“What do you mean, went away?” I ask. “Do you mean moved out of this area?”
“That would work for me, but she has those two shops, so that’s not going to happen. Oh Ronnie, use your imagination.”
“Went away…as in went away to prison?” I ask. “Isn’t that a far-fetched fantasy?”
“Well, stealing someone’s husband is really criminal—”
“It sounds like wishful thinking, my friend.” I’m still distracted by the idea of Win’s old affair. Sydney Ballantine! I do know that name. She was the socialite over near Summit, the one who went missing some years back, I think to myself. I try to hide my shock by plastering a half-smile on my face. She never turned up, and there was talk she may have been murdered. But the police never recovered a body. Wait a minute…
“Earth to Ronnie,” Marilyn says. “Hello, have you not heard a single word I’ve said?” She stares at me as if I’m an imbecile. “I have something to show you, and everything will make more sense.” She stands up. “I’ll be right back.” She disappears into the house.
I take another sip of wine. I still find this possibility of an affair hard to believe. Marilyn and Win have always appeared to be one of the more rock-solid couples out here, and they did look like they were having fun at the polo fundraiser the other day. But appearances can be deceiving.
Marilyn returns with a piece of paper and a volume that looks like a diary. She sits down and hands me the paper. “Take a look at this. I think she sent it to my husband.”
I read a note that is written in blue ink.
August 8
Dear Win,
You’ve got what I want, and I’m coming to get it. Nothing can stop me. I’ve waited so long…
The message has no signature. Was the writer interrupted? Or was she confident the recipient would recognize the small, tight script and know who penned this? I look up at my friend.
“Are you sure this is Katya’s handwriting?”
“No, but who else would write him this note? I found it among some papers when I was picking up around his desk in his upstairs library.” Her voice cracks as she begins to cry again.
I put my arm around her to try to calm her. “This note could be interpreted several ways.”
“I’m not a fool, Ronnie. You said you saw them yourself at our party. Even if they were arguing, it looked too cozy, more like a lovers’ quarrel.”
“Have you spoken to Win about this?”
“No, because there’s something else that has me nervous. I looked in his diary, and there’ve been a number of meetings with his lawyer.” Marilyn shows me several entries in Win’s book.
“Doesn’t Win use the calendar on his phone?”
“Yes, but this diary was a special gift from one of his friends, and he keeps it upstairs in his library.”
I close the calendar and touch the marbled chestnut brown cover.
“Is he—” Her voice cracks as she speaks. “Is he looking to trade me in?” Marilyn breaks down sobbing and puts her face in her hands, her body shaking this time.
“What makes you think that?” I ask. “Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions too quickly.”
“No!” Her voice is sharp, and she sits up ramrod straight. “Win and I always tell each other everything about our schedules. We do it at breakfast, and now I’ve discovered he’s left out all these appointments over the last several weeks. Something’s going on. Is he changing his will with all these meetings at the lawyer’s? What does that mean for our children?”
She pauses, rubbing her temples as if she feels a headache coming on. I’m speechless.
“Here.” She lays out the two items. “Do you have your phone handy?” I nod, and she asks, “Can you snap some pictures? I need to have these in a safe place, you know, in case the originals disappear.”
“Why in the world would they disappear?” I click my phone over the letter.
As I do so, Marilyn scoffs, “Because I think this is all somehow tied to that bitch Katya, who may be his lover.”
I’m astonished by this turn of events about one of the most solid and generous couples in the community. I move on to the diary pages and carefully snap pictures of those.
“First, I don’t buy that femme fatale act of hers.” Marilyn takes a drink from her rapidly disappearing glass of wine. “It’s straight out of a bad 1940s Rita Hayworth movie. And I’ve heard too many stories.”
“What stories?”
“That she uses her high-end book business to sink her claws into very rich, very successful, very married men.”
“Is Katya a home-wrecker?”
“She’s broken up her fair share of marriages over the years, according to the local gossip. You know Susie Davis?” I nod yes, and Marilyn continues, “Well, from what I’ve heard, she got the Katya Alessandro treatment when Bud left her two years ago.”
“But Katya’s not married, is she?”
“I heard there used to be a marriage, and then a divorce.” Marilyn pours more wine into my glass.
“Maybe that’s why she goes after other women’s husbands?”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem to be her end-game.”
“What is?”
“I suppose receiving lots of very expensive, important gifts and going on extravagant trips, you know, lovers’ getaways.” Marilyn’s voice drips with sarcasm. “And finally, motivating men to leave their wives. And when she’s finished with her games, she dumps them in some grand, overly-dramatic way straight out of a bad soap opera.”
“Wow, so it’s not about the wives. It’s the husbands she’s out to get. Is that what you think?” I ask. “And the wives are collateral damage?”
Marilyn doesn’t answer but slowly inhales the crisp evening air, and we both sit quietly looking out at the garden. It’s early enough that the light is still good, and we watch a red fox peek out from a perennial bed and dart across the wide lawn to a hedge of boxwoods. He turns to stare at us and then dives between two shrubs, his bushy tail the last thing we see before he disappears. It’s a welcomed intrusion into this conversation, and we are transfixed by the moment.
“What a healthy-looking fox,” I tell my friend.
Marilyn pulls it together, and a stillness washes over her demeanor. “I’m not really sure what any of this means,” she says finally as she sweeps her hand over the diary and letter. “And that’s why I want to hire you to investigate my husband and get to the bottom of things.” The tone of her voice is determined and fierce.
Dead silence. We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. It’s probably less than ten seconds.
“Cat got your tongue?” Marilyn gives me a sly smile. For the moment, she’s back to her old charming self.
“You’re serious. You really do want to hire me? Why?”
“Because this is what you do now. Didn’t you just get your license as a private investigator?”
“Yes, but I’m still pretty green.”
“I don’t care. You’ll get more experience working on this case for me. And Ronnie, you’re my friend, the only one I can trust with this, and you understand, because you know Win and me.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I may be too close to see things objectively. I could call Will Benson, who’s the best—”
“No. It has to be you.”
Before I can answer, we’re interrupted by a masculine voice calling out, “Hello. Anybody home?”
I recognize it and turn to my friend, stunned. “Marilyn, you didn’t…”
Chapter Seventeen
“Enough of my sad story. Now it’s time for some fun and darling, remember, I’m looking out for you.” My friend grabs the diary and note, then dashes into the foyer.
“This way, Jamie.” I hear her call out. “Please excuse my allergies—they’re killing me today,” she says to him with a faux sneeze, an excuse for her slightly puffy face from her earlier tears.
I hear a
rapid, tense conversation that I can’t make out. Jamie’s pitching a fit and his voice grows louder and sharper, but with a sudden command Marilyn hushes him up. I guess she’s successful, because the next thing I know is they’re laughing. How odd. “We’re on the back terrace,” she says. “Head out and please make yourself a drink while I finish up a couple of things in the kitchen.” The last thing I hear her say as she moves through the dining room is, “Win’s running a little late.”
Jamie steps onto the terrace and beams a huge smile my way, probably remembering that he caught me upstairs in his house last night. I’m so glad he’s amused.
“Did you know about this?” I ask as I point my finger back and forth between him and me.
“Absolutely. I’m the one who planted the idea with Marilyn.” He struts over, amused by my surprised expression. “Can I freshen up your drink?”
I smile sweetly. “Only if you take that smug look off your face.”
We walk to the cart that serves as a mini-bar, where he pours wine for each of us.
We lightly clink our glasses, and I say, “It’s hard to believe what happened here last week.” We look up at the gigantic dogwood tree through which the burglar tumbled to his death.
I glance around the garden, and then stop and go back to a large boxwood. “Hey, what’s that?” I put my glass on the cart.
He automatically does the same with his. “What?”
“Over there, on the ground by that huge boxwood.” I take off toward whatever it is that’s near the bush. “Come on.”
“I don’t see it…but okay.” He follows me.
We pass the massive tree and walk toward a cluster of bushes. Sure enough, there’s something underneath the largest of the shrubs but toward the back, so I can’t make out what it is. Maybe a pamphlet of some kind?
I circle around the rear of the bushes for an easier approach and see a flimsy, thin paperback lying in the dirt. It looks like something for the trash until I see the word Gatsby in the text on the first page.
“Whoa!” I shake out my wadded up paper cocktail napkin. “I don’t know what this is, but I think it’s important.” I use the napkin to pick it up and reach it to Jamie. “Careful. This may have something to do with the guy who fell off the roof.”
“It looks like some torn up old book…” Jamie takes it with the napkin and turns it every which way. “But it’s not.”
“How so?”
“I can’t believe it,” Jamie mutters to himself, almost in a trance. He carefully looks at both the front and back of the bound pages.
“Jamie!” At the sound of my voice, he snaps out of it and looks at me with a somewhat strange expression. I bushwhack through several branches; then, he grabs my hand and pulls me back to the terrace.
“Give me a sec,” I say. “I have a box of gloves in my car.” I call back to him, “Please don’t handle it, you know, flip through the pages, until I give you a pair.”
When I return, the book sits on a chair next to the table. He’s retrieved our glasses from the bar and holds mine out to me.
Marilyn reappears carrying a tray laden with a small platter and several smaller bowls of food. “We’re almost set.” She nods her head in the direction of the French doors. “I’ve got the rest on the dining room table.”
We help her set up outside and then sit down to enjoy a cold supper of poached salmon and grilled vegetables. I’m famished, and it looks delicious.
More importantly, I’m dying to show Marilyn what we found under the boxwood, but a door slams in the house. At the same time I receive a text from Will. He says the police have released the identity of the dead thief to the press. He also sends me the press release with more details.
A gray-haired woman peeks out a door from the dining room. “Excuse me, Mrs. Watson, if you don’t need anything else, I’m leaving.” She starts to go, but catches herself and says under her breath, “Oh, and…he’s home.
Marilyn says quietly, “Thanks, Ginny. See you tomorrow.”
An aggravated voice booms from the front hall. “Marilyn, where are you?”
Both Ginny and Marilyn flinch slightly, and the housekeeper rushes away.
“Out here, darling.” Marilyn stands up as Win walks onto the terrace. “Just in time for supper,” she says, and he nods and gives her a kiss.
“First, I need a stiff one.” On the way to the drinks cart he leans over and gives me a quick hug. “Hey, Jamie!” he says, and they nod at each other.
“Hard day at work?” I ask.
“Not at all. But you’ll never believe where I’ve been since four o’clock,” he says to Marilyn as he makes his drink—vodka over a few ice cubes in a tall glass. His tone of voice broadcasts that at the moment he’s not a happy man.
“It sounds like a meeting that didn’t go well?” she asks, as she fixes her husband a plate of food. I hear a slight tone of suspicion in her voice.
“I’ve been at George Smithson’s warehouse, talking to him and the police.” He comes back to the table with his drink.
“What on earth—” she responds.
“Some son-of-a bitch stole my first edition Great Gatsby!”
“What?” Marilyn and I say in unison.
“It’s true.” He plops into the chair and takes a long drink from his glass. “That dead thief must have dropped it when he was snooping around upstairs, so I sent it over to George for repairs. It was at the warehouse, and a different intruder stole it from him. George was even knocked unconscious. He was in a daze when he came to and doesn’t remember much about the break-in.” Win takes another drink.
“Is George alright?” Jamie asks.
“Yes, he’s fine. When he woke up, he called the police. He’s okay. He got checked out.”
“What a relief,” Marilyn says.
“It’s got me thinking.” Win puts his glass down on the table. “What are the odds of two thefts happening to us?”
“Pretty remote,” Jamie says.
“Unless the two are somehow related?” I offer. Everyone looks at me.
“Nah, I don’t buy that.” But Win pauses as if he’s considering my theory and then continues, “The book is insured, of course, but that’s not the point. It’s priceless, and a cornerstone of my collection.”
Win digs into his salmon, and I announce, “Well, hot off the presses, I just found out that the police have released the name of the dead thief.”
All three stop eating. “Well, come on, Ronnie,” Marilyn says. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“His name is Casey Whitmore, age seventy-two, and he lived over in Summit.” No one says anything. I hesitate, and they notice.
“What else do they know?” Win asks.
“Well, let’s see what’s in the press release.” I tap and scroll down on my phone and read. “Okay…longtime employee at Alessandro Rare Books in Summit, New Jersey—”
“I never saw this man at Alessandro’s,” Win interrupts.
“Me, either,” Jamie adds. “I never saw him there.”
I’m taken aback, remembering Whitmore’s response to both of them right before his death. “That’s because Whitmore didn’t work in sales out front.” I pause a moment to continue reading. “It sounds like he was the resident expert on old books, but more behind-the-scenes, according to…” I look up for their reaction. “…Ms. Katya Alessandro, the owner.” They all stare at me for the longest moment, but none of their expressions telegraph anything.
I look back at the screen. “At this time, the police are calling it a suspicious death.” All three of them continue to stare at me.
Then Win notices the paperback on the chair. “What’s that?” he asks, changing the subject.
“First, put on some gloves in case this is tied to the shooting.” I remove two pairs, give Jamie one, and push the cardboard container towards Marilyn.
She takes a pair, and then she pushes the box to Win. With her now gloved hands, she looks at the book. “Darling, our dinner par
ty thief may not have taken your first edition, but he could have been planning to take this, along with my necklace.”
“Jamie and I found it in the bushes over there,” I remark, pulling on the gloves.
Once Win puts on a pair, Marilyn hands the little book to her husband, and continues, “Isn’t this part of that book your father left you?”
Rather than answer, he just stares at the paperback, and his face registers a range of emotions, everything from surprise to anger to sentimentality, and Win is not a sentimental man.
Chapter Eighteen
“I guess the old guy dropped it when he fell off your roof,” I say, trying to fill the awkward silence. Marilyn lights candles for the table as dusk dims the sky.
Win finally nods thoughtfully and then looks eerily calm. “This is a piece of an old World War II Armed Services Edition of The Great Gatsby.”
He slowly pages through the paperback. Puzzled, Marilyn and I watch him.
Finally he hands it back to me. “But this isn’t my copy. My father left me the front of the book, not the middle.”
This news surprises both Marilyn and me, and we take a closer look. Captivated by the small paperback printed on flimsy paper, I carefully rotate the four-by-six-inch squat-looking book to examine it from different angles. “A World War II-what? And why is it bound on the short side instead of the long side like most novels?”
“That beat-up little paperback is part of what has been described as the most successful book publishing project ever. These novels were sent to our soldiers during World War II.” We’re all transfixed as if it’s a priceless first edition Gatsby like Win’s, and he tells us more. “The titles were printed two at a time per page and then cut horizontally in half. That made it small enough so that a soldier could slip one of these into the pocket of his fatigues.”
I look at the front. “But where’s the cover and beginning of the book?” I flip it over. “And the end and back cover?” I carefully turn the pages. “This appears to be just the middle.”
“Well, these books were so popular among our troops—everything from mysteries and Westerns to literary books like this one—that soldiers would often tear them apart, allowing one guy to finish a novel while his buddy had just started to read it.”
Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3) Page 10
