The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery)

by Victoria Abbott

  Starting with you, Muriel, I thought.

  “See to it. Or you’ll be out of a job.”

  Once the door closed, I crawled out from under the table. “Did you know she was seeing a lawyer, Kev?”

  “Just found out when he arrived.”

  “Do you know what that’s about?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  “It has to be the property, some scam to get it from Vera. Did you notice Muriel said ‘my property’?”

  “We have to stop her.”

  “For sure, but there’s more to this. She’s not working alone.”

  Kev goggled. The signora made the sign of the cross.

  I said, “I heard her talking to someone in the library. She took him or her there to show off the room. That person’s visit has to do with the lawyer. You interrupted, Kev, when you came along to tell her that the lawyer had arrived. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure they would have gone to the mezzanine and I would have been discovered.”

  “That was close, Jordie.”

  “No kidding. Did you see Muriel’s visitors?”

  Kev shook his head. “But what were you doing there, Jordie?”

  “You knew I was coming. I figured everyone would be in the dining room. You’re always at dinner at eight o’clock. I wanted to look around in the library and the office to see if I could gain some insights into whatever Muriel is up to. I wanted to check the caller ID on the phones.”

  Kev said. “You took a chance. Our routines have changed. Muriel doesn’t like to eat that late. So now we eat at six thirty. Or whenever she gets hungry.”

  I did think that Kev might have mentioned this when I told him I was coming over. “Vera must be furious.”

  Kev shook his head. “She’s not really. She just seems . . . defeated.”

  “E un demonio!” the signora added.

  “Well, we have just begun to fight.” I felt very Archie Goodwin as I said it. Archie and I love overwhelming odds. “Before we can outwit Muriel, we need to know who she’s working with. There’s probably no way to find out who it was.”

  “Man or woman?” Kev asked.

  “All I could hear was a low murmur of voices. The books must have muffled the sound and I’m pretty sure Muriel and her guest didn’t want to be spotted.”

  “Why not? She walks around here like she owns the place. What would she care if we saw her visitor?”

  “It must be Muriel’s accomplice. That’s probably the person behind the Rileys’ deaths. Muriel mentioned getting rid of the nosy bitch.”

  “Who’s the nosy bitch?”

  “I think it must be me, as I am asking a lot of questions. Unless, of course, it’s Vera.”

  “Vera? No. She’s just slumped in her room, all the time. She’s not nosy. It sounds more like you.”

  “Thanks, Kev.”

  “We need to figure out who it is.”

  “I am sure going to try to find out. In the meantime, we should find a way to learn what the lawyer is here for. Do you know his name, Kev?”

  “No. Yes! He said his name was Dwight Jenkins. Does that sound like a lawyer’s name to you?”

  “I’ve heard of him. We need to know for sure what he is doing here.”

  “How?”

  “I have an idea. I’m going to head out now. You need to keep a real close eye on Vera. You too, Signora. I’ll be in touch. Cover me in case Muriel shows up. I’m cutting across the farmer’s field. My car’s parked on the next road. I’ll follow the lawyer. Call me when he leaves. What? No, Signora. I really can’t carry any food with me. It’s going to be—”

  I managed not to spill the thermos of hot soup or the pasta or the cookies I was carrying on my furtive trip through the furrowed fields to my car.

  I crawled into the car, started it up and positioned it by the side of the road. I couldn’t resist eating some of the hot soup. It was a delicious reminder of the life I had left behind. It probably also kept me from freezing to death.

  My phone buzzed and Kev whispered, “He’s leaving now.”

  As the lawyer’s Buick purred past me on the road, I swung the Civic into position a safe distance behind him.

  Part of my driver training from Uncle Lucky was learning how to follow someone without being observed. I don’t think any of my friends or classmates received the same training from their relatives. Never mind. It hasn’t been necessary all that often, but the instructions stuck with me. On that lonely country road, I kept my lights off.

  I followed him right to his imposing brick home (I was betting nineteen twenties) on St. Lawrence Crescent, a lovely tree-lined street within sight of the river and within easy walking distance of the downtown area. I slowed down and pulled in as he turned into the driveway. He parked the car and then lumbered to the front door with a briefcase. Yes! Shortly afterward, the lights went on inside. I inched forward without lights and parked right in front. I sat in the dark and watched. I figured the light was in the front hall and the house had the traditional central floor layout. Then a light went on from a window on the right side of the house. Two minutes later the lights went on toward the back. Kitchen maybe?

  The lights were quickly switched off. Minutes later the upstairs lights shone out and the hall light was shut off. I could see the lawyer silhouetted against the curtains in the front window. Early to bed, early to rise? Or a den on the second floor? No way to tell.

  I headed home for a rest. I had a busy night ahead of me.

  * * *

  I DO REALIZE that breaking into people’s homes is not strictly speaking “going straight,” a key point in my life plan. I’d convinced myself it was for the greater good. I wasn’t out to steal anything. I needed to know what the lawyer had in his briefcase. I was certain it held legal papers that were very relevant to Vera’s situation. I had to see them. After that . . . well, time would tell.

  First I had to gain access. And to do that, I needed to check how well the home was secured. It was close enough to walk. It couldn’t have been more than half a mile from Uncle Mick’s, but people on foot at two a.m. are always suspicious-looking unless they’re walking a dog. I didn’t really want to involve the dogs in this caper. Walter had helped me with my reconnaissance in the past. But tonight was, as I believe I’ve mentioned, very cold and very windy. Walter does not do cold well. He was more likely to trip me up trying to jump into my arms to get warm than to provide an unobtrusive cover. And Walter was capable of raising a racket if I left him tied up.

  Cobain, on the other hand, didn’t give a hoot about the weather. But he was Officer Tyler “Missing Somewhere in Action” Dekker’s dog. There was a good chance one of the officers on patrol would recognize the shaggy black creature at a glance. And because people knew that Tyler Dekker and I were in a romantic relationship of sorts, recognizing his dog would then make a connection. I didn’t want anything about my illegal outing to lead back to me.

  So, there I was, on my own. Too bad, because the dog thing usually worked so well. I was already in my black gear and I had my lock picks. I added a glass cutter, some clear Mactac, and safety gloves to avoid being cut. I put on a red fleece under my black gear and packed a silly red-and-yellow hat with braided ties. A small hammer, a pair of glasses with black frames, a lightweight folding black nylon bag and the black scarf completed the kit. My kingdom for a balaclava. Walter hid under the covers in case I got any ideas, but Cobain thumped his tail, full of hope at getting a W-A-L-K at this unaccustomed time of night.

  “You’re too identifiable, I’m afraid.”

  “So fix that,” Cobain said.

  All right, he didn’t say anything. But I got an excellent idea. Shortly after, I set out with a black-and-white shaggy dog. A very happy dog, despite the fact I’d used my nontoxic Wolf brand wax-based face paint to give him two white ears and a number of large white marking
s and a spectacular white tail. The face paint was left over from Halloween. I figured Wolf was a fitting sign. I loved this big lumbering dog even if he wasn’t mine. We walked the few blocks to the lawyer’s place on St. Lawrence without seeing a soul. Of course, it was now two thirty in the morning so no big surprise there.

  “You are a very good dog and when I tell you to stay by the tree you are going to. Right?”

  Cobain seemed to agree. Of course, “tree” and “treat” sound a lot alike.

  I headed toward the house. This lawyer broke every scrap of advice offered to anyone who’d ever inquired about security.

  He had lots of large busy mature shrubs around his foundation. They were really quite perfect for sidling behind to get access to the house. I did a quick test and was pleased that no lights turned on. No motion detectors. A troop of burglars could hold a dance competition in his yard and he’d never know about it.

  The bushy shrubs around the house were more than matched by the unruly cedar hedges that divided his property from his neighbors’ on either side. Nice. And cedars are thoughtful enough to keep their form all year long. Again, a good shield. There was a slight chance that someone across the street might get up in the middle of the night and notice a woman and a dog prowling, so I kept to the side and the back of the house. Sure enough, by the back door was a security camera. It was focused on the backyard. On the back door was the decal for a security company. If the back door was alarmed, I knew the front would be covered too.

  No point in using the lock picks. I knew I could get in and out of the building before the cops got there in their usual four to five minutes’ response time that was fairly standard. But I didn’t know how much time I needed. And I didn’t know how the lawyer would react to a burglar alarm. I didn’t want to find out. He might have a gun or he might have a heart attack. I was aiming for an outcome where no one ended up dead or with extra perforations. I’d just have to find a window that wasn’t alarmed. Given the lousy security, I felt confident. The basement windows had the type of bars you buy in the hardware store. I knew ways of getting past them, but because of events in the not-too-distant past, there was no way I would be going into this or any other barred basement. No matter what was at stake.

  Hugging the foundation, I explored, trying to figure out which windows belonged to which rooms. The living room seemed fairly obvious—I used the bay window as a clue—but sometimes professionals with these large older homes will convert the front area to offices. I knew nothing of this man, except that he was “the lawyer,” Dwight Jenkins.

  I ruled out the kitchen. From what I knew about houses of this era, the dining room was across the hall from the living room and had a door to the kitchen. That left what I hoped was a smaller room at the end of the dining room, a den or study. I had no way of knowing if it would be. I spotted the piano window. Homeowners never think to alarm transoms or piano windows, according to some people I know well.

  Despite my association with Signora Panetone and the Hudson Café, I am slim and agile. There was a good chance I could pass through it. Lucky me, some outdoor furniture remained. I dragged over a wooden chair that really should have been put away for the season. I took my roll of Mactac and my glass cutter. I stood on the chair and was not only able to reach the window, but to attach the Mactac and to use the glass cutter around the edges. The glass came out nicely.

  Then I tucked myself behind a bush and waited for the sound of an alarm. None came. To be on the safe side, I took five minutes and hung around to be sure that the cops weren’t on their way. If they showed up, I’d melt into the neighborhood and home. Once I felt confident they weren’t, it was back on the chair. I put on the safety gloves to avoid getting cut and pulled myself up to the window. Inside, things started off well. There was an upright piano and so I was able to slide onto it and then hop to the floor instead of dropping from the window. I groped my way into the next room. Direct hit: It was an office. A briefcase lay on the desk. It was closed and locked. Damn.

  I had a couple of choices at this point. I fiddled with the briefcase lock and soon realized it was complicated. I picked it up and headed across the hall to the dining room. I snatched up a bit of silver and dropped it into the black nylon bag to reinforce the idea of a burglary. I paused. Was that a creak from upstairs?

  It was.

  And then another one on the stairs. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the person descending on the stairs heard my heart thumping.

  I legged it from the dining room into the kitchen, wrestled the door open and fled, dragging pillowcase and briefcase. My panic increased because lately so many doors I’d opened had nasty surprises—like fires and police officers—behind them.

  The alarm sounded instantly as the door opened. The sound propelled me in my escape. A light from the house illuminated the yard somewhat. Without thinking, I turned back and saw what I took to be the lawyer backlit in the door, scratching his head.

  I ran, only stopping to collect Cobain. I dumped the black nylon bag behind the bush and used my little hammer to smash the lock on the briefcase. In the morning, I’d have to make restitution to the lawyer, who was probably an innocent bystander. I took all the papers out, except a few that seemed unimportant, and stuffed the rest into my backpack. The rest I left to blow around in the wind. Once I was through the adjoining yard, I took off the scarf and stuffed it down my shirt. I removed my black jacket, revealing the bright red zippered fleece. I added the silly red-and-yellow knit hat with the braided ties and finally donned the black-framed glasses. At least I wouldn’t match any description given by the lawyer.

  A police car whipped along the street. I stopped and stared at it in surprise as innocent people tend to do.

  The car stopped and the cop rolled down his window. He was a heavyset guy pushing fifty. He had a slightly receding hairline. Maybe it had just migrated to his upper lip, where the mustache was doing well. I was pretty sure I’d seen him at the station. I walked over to see how I could help.

  “You see anyone suspicious around here, miss?”

  He didn’t really look closely at my face. I think my silly hat was a distraction. Now there was a training gap, I thought.

  “I did.” I pointed to the yard with the bush where I’d left my stash. “Skinny white guy. He went that way. I think he dropped something. He looked kind of scary-looking. I was glad I had my dog.” Cobain wagged his new white tail and smiled at the officer. No doubt they’d met before.

  The officer stared at me for a second. I think it was hard for him to take me seriously while I was wearing that hat.

  I stroked Cobain to show my thanks. My hand came back covered in white and I hastily tucked it behind my back. Fortunately the officer was busy on the police radio. I hoped no innocent skinny white guy was about to become collateral damage because of my description.

  I left the officer to find the “evidence” and hustled home before he came back to ask me for a statement.

  At home, I got out of my highly identifiable gear and cleaned off Cobain. He licked my hand. Walter scampered around jealously.

  I dug the papers out of my backpack. My heart rate was still high as I began to read.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Vera had made a will leaving everything to her natural sister.

  Muriel Delgado.

  And in a separate set of documents, she had given power of attorney for health and financial matters to the same Muriel Delgado.

  There were two witnesses to all the documents. I’d never seen their names before.

  This was a disaster.

  Vera had literally signed her life away. Now she was a sitting duck.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  COBAIN WENT STRAIGHT to bed once I wiped off his disguise. I gave him a few treats to reward his actions as an accomplice. Really, he could have turned pro any time.

  Walter wok
e up at the possibility of a T-R-E-A-T and now decided he needed to go out. I took a ring of keys from Mick’s favorite hiding place. I gathered up my disguise and the legal papers. Then I slipped on my old plaid coat and my poor boy cap and stood shivering outside with Walter. Once the important stuff was taken care of, I crossed the street. I checked carefully to see that I wasn’t spotted. Then I hustled down the alley in back of the vacant dress shop that Uncle Mick had recently purchased, not that I knew that officially.

  This skulking around investigating was a pain in the rump. I’m not sure how Archie Goodwin remained so cheerful through all those books.

  The fifth key on the ring opened the door. I headed up the rickety stairs to the vacant space over the shop. The place was full of shrouded machinery, from the look of it. I didn’t want to snoop on my uncle, although it all looked suspiciously like high-end copying equipment. I realized I had made a mistake in choosing this location. It might be part of Mick’s current project and therefore off limits, but it was too late for the moment. I found a loose floorboard, made it a bit looser, and deposited the will, the red fleece, the silly hat and the tools. It wouldn’t fool a search team, but I didn’t figure one would be showing up. Anyway, it was only temporary.

  Just as I reached the other side again, a police car came slowly rolling along the street and stopped. I recognized the officer as the same one who’d stopped me before.

  What if he recognized me?

  “I know you,” he said.

  I gave him my widest smile. “Yes, I think we’ve met at the station. I have a friend who works there . . . sometimes.”

  “Oh yeah. You’re Dekker’s girl. Did you see a woman and a dog come by?”

  I laughed and pointed at Walter. “Well, we are a woman and a dog.”

  “Different one. The woman was a bit thinner than you, maybe your height, stupid hat, glasses. Did you see them?”

  Thank you, stupid hat, for total anonymity.