“Honestly?” Daniel looked me square in the eye. “No.”
“But you’re both convinced Desiree’s innocent?”
“Of murder, yes. Of panicking and suppressing evidence, not so much.”
“Suppressing evidence?”
“The bloody clothes she had cleaned, for one. And she moved that body looking for something, although she wouldn’t say what. To be honest, I wouldn’t put ransacking those rooms past her, either.”
“So, if you think Desiree’s innocent, and you don’t believe Anabel killed Marlene, then who do you suspect? Wait, let me guess . . . Simon Gladstone?” When both men remained silent I said, “Sable St. John intimated Marlene knew secrets about dangerous people. Do you think that this Gladstone could have been ordered to kill Marlene, and when he realized Anabel had seen him, he had to take care of the loose end?” When they remained silent, I let out a triumphant cry. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
Daniel took both my hands in his. “What I’m going to tell you and Chantal never ever leaves this room. We’ve had Marlene McCambridge under surveillance for a while. The FBI received a tip that the book Marlene intended to publish had a chapter in it that revealed confidential information about a Boston mob boss we’ve been after for a while. Nico Enerelli.”
“Nico Enerelli? Then he must be NE!” I cried. I thought of the necklace with its diamond-encrusted initial E, and things began to make a bit more sense. “They were an item, weren’t they? He spilled secrets during pillow talk, and she put them in her book?”
“More or less. According to our source, Marlene thought she and Enerelli were getting hitched,” Samms said. “He broke it off, and you know that old adage about a woman scorned. Apparently he’d thought he’d paid her off to keep her mouth shut, and then he found out he was going to be the star chapter in her new book.”
“I wonder how he found that out,” I mused. “Marlene wouldn’t have been stupid enough to tell him, would she? I mean, if she’d hung around with him, been that intimate with him, she had to know revealing that beforehand would be like signing her own death warrant.”
“Oh, Marlene was too clever to let Enerelli know what she was up to. However, she made the same mistake as the people she violated in her book. She told someone who tipped off Enerelli.”
“She did? Who?”
Daniel and Samms just smiled and shook their heads.
“Okay, I get it. You can’t say. But you can at least tell me if this guy Gladstone was Enerelli’s emissary.”
“Simon Gladstone’s real name is Freddie Bartholomew and yes, he’s performed many services for Enerelli, among lots of others. We believe Enerelli sent him here to get that manuscript and either destroy the whole thing, or at the very least the part about him. Unfortunately we have no evidence to back it up. Anabel’s apparent ‘suicide’ tied up the loose ends all neat and tidy.”
I blew out a breath. No one knew better than me that tying up loose ends was what the mob did best. “So . . . what you’re saying is, it’s over? You’re not going to investigate any further?”
“On the surface, we’ve no reason to . . . at the moment,” Daniel said. “Effectively, the case closed with Anabel’s death.”
“But that’s not right,” I burst out. “I don’t for one minute believe that Anabel Leedson killed Marlene, or that she committed suicide, and you don’t either, do you? You think Simon Gladstone killed them, for Enerelli.”
“Unfortunately, we have no evidence to back that up, and without that, it’s a dead end. Unless we can tie either or both to the crime, they’ll walk.”
I looked at Samms. “You found the right appointment book when you were at the crime scene and noticed that erasure, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “We figured it might have something to do with Enerelli, and he’d send someone to destroy the evidence. Unfortunately, the wrong book stayed in the house. The guy I had guarding it, Tim Blackwell, noticed the error, but before he could do anything Gladstone surprised him and knocked him out and made off with the pages.”
“Do you think he found the manuscript too?”
Samms scratched at his head. “Don’t know. The upstairs was messed up pretty good. From what we know, Enerelli’s pretty desperate to get his hands on that chapter.”
“It names names and deeds, eh?”
“We’re not entirely certain just what’s in it, but we’re hoping it reveals something that will enable us to finally put him where he belongs. A nice long stretch in prison.” Daniel leaned forward. “I know you’re pretty fearless, Nora, but Enerelli plays for keeps. We want you to promise to stay away from that house, at least until we’re certain his goons are gone for good.” Daniel captured one of my hands in his. “Desiree’s been cleared, so that should mean your interest in this case is effectively over.”
I clamped my lips together. “Not really. I promised Louis I’d write this whole affair up for Noir. Besides, I’ve invested too much time in it to back away now.”
Daniel’s lips twisted into a lopsided smile. “I kinda thought you’d feel that way. But I am worried about you, Nora. These people play for keeps.”
“I’m probably aware better than anyone how the mob plays.”
“Yes, I guess you are.” He scraped his chair back and motioned to Samms. “We’d better get going.”
“I’ll be in touch with Peter tomorrow, after I speak with the DA. In the meantime, not one word to anyone about what’s going down,” Samms cautioned me.
I made a crossing motion over my heart. “You have my word.”
Samms snorted.
Daniel gave me a quick peck on the cheek and followed Samms out the door. I closed and locked it behind them and sat back down opposite Chantal.
“You are not going to stay out of this, though, are you, chérie?”
“Heck, no.” I took a quick look out the window, and as soon as the car pulled away, turned back to my friend. “Okay, now that they’re gone . . . what did you find out?”
“I found a Stein’s Estates and Appraisals in Gilroy. I was lucky, too. I got the manager himself on the phone. He remembered the transaction quite clearly.” Chantal’s voice bubbled with suppressed excitement. “It was Marlene who came in. He knew it was Marlene because his wife is a big Tiffany Blake fan, and he’d seen her photo on the book dust jackets. Anyway, he identified the number on that ticket as being from his shop. But here is the best part. She did not pawn anything. She put something in storage.”
“Storage?”
Chantal nodded. “He takes items on consignment, and for a small fee he also stores articles for his customers.”
“That’s great work, Chantal!” I clapped my friend on the shoulder. “Did he say what the item was?”
“She brought it in a sealed box, so no, he has no idea. He thought it might be something heavy, though. He remembered her struggling with it a bit. He also said that she insisted on storing the article in his back room herself. She tipped him five hundred dollars for the privilege.”
A scrabbling sound reached my ears. I looked underneath the table. Nick lay there, on his side, four Scrabble tiles in front of him.
“Hey, Nick. I wondered where you were.”
He blinked at me twice, and then took one of the tiles between his claws and started to chew on the end.
I got down on my hands and knees and wiggled partway under the table. “Whatcha got there, bud? What’s so delicious?”
I reached out and gently disengaged his paw from the tile, then scooped up the other three. He blinked again, then rolled over on his side.
Oh, yeah, his work was done.
I rocked back on my knees and laid the four tiles on the floor in front of me. A b, two o’s, and a k.
I didn’t even have to think about what they spelled. I looked over at Chantal, a wide smile on my face. “Did the manager happen to tell you his store hours?”
“They are open nine to five tomorrow. Why?”
“Can you open for me tom
orrow?” Even before she nodded assent, I punched in Ollie’s number on my speed dial. When he answered I said, “Can you possibly pick me up around eight tomorrow morning? I need to get over to Gilroy, I’ll explain everything on the way. Great. See you then.” I hung up and took another look at the tiles spread across my floor, and at the furry white and black face, peeping out from underneath the table.
Chantal tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. “Chérie, you look like the cat who swallowed the canary. You have something up your sleeve.”
“I sure do.” I gave Chantal a mysterious smile. “I think I know what’s in that box.”
Twenty-one
Ollie picked me up at seven fifteen sharp, and I filled him in on recent events, including the fact I was hopeful the missing manuscript might soon be found. He was pleased to learn that Desiree was on her way to an acquittal, not so pleased to learn that the mob might be involved in both Marlene’s and Anabel’s murders.
“What happens if they do manage to catch Gladstone, and it turns out he didn’t kill either one?” Ollie asked. “Do you think the DA would change his mind about Desiree?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Anabel’s death is still considered a suicide, thanks to the note. So to answer your question, hopefully not.”
“You think it was a hit on Enerelli’s behalf, don’t you? Too bad we didn’t know this when we ran into Gladstone.” Ollie’s fingers curled into a fist.
“Hey, calm down, Rocky. I’m glad we didn’t, or you might have done something really stupid.”
“Look who’s talking,” Ollie said and chuckled. “Face it. You were never above taking some liberties with the law to get a story.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, well, sometimes taking a chance pays off. If a killer can be brought to justice, it’s worth the risk, don’t you think?”
“Indeed. As long as one doesn’t get caught, that is.” He wrinkled his nose. “Be it far from me to judge. I’ve taken a few risks in my time, and Nick Atkins, of course, was the king of risk-taking.” He smiled, reminiscing. “Who do you think taught me how to break and enter?”
I swallowed and decided it was time for a change of subject. “I confess, I’d like to read that manuscript. If everyone’s secrets are as damning as Scarlett’s, then Jendine at Peachtree Press would be right. It has New York Times bestseller written all over it.”
“Did Desiree tell you what Marlene had on her?”
I shook my head. “No. She said she told my mother, and my mother took it to her grave. She didn’t volunteer, and I didn’t ask. She’s entitled to her privacy, I think. They all are, except maybe Enerelli. I sure would like to know what Marlene has on him.”
“And so apparently would the FBI. Well, perhaps we’ll find out soon enough.”
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “You do know you didn’t have to come with me today. If you’re afraid this’ll put you in danger . . .”
He stopped me with a brisk wave of his hand. “What sort of private eye would I be if I balked at a little danger?”
I chuckled. “This is the sort of case Nick Atkins would have thrived on, isn’t it?”
“You betcha. Nick had lots of cases like this. Lord only knows what he’s into now. I only hope he’s safe. For all my grousing about him, he was a good partner, and a good friend. Kind of like you are now.”
“Except I’m not your partner.”
His smile stretched from ear to ear. “We can remedy that. Whenever you’re ready, you just say the word. I’ll take you, and little Nick, formerly Sherlock, too.” He laughed. “You know, in some ways, that cat’s a better detective than you or I could ever hope to be.”
“Ollie,” I said as I patted his hand, “you said a mouthful. Just don’t say it around Nick. His head is big enough.”
• • •
Stein’s Estates and Appraisals stood on a quiet tree-lined street, in a large brick building that took up most of the block. Situated right next to it was a used bookstore that looked oddly out of place. I wondered just how much business it might do, since the sign on the door read Closed and the place was dark and looked locked up tighter than a drum. I paused before the window and peered in at the rows and rows of books, and at the lone gold tabby who lay in one corner of the window, sunning himself.
“Every bookstore has a cat,” Ollie said behind me. “I think it must be a law.”
I agreed, half wishing the store was open. Regretfully, I walked past the window, wiggling my fingers in farewell at the gold tom, and marched over to the oak and glass door that had Stein’s etched across it in big gold letters.
A bell above the door tinkled as we let ourselves in. The shop looked like most of the secondhand shops I’d been in over the years. Clutter, clutter everywhere. Glass cases lined the walls, and there were rows and rows of shelves jam-packed with articles, some that looked really old and valuable, but mostly junk.
“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure,” Ollie whispered as we made our way to the long counter at the rear of the store. There was a bell at one end. Ollie slapped his palm down on it, and almost immediately a curtain parted, and a tall, stoop-shouldered man emerged. He had black hair slicked back from his forehead, eyes blue and clear behind tortoiseshell glasses, and a clipped mustache above thin lips. He wore a shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, and a pair of faded khaki pants. He rubbed his hands in anticipation as he approached us.
“Good morning. How can I help you folks today? Are you in the mind for some knickknacks for your home? Antique furniture? Maybe an Oriental rug?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m Nora Charles. My friend Chantal called yesterday, about the storage ticket.” As he still stared me blankly, I asked, “Aren’t you Mr. Stein?”
He gave his head a quick shake. “Nope, sorry. I’m Bud.”
“Well, my friend spoke with Mr. Stein. He said he’d have the box ready for us to pick up.”
Bud shrugged. “He didn’t tell me about it, and I don’t usually handle the storage end. I’m acquisitions. Mr. Stein should be here shortly, though. Would you care to wait?”
Apparently we had no choice. I nodded, and Bud vanished through the curtain again, leaving Ollie and me free to wander through the store. There was an archway leading to another showroom. We entered and found ourselves staring at rows and rows of antique furniture.
“Whatever else is in the main part, this showroom has good stuff,” Ollie said, walking over to inspect a grandfather clock. He pointed to a set of matched chairs, done in blue upholstery with high backs, nearby. “Textured wool upholstery,” he said, running his hand along the back of one of them. He tapped it with his finger. “Solid frame. They don’t make stuff like this nowadays.”
“Why, Ollie. I didn’t realize you were such an antique aficionado.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s a hobby.” He moved over to a ceramic lamp with an ugly rose-colored shade. He picked it up, squinted at the markings on the base. “A Bollhagen with an original paper shade. Very rare.” He glanced at the price tag dangling from the shade and abruptly set it back down. “Stein knows his stuff. It’s right within range.”
I bent over to look at the tag and gulped loudly. “Not mine, that’s for sure.”
We were examining a display of Stiffel lamps when a soft voice called out, “Miss Charles?”
I glanced over at the doorway. This man was short and squat, with a bald pate, watery green eyes, and thick lips. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, no tie, and dark navy pants. He looked more like a professional poker dealer than an estate appraiser. He extended a hand, which I noted was grubby and sweaty. “Len Stein. You called yesterday?”
“My friend did. About Ms. McCambridge’s storage item.”
“Ah, yes.” His hand went up to rub at the back of his neck. “I read about her death. The police are calling it a ‘suspicious circumstance.’ Makes me wonder if I should turn this over to the police. Could it be evidence of some sort?”
>
Ollie stepped in, flashing his PI license. “Actually, we’ve been authorized by the attorney to bring this box to him. It is part of Ms. McCambridge’s estate, after all. I’m sure that he’ll take care of notifying the police, if necessary.”
Stein still looked dubious. Ollie patted his jacket pocket. “I have authorization papers. Do you want to see them?”
The man’s watery eyes gleamed. “Yes, thanks.”
“Sure.”
Ollie whipped an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Stein. Stein opened it, pulled out a sheet of paper, and spent quite a few minutes looking it over. At last he folded it, replaced it in the envelope and handed it back to Ollie.
“Seems to be in order,” he said. “If you’ll just wait here a few moments, I’ll get your package.”
He vanished through the doorway and I grabbed Ollie’s arm. “What on earth did you show him? We don’t have authorization papers from Carruthers.”
Ollie shrugged, but his eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “I had a set of authorization papers from a case Nick and I handled awhile back. I brought ’em along, just in case they might come in handy. I figured he wouldn’t examine ’em too close.”
I shook my head and smiled. “You’re a very enterprising man, Ollie Sampson.”
“Not really. But after twenty-odd years in this business you learn to anticipate every angle, any little setback you might run into.”
Bud stuck his head in the doorway. “You might want to bring your car around to the service entrance. That package is a mite heavy, and I can set it right in your backseat or trunk.” He walked over to me, handed me a form. “Just sign this release, leave it on the counter with the claim check, and you’re good to go.”
Ollie pulled out his car keys. “Why don’t you wait out front after you’re done, Nora? I’ll pull right up and we can go. I know you’re anxious to have a look at what’s inside.”
Hiss H for Homicide Page 17