so that kind of makes me think Vinnie might be telling the truth about all this. Don’t worry, I’m going to go straight to my apartment and send Reese a message about what just went down. Go ahead and meet Sylvie like you planned. She’ll worry if you’re late.”
“You think?”
With those hopeful words, the youth hefted his backpack onto his shoulder, gave Hamlet a final pat, and headed off.
This time, Darla locked the door immediately after him and then turned to her mascot. “What do you say, Hammy? How about we call out for supper tonight?”
Hamlet gave an approving meow-rumph to that, knowing that takeout usually resulted in a little treat for him to go with his kibble. Gathering her belongings from beneath the counter, she hit the lights, set the alarm, and followed Hamlet upstairs to the apartment.
She took care of him first—fresh water in his cut-glass dish, and the appropriate amount of kibble in his pottery bowl. Then Darla placed her order with a home-style soup and sandwich place. Having been assured that the delivery person would be there in about forty-five minutes, she picked up her cell again and dialed Reese.
“You couldn’t have sent a text?” He answered the call on the first ring, the words accompanied by a great deal of chewing. “Me and Connie finally got a night out for dinner. She’s in the little girls’ room right now, but if she comes back out and sees me on the phone, she’s gonna blow her top.”
“Sorry, I was going to text you, but this is important. I really needed to make sure you were going to be by in the morning. I know Jake already sent you the scan of the secret trust so you could check it out, but I just had a visit from Vincent Modello.”
“The guy got you at gunpoint right now? No? Okay, then I’ll see you in the a.m.”
Then, before Darla could sputter back that he was being a jerk—this, after all she’d done for Connie!—his manner softened.
“Sorry, Red, I’m being a jerk,” he confirmed. “So tell me what went down. Did he threaten you?”
“No, actually, he cried. And Hamlet didn’t seem too worried, so I think he’s relatively harmless. And since I gave the book to Jake to hold, I had a good reason to put him off. I told him to come by tomorrow at three and I’d sell him back the book. I really think he doesn’t have any idea about the trust.”
“Three o’clock. Not much time,” he mumbled through another bite. “I sent that copy of the trust to a broad I know who works at a law firm. If she thinks it’s legit, she’ll contact the law firm that wrote it . . . assuming they’re still around.”
Then he muttered an oath. “Gotta go. Connie’s headed back this way. Keep your doors locked and make that big cat of yours stand guard tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, nine sharp at your store. Don’t call back unless someone’s dead.”
“Nope, no dead bodies here . . . yet,” was her sarcastic retort, though the call had already ended. Looking over at Hamlet, who had strolled in from the kitchen, she said, “I swear if I ever get murdered, I’m going to haunt Reese until the end of time. If you’ve used up all your nine lives by then, want to give me a hand with that?”
Hamlet paused in midstep to give her a slow, emerald blink which she took as a yes.
Buoyed by the cat’s support, she flipped on the television while she waited for her supper to show up. Then her cell phone chimed, indicating an incoming message.
Had msg from Reese u talked 2 him. Thought u might like some light reading before bed, the text from Jake read. Do the math. $$$$.
The attachment was the scan of the trust. Curious, Darla forwarded the message to her email and booted up her computer so she could take a second look.
Reading the document was like wading through a few paragraphs of Hawthorne, though at least on the computer she was able to blow up the font to a more comfortable size. Thus, by the time her downstairs front door buzzed, announcing the delivery driver’s arrival, she’d come to
a shocking realization that she had missed when she initially perused the document.
The dollar amount of the bequest being held in trust for one Vincent L. Modello III was not the comfortable but modest figure that she’d originally thought.
Instead, totaling up cash and stock, as well as property, the amount that had been left to him came to well over one million dollars.
EIGHTEEN
“It looks legit to me,” Reese said the next morning as he squinted at the actual copy of the trust, Darla having picked up the book and document from Jake thirty minutes earlier. “I probably won’t hear back from my legal source until later today, but I’m pretty sure she’ll say the same thing. So, what are you going to do with it?”
It was a little after nine the next morning. Reese had pulled up on the dot, as promised, foam cup from a competing coffee shop clutched in one hand. He and Hamlet had exchanged their usual distrustful looks as the detective settled against the counter to chat with Darla. Hamlet had situated himself a short distance away, still on the countertop, though out of paws’ reach . . . but not so far from them that he couldn’t pounce into action, if need be.
“That’s the original reason why I asked you to come over,” Darla replied, impatiently flipping her single red braid so that it rested neatly over her right shoulder. “I thought Vinnie should know about the trust, but I wanted your blessing before I handed over anything that could be considered evidence. But now I’m starting to wonder again if he didn’t know about it after all. I’d think that a million bucks would be pretty good motivation for murder.”
Reese snorted. “Red, I’ve seen one guy kill another guy over a ten-spot. Motivation doesn’t always make sense.”
Darla shook her head and mentally threw her hands up. The whole situation was getting more complicated by the minute. With a sigh, she added, “Maybe he guessed there was something up about the book, since he said his grandfather specifically wanted him to have it, or maybe he didn’t. But trust or no trust, I’m pretty sure he does want the book for sentimental reasons.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if he just bought himself a new copy?”
“What didn’t you understand about the words sentimental reasons?” She pointed to her edition, which was sitting on the counter. “This book actually belonged to his grandfather. It’s not the same thing if it’s a random copy he buys off Amazon, or something.”
Then, as Reese still looked skeptical, she asked, “So what do you think? Is it possible Vinnie had anything to do with Mr. Plinski’s murder?”
“Anything’s possible. And just so you know you’re getting your tax dollars’ worth out of me, I already did a little checking on the guy. As far as I can tell, he’s an upstanding citizen, no criminal record, has been working at that bridal shop for almost three years.”
“Working?” Darla echoed with a frown. “I thought he was part owner.”
“Not from what I found. The records show that Davina’s Bridal is jointly owned by one Daniel Lawson Modello, aka Daniel Lawson, and one Davina Lawson . . . aka Daniel Lawson’s mother.”
So much for the “Da”—and the “Vin”!—in Davina.
Darla’s frown deepened. Yet hadn’t both Vinnie and Daniel indicated that Vinnie was a partner, and not simply an employee? Perhaps that was another example of Daniel’s kindness to his brother, letting him save face by being referred to as an owner.
Reese, had set the trust paperwork aside. Gesturing at the book, he said, “Now show me exactly where you found the document.”
She reached for the copy of The Marble Faun and flipped open the front cover. “It was here,” she replied, indicating the unglued front end paper. Then, by way of demonstration, she folded the document again along its original creases and carefully slipped it back where she had discovered it.
“Hamlet was the one who figured it out,” she told the detective with a proud glance over at her cat. “He clawed away the page just enough so I could see that something was underneath. When James was initially appraising the book, he said he didn’t think these were the original endpapers, and he was right.”
She slid the book closer to Reese.
“And, look, you can tell where something was cut out,” she explained, showing him what she’d discovered with further examination the night before. The narrowest ribbon of a raw edge stuck up behind the loose endpaper where someone had sliced away a page.
“If you peeled off the glued paper all the way, you’d see the original paper they used when the book was bound. Someone obviously wanted the trust document hidden, but put someplace it could be easily retrieved if need be,” she smugly finished.
Reese gave her a nod.
“Not bad for an amateur, though Hamlet probably thought the book smelled like mice, which is the only reason he was clawing around on it. So what time did you say Modello was coming back?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Well, I might just have to stop by around then. You know how we cops are about our coffee. I’ll probably be looking for a refill,” he said, and lifted his foam cup by way of example.
Darla suppressed a smile.
“Right. Oh, and speaking about how cops are, I had to make up a lie to Connie the day you dropped us off at Davina’s. She got a little suspicious over how long we talked, so I had to deflect her somehow. The only thing I could think to tell her was that you were planning a surprise for her at the engagement party. So you’d better start planning something good.”
Reese heaved a sigh. “Great. Now I’ve gotta think up something clever. What, you think maybe a male stripper?”
“That would be a no,” Darla shot back with a roll of her eyes, trying to decide if he was making a bad joke or if he truly was that clueless. “It should be meaningful. And you get bonus points if you make her cry a little.”
“Thanks for the pressure. The only thing I can think of offhand that would make her cry is if I had to leave halfway through, and then she’d probably throw the ring back at me. It woulda been easier if you’d told her you and I were seeing each other on the side,” he finished with a mournful shake of his head.
Then, at the stunned look Darla shot him—why had that, of all things, occurred to him to as an excuse!—he held up both hands.
“Wait, it was a joke. You know I’d never cheat on her. Especially not with you.” Then, apparently realizing how that sounded, he stumbled on. “I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to—I mean, if that was something I’d do—but we’re friends, and it would be pretty awkward . . .”
“You mean, awkward like this?” Darla asked with a wry smile as he helplessly trailed off. “Don’t worry, I get what you mean.
“And I’ve got an idea for you for that engagement party surprise,” she added as a solution occurred to her. “Robert’s friend Pinky is going to be our substitute barista tomorrow and Saturday while Robert is helping with Mary Ann’s estate sale. Maybe you can hire him to show up at the restaurant dressed up in a tux and singing something romantic just for Connie. You know he has that beautiful tenor voice. She’d love it.”
“Yeah? Good thinking,” he said with an approving nod. “Give me his number, and I’m on it.”
She texted him the number in question and then asked, “I guess that’s it for now? I mean, about Vinnie and the book?”
He nodded again. “I’ll get here a little before three and hang out in the bookshelves while you and him talk. Give him the book and the paperwork, everything you need to finalize the deal. If it all goes down smooth, I’ll just follow him outside and have a little chat with him. If things go south for some reason, I’ll be here to handle it. Either way, at least we’ll put this to bed so I can concentrate on finding Mr. Plinski’s killer.”
“What about Mary Ann?” she ventured, needing to know for her own sake where that stood. “I haven’t been by to check on her yet today. Did you ever get to talk
with her again after . . . well, you know, yesterday?”
He gave a rueful chuckle.
“You mean after Mary Ann did her best chain gang imitation? Yeah, she gave me a call, and she apologized for being—and I quote—a stubborn old biddy. And then she explained about where she’d been that morning, and why the lies.”
Darla had been smiling after the “biddy” quote, but at his next words, she gasped.
“She told you? Where was she? Did it have anything to do with Mr. Plinski?”
“Let’s just say she had a legitimate excuse that I was able to verify, and it puts her in the clear. So she’s off the suspect list.”
“But where was she?” Darla persisted. “If she’s in the clear, why can’t you tell me why she lied?”
“Because she asked me not to.”
With that, he plucked the sunglasses from atop his head and shoved them back into place. “I’ll see you a little before three,” he told her, and took off via the front door.
“Well, at least he didn’t say, Ah’ll be back,” she muttered to Hamlet, who had watched the detective leave with a look of feline satisfaction. “But what in the world did Mary Ann tell him about that morning?”
Hamlet had no response, preferring to wander up to the lounge where Robert was getting set up for the morning coffee rush . . . no doubt hoping to score a bit of leftover foam. As for Darla, with Vinnie temporarily put to the side, she pondered the Mary Ann situation all morning. She still hadn’t come up with any logical answer when James arrived at noon. But her first concern was telling her manager about Vinnie’s impromptu visit the night before, and warning of his planned return that afternoon.
“I think it highly sensible that Detective Reese be on the premises when our friend BookBuyer75 returns,” he said with a grimace as she finished. “Something about that man does not sit right with me.”