“Hi, there. Maybe you can help me. Uh, I think I just missed . . .” I trailed off, gesturing toward the door and tracing a line on my face in the spot of Scarface’s scar.
“Mr. Derello?”
I let out my breath and nodded vigorously. “Yes. Mr. Derello. From the River Queen? Uh, he said that I should stop by here if I ever have need of . . . of the services that—”
“Honey, you don’t have to be nervous.”
“I don’t?” Wiping my palms on my pant legs, I managed a tentative smile.
“Now, just relax. Fill out this form here, and we’ll take care of you.” I watched as she slid a sheet of paper through the opening at the bottom of the window. “You can fill it out right here, or you can go sit down at that little table over there.”
I looked at the paper, which appeared to be a loan application. The top third contained blank spaces asking for my vitals—everything from my name, address, and birthday to my bank account number and Social Security number. The rest of the page, and all of the back, was a blur of fine print.
“Hmm. I think I’ll just take this home and—”
Before I knew what was happening, the woman reached through the opening and snatched the application out of my grasp. “Didn’t Mr. Derello tell you how this works?” she said sharply. “You fill this out here, and you’ll get your money right away. No wait. No questions asked. Isn’t that what you want?”
I opened my mouth to respond but was too startled to speak when a door to a back room suddenly swung open. An armed security guard walked toward me, narrowed his eyes, then stationed himself against a wall, where he surveyed the empty room. I swallowed hard.
“You know,” I said hoarsely, “I do want all that. I think. It’s just that I don’t have all this info on me. So, I’ll come back later.”
Without waiting for a reaction, I fled the room, letting the door slam shut behind me. I didn’t dare look back until I was safely in my car. And well down the road.
CHAPTER 22
The University Ballroom had been transformed into a book lover’s paradise. Across the wide floor, lines of display tables represented every genre imaginable. At one end of the room, a local independent bookstore sponsored a book-signing table featuring a different author every hour. And at the other end of the room, rows of folding chairs faced a podium, at which various speakers were scheduled to appear. It was there that I found Wendell Knotts, looking very much the part of an English professor in his tweeds and brown oxfords. His cane was propped on a briefcase at his feet.
As I approached the front of the room, grateful I had opted for a pretty summer dress instead of shorts or leggings today, Wendell spotted me and waved me over with a pleased smile. He patted the chair next to him, then nodded toward the podium. So I sat down and directed my attention to the speaker, an earnest middle-aged man with humorously unruly hair. I suppressed a grin as I politely tuned in to his talk.
According to the large poster taped to the front of the podium, the topic was Edgar Allan Poe. After a couple of minutes, I gathered that the focus was Poe’s three stories featuring the original deductive-reasoning, crime-solving sleuth C. Auguste Dupin. A detective. How appropriate.
Letting my gaze wander around the convention, I wondered if the notorious Stenislaw was here someplace. More to the point, was the book thief here? From what I could tell, the crowd seemed to consist mainly of librarian and professor types, with a smattering of college students out for extra credit, plus the odd lord, lady, knight, or wench who had wandered in from the Renaissance Faire. So far, I hadn’t seen anyone I recognized.
I turned back to the speaker, who announced that he would now read Poe’s third Dupin story, “The Purloined Letter.” The whole thing.
Seeing that Wendell was engrossed, I crossed my legs and settled back in my seat. It took a mighty effort to resist pulling out my cell phone. Soon, however, I found myself drawn into the short story, too, and I remembered reading it in college. It really was a clever little tale, with the twist at the end being that the stolen letter was hidden in plain sight all along.
As the speaker read the final words, and as I recalled knowing the ending already, I had a sudden flashback to my interrupted vision the other day. In the midst of the finding spell, I had seen Eleanor’s garden. Then I had seen shelves upon shelves of books.
In my mind’s eye, I saw those shelves again. Even as the speaker ended his reading and we all clapped, I thought about the hall of books and realized it could be a library. Wouldn’t it be something if the Folio was hidden in plain sight like the purloined letter?
“The simplest puzzles are sometimes the most vexing, aren’t they?”
I turned to find Wendell regarding me with interest. I smiled. “The problem is, you don’t know they’re simple at the time. It’s not until you have the solution that the puzzle appears simple.”
“True, true.” Wendell nodded, tenting his fingers under his chin.
I shifted in my seat. “I was surprised I didn’t find you at the Shakespeare table,” I said, inclining my head to the floor displays.
“Oh, been there, done that, as the young people say.” Wendell grinned cheekily, and I had to chuckle. Then he leaned over to retrieve a manila envelope from the briefcase on the floor. He lifted the flap and slid out a paper, which he handed to me. “Your certificate, my dear.”
Signed and sealed by the New York appraisal company, the certificate attested to the authenticity of the First Folio acquired by Alexander Mostriak at auction in 1898 and later bequeathed to his nephew Frank Mostriak. I stared at the document, which included a detailed physical description of the Mostriak copy. Once again I felt the weight of the loss.
Thanking Wendell, I replaced the certificate in the envelope and slipped it in my tote. “So were you able to find out who else asked for a copy of this?”
“Not a name but a number.” Wendell took out a slip of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “It’s an Edindale number, but that’s all I know.”
I raised one eyebrow. “A number, huh? Well, let’s see whose number it is.” I whipped out my phone, opened the search screen, and typed “reverse lookup.”
Wendell handed me the paper. “Is there anything those little gadgets can’t do?” he murmured over my shoulder as I typed in the number.
“Hmm. Apparently so.” I sighed and looked at Wendell with a shrug. “Nothing’s coming up. Must be a prepaid cell phone or something.”
“Prepaid?” Wendell looked perplexed.
I smiled at him, dropped the slip of paper in my tote with the envelope, and stood up. He stood up with me.
“No worries. I’ll keep trying. Professor, thank you again. I’m not sure how, but I am hopeful the Folio will be recovered. And this might help yet.” I patted the tote, which was hanging from my shoulder. “By the way, do you know a book dealer by the name of Stenislaw?”
Wendell scowled. “We’ve met once or twice. He’s out of St. Louis. Doesn’t come here often.”
“I get the feeling you’re happy about that.”
“Well now, I try not to take stock in rumors. But Mr. Stenislaw is not the most reputable dealer around. Why do you ask?”
“I had a tip to watch out for him.”
“Good advice. I haven’t seen him today. If I do, I’ll let you know. Good luck, Miss Milanni, and enjoy your day.”
Wendell headed over to talk to the Poe expert, while I wandered among the book displays. The crowd actually seemed to be growing, and I realized the first Shakespeare play outside must have finished. I maneuvered around tables, trying to make my way to the rare-books section I had spotted off to the side, and was actually jostled near the popular fiction table. Apparently, there was a flash sale under way on a steamy new best seller. I rolled my eyes.
“Sex sells, don’t you know? Always has, always will.”
I turned to see a familiar redhead wearing a wry smirk.
“Professor Eisenberry. How are you?”
�
��Call me Max. I’m harried and hurried at the moment, but otherwise okay. I’ve got to work the Shakespeare table here in between performances outside.”
I walked with her over to the Shakespeare table. Draped in a long burgundy cloth and backed by large cloth-covered display boards, the table exhibited a dazzling array of Shakespeare collections.
“I’m going to the next performance,” I said, picking up a glossy copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and placing it back down.
“You’ll love it,” she said. “Did you ever reach out to Professor Knotts?”
“I did, yes. And I just saw him again a few minutes ago. I can’t thank you enough for putting me in touch with him.”
“My pleasure. He’s a sweet man and still sharp as a tack. I still call him for advice now and then.”
“Say, do you know T.C. Satterly?”
“Sure I do. Just passed him outside, carrying a turkey leg in one hand and a pint of mead in the other.”
I laughed and cast my eyes to the ceiling. “Guess I won’t find him at the rare-books table, then.”
“He was there first thing this morning. He’ll probably find his way back in later on.”
“How about Stenislaw? Book dealer from St. Louis?”
Professor Eisenberry slowly shook her head. “Can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
After leaving Professor Eisenberry, I made it over to the rare-books table, only to find a university student who knew all about the antique books on display but nothing about book dealers from St. Louis. I was gazing around the room again, not sure what to do next, when I felt a buzzing from my tote. It was a text from Farrah.
Are you at the fair yet?
I replied, Yep, @ LitCon.
Seconds later, Farrah wrote, Meet me at the archery contest. I have something for you.
I was glad to have a reason for leaving the convention. I wasn’t learning anything here. Slipping my phone back in my tote, I walked along the edge of the room toward the exit. Then I glanced back in my tote, where something unusual caught my eye. Next to the envelope from Wendell was a postcard, which I didn’t remember picking up.
Standing by the door, I pulled out the postcard and frowned. The image on the front was a ghastly-looking skeleton dripping blood on a black backdrop. According to the crimson caption, the picture was a depiction of one of Poe’s more macabre stories, “The Masque of the Red Death.”
I flipped the postcard over and found something equally sinister. Scrawled across the back in thick black marker were four capital letters: MYOB.
* * *
I swirled around, scanning the ballroom. LitCon was the picture of innocence. Strolling book lovers went about their business, browsing the tables, lining up for author autographs, discussing the latest New York Times book review.
Narrowing my eyes, I marched over to the Poe table. But then I thought better of it. Whoever had slipped the postcard in my tote could have done so anytime over the past hour. It would be impossible to identify the person now. Besides, Farrah was waiting for me.
So I left the building and headed out into the bright sunshine. I followed the paved walkway through campus and soon found myself entering the imaginary world of Ye Olde Edindale Village Marketplace.
With vendor booths lining both sides of the wide center aisle, face-painting stations, ball-toss games, and the smell of beer and carnival food permeating the air, this could have been any other Saturday festival—except that at least half the fairgoers were dressed in medievalesque garb. Ranging from the authentic to the fantastical, the costumes alone provided ample entertainment as I strolled through the fair. I grinned as I imagined this was what the back lot of a movie studio might look like, with mingling cast members from the likes of Xena: Warrior Princess, Pirates of the Caribbean, and The Lord of the Rings right alongside women in brightly colored dirndls, men in kilts, and unknown individuals in full-body devil costumes.
In fact, several of the participants wore masks. I passed fairies in feathered Mardi Gras masks, pirates in black cloth half masks, and even one of the Shakespeare actors wearing a fully enclosed donkey head. This last individual I recognized as Bottom from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. To the amusement of a few spectators, he appeared to be antagonizing a jester by snatching his juggling pins.
Maneuvering past a trio of minstrels, I cut across the quad to an adjacent parking lot that had been cordoned off for jousting demonstrations, pony rides, and an archery contest. I found Farrah retrieving her arrows from one of three targets in front of a wall of hay bales. She replaced her bow and joined me on the sidelines.
“You missed my stunning performance,” she said.
“How’d you do?”
Farrah laughed. “Well, Katniss I ain’t. But at least I hit the target.”
We walked over to a picnic table on the edge of the green, near the kids’ tent. Not far away, some of the Shakespeare players were putting on a little skit. I spotted the donkey-headed Bottom again, this time the brunt of the other characters’ antics. They appeared to kick him from behind, causing him to engage in all sorts of amusing pratfalls.
I turned back to Farrah. “No costume for you?”
“Well, I would have, but my corset’s at the cleaners.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“Actually,” said Farrah, reaching into her roomy cross-body purse, “we would have fit right in wearing our Old West costumes.” She handed me a manila envelope much like the one Wendell had given me. I opened it to find an eight-by-ten photo of Farrah and me in all our sepia-toned glory.
“Aw, you made me a copy? It’s not bad, really.” I studied the photo, recalling how Wes had come up to me shortly after it was taken.
“Not bad? Look at us hotties. We’re awesome. In fact, the photographer that night asked me if he could use our picture on his Web site.”
I looked at Farrah and raised my eyebrows.
“I told him it would cost him,” she went on. “Ten thousand dollars each for all rights or else a percent of all sales as long as the image remains on the site. I told him I’d draw up a contract if he was interested.”
I whistled, then laughed, as I looked at the photo again. It was cute. I knew where I’d hang it as soon as I could find a good frame. Then I squinted and held the photo up in front of me.
“I wish I had my new magnifying glass on me,” I said.
“Why? What do you see?”
“There’s a reflection in the mirror behind us. It looks like a person standing off to the side.”
“Let me see.” Farrah came around to look over my shoulder.
Shifting the picture out of the glare of the sun, I caught my breath. “I think it’s Scarface. Look.” I handed the photo to Farrah, who sat down next to me on the bench.
“Oh, my God. You’re right. He was watching us. How creepy is that?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered.
“What do you mean?”
I told Farrah about seeing Scarface’s car at Rob’s apartment and then later seeing the man himself leave the check-cashing place again. Swallowing my embarrassment, I also told her about my little charade in the facility.
“You nut,” she said, lightly pushing my shoulder. “You should have called me. But good work, though. So this Mr. Derello really is some kind of loan shark?”
“Sure looks like it to me. I plan on calling the Attorney General’s office first thing on Monday so they can look into it.”
“I’d wait a little while, chica. If they start investigating now, this Derello guy is going to put two and two together. They have cameras at those check-cashing places, you know.”
“Ugh. You’re right.” I slumped on the bench and blew a wisp of hair out of my eyes. “The last thing I want is that hulk coming after me. Which reminds me. Someone dropped a little love note in my bag while I was over at LitCon.” I took out the Edgar Allan Poe postcard and showed it to Farrah.
“Not very romantic,” remarked Farrah, setting down th
e Old West photo and taking the postcard. Then she turned it over. “What the . . . ?”
“Rock thrower was right beside me, and I didn’t even know it.”
Farrah met my eyes. “Are you okay? Are you freaking out?”
“No. I’m fine. Surprisingly, I’m not really freaked at all. I’m pissed that this person is so close yet is apparently getting away scot-free.”
“Not yet they’re not,” said Farrah. She tapped the postcard on the table and squinted in the sun. “So what do we do next?”
I stared across the lawn, vaguely aware that Robin Hood and Friar Tuck were moving toward our table. “I’m not sure, Farrah, but I’ve been thinking about the fact that we do have a limited number of suspects. What if—”
“Oh, shit! It’s almost one o’clock.” Farrah glanced up from her phone and hopped out of her seat. “I’m sorry, Kel, but I’m supposed to meet Jake by the entrance.”
“Ooh, I’ve got to go, too.” I grabbed the creepy postcard from the table and tossed it in my tote. Then I carefully slipped our souvenir photo back in its envelope and slipped it in my bag, as well.
Farrah squeezed my arm before we parted ways. “Let’s meet up and discuss this later. If the thief is about to sell the Folio, we’re running out of time.”
I knew she was right, except for one thing. It wasn’t we who were running out of time. It was I who was running out of time. My job was the one on the line.
* * *
The lawn in front of the stage was filling up quickly. I spared a glance at my phone as I hurried through the crowd. It was five minutes until 1:00 p.m. Yikes. I had to find Wes.
Well, maybe the play will start late, I thought when I noticed a couple of the entertainers I had seen before trying to steer people toward the stage. Suddenly, I found myself face-to-face with the donkey character. We were each trying to get through a narrow opening in the crowd and now found ourselves blocking one another’s progress. As a result, I found myself dancing with an ass. Terrific.
Of course, Bottom had to make a big show of it. It was almost as if he was blocking my way on purpose, like a goalie before the net. It was actually pretty disconcerting, facing the giant donkey head and not knowing who was really inside. For a minute, we engaged in an embarrassing little two-step as I tried to avoid being stepped on by his brown- and white-leather wing tips. Fancy shoes for a donkey man. Finally, with an exaggerated flourish, he allowed me to pass.
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