I try the back door, and it, too, is locked. I peek into the window of a vintage 1960s-style kitchen. Books, books, and more books everywhere—they appear to be his major personal possession.
Slow down, Ronnie. Take your time and really look at the room. A pen and legal pad with a lot of writing sit on the kitchen table, which is also filled with books. There’s a coffee cup next to the pad. He must have been working on something before he left to go the Watsons’. It looks like he expected to come home and pick up where he left off…as if he obviously didn’t anticipate the evening would take such a fatal turn.
I jiggle the door knob again. Out where I live, people leave their doors unlocked all the time, but I guess not around here. Even Whitmore’s neighbor, who left earlier with the squirmy child, took great care to lock her front door.
I wish I could gain access to this house and check out that pad of paper. Thank god, I snapped the picture of his handwriting at the book store.
I glance around the kitchen one more time and note something odd. There’s an orange shopping bag with two brown leather handles—possibly part of a designer purse—poking out the top. The paper bag could be from Hermès, and it sits so hidden among piles of books that it’s easy to miss. I mentally flash to the red Birkin bag I saw earlier. Two of these in one morning would be unusually coincidental.
I shift left to what turns out to be the bedroom window and scan the room slowly. Again, there are stacks of books everywhere, but I also notice a six-by-eight-inch framed photograph on a bureau against a wall close to the window.
It appears to be four men in fatigues at a military facility, maybe World War II or Korea. For a moment my mind goes back to the year 1944 at the top of the mystery list I found inside Peachie’s worn-out chipmunk toy.
I pull out my phone and click off a few shots of the photograph through the window. I wish I were inside the room where I could get a really good picture of those four men, but I settle for zooming in as close as possible and snapping off a couple more.
As I scroll through to check the pictures, splinters suddenly fly off the kitchen window sill. A fraction of a second later I hear a loud Boom! More splinters fly off the bedroom window sill, followed by another equally loud Boom!
Someone’s shooting at me. I throw myself down on the ground as Warrior barks from the car on the other side of the house, knowing I’m in trouble. I reach up with a shaky hand and try the back door again, regretting that I don’t have my own set of skeleton keys to open it and take cover. A third shot explodes off the top of the door frame, and I drop like dead weight, using my arms to cover my head as little pieces of wood shower down on me.
Thank god, someone out there is a terrible shot. Still, I’m terrified and almost hyperventilating.
And then it’s quiet. I wait for an eternal five minutes, then grab a bucket near the door and slowly raise it to see if the shooter fires again. Nothing. I stay low and, with my heart pounding, sprint for the dog pen. Still no more shots. Maybe that’s the end of it. I snatch Peach and we get the hell out of there.
~~~~~
On my way home, Will and I finally connect by phone. I’m still so shaken up that I can barely get it out that someone was shooting at me. After establishing that I’m fine, he makes me start at the beginning.
I tell him about the mysterious note I found in Peachie’s toy and how that led me to Alessandro Rare Books, where I learned the thief’s identity. I finish up with details about my visit to Casey Whitmore’s house and someone shooting at me. It really hits me that this wasn’t some Hollywood shoot-em-up with fake bullets. No one’s ever shot at me before, and the entire episode leaves me unsteady. I pull over to calm down and also email him the pictures of the note inside the toy.
Will plans to call everything in to the police. He tells me the towed Honda Accord may have been borrowed or stolen, slowing down the process of identifying the thief, so my information may help. We agree that I won’t share what I’ve learned with anyone until the police have a) talked to me and b) decided to release the victim’s ID to the public.
After we hang up, I continue replaying the gunshots at Casey’s house. One to the right of me. One to the left. And one above me. Maybe the shooter wasn’t a bad aim after all. Maybe he was warning me away from Casey’s house.
And then I think back to the guy who hit me over the head when I found Peachie. Was that also a warning to stay away?
Could both of these warnings have come from the same guy who killed Casey?
Chapter Nine
As I pull into my driveway, Sofia Rossi gets out of a gray SUV parked in front of my house. I groan. This cannot be good. Why couldn’t a different officer come to the house to talk to me?
Still, I put on a smile. “Hi, Detective. How can I help you?”
There’s no smile from her, just a clipped, “I’m here for the dog toy and the rolled up paper. And to get your side of the story on the shots fired over in Summit.”
“Of course,” I answer, still maintaining a welcoming tone. Peachie chooses that exact moment to begin an obnoxious yapping that I haven’t heard from her since she arrived this morning. She minds me for less than ten seconds, and starts up again. I sigh.
“Give me a sec to get her settled down.” I take Peach from her crate, then open the front passenger door and unclip my big dog’s seat belt. “Warrior, come.”
He hops out, takes one look at Rossi, and responds with a low growl. Rossi stiffens, and her hand flies to her holstered weapon. “Stay,” I say to my shepherd as I step between him and the detective. “Do not even think about shooting Warrior,” I say in a low, firm voice.
“As long as you can keep your animals under control, we won’t have a problem,” Rossi says.
“Warrior will not be a problem.”
She drops her hand to her side. “What the hell kind of name is Warrior for a dog?”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t name him. He’s a retired war dog, a veteran of Afghanistan, and if anyone has earned the name, it’s him. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Wait here. I’ll be back as soon as I put them in their pen.” I head for the side of the house, carrying Peach, with Warrior following us.
In a moment, I return. “Come on in.” I walk inside, and she follows. “How about a cup of coffee, and I’ll fill you in on what I know—”
“This isn’t a social call, Mrs. Lake—”
“Please, call me Ronnie. And may I call you Sofia?”
“Mrs. Lake, let’s get to the details about the shots fired.”
Okay, so no friendly chatting with Detective Rossi. I recount what happened. I even finish up with my theory that the shooter was trying to warn me away. “I didn’t stick around. You’ll probably be able to recover at least one of the bullets, since the shooter fired three times.”
She gives me a look of impatience. But it’s when her eyes close and she shakes her head slightly that I feel her dismissal, as if I’m an interfering amateur. I stare back, unwilling to be cowed by her.
“I’ll take the toy and the paper, and then I’ll be on my way.” Now she’s all business.
“Sure.” I reach down to open a cupboard.
“You should never have removed it from the scene in the first place.” Rossi cannot resist lecturing me and continues in her scolding tone, “…and then you should have called us the minute you realized there was something inside that toy.”
“Hold it.” I stand back up. “Have you forgotten that I offered to give you that slobbery chipmunk at the scene where I discovered the car?” I hold firm. “You were very clear that I should get out of there with Peach ASAP, so that she would not mess up the scene.”
We stare at each other like two gunslingers ready to draw.
“Furthermore, how could I know if the roll of paper inside the toy was important enough to make the call to you unless I checked it out first? Had it been insignificant, you would have barked at me not to waste your time, just like you’re doing now.” H
er head jerks back just a little as if she’s surprised someone would challenge her. I reach back into the cupboard and almost slap the paper bag with the toy and the ziplock with the list of mystery initials on the counter. “There.”
Rossi looks at me as if she’s sizing me up, and then she looks inside the paper bag at the toy and picks up the ziplock. “Did you handle this roll of paper without gloves?”
“I’m a licensed P.I.—what do you think?” I fire back at her. “Of course I put on gloves.”
She heads for the door.
“Wait,” I say. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of what I learned today?”
“Will’s told me everything I need to know, and I’ve got my team at the bookstore and the house.”
“Please note that I did not enter the cat burglar’s house, although I tried in order to get cover from the shots.”
“So what? I don’t care if you are licensed. It doesn’t guarantee that you’re a professional. Stay out of this investigation.”
For once, I have nothing to say, and anyway, Rossi wouldn’t give me a chance to speak up if I did, because she jumps back in. “FYI, why do you insist on calling Whitmore a cat burglar? Mrs. Lake, that term is so out-of-date,” she says as if she’s telling me I’m out-of-date. “Stealing one necklace doesn’t make him a cat burglar. And at this point, we don’t have his history. It sounds like you’re romanticizing him.” Her tone is condescending and annoys me.
“FYI, Detective. I read about an actual New Jersey cat burglar who often robbed while his victims were at home and even entertaining guests in their houses. I will text you the links—”
“Don’t bother.” Detective Rossi leaves with the chipmunk toy and the mystery list.
As far as I’m concerned, good riddance, Rossi!
~~~~~
I definitely need a distraction from the unpleasant Rossi, and the Aikido dojo is the perfect escape. So I catch a Friday afternoon class, where I also connect with Will.
Isabella Sensei watches her students practice a sequence of techniques using the morotetori attack. In this Japanese martial art, morotetori is a two-handed grab of the opponent’s arm. A dozen of us, all clad in off-white, two-piece outfits called gis, have been practicing four variations of techniques to blend with and then reverse this attack.
Our petite brunette teacher claps her hands to signal the end of running through the morotetori techniques and also the end of class. All the students, some of us with black belts and skirt-like pants called hakamas, kneel on the mat facing Isabella, a sixth-degree black belt. We kneel in the respectful seiza posture, and we bow to conclude today’s practice.
After class, I meet up with Will, who stands by his car. He’s a Sandan, or third degree black belt in Aikido, whereas I’m a humble first degree black belt, or Shodan. Not only have I benefitted from his vast knowledge as a private investigator, but I also benefit from his physical fighting experience when we practice this Japanese martial art together.
“Are you okay?” he asks, looking concerned.
I shrug, trying to act tough and not wanting to make too big a deal out of it. But deep down, I kind of wouldn’t mind if he made a big deal because it did scare the shit out me.
“Have you ever been shot at before?”
I shake my head just as my cell phone rings. “It’s Sally Richards from the book store.” Sally gives me an update on the Wharton books I had asked about, and that she’s sorry, but she can’t find any paper trail about my pretend order. She sounds distracted and upset.
“Are you alright?” I hear some kind of commotion in the background over the phone.
“Please, I’ll move those books for you,” an anxious Sally says to someone at the store. “They’re valuable, and you might damage them.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s the police—” Another voice interrupts Sally, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. She responds with a tremor in her voice. “Please, I’m happy to move any of those for you.” A pause. “Excuse me a moment.”
“What’s going on with the police?” I ask her, but look at Will as I speak.
“I’m outside Casey’s office.” Sally’s voice sounds a little muffled, as if she has her hand covering her mouth and the phone. “They have a search warrant, so I’m trying to help.”
“Where is Mr. Whitmore?” I look at Will when I ask Sally the question, knowing full well that Casey’s body is in the morgue.
“I don’t know. He never came in.”
“What do the police say?”
“They’re not telling us anything.” Sally’s voice is shaky.
“So they’re not saying anything,” I repeat for Will’s benefit, and he shakes his head at me and makes a zipper motion over his lips. I get the message to not tell her what we already know about Whitmore, that he’s dead.
“I hear how upset you are. Can’t Ms. Alessandro help you?” I ask.
“She’s not here…she’s in and out all the time…” Sally sniffles and her voice cracks. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lake.” She tries to pull herself together. “I’m worried about Casey, that maybe something bad happened to him.”
“Of course you’re worried…” I feel for the girl and wish I could be honest with her, but Will has made it clear that’s not for me to do at this time.
“He’s my friend, and I don’t know where he is or how to help…” Sally starts to cry. Between sobs, she manages to say, “I’ve gotta go,” and clicks off.
“Well, it feels crummy to hold out on her,” I say to Will.
“You did the right thing, until the police rule her out as a suspect.”
“Suspect? No way.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s a kid, maybe still in school, who works in a bookstore. She was very emotional on the phone, very worried about Whitmore’s well-being. Maybe he was a mentor to her…you know, like a father-figure.”
“You’re probably right,” Will says, “but the police still need to rule her out.”
Chapter Ten
“Parishioners baked these early this morning, and one of the volunteers dropped them off fifteen minutes ago.” I place the fresh-baked fruit pie in a box and hand it and some coins to the woman. “Here’s your change. Gosh, I can smell the rhubarb and strawberries. This should be delicious. Thanks for supporting the food bank, Mrs. Daly.” I stand behind the display table for the booth manned by the ladies committee at our church. The sun has erased the earlier chill in the air.
The local Saturday morning farmer’s market with its two dozen booths filled with fresh produce, flowers, and baked goods is my weekly ritual as a shopper and a volunteer. Sadly, in a couple of weeks, it will shut down through the winter.
I feel jumpy and somewhat hyper-vigilant ever since someone took shots at me yesterday at Casey’s house. The shooter’s still out there somewhere. But coming here is as good as going to the local post office. You get to see everyone and catch up on all the friendly gossip. And you never know—I may even pick up some helpful info regarding the shooting two nights ago at the Watsons’.
But not from the elderly woman I observe two booths over who’s dressed in worn jeans, an old green checkered shirt, and a blue sweater tied around her neck. Sheila Johnson pays for three jars of Warwick Farm Honey from local beekeeper Dave Reynolds. They wave at me. Since there are two of us manning our booth and it’s quiet for the moment, I stroll over.
“Well, hello there, Sheila.” I love the way she sweeps up her beautiful silver hair into a classic French twist.
“How are you, young lady?” Sheila’s work clothes cannot hide the refined old-school sound of her voice.
“I’m fine, thank you.” I’ve always had a soft spot for Mrs. Johnson, because she was one of Mom’s best friends and so caring and thoughtful after my mother died.
“Dave, how’s business today?” I ask, shifting my attention to the man behind the small Warwick Farm Honey stand.
“Excellent,” the tall, gang
ly beekeeper answers. “I’m down to my last case.”
“Do you still have two jars for me?”
“Absolutely.” He pulls them out of a medium-sized box.
I take several bills from my wallet. “One will make a nice gift for a friend, and the other…well, that one’s for me. My jar at home is nearly empty.”
I glance at Sheila’s muddy muck boots. “Have you been working in your garden this morning?” I smile. “Or grooming your favorite horse?”
“Why, how’d you know?” She catches me looking at her boots, and laughs. “I just finished up in the garden. It’s what keeps me young.”
“I’m sure it does!” I agree.
The beekeeper hands me a bag with my jars. “Thanks for the honey, Dave. Good to see you both.”
I return to the church booth and relieve the other volunteer. My eyes dart over the crowd milling about the market, looking for anyone who might fit my idea of a shooter…as if I even know. And why would he be here? There are much better opportunities to take me out.
I scold myself for being overly dramatic when I catch sight of two friends who also attended the Watson dinner. The men stand a little to the side of the White’s Family Orchard cider stand, apart from the half-dozen customers who purchase bottles from owner Stan White.
They appear to be in the middle of an intense discussion while sipping cider. A couple of other customers shift slightly in order to pay, revealing a third person who’s part of their conversation but rushes off. I’m sure it’s Katya Alessandro. What I wouldn’t give to abandon my post and walk over there to get a good look, but I lose sight of her in the crowd.
I wave, and my friends see me and wave back. One of them, the tall gray-haired Josh Brown, husband of a close friend, takes a glass and pours more cider. He holds it out to me, I nod, and he pays. The two men continue talking as they walk over to my booth.
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 6
