by Gayle Roper
The next book was The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I opened it carefully and read on the paper lying inside: “First edition, first printing, original dark green cloth, $1,500.00.” There was also a volume of William Wordsworth’s poems, a first edition with its note reading, “Contains the extra stanza in ‘Ode to Duty’ omitted after this printing. 500 printed. $6,000.00.”
I thought of the collectibles and the occasional good antiques Madge and I moved. They were nothing compared to these rare books. I held a treasure in my hand, and I reverently put Wordsworth back in the cabinet.
The next book was a Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel, whose slip read, “in a first state book jacket, first edition, first printing, and signed by the author. $16,500.00.”
My heart gave a queer jump. These four books represented more than $26,000.
Then I picked up the next to the last book and almost hyperventilated. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, printed in 1833 in two volumes. The second volume sat quietly on its stand in the cupboard. The combined value of the two was $36,000.
I lay volume one back in place and gently closed the glass door. $62,800. I looked again at the furniture, the costly objets d’art sitting casually on the end tables and coffee table, the original art on the walls. Where had the money for all these things come from? And if Aunt Stella had all this money and hadn’t kicked in to help with Dad’s and Pop’s massive legal fees, no wonder Mom and Nan resented her so much.
I thought about the little notes in each book. Someone had had the volumes appraised since Aunt Stella’s death. No doubt everything else had been valued and recorded too. For the first time I wondered who the executor of the estate was. Someone besides or in coordination with her lawyer? A bank, maybe? Some close friend I had never met?
I hadn’t wanted to live here before I knew that this place was a veritable museum, my room being the exception. Now I was terrified. The responsibility was too much, especially with a thirteen-year-old used to a home that was definitely lived in. Suddenly I was glad for my bedroom with its iron hospital bed, where I didn’t have to worry about damaging anything. I could put my feet up, stuff my clothes in the unimpressive bureau, and knock the books on the floor, and it didn’t matter. I couldn’t hurt a thing. Reader’s Digest Condensed Books never died. They didn’t even fade away.
And once again I wondered where all the money came from for all the wonderful things. Granted, Aunt Stella had a good job and a nice income, but this house represented an extraordinary income.
“James will know. James knows everything.”
I was going to have to talk with James.
But my twin was my problem du jour, and I needed to concentrate on how to extricate her from the pit into which she’d fallen, assuming she’d let me help. Life had taught me that she didn’t value my suggestions very highly, and more so—less so?—since I’d become a Christian. It was like when I said, “I believe, Jesus,” she said, “Stay away, dummy.”
What would happen when Tori realized the wealth sitting right here in the living room? Not that she could legally touch anything before the end of December. But if she was threatened enough, scared enough, would she take things anyway? She could rationalize that they would soon be hers. She was just taking possession a bit early.
YOU ARE OVERDUE would be a powerful incentive to me to take advantage of every means available to find money. And if the note wasn’t enough, there was the body.
And that was another thing. What did the body have to do with the loan shark? Had he been another client? But a loan shark would never kill someone who owed him money. Hurt maybe, but not kill. It was the one action guaranteed to prevent collecting.
Was that why Tori wasn’t more afraid? She knew he wouldn’t kill her? I went to the kitchen and looked at the puzzle still lying on the table. Words started pulsing like red flares: debtor—Tori? avenger—the shark? scam—what Tori was trying? What about burglar and steal? Did they refer to Tori somehow, or were they just words?
I looked at the ARE YOU NEXT puzzle.
Threat. Guns. Rob. Slit. As in throat? I glanced back at the clues. That was what twelve-across indicated. Then there were nice words like gem and ruby and treats. And strange ones like eerie and incite.
I didn’t understand everything, but I understood one glaring fact: My twin was in trouble. Therefore so was I.
Lord, here I am, right in the middle of everything I’ve tried to stay away from and keep Chloe away from! Help!
I slid both puzzles into the Times book for lack of another place to keep them. Tori and I would talk tonight whether she wanted to or not.
No, we wouldn’t. She was going back to Atlantic City this afternoon, and I was willing to bet she’d see to it that she and I were not alone before she left.
Well, I didn’t think waiting until she came home on the Fourth would hurt anything. If she was gone, the danger should be gone too. But on the Fourth we were definitely talking. I knew Tori saw me as weak, but she hadn’t accounted for the fact that mama bears do most anything to protect their cubs, even confront twin sisters who historically have come out on top in every fight we’d ever had.
Feeling strangely at loose ends, I sat at my computer and logged onto eBay. Work was just what I needed to put Tori and her situation from my mind. I quickly checked the items Madge and I had listed. One, a lovely and unusual white Wedgwood pitcher with gold grapes and vines all over its surface, had caught the eye of three collectors, and they were bidding against one another with all the fervor of three enemy generals campaigning in battle for the same spoils. A seller’s dream scenario.
Bidding with equal enthusiasm but smaller purses were a pair of collectors who wanted the twenty-five pairs of fifties-era cat’s-eye sunglasses we had listed. To my surprise, the hobbyhorse with the real-hair mane and tail that Madge had found at a flea market and refurbished was far outstripping what we expected to get on it. In contrast, the pieces of cut crystal hadn’t caught anyone’s eye yet.
I heard the front door lock turning and got up from the table. I arrived in the living room just as Chloe burst into the room, Jenna on her heels.
“I got it, Mom!” Chloe swung a black backpack off her shoulder and unzipped it. She pulled out a sleek little laptop and ran a hand lovingly over it. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Tori entered the room more sedately. She looked at me and smiled. Sharks looked friendlier when they bared their incisors.
My blood chilled as I recognized the old I-won-this-round smirk tilting her lips. For the first time I understood she was competing with me once again, and Chloe, not Eddie Mancini, was the prize this time. The realization made me dizzy with dread.
I forced myself to ooh and aah enough to make Chloe happy while Tori went upstairs. I heard the shower run, and when she came back down an hour later, her hair was a perfect halo of shining golden curls and her makeup was flawless.
“You look so pretty, Aunt Tori. I love your hair.”
Tori lightly touched her carefully highlighted hair with the satisfied air of a woman who knows she looks better than anyone in the room. Not that she had much competition. “You and your mom have hair just like mine.”
“Yeah, right.” Chloe looked from Tori to me. “Not.”
“Well,” Tori said lazily, “maybe I should rephrase. You could have hair just like mine.”
For how much? I was certain I couldn’t afford either the time or the money. That mortgage again.
There was a knock on the door. Tori opened it, and there stood a uniformed chauffeur. Chloe’s eyes grew large, as did Jenna’s.
“Ready, Miss Keating?”
“Ready, Carl.” She gave a little wave in our direction and left, Carl trailing behind.
Chloe and Jenna rushed to the door. I followed, curiosity and my Chloepanic warring inside, and watched my sister saunter out to the street where the limo waited. Carl opened the back door for her, and she stepped gracefully inside.
“Wow!” Chloe’s voic
e was reverent.
“I never knew anyone who had a limo pick them up before,” Jenna breathed.
I had to admit I was impressed too. Obviously Tori’s employer thought very highly of her, and obviously she had perks that I’d never see in a million years. All those hated inferiority feelings flooded back, and for a terrifying moment I was sixteen again.
Tori sat back in the cushions of the limo, a glass of pinot grigio in her hand. Carl was good about having her preferences waiting for her. On the seat were three of her favorite magazines, and in the little dish in the limo bar were cashews, lightly salted, just as she liked.
Too bad Carl wasn’t the man she had to deal with. Carl had a crush on her, not that he’d ever act on it, and he’d be a pushover, forgiving any offense, any debt.
Luke Henley was an entirely different matter. Even thinking of him made her heart beat faster. She was used to being the one in charge of an affair, but she might have met her match in Luke.
She picked up InStyle and flipped through the pages. Features, photos, and articles that would normally have held her attention couldn’t compete with the vision of the dead man lying on her front step.
Poor Mick. She’d known he worked for Luke long before she met Luke. Mick was one of the contacts she used when any client of hers at the casino needed quick cash. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had been nice. What had he done to incur someone’s wrath? Luke’s wrath?
The idea made her go cold, the kind of cold that all the fur coats in the world couldn’t take away. She was well aware that Luke skated happily on the wrong side of the law, but there was a huge difference between loan sharking and murder. The thought of him killing people scared her. It scared her enough that she knew she wouldn’t mention Mick to him. If she didn’t know, she could make believe everything was all right, that Luke was the man she thought he was.
Still, poor Mick.
And poor Ruthie What’s-her-name. Not that she was any great shakes, but she seemed to care for Mick. Did she even know he was dead? Probably not. How would the cops know to notify her, assuming they were able to identify him so far from his home turf?
That puzzle found on him bothered her the most. There had been no guarantee that she or Lib would find the body. What if it had been Tinksie or the effete Tim or Mark? Or the bombshell Maxi? They wouldn’t have hidden the paper. They’d have given it to the cops, and all kinds of offal would have rained down on her.
“How do you know the dead man? What connection is he to you? Where does he work? Who does he work for?”
No, it couldn’t have been Luke who’d left that puzzle, because he knew that if trouble fell on her, it would fall on him. Their association was hardly a secret. They’d been an item for almost a year.
So where had Luke been last night when he stood her up? Her anger at him burned white hot when she thought of waiting for him for hours at the hotel. He’d made her feel like a fool, a simpering woman waiting for her man. Too much like Mom and Nan, and she wasn’t going there for anyone, not even Luke.
Tori was still furious when she emerged from the limo in Atlantic City, when she climbed the steps to Luke’s office on the second floor of a shoddy-looking building that sold popcorn and fudge down on the boardwalk level. When she stalked in, raring for a fight, he rose from his black leather ergonomically correct executive’s chair behind his massive desk, smiling his welcome. “Blondie! You’re back.”
“And where were you last night?” She squinted at him in the glare of the huge window that gave a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean, today a shiny gray blue reflecting the late-afternoon sun.
Luke moved around his desk toward her. His eyes were steel blue beneath his newly barbered, spiked brown hair. He was dressed as usual in tasseled loafers with no socks, tan gabardine dress slacks, and a navy silk long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. Personally Tori always thought he looked more Vegas or Hollywood than Atlantic City. Still, the man was gorgeous. Beautiful.
Not that anyone would call him soft, either physically or professionally. He radiated strength and power, and she liked going toe to toe with a man strong enough to give as good as he got.
He held out a hand to her. “Come here.”
“Where were you, Luke?”
“Missing you, babe.” He grabbed her hand and started pulling.
“Don’t you dare!” She put her hand on his chest and pushed. “I want an answer.”
He just smiled lazily and continued to reel her in. When he lowered his head, she turned hers so he found only her cheek.
He looked down at her, still smiling, his arms holding her tight against him, her hands trapped between them. “You’re the only person I know who can get away with challenging me, Blondie. Just shows how much I love you, doesn’t it?”
“Ha! You keep putting pressure on me to pay up!” The puzzles flashed through her mind in spite of her previous conclusions. No one else knew the things the puzzles knew about her. “If you loved me, you’d forgive the debt!”
This time when he kissed her, he connected. For about five seconds she held herself rigid. Then she melted against him as she always did. He eased his hold, and she raised her arms to encircle his neck. Her anger transmuted into a rush of a very different passion.
When they came up for air, he led her to the cozy nook that had another huge window overlooking the ocean and held several comfortable chairs, a sofa, and a well-stocked wet bar. This elegant sitting room, where favored business associates were greeted and entertained, was the other half of the second-floor throne room from which he ruled his little kingdom—this half above a run-down boardwalk store that sold what Luke always called “cheapy tourist junk that no one in their right mind would sell, let alone buy.” The store did a brisk business all summer, much to Luke’s perverse delight.
The third floor of the building was Luke’s private living area, and Tori was one of very few ever invited there.
He poured her a glass of wine and himself two fingers of Jack Daniel’s. When his free hand circled her waist, she leaned into him.
“What’s your work schedule for tonight, Blondie? The usual?” He kissed her ear, making her shiver.
“I’m finished an hour after the floor closes.”
“I’ll see you then.”
She looked up at him. “I’m still mad, you know.”
“Over last night or the money?”
“Yes.”
“I know.” He tossed back his drink and released her. “Remember, business is business and sex is sex. Separate.”
She was hurt more than she ought to be—after all, this was Luke—and she turned quickly for the door before he saw how distressed she was. She had never let him see her cry, certain he’d see it as a sign of weakness, and she wasn’t about to start today. She yelped when he slapped her on her bottom.
“See you.” His voice was rich with sensual promise.
She nodded, not looking back. As she clattered down the narrow stairs to boardwalk level, she fought tears. She’d read how guys compartmentalized but women didn’t. For sure she didn’t. Couldn’t. When she loved someone, it spilled over into every aspect of her life.
She loved Luke with everything in her.
He said he loved her, but she questioned his definition of love. It was more that he sort of, maybe, kind of cared for her. He certainly liked her in bed. But she owed him one hundred thousand dollars, and he wasn’t about to forgive her debt. “Business is business and sex is sex.”
But if you loved someone…
She put on her dark glasses to shield her eyes from the sun and to hide their unseemly sheen. There was nothing she could do to change him.
Once the limo disappeared, carrying Tori off to the SeaSide, I saw with great relief that Chloe and Jenna seemed to forget Tori. They played with their laptops, with the new games Tori had bought, and wrote endless messages they posted on Facebook for their absent friends.
I puttered around
the house for the rest of the week, leaving only to go to another estate sale at an old farm in southern Chester County horse country very early Saturday, the morning of the Fourth. The site of the sale was a small gentleman’s farm that had somehow survived amid the large surrounding spreads that trained Olympic-quality horses. The old gentleman who had died was an only child of an only child and had never married. At least that’s what the sales ad said, and it was a clarion call that no family had pillaged the contents of the house.
I walked around the many items on display and was amazed at the quality of some things sitting on tables cheek by jowl with the cheapest and shoddiest I’d seen in a long time. All around me were other buyers and dealers also looking for bargains, flea-market aficionados open to whatever caught their eye, and Amishmen who sought good deals on the farm equipment scattered for inspection across what had probably been a horse paddock. The sale was an intriguing mix of a tag sale with lots of smaller items marked with price stickers, especially boxes of miscellany, and an auction for larger pieces and the farm equipment. In our area, sales are usually one or the other.
I found a box of doll furniture tucked in a corner of the dining room beside the beautiful curly maple sideboard. The sideboard didn’t interest me because Madge and I dealt in what are called smalls. We stuck with them with rare exceptions because they were easy to handle and easy to package if we sold them online.
The doll furniture was in great condition, and I turned it over to check for a mark. Strombecker. Yes! Strombecker used to make furniture for the Ginny doll as well as boy toys like airplane and train kits made of wood. I rooted through the box and found a crib, an armoire, a rocking chair, a cradle, a bureau, and an end table. I opened the door of the armoire and found it stuffed with doll clothes. I pulled them out and found the Vogue label sewn in the pieces. I used to think that meant Vogue magazine or maybe Vogue patterns, but it meant an early twentieth-century doll shop in Massachusetts called Ye Olde Vogue Doll Shoppe. The shop owner created the Ginny doll, still made today, and Strombecker made furniture to fit the eight-inch doll. I took the box to checkout and put it in the van. I went back and bought some cut glass and a set of Fostoria goblets that we should be able to move either in the shop or online. I also found two watercolors that I loved and might actually keep for myself, and a mantel clock that was a steal at fifty dollars.
