“Uh-huh.” She turned down the sound on the monitor and picked up her copy of People. “Let me know when you find the old dude’s name.”
“I’ll keep checking under miscellaneous.”
She looked up from the magazine. “Hey, most of what everyone seems to know about this Wee Willie character seems to fit under that category, don’t you think?”
I thought about that. From talented young athlete to disgraced has-been to horse-killing jail bird to dead old man in dirty socks, William Wallace’s whole life had been unnecessarily, but pretty much totally, miscellaneous.
Chapter 22
The studio was silent and dim, but not completely dark, when I opened the metal door. I made my way down the center aisle. I could see why the Saturday Business Hour host liked the lamp. It was the perfect addition to the set, green shade and all. I clicked it on. This was going to make my work a lot easier. I pulled open the bottom file drawer and, on my knees, looked inside. Unlike the manila files with individually marked tabs I’d seen earlier, this drawer contained three wide accordion-type files, each one stuffed full.
I lifted the first one out, put it on the desk, pushed the drawer shut with my foot, and began snooping. It didn’t take very long for the contents to become interesting. The file must have belonged to Larry Laraby. The first handful of papers I pulled out seemed to be letters from his fans. Mostly handwritten, on a variety of types of stationery, they all began with “Dear Larry.” I read a few at random. They seemed to vary between letters from kids asking sports questions or inviting Larry to their games, to letters from women asking sports questions or suggesting “meeting somewhere to get acquainted,” to letters from men asking sports questions or criticizing Larry’s opinion of “their” team.
I replaced the file and pulled the second one out. This obviously concerned Larry’s collectibles show business. There were contracts for the venues he’d rented all over the country. I was surprised at the scope of the Larry Laraby Sports Collectibles Shows. There were contracts too, signed by sports celebrities who’d made personal appearances at the events. Again, I only looked at a few but the ones I saw were a veritable “Who’s Who” of sports stars. Most of the papers in this file, though, appeared to be records of signed items bought and sold by Laraby. Again I was surprised. The memorabilia Laraby dealt in often carried four-figure price tags, and sometimes five figures. I had no idea autographs and baseball cards and balls and bats, hockey sticks and pucks, game-used footballs and stained jerseys could have such value!
There was an address book in the file. It appeared to be a customer list with notations of items sought by each listed collector. I remembered that all this had happened before eBay and Craigslist. I’d better take a closer look at all my NASCAR stuff. Maybe some of it’s worth real money. A stack of receipt books reminded me of the ones we’d just inventoried for the library. I rifled through a few. Why was I not surprised when the name William Wallace showed up numerous times on the carbon copies? Wee Willie had been a consistent provider of merchandise for Laraby for years. I put that file to one side for further examination later.
The third file was heavy. It contained two thick photo albums. I love looking at old photos. Always have. When I was a little girl I used to amuse myself for hours looking through the ones in the bookcase in Aunt Ibby’s living room. No matter that I didn’t know who the people were. The clothes, the automobiles, the houses and gardens and pets—I made up stories about them in my mind. I spread the first one open. It wasn’t really old, like most of my aunt’s were, with black-and-white photos pasted onto black paper pages with little black corner stickers holding them in place. These were mostly Kodachrome prints mounted under clear plastic. I recognized the hairstyles and clothing as maybe sixties and seventies. There were some that must have been taken in the WICH-TV building. There was a microphone bearing the station’s call letters on a sports desk where the man I’d come to recognize as Larry smiled into the camera. A few had been taken outside the building, which didn’t look a great deal different than it does now. There were many pages of Larry posing with men—mostly big, rugged guys—who I assumed must all be sports stars. I only recognized a few of the obvious ones, like O.J. Simpson and Pete Rose. I knew Richard Petty immediately, of course. There were a few photos of Larry with women athletes—even one with a petite Olga Korbut.
My phone vibrated and I read a text from Pete. “Sharon Stewart reported something missing.”
I answered right away. “What?”
“Old framed photo of her dad.”
“Call me when you can,” I instructed. “Let’s talk.”
“Lunch? 12:30? Pick you up?”
“Ariel’s bench. 12:30,” I sent. Then, smiling, I returned to Larry Laraby’s photo albums. About halfway through the first album, the backgrounds changed to what appeared to be the collectibles shows. Some of the shots that showed an entire hall were probably taken from a balcony or stairway above the sales floor. I whistled softly. There must have been over a hundred booths in each shot, and the crowds of customers in the aisles indicated that ticket sales alone must have yielded a hefty profit besides whatever big-ticket items Larry sold there. Most of the pictures showed vendors’ booths, with a heavy emphasis on baseball memorabilia. There were autograph signing tables too, with sports luminaries signing books, photos, baseballs, and T-shirts (at twenty dollars a signature, according to the sign on the table).
I was so engrossed in my study of the photos, I didn’t realize that Marty had joined me in the little faux office. “You look right natural there, Moon,” she said. “Find anything interesting in the file cabinet?”
“Oh, Marty. I didn’t even hear you coming. Yes. Thanks so much for letting me know about it.” I turned the album toward her. “See this? It’s Larry Laraby’s photo album. Mostly covering his collectibles shows. He was quite the showman. Here’s a picture of a locked glass case with a security guard standing beside it. The sign says, ‘The world’s most expensive Baseball Card.’ Look at all the people lined up to see it.”
“Must have been a Honus Wagner,” Marty said, moving closer to the desk. “It’d be worth way more now than it was back then. Couple of million, easy.”
“Really?” I peered over the top of the album. “A baseball card?”
“Sure. Look it up.”
“I will,” I said, and typed “Honus Wagner” in the search line on my tablet. A picture of a serious-faced man in a Pittsburgh shirt led the article. After a moment I looked up at Marty. “You’re right. Wayne Gretzky bought a T206 Honus Wagner card for $451,000. It changed hands a few times and sold in 2007 for $2.8 million dollars!”
She didn’t appear to be listening. She continued to stare at the photo.
“Marty? Two point eight million,” I repeated.
She tapped the photo. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
I looked at the photo. “Who?”
“The security guard. It’s Dave. Good-lookin’ Dave from the library. Only younger.”
And of course, it was.
Chapter 23
I took a quick picture of the Laraby photo, returned the albums to the miscellaneous drawer, turned off the lamp, and left to meet Pete. My mental flowchart was a mess. Maybe the name in the top spot should be Larry Laraby. Maybe everybody in my complicated scenario was connected to him and maybe Wee Willie was just one of the crowd. Is there a connection between Dave guarding Laraby’s valuable baseball card and Dave guarding the library where Wee Willie died? My brain was in a blender, whirring around and around and going nowhere.
I opened the door at the back of the studio and stepped out into bright October sunshine. It was such a pretty day that spending the whole afternoon sitting on Ariel’s bench, gazing out over at the sailboat-dotted deep blue water of Salem harbor was an attractive option.
Definitely not happening.
Pete is usually one of those exactly-on-the-button people when it comes to being on time. I still had a few minutes befor
e twelve-thirty. I pulled the tablet from my purse and looked again at the photo of the “world’s most expensive baseball card” display. I zoomed in on the security guard’s face. No doubt. It was a much younger Dave. I enlarged the big glass box too, trying to see what was inside. No luck there. I was turning the tablet from side to side (as though that was going to make a difference) when Pete drove up behind the bench and gave a friendly toot of the horn.
I climbed into the Crown Vic and leaned across the console for the expected kiss. I wasn’t disappointed. “Hi, babe,” he said. “Burgers and a ride to the Willows?”
“One of my favorite lunch dates,” I said. “What’s all this about a picture being missing from the Stewarts’ house? Does she think it was taken when their house was broken into?”
He nodded and headed for the closest Burger King. “Yes. She was dusting a bookshelf this morning and realized that the picture wasn’t in the spot where it’d been for a long time.”
“Seems odd it would take this long to notice it,” I said.
“She says there are several framed photos in an arrangement on that shelf. The missing one is one of those old five-inch-square color prints in a five-by-five frame from the Dollar Store.”
“Exactly what’s it a picture of?”
“It’s a candid shot of her dad. Taken in his study. He was holding a book in his right hand. And he was smoking a cigar.”
“Did Sharon remember what book it was?”
“No. I knew you’d ask that question though.”
“Too Nancy Drew-ish?”
“No. It’s a good question, considering this case seems to be all about books.” We pulled into the drive-through. Cheeseburger, fries, and vanilla shake for him. Hamburger with extra pickles and a diet Pepsi for me. “Why would a burglar pass up some really nice items in that house, mess up a room by tossing books around, and only take a snapshot in a cheap frame?”
We turned back onto Derby Street heading for the Salem Willows Park. The Willows is a popular destination for tourists and natives alike from May through September, with rows of sidewalk food stands, amusement park rides, and arcades, as well as beaches, boat rides, and ocean views. We love it there in the summer, but sometimes it’s even better in October when most everything is closed up. We like to park under some ancient willow trees near the beach and enjoy the special quiet beauty of the place when the crowds are gone.
“Speaking of pictures,” I said, when we’d unwrapped our sandwiches, “I found a whole album full of Larry Laraby’s photos—mostly of the collectibles shows he ran. They were really big events. You won’t believe who Marty spotted in one of the pictures.”
“Who?”
“Dave Benson.”
He frowned. “Dave, the security guard at the library?”
“I’m sure it’s him. Much younger, but it’s him.” I pulled out the tablet and handed it to Pete. “Maybe he’s always worked as a security guard. Do you think that’s possible?”
Pete examined the picture, much the way I had. “Not in this case,” he said. “We ran a check on all of the library staff—nothing in depth, you know, but a general background. Dave Benson was in the military for almost thirty years. Special Forces. He’s worked at the library part time ever since he retired.”
I sipped my Pepsi. “Maybe he’s always liked being in uniform then,” I said. “Marty finds him very attractive.”
“No kidding?” He smiled. “Could I get a look at that album? Maybe there’ll be a duplicate of the picture that’s missing from the Stewarts’ house.”
“Could be, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure those five-inch prints came from an inexpensive kind of candid camera. The ones in the album I’ve seen so far look like professional work.”
“You’re probably right. I think my sister Marie had one of those cameras when we were kids. I know my mom has those little square prints in scrapbooks.”
“But Pete, there are two of those albums. I’ve just begun looking at the first one. Lots more pictures to look at,” I promised. “I’ll get permission to bring them home—research for the anniversary show, you know. We can look through all of them. Who knows who else we might find in there besides Dave?”
“I’m guessing our friend Wee Willie will show up for sure.” He handed back my tablet.
“He was a big part of Laraby’s sports show career,” I said. “No reason he wouldn’t be part of the collectibles shows too. I can hardly wait to get back to those albums.”
“Do you want to skip the after-lunch-walk-along-the-beach?”
“Certainly not!” I said, meaning it. “That’s the best part. Walking off the calories, breathing good salt air, and just hanging out together for a little while.”
Pete agreed with my reasoning. He stuffed our napkins and straws and cups and burger wrappers into the Burger King bag and deposited it in a nearby round-topped trash can, took my hand, and we walked the short distance to Dead Horse Beach. (Yes, that’s always been the name of it. Guess nobody ever thought of dressing up the name to impress the tourists. That’s Salem.)
It’s a nice little beach, quiet and breezy. There were only a few other people there and a couple of friendly dogs.
“So you say it looks as though Dave was working security at one of the Laraby shows?” A golden retriever dropped a green ball at Pete’s feet and looked up expectantly. Pete obliged and threw the ball. “Sharon—Mrs. Stewart—says that he promoted those shows all over the country. She thinks his shows, much more than his TV career, brought her father the most satisfaction.”
“I’m guessing they brought him the most money too,” I said. “From the pictures I’ve seen so far, they were held in huge halls, with hundreds of vendors.”
“I think you’re right about that. Mrs. Laraby, Sharon’s mother, lived very nicely. Big house here in Salem and another one in Florida.”
“Did the mother’s house ever get broken into? Books on the floor and all?”
“The house Larry died in was the only books-on-the-floor experience Mrs. Laraby had that we know of. They sold that house right after his death.”
“Don’t blame them for that. Bad memories.”
The golden returned with the green ball. Pete obliged again. “The new house is in a gated community. Plenty of around-the-clock security.”
“Maybe Dave worked there too,” I suggested, only halfway seriously.
“I’ll check it,” Pete said, all the way seriously. “I wonder exactly what card was in that glass box he was guarding at the collectibles show. The world’s most expensive baseball card.”
“Marty thinks it was a Honus Wagner,” I said, trying to sound as though I’d known about the Pittsburgh player all along.
“Could very well be,” he said. “A few years back Ken Kendrick paid two point eight million for one.”
“Ken Kendrick?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know. Kendrick. He owns the Arizona Diamondbacks.”
“Oh, that Kendrick. Sure.” The Arizona Diamondbacks. Like the snake on Pete’s pajama bottoms. Like the slithering snake on the Wheel of Fortune card.
One more ball toss for the golden and Pete and I headed back to his car. “That was nice,” he said. “The lunch and the beach and the dog too. Someday, I’d like to have a dog just like that one.”
“I can see you with a dog like that,” I told him. “Suits you.”
He smiled. “Like O’Ryan suits you.”
“I guess he does,” I said. “I know Aunt Ibby and I love him a lot.”
“He’s not just a regular ordinary cat.” Pete held the passenger door open for me. “There’s something really special about him.”
“That’s for sure,” I said. You have no idea how special he is. Maybe someday . . .
We headed back to the station, taking the long way, making this lunch date last as long as we could. He pulled up behind Ariel’s bench. A woman sat there reading, a sleeping toddler in the stroller in front of her. I opened my door and stepped out. �
�I’ll see about getting permission to take Laraby’s albums home with me,” I said, speaking softly so I wouldn’t wake the baby. “For researching the anniversary show.”
“I’ll call you,” he whispered, making the thumb and little finger phone sign, just the way Christopher Rich had done.
I need to call Christopher Rich! Better yet, I’ll go over to his shop and see what he knows about the old magician.
I waved in the direction of Pete’s departing car, smiled at the reading woman, tapped my employee code into the security pad, and opened the metal door to the studio. There was still no activity in the long, dark room as I returned to the Saturday Business Hour set. I clicked on my green lamp—I thought of it as mine—and knelt on the floor, pulling the miscellaneous drawer open. I reached for the third accordion file, lifting it to the desktop.
I called the station number, adding Rhonda’s extension code. “Rhonda, I’m downstairs. Is Mr. Doan still in? I’d like to take one of these files home with me and I need to find out if that’s okay.”
“He’s here. If it’s about the anniversary show I’m pretty sure it’s okay. Hang on. I’ll put you through.”
Mr. Doan is one of those men who always answers the phone as though he’s either angry or in a big rush about something. I got the “big rush” tone. “Doan here. What do you want, Ms. Barrett?”
“I’ve been going through some old files, Mr. Doan. I’ve found some good pictures of Larry Laraby that were taken here at the station. All professional quality. There are two albums full—pretty much covering his whole career. I wonder if I can take them home and pick a dozen or so of the best ones. Good clear still shots for the anniversary show.”
“Sounds good, Barrett. Go for it.”
I said “Thanks,” but he’d already hung up. That was easy. I hefted the two albums and decided to put one under each arm and put them into my car right away in case the boss changed his mind. I slung my hobo bag over one shoulder, picked up the albums, and headed back outdoors. I tucked the albums into the trunk of the Vette, walked around to the front of the building and took the elevator to the second floor. I wanted to tell Rhonda what I planned to do with what was left of the afternoon.
Late Checkout Page 12
