Searching for Gatsby
A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery
By
Niki Danforth
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery
Copyright © 2016 Niki Danforth
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic, digital or any other form without permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
“Dancing in the Dark” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 1984 Bruce Springsteen (Global Music Rights).
Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
Publisher: Pancora Press
Book Design: www.polgarusstudio.com
Cover Design: KT Design, LLC www.kristaft.com
As always, for Dan
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A Note from the Author
Sample: STUNNER
Sample: DELILAH
About the author
Introduction
The beat-up sedan brakes quickly on the winding back road, its headlights beaming on a wooden sign, Willowbrook Natural Lands Trust Hiking Trails. A shrill canine yawn lets loose from the back seat as the vehicle turns into the small gravel parking area. It rolls to a stop in the corner farthest from the road.
Another yawn squeaks from the back seat, and the old man reaches behind him to scratch the sleepy Jack Russell terrier nestled on a pile of sweaters. “Good girl.” His voice is gruff, but kind. He shakes his head as if getting rid of the cobwebs, blinks several times, and massages his eye lids. “Peach, wait here.”
Clicking open the trunk, the wiry man steps out of the old Honda Accord. A car speeds by and he almost ducks down. “Get with it, old man,” he chides himself. “It’s just folks heading home.”
He stretches his stiff limbs and rubs his gray-whiskered face while scanning the vegetation surrounding the lot. Glancing at the road, he assesses whether the brush will block the view of his car to the few vehicles passing by. He slams shut the driver’s door as if deciding that it does. Another car drives by, and this time he ignores it.
A slight breeze blows through and the man shivers, reminded that fall is on its way. He peers inside at the disorderly back seat. Several cardboard boxes and paper bags of books surround the sweaters that serve as Peach’s bed. The man reaches for an olive-colored jacket and a felt fedora tossed among the clutter. As he puts them on, the dog’s big dark eyes stare at him adoringly.
Then he pushes open the lid of the car’s trunk, removes a small black canvas pack, and drops it on the ground. He searches the bag and pulls out lightweight black gloves and a small beat-up paperback missing its cover. He slips it into the back of his black jeans, the skinny volume peeking out above the top edge of the pocket.
The man clips a leash to the collar of his terrier. “Okay, girl. You’re my cover.” Peach jumps out of the car, and the old guy bumps the door shut with his hip as he puts the gloves into his jacket pocket. Tossing the light pack over his shoulder, he’s good to go.
The little man and the little dog leave the parking area and stroll down the road masquerading as any other neighbor out for an evening walk.
~~~~~
Fifteen minutes later, the man and dog come around a bend on the narrow road. A Porsche pulls into a driveway up ahead, so he and his dog turn down a small trail that leads into the woods.
He carefully picks his way along the narrow deer path, taking care not to dirty his suede moccasins. With his eyes on the path, the man walks right into a deer fence on the property, and the impact knocks the hat off his head. “Damn,” he grouses in a rough voice as Peach jumps back with a small bark.
“Quiet, girl,” he orders, and Peach obeys. He leans against a fence post to catch his breath and dust off the fedora. A Private Property, No Hunting sign with a W. Watson signature posted on a nearby tree catches his attention, and he sees several more in the woods.
“Pay attention and watch where you’re going, old man,” he grumbles to himself as he swings left to walk along the fence.
The old guy stops when he comes to a huge bush with strong, spread-apart branches. The terrier dances around with excitement, as if she’s been through this drill before. “Settle, Peach,” her master orders, and she does.
First the man places his fedora on one of the branches as if it’s a hat stand. He opens his small pack, pulls out a pair of black sneakers, and changes into them. He carefully brushes any trace of dirt off the suede moccasins and places them on a sturdy lower branch of the big bush.
Slipping off his jacket, the guy hangs it on another branch. He tugs from the pack a black vest covered with pockets and slips it on. Next he pulls a thin, black ski mask over his head that reveals only his tired eyes.
He takes the old paperback from his jeans, kisses it through his mask as if it’s a cherished family bible, and then slips it back in.
He slides on the pair of gloves and removes wire cutters from the pack. It doesn’t take long to snip an opening in the deer fence large enough to crawl through. Peach dances around in anticipation, making small yipping sounds.
“Shhhhhhh.” He kneels down and loops the Jack Russell’s leash loosely around a lower branch of the bush. “Sit,” he says in a low, gentle croak. “Peach, you be a good girl, and I’ll be back soon.” He rubs her head affectionately. Then he shifts to a firm tone, as he commands, “Wait.” The terrier curls up quietly next to the pack and watches her bristly boss.
The old man slips through the fence into the rapidly darkening evening.
~~~~~
The mysterious stranger, who moments ago looked like any other property owner in the area, has transformed completely, dressed now in black from head to toe. He furtively darts through the woods inside the dee
r fence until the guests milling about the terrace of the mansion come into view. He waits behind a thick cluster of boxwoods, listening to the cocktail conversation of the first guests to have arrived.
As the sky darkens, the man makes his way to a quiet side of the house that is some distance from the party. Turning a corner, he sees a metal trellis attached to the far wall of what could be a guest wing. Gnarly wisteria branches weave every which way through the trellis.
The man tugs on the framework to make sure it’s secure, then he steps onto its lower rungs. He quickly and nimbly climbs up and quietly groans as he pulls himself onto a slate roof.
Remaining in a crouch, the cat burglar carefully tests the grip of his soles against the shingles. The traction is good. He slowly stands up and makes his way across the roof to the wall of the second floor. There are two windows, and he finds the second one unlocked. He opens it and quietly slips inside.
“Oh-kay.” The black-masked man tiptoes through the mansion’s second floor, scanning the walls, book cases, and elegant old furniture as if calculating where to begin. He mutters a string of continuous appraisals. “Not bad… Easy money… Hard to unload… Got the perfect buyer for that…”
Finally arriving at the edge of steps leading down to the foyer, he stays glued to a wall and takes a moment to listen to the background chatter of guests that drifts up the grand stairway.
He continues to the antique-filled master bedroom suite, and walks through a luxurious dressing room. Crossing to a delicate table lit by a small lamp, he carefully opens the drawers.
“Well, what do you know?” He removes a diamond-encrusted necklace from the third drawer. “This should be easy to fence.” Pulling a jeweler’s loupe out of one of his many vest pockets, he puts it up to his eye and examines the strand closely. “Got to be three-hundred-K of stones in this baby. Wait until Sam sees this. He’ll have a client lined up.”
The intruder walks into a neighboring room that looks like a small plush library and combined dressing room—definitely the husband’s. As he takes in all the books, his lips, protruding through the mask covering his face, change from neutral to a smile, as if he’s arrived at his destination.
Even though there’s also a small lamp on, he pulls out a mini-flashlight and drugstore reading glasses from his other vest pockets. He starts at the top of a built-in bookcase at one end of a wall. Shining the light on the spines of the books, he sweeps the beam slowly along the row. As he takes in the titles, he gives a low whistle of appreciation.
Then he shifts the light down and repeats the move along the book spines on the next shelf. He covers the entire bookcase this way and moves on to another, adjusting his glasses at one point, and slowly reciting the names of the authors under his breath. “…Cather…dos Passos…Emerson…Dickinson…Faulkner…” He stops and beams his flashlight down to a lower row of volumes, continuing, “…Frost…Hawthorne…Hemingway…”
He slows down again, looking carefully at the Ernest Hemingway titles. He says their names in a hushed tone, almost with reverence. “The Sun Also Rises…A Farewell to Arms…To Have and Have Not…For Whom the Bell Tolls…The Old Man and the Sea…” His voice cracks on the last title.
He carefully slides the book from its slot on the shelf and quickly goes to the copyright page. “1952. Good.” He examines the photograph of Hemingway in the dust jacket. Then he slowly turns the pages of the volume. “This is a real beauty.” He puts it back.
The man glances around the room and shakes his head. “What a collection.” He spots an antique desk with glass cabinet doors on top and heads for that.
Opening the doors, he shines his light to take in more volumes. “These must be the best.” He peruses the titles and lets out a sigh. One pops out at him, and the flashlight freezes on the spine of a small volume sitting inside a leather slipcase. “Holy shit, is that…it is.” He chuckles in amazement. “The Great Gatsby. Damn.”
The guy looks around as if he might be caught, then cautiously takes the book off the shelf. He sits in a huge wingback chair near the lamp and opens the book carefully. Flipping to page 205, he counts down the lines to read sick in tired, rather than sick and tired. He flips through the book for the other first edition mistakes, all of which he knows by heart.
He goes back to the beginning of the novel to read a long inscription, almost a letter, that F. Scott Fitzgerald had penned on a blank page. Fitzgerald had written that the first owner of this volume served as one of the models for the character of Jay Gatsby. The burglar wonders if the recipient at that time took this as a positive or something negative.
The old guy closes the book to admire the perfect dust jacket. “Man, oh man. This is gold.” He sighs, realizing he’s holding a giant among first editions. “Probably worth three, four, or maybe even five-hundred thousand.” He stretches, his hand holding the Gatsby reaching for the sky. “Hey, snap out of it. This is not why I’m here.”
He puts the priceless book on the table next to him and pulls the beat-up paperback out of his jeans. He takes off his glasses to scratch his eye with the back of his glove. He puts the readers back on and peers closely at the pale writing in pencil scattered in the margins of the worn pages. A smile forms underneath the black mask. “No way anyone’s getting their hands on this.”
He tucks the soft, shabby book back inside his jeans and looks around. “One down, two to go. It’s gotta to be here somewhere.”
He gets up too quickly, causing him to momentarily lose his balance, and knocks against the small table where he placed the priceless hardcover. Gatsby falls, bouncing against the angular legs of the table as it crashes to the floor.
He chastises himself. “Shit. You’re an idiot!”
The man cautiously picks up the book and sees the perfect dust jacket now has a small tear on the back, and one corner of the back cover is smashed in. “You idiot,” he repeats. He looks down at the floor. “Too bad the rug didn’t cover this section…damn, just my luck.”
The thief returns the book to its shelf in the glass cabinet and goes back to searching the room.
Chapter One
A couple of high-end luxury automobiles drive slowly through the imposing columned entry and past the stone gatehouse leading to what was once a nineteenth century robber-baron estate. I can see a Land Rover and a Mercedes further up the gravel drive.
Then there’s my late model, bright red Mustang convertible—which pales in comparison—with its top down, of course, even though it’s late September. I’m happy to have a black cashmere shawl draped over my shoulders to keep out the evening chill. Looking up at the fiery setting sun behind the historic beaux arts mansion, I drum my fingers on the dashboard to the music playing from my car’s speakers.
…You can’t start a fire
you can’t start a fire without a spark
This gun’s for hire
even if we’re just dancing in the dark
I run my fingers through my shoulder-length, straw-colored hair as my left foot taps along to this classic Bruce Springsteen number. I would love nothing more than to blast the volume and sing along with Bruce at the top of my lungs while I drive, but I manage to keep a lid on it. By the end of the song, I park at the house and go inside.
One cocktail later, I’m positioned at the back of the foyer, watching my host and hostess greet their guests by the massive front door. I get a kick out of Win and Marilyn Watson. They’re over-the-top rich, and they don’t hide it, so, they wouldn’t usually be my type. But Win and Marilyn are fun, and they give a lot to the community. Besides, I just plain like them.
Anyway, it’s always special to be invited to one of their so-called intimate dinner parties, and this one’s a fundraiser for our local animal rescue. Whimsical, illustrated faces of different residents at the shelter stare out from centerpieces on Marilyn’s festive tables, and I find myself drawn through a huge open door into the dining room. I take my time walking among the five cozy round tables, admiring the six beau
tiful place settings at each. I notice my place card at one of the tables and quickly look to see who’s sitting on either side of me.
“Now, Ronnie,” an immediately recognizable husky voice calls out from the door to the kitchen.
“Wait a minute, I thought you were out there!” I say, grinning at my hostess and gesturing toward the foyer. “How’d you—”
“A sudden issue in the kitchen, but no catastrophes, thank god.” Raising the back of one hand against her forehead while looking at the ceiling, the woman feigns relief with a smile playing at the edges of her mouth.
“I promise I wasn’t rearranging place cards.” I grin sheepishly.
“The thought never crossed my mind.” The petite, silver-haired Mrs. Watson swoops into the dining room, a half-filled martini glass in one hand. “Shall we head out for some cocktail chit-chat with the others?”
I zigzag between the tables to accompany my friend to her guests. “Well, it never fails that I have the best conversations during cocktails with the two people who also end up sitting next to me at dinner,” I say. “And then I worry that they’d probably like a change of scenery by the time the meal is served.”
“Never.” Marilyn links arms with me as we walk through the French doors of the dining room onto the back terrace where others enjoy their drinks. “Any man here would be thrilled to be next to you at dinner. Don’t you realize, darling, that you’re a hot ticket ever since you came back on the market?”
“Hot ticket, my eye. Come on, I’m closing in on fifty-six, and that’s hardly a hot ticket.”
Marilyn drops into her lower vocal register. “All in the eye of the beholder.” Her throaty laugh is irresistible, and I join in.
“Seriously, Ronnie, look at you,” my hostess says. “Lean and blond and stylish and hip and amusing—”
“Enough.” I feel a blush work its way from my neck up to my face. “Look over there.” I nod at a couple leaning against a balustrade on the outer edge of the terrace.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 1
