Midsummer Night's Mischief

by Jennifer D. Hesse

  “But—but that doesn’t prove that I took it!” Crenshaw sputtered.

  “Keli, really,” said Pammy beside me. “How can you suggest such a thing?”

  Ignoring Pammy, I responded to Crenshaw. “No, that’s true. It doesn’t. In fact, our whole law office knew about the Folio. But there was only a handful who knew about the visitation and the rare opportunity it would provide, including Pammy and Jeremy.”

  Pammy’s hand flew to her heart, while Jeremy rocked back in his chair, looking less amused, traces of his earlier joviality frozen across his forehead.

  “But, Keli,” Pammy breathed. “Why in the world would any of us do such a thing? We’re not thieves.”

  “Why? The Folio is worth a fortune, Pammy. Money like that can be a powerful motivator. Especially to someone who has a special need for money.” I looked from Pammy to Jeremy and then back to Crenshaw. I could see the vein throbbing in Crenshaw’s temple from clear across the table. I quickly looked away.

  “In any event, besides Crenshaw, there’s someone else here tonight with a special fondness for Shakespeare.” I turned to Kirk, whose eyes widened in disbelief.

  Speaking as gently as possible, while still trying to maintain the appearance that I knew what the hell I was talking about, I made my case. “Kirk, your love of Shakespeare is part of a special connection you had with your father, isn’t it? In fact, you were against selling the Folio after your mother found it. You wanted to keep it in the family. And then you had your chance. While everyone else was at the visitation, you stepped out for a little while. I saw you come back. You could easily have popped over to your mother’s house, slipped in and out, and come back without anyone being the wiser.”

  Kirk scoffed. “Is this a joke? You can’t be serious. You think I left my own mother’s visitation to steal from her?”

  “Actually, you weren’t the only one who left the visitation.” I shifted my attention to Wes, who was seated to the right of Kirk. In his eyes, I saw a flicker of shocked comprehension, which quickly turned steely. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to continue.

  “Wes, you and your brother left the visitation early and didn’t come back. You knew exactly where the Folio was. You knew how to get into your grandmother’s house. And you had a particular need for a large amount of cash.”

  My voice had dropped to one shade above a whisper, but it still resounded in my ears, as if it were bouncing off the walls. I had intended to mention how Wes was so interested in hearing what Brandi was going to say to the police that day we followed them throughout the neighborhood. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  Now it was Rob’s turn. He stared at the table in front of him and didn’t look up when I spoke. “Rob, everything I said about Wes goes for you, too. You had the means, the motive, and the opportunity. But perhaps your motive was even greater. Perhaps you needed money more desperately than your brother. With all the gambling debts you’ve accrued, and with pressure building—” I stopped. I looked around the room at a sea of unfriendly faces staring at me, waiting for my next move. And I felt myself shrinking in as I realized I didn’t have one.

  The silence in the air lingered. And lingered.

  No one was confessing.

  Finally, with a scrape of his chair, Rob pushed back from the table. “This is bogus,” he said, right before he walked out the door.

  Jeremy stood up next, clucking his tongue and shaking his head like it was all such a damn shame. He patted my arm, then followed Rob out the door.

  I looked at Pammy, who appeared to be rooted to her seat, in shock. She gazed at me as if I had sprouted horns. Then I saw Crenshaw stand up and pull his phone from his jacket pocket. With a rigid jaw, he shot me a glare, then turned his head and started dialing his phone as he walked out the door and down the hall. I could guess who he was calling. I might as well kiss my job good-bye.

  Seeing Wes head for the door shook me from my mortified paralysis. I hurried over to him and placed a hand on his arm. I promptly dropped it when I saw the hurt look he gave me.

  “Nice game,” he said gruffly. “But I think I’ll pass.” And then he was gone, too.

  I stood there by the door, feeling lower than low as people shuffled by. When Darlene came up to me, I braced myself for her anger. But when I saw her face, I perceived only worry and confusion.

  “So who did it, then? Are you going to call the police now?”

  Taking a breath, I shook my head. “Not yet,” I murmured.

  Looking into Darlene’s eyes, I could see a strong resemblance to her mother. Then I had a sudden flash of Eleanor in her home, finding the book. Once again I recalled my vision, and a wave of certainty washed over me. Relying on my intuition, I straightened my spine and spoke quietly and urgently to Darlene.

  “Would it be okay if I took a look around your mom’s house? Tonight? I promise I won’t mess anything up. And I’ll explain everything later.”

  With a trust that might have been borne of exhaustion, Darlene opened her purse and retrieved the key to Eleanor’s house. She handed it to me without question. I thanked her—and thanked the Goddess—then slipped out of the room. A crack of light was visible at the bottom of Crenshaw’s closed office door. He could lock up. I was outta there.

  CHAPTER 25

  It was dark when I arrived at Eleanor’s house. By the glow of the streetlamp, I managed to unlock her front door and let myself in. I felt along the wall and flicked on the foyer light. As an afterthought, I turned around and slid the dead bolt in place. I felt a little nervous, being alone in the quiet, empty house. I wished Farrah were with me. Yet I also felt a strange calling to do this on my own.

  Treading lightly, I went upstairs, walked down the hall, and opened the door to the large linen closet I had peeked in the last time I was there. I looked up. There, just within reach, was the rope that opened the attic hatch. With a strong yank, I pulled the hatch open and stepped back as the pull-down stairs unfolded before me.

  Looking up into the dark expanse, I hesitated. Then I laughed under my breath. “Okay. I may be brave, but I’m not that brave.” I wasn’t about to creep into the dusty, possibly spider-filled attic of a deceased woman without at least arming myself with a flashlight. Leaving the steps extended, I trotted down to the kitchen to check the drawers and cabinets.

  Good ole Eleanor. The first drawer I tried held a slender red plastic flashlight, and it even had working batteries. Now I was ready. I was turning to head back upstairs when the blinking of fireflies in the garden captured my attention. Peering out the kitchen window, I watched with curiosity as the yellow flickering formed a winking path through the grass toward the toolshed.

  This was a sign. I knew it. Without a second thought, I unlocked the back door and followed the way shown by the sporadic glowing lights.

  The garden was fragrant in the dark, humid air. Cicadas and tree frogs competed for the title of most vocal nighttime critter. Strangely, I wasn’t a bit afraid, even though the surrounding foliage screened the yard from neighbors on all sides.

  When I reached the windowless toolshed, I pulled open the old wooden door and shined the flashlight inside. From the doorway, I trained the beam all around, searching for whatever it was I was supposed to see. There was a lawn mower, a rake, a hoe. An antique bicycle, a cobweb-covered hula hoop. Buckets of old paint, an extension ladder.

  A ladder. One of those lightweight aluminum extension ladders. Easy enough for one person to carry to the side of a house, slide open to full length, prop under a window and climb right in. It would be a brazen move, but entirely possible.

  I nodded to myself as I remembered the piece of dried mud on the floor in Eleanor’s bedroom, beneath the open window. So the spare key under the rock wasn’t used, after all. Score one for the family . . . but I still didn’t know who had used the ladder. I closed the shed door and returned to the house. The attic was still waiting.

  Flashlight in hand, I carefully climbed the attic
stairs and poked my head inside. It was hot and airless and smelled like old wood. As soon as I got my bearings, I went straight over to the window to let in some air. Then I located the light switch and turned on two overhead bulbs. Unfortunately, their dim illumination failed to reach the shadowy corners, so I kept the flashlight on as I took inventory.

  Boxes and bins, cabinets and cases lined the walls. There was Christmas paraphernalia, of course, and other seasonal decorations. There were bins labeled DARLENE and KIRK, which seemed to hold childhood keepsakes. There were old toys, old books, old furniture, and even a box of Shakespeare memorabilia, which included playbills and ticket stubs from the 1950s through the 1970s. These last items made me think of Kirk—which caused me to cringe with embarrassment as I recalled the earlier disastrous meeting.

  Then I spotted two trunks side by side. One appeared to be an army footlocker; the other a steamer trunk. I opened the army trunk first. Inside were woolly olive drab blankets, pressed World War II uniforms, a box of photos, and a big Folio-shaped hole, from where the book had been extracted like a tooth. I set the flashlight down and ran my hands carefully through and under the contents of the trunk. No clues here.

  Next, I lifted the lid of the other trunk. This one contained photo albums, scrapbooks, and assorted keepsakes. There were also several bundles of letters. Kneeling before the trunk, I hesitated for a moment. Then I took a centering breath and closed my eyes. In a faint whisper, I murmured, “Guide me, Persephone. Reveal for me the missing thing, unveiled before my eyes.”

  I opened my eyes, let my hand hover over the contents of the trunk, then selected a large bundle of letters. Sitting down cross-legged, I carefully removed the twine that held them together. Then I paused, feeling a twinge of guilt at what I was about to do—these were personal letters, after all. But this was for Eleanor, to solve the mystery for her. I felt sure she wouldn’t mind. I slid a folded piece of stationery out of the first envelope and perused the faded writing.

  Dear Ellie,

  Happy New Year! How was your holiday? Mine was okay, except for the bad news about the farm. As you have probably guessed by now, I’m not coming back to the university. You’ll have to carry on without me. We had some fun times, but now you’re the last musketeer. Promise me you’ll write.... I still want to know everything!

  Friends always,

  Sadie

  Okay. This didn’t tell me much. I moved on to the next letter.

  Dear Ellie,

  The apple trees are blossoming and the seeds are sprouting in our fields . . . and on the neighboring farms. And that’s not all that’s blooming next door. Ever since you came to visit, Frankie Mostriak will not stop talking about you!

  I smiled as I read. So, this was how Eleanor and Frank met. I skimmed through the next few letters and learned all about Frank and Eleanor’s courtship, marriage, and first baby, all through the secondhand comments of Eleanor’s friend Sadie. Along the way, I also learned about Sadie’s life on the farm and her eventual marriage and child rearing. Now and then, she mentioned the Mostriak family, as well as another farming family in the community, the McPeppers.

  Now, that was a familiar name. It took me a second, but then I remembered Sharon’s story about a dispute over the Folio between Frank and Little Bo McPepper. I went back to the letters, keeping an eye out for the name. It popped up now and then, but not in any really significant way.

  When I realized I was nearing the end of the stack of letters, I furrowed my brow. Sadie had been a faithful correspondent, writing at least a couple times a year for decades. But why was I reading this now? Was this all a waste of time? My intuition told me to keep going, and when I opened the next envelope, my senses began to tingle.

  Dear Ellie,

  Well, the corn is not quite knee-high, but it’s getting there. We had a nice Fourth of July celebration last weekend, country style. The McPeppers brought in a big stash of fireworks from Indiana, as they always do. Bo Jr. was there this year, all puffed up with the news that his only grandson was accepted into law school. Little Bo always was a character....

  I stopped and looked up, staring into the dusty darkness before me. Eureka! Connections snapped into place in my mind. Based on the date of the letter, McPepper’s grandson would probably be close to my age now. A lawyer . . . who might believe he had a claim to the Folio based on his grandfather’s assertion he had won it in a bet.

  Lost in thought, I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.

  And then a floorboard creaked behind me.

  * * *

  Please let it be the wind. Please let it be the wind. This was an old house. Creaks and groans were perfectly normal. As I bundled the letters together and retied the twine, I tried to convince myself that the noise behind me was nothing. At the same time, I cast around for anything that could be used as a weapon. I couldn’t see a single thing.

  Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet and replaced the letters in the trunk.

  Creak.

  The sound was unmistakable this time. With my heart jumping, I twirled around, clutching the little flashlight in my palm. There was a man standing in the attic, blocking my way to the hatch.

  I screamed. He stepped under the light. It was Wes.

  “Oh, thank God.” Exhaling heavily, I sat down on the army footlocker. Wes walked over to me with narrowed eyes.

  “What? You’re not afraid of me? After all, if I stole the book, who knows what else I might do?”

  “I know it wasn’t you, Wes.”

  “Oh? What makes you so sure?”

  What indeed? I looked at Wes as he stared at me, his dark eyes penetrating and . . . wary. His face was unshaven, like the first time I laid eyes on him; his hair disheveled, as if he had been running his hand through it repeatedly. He reminded me of a wild animal that was trying to decide whether to run, hide, or pounce.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked.

  “Looking for you. My mom said you were coming here. But you didn’t answer my question. How do you know it wasn’t me?”

  “Well, I just—”

  “You were investigating us the whole time, weren’t you? Rob, and me and our whole family. All this time, you were just trying to get information. You and your flirting—it was all a ruse.”

  “What? No, Wes. That’s not true.”

  He shook his head. “It was all a trick. You played me.”

  My eyes widened in dismay, and I inhaled sharply. Then I started coughing, choking on the dry air and the attic dust.

  “Are you okay?” Just like that, Wes dropped his accusatory stance and looked concerned.

  I nodded my head as I turned away and continued to cough into both of my hands.

  “We should get out of here,” Wes said, tentatively touching my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I wheezed. As my coughs subsided, I wiped away the tears that had leaked from my eyes. “Wes, I want to—”

  “Let’s get you some water first,” Wes interrupted. “You go first. I’ll get the lights.”

  It was just as well. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. Why should Wes trust me when there was some truth to what he said? If I were in his position, I probably wouldn’t trust me.

  In the kitchen, Wes took a glass from a cabinet and filled it from the dispenser on the refrigerator door. Gazing out the window, I saw a single firefly blink once in the shadowy garden.

  “Want to sit on the patio?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Wes, handing me the drink.

  I took a grateful sip, then followed Wes outside. We sat side by side in lawn chairs, looking up at the stars. The waning moon, slightly smaller than a half circle, perched above the treetops like a curved beacon. We heard a rustling on the other side of the fence and then the yowl of an alley cat. After that it was quiet.

  I sighed and looked at Wes. A little voice inside told me to open my heart and be honest.

  “Wes?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m
sorry.”

  He met my eyes, his expression inscrutable. I plunged ahead.

  “You’re right that I’ve been investigating your family. I think you know I was trying to find out what happened to the Folio. I felt I owed it to your grandmother, as well as to your mom and everyone else. So I had to be thorough. I couldn’t rule anyone out.”

  Wes looked away, running his fingers through his hair, and remained silent.

  “But I hope you’ll believe me when I say I was never dishonest with you. I never played you. You and I met before all this happened, and my . . . interest in you has been genuine.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. He looked down at his hands and slowly nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I believe you.”

  “You do?” My spirits soared as I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  Wes looked up at me and grinned briefly. “It has always felt genuine to me. I’m sorry about the scene upstairs. The truth is, I’ve suspected Rob all along. I’ve been trying to get through to him before this whole thing escalates. I mean, that was a nice try tonight, but I could have told you it wouldn’t work. Though, to be honest, I’m out of ideas myself.” Wes heaved a sigh and pushed back his hair again.

  I sat up straight. “Oh, but, Wes, I don’t think Rob did it, after all.”

  “What?”

  “No, listen. I have this theory. Let me run it by you.”

  I told Wes about the open window and the ladder in the shed—minus the part about being guided by fireflies. And I told him about the letter I’d found and about how Sharon had told me about the events leading up to the fire that had supposedly destroyed the Folio.