Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3)

by Danforth, Niki

  “Okay.” I pull up to my house and turn off the engine. “Got a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me bring you up to speed on a new angle about a beat up old paperback I found this evening at the Watsons’…”

  Chapter Twenty

  Water cascades from the fountains and sparkles like hard, white diamonds in the mid-morning sun of the next day. I guide my car past the long reflective pool in front of Sheffield Hall and drive about a quarter of a mile further down the gravel road.

  A rambling stone barn with two vehicles parked out front appears. I pull up alongside a gleaming white Tesla. Off in the distance I hear the sound of a shotgun firing.

  I look at my watch. I’m early, so I’ve got enough time to check out this beautiful automobile. I love the idea that you can plug the Tesla into a charger instead of gassing up. There are no protruding door handles, just the outlines of where they should be. I’ve read that when you approach with your key, the handles pop out. I glance inside the front and admire the tightly upholstered smooth black leather seats.

  Enough of this elegant vehicle! I pop the trunk of my perky Mustang and prep for skeet shooting with Jamie Gordon. Opening a canvas-covered case, I assemble the pieces of my twelve-gauge Beretta shotgun. I can’t help but smile, remembering all the lessons with my brothers Frank and Peter.

  Next, I dump three boxes of shotgun shells into a leather pouch. The fourth box I empty into the right-hand pocket of my quilted shooting vest. I check my glove compartment up front to retrieve ear plugs and shooting glasses and put them in the vest’s left pocket.

  As I walk back to the Mustang’s trunk to get my gun, I glance down inside the Tesla for another glimpse of those beautiful leather seats. I see a familiar red Birkin bag in the back driver’s side foot well. I stop.

  There’s a small black leather notebook, maybe a diary, on the back seat above the purse. I look in the direction of the gunfire and think of my friend Marilyn and her suspicions of Katya. I wish I could get a look inside that diary.

  The shooting has stopped. I move around to the rear of my car to reach for the shotgun. Even though I know it’s empty, I break it, glance into the chambers one more time, then place it on my shoulder, draping my arm over the barrel that tips toward the ground. I grab the leather pouch and close the trunk.

  I walk around to the back of the stone barn and head down a path to the skeet course. As I step out of a stand of trees and into the bright sunlight, I take in perhaps the most elegant skeet and trap course I have ever seen. Growing up, there was nothing fancy about learning to shoot skeet with Frank and Peter at Meadow Farm where we lived. My brothers would mark the different shooting stations with large rocks, then set up two portable machines that would spit out the round orange clays.

  Sheffield Hall is the other end of the spectrum. The high house and the low house, which contain the clay throwing machines, are handsome stone towers with slate roofs. A golf course-quality lawn surrounds the entire area, and a perfectly edged arced gravel path cuts through the lawn to connect the towers. Stone pads along the path mark the shooting stations. The entire setup looks out over a beautiful vista of hills, valleys, woods, and fields.

  Jamie lounges in one of several Adirondack chairs off to the side. He hasn’t seen me appear from the woods behind him because he’s busy watching a woman in a khaki shooting vest, her dark hair pulled into a pony tail that pops out the back of a cap. She stands midway along the skeet course at the top of the arc path.

  I watch silently as the bright orange clays alternatingly burst from each tower and sail across a crystal clear blue sky.

  “Pull,” she calls again, and Jamie hits the button on the control. Katya hits every single target, and I can’t help but admire her ability.

  After she smashes the last two clays, Jamie claps and calls out, “Bravo! Very impressive, Katya. You’re more than ready for England.”

  Katya sees me and I wave, calling out hello. Almost before she can respond, Jamie is by my side, taking me in his arms for a long hug. That’s not an easy feat with a broken shotgun between the two of us, and we laugh at our clumsiness.

  “Hey,” he says for my ears only.

  “Hey,” I say back quietly, just for him.

  “Perfect timing,” Jamie says. “Katya’s just finished her third time through the course.”

  “Did I get the meeting time wrong?” I ask.

  “No. You’re perfect,” he says. “Katya showed up late.”

  I glance toward her and catch her surprised expression. I know it’s childish, but I can’t help but feel a momentary flicker of satisfaction before thinking to myself, Grow up, Ronnie.

  As Jamie walks me over to her, he says, “I believe you two have met?”

  Katya, still somewhat surprised by my presence, answers in a deep measured tone, “No, Jamie, darling, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” She reaches her hand out to shake mine.

  “Ronnie Lake, Katya Alessandro,” he says.

  My hand meets hers half way as I say, “Nice to meet you.” Her black eyes are appraising me, and I wonder if this is the same way she assesses the first editions that pass through her shops…or her next conquests.

  “Katya Alessandro,” I repeat, “What an unusual name. Isn’t Katya Russian and Alessandro Italian?”

  She looks at me suspiciously. “Yes, you’re right. My parents came from Europe.”

  I wait a moment for her to say more, but that’s all she offers, so I change the subject. “Did Jamie teach you to shoot?”

  “My father first taught me to shoot when I was twelve,” she says with a slight edge in her distinctively low voice. “One can never stop learning, and practicing here is glorious.”

  “That’s a beautiful shotgun,” I say, looking at it. “Holland & Holland?”

  “Good eye,” Jamie says before she can answer, and she looks momentarily annoyed.

  “My father gave it to me as a gift on my twenty-first birthday.” Katya slides her hand down the barrel the way I would stroke Warrior’s soft coat on his back.

  “My brother Peter shoots with our father’s Holland & Holland,” I say.

  “We should visit their gun room in New York. You may want one of your own,” Jamie says, much to Katya’s and my surprise.

  “Nice idea, Jamie, but I like my gun just fine.” I hold it out in front of me. “This was a recent decade-birthday present to myself.”

  “Must have been for your thirtieth birthday,” Jamie teases.

  I look at him with an expression that I hope communicates You’ve got to be kidding using that old line.

  “And on that note, I must leave.” Katya air kisses Jamie on each cheek. “I should have news for you about that book later in the week, darling.”

  We say our goodbyes, and Katya walks up the path toward the barn. I think she may be leaving earlier than she planned.

  “She’s quite amazing,” I say to no one in particular.

  Jamie leans in, lifts my hair, and says quietly into my ear, “Not nearly as amazing as you.” My stomach does a somersault. His voice grows husky as he says, “Time for us to shoot.”

  Before he can make the move, I make a grab for the push-button control that sends out the clays. “You first,” I insist.

  He’s almost speechless. “Wait a minute—”

  “Come on.” I lean my gun against the chair, sit down with the control in my hand, and smile. “I’m a little rusty, and waiting to be inspired.”

  He chuckles and reaches for his shotgun. He walks up to the first station, drops two shells into the barrels of his 12-guage over-and-under, and snaps it shut. He pauses a moment and then calls, “Pull.”

  I hit the controls, and we begin. He hits the singles out of the high house and low house, and then the double. He breaks his gun before moving to the next station.

  Jamie hits every clay target on the entire course. I marvel that he’s as much of a dead-eye marksman as Katya.

  I stand u
p and replay his perfect shooting as I stare out to where he pulverized the clays just moments ago. Behind me I hear the clicking sound of a shotgun barrel closing. Instinctively, I quickly turn and drop low.

  Somehow, I know it’s Jamie behind me, but that doesn’t slow my racing heart. What am I doing out here by myself with an armed man I barely know? My mind races as I scramble to think of anyone I might have told I was coming here today, not that I could count on Katya to report that she’d seen me here if something happened. For a moment, pure fear courses through my body. Everything stops until I remember that Marilyn knows I’m here. I slow down my breathing.

  I feel silly a moment later when I see him staring at me, the gun now broken and the barrel pointed towards the ground.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, and I jump up from squatting next to the chair. I try to think of a good excuse that won’t make me seem even crazier, but an understanding look crosses his face when he realizes he’s scared me. He puts his gun down, and walks over to me.

  “I apologize if I startled you. I heard some funny noises before when I closed my gun to shoot. I should have warned you I was checking it.”

  I try not to look sheepish…or that only a split second ago I was suspicious of him. “Not a problem. Now are you ready to pull? Because I’m ready to shoot!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Detective Rossi sits in her glass-walled office with the door open, talking on the phone and flipping through a huge file. She looks very busy, but glances up and spots me. I can see the expression of annoyance—maybe even infuriation—on her face from all the way down the hall.

  I knew I would regret this. I told myself on the way over that I had to do the right thing—even though I really didn’t want to—and bring her this beat-up paperback. After all, it was probably in Casey Whitmore’s possession right before he died. It was my civic duty and my obligation as a PI because it might be important to her case.

  I match her scowl with my own look of irritation as I wait for the officer at the front desk to get off his phone. Tired of waiting, I wave a brown envelope at her. “Hey, there,” I call out and march down the hall to drop it off.

  She jumps up. “Can I get back to you in five?” she says to her caller. She hangs up and quickly walks to the door, blocking her office. “What are you doing here?”

  God, this woman is irritating, but I respond as sweet as honey and I throw in a tone of false flightiness for good measure.

  “Hiiiii, Detective Rossi.” I shoot her a huge smile. “How’s the case? Do you have any solid suspects?”

  She stares at me.

  “I have some thoughts that I’d love to share with you—”

  Behind me, I hear a commotion break out. We both glance toward the front desk where several officers are hustling in two drunk guys who are screaming at each other.

  “Okaaay. Well.” I start to pull the book in its clear evidence bag from the envelope. “I noticed this on the ground—”

  “Isn’t that peachy? Did you buy your little detective kit online?” she says, referring to the bag holding the book.

  I’d like to wipe that smirk right off her face. “Hey if it’s not important—”

  And then all hell breaks loose out front when one of the guys throws up all over the two cops’ shoes. The third officer slips and falls trying to jump back from the spray of vomit, and it just gets worse from there.

  “Come back when you’ve been to the police academy.” Detective Rossi rushes past me to help her fellow officers.

  “Are you sure you even went to the academy?” I try not to smile triumphantly on my way out of the station. It’s not my job to do your job, I think to myself.

  I pull out of the police station just as Will calls, and I tell him what just happened.

  “So what are you going to do now?” he asks.

  “Solve the puzzle.”

  “Ronnie—”

  “Hey, I tried to do the right thing,” I snap.

  “Whew! Don’t mess with you, Ronnie Lake!”

  “That’s right. Sofia shut me down, so all bets are off.”

  ~~~~~

  I go from Detective Rossi’s bitchiness to the welcome cushiness of being back at the Watsons’ house, sitting among dozens of women scattered around their living room. We clap for the speaker, who’s just finished her presentation about violence against Central American immigrant women trying to make their way to the US-Mexican border.

  I have to admit that I sometimes begrudgingly attend these gatherings, but certainly not because I don’t care about the issues. I just care more about supporting Marilyn when she opens her home to worthy causes for fund-raising events. I finish my tea and stand with the rest of the attendees.

  As others depart and the catering team cleans up, I head for the powder room toward the back of the foyer, only to find it busy.

  “Ronnie, honey, use one upstairs.” Marilyn smiles at me as she continues thanking several of the attendees who are leaving.

  I run up the main stairway to find an empty bathroom off a guest room, but stop immediately when I hear something fall in the master bedroom suite.

  The door is open and I walk in, ready to help. But the room is empty. I hear more noise, and it sounds as though it’s coming from further back, beyond Marilyn’s dressing room.

  Then I hear it—a woman’s voice muttering quiet profanities. I tiptoe into my friend’s dressing room, grateful for the soft carpet that muffles my footsteps. I hide behind the door leading to Win’s little library.

  I peek through the crack where the door is hinged to the frame. A redhead with a cloth hobo bag over her shoulder crouches to pick up a dozen books from the floor next to Win’s favorite reading chair.

  Sally Richards stands up and begins stacking the volumes on the table that I assume she knocked over when I heard the noise a moment ago. I pull out my phone and hold it up to the crack to take a video.

  Sally fumbles around inside her bag and pulls out a small book and a folded piece of paper. She steps over to the desk and slowly opens the glass door to the cabinet on top. She carefully slides the book onto the shelf in the empty slot that Win showed me last night.

  Rather than leave, Sally walks to one of the open bookcases and scans the shelves. She opens the paper, glances at it, then impatiently moves to the next one, mumbling, “Lee…Lee…Lee…where is it?” Finally, her hand stops and she pulls out a volume. She opens the book and spends some moments on one page. This is definitely weird.

  Finally, she slips this book into her shoulder bag and quickly exits the room while I flatten myself against the wall behind the door, not making a sound. Once the young woman is gone, I head straight for the shelf in Win’s glass-fronted cabinet to video the book that Sally put back.

  There sits the missing first edition Gatsby. I pull the book out and see the bruised corner and the cut and scratch on the back of the dust jacket. I flip open the book and reread the handwritten note from the author inside. I snap several stills with my phone.

  I dash out of the library and through the rest of the bedroom suite, down the stairs, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. Marilyn is giving clean-up instructions to the caterers, but I don’t see Sally.

  “Marilyn, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  Marilyn walks over, and I ask her quietly,”Did you give anyone working today permission to be in Win’s upstairs library?”

  “Absolutely not. What on earth are you talking about?” she asks, glancing around the kitchen at the staff.

  “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s okay—”

  My attention is diverted to the big kitchen window. Sally is walking around the side of the house where the caterers have parked their cars. “I’ve got to hurry. Promise to tell you later.”

  I rush outside, doing my best to stroll toward my Mustang as Sally drives by in her black VW Jetta. We see each other and wave. I start my car and leave the Watson property, too.

  Doing my best to keep
some distance between us, I call Will to give him all the details.

  “Did she see you?” Will asks.

  “No. I stumbled on her by accident after the tea. I hid behind the door and actually watched her put the book back. I still can’t believe it. And then I watched her take another book from one of Win’s shelves. I’ve got it all on video, by the way.”

  “Did you confront her?”

  “No.” I panic when I lose sight of the Jetta in the afternoon village traffic. “Hold on a sec.” I scan both sides of the road and finally spot Sally pulling into the public library. I drive into a gas station as though I need to top off my tank. “She’s at the library.” I point the Mustang so that I have a clear view of Sally walking into the building.

  “I’ll go inside and watch her from a distance.”

  “Don’t do anything before I get there,” Will says. “When she sees two of us cornering her, she’ll be less likely to run or cause a commotion.”

  “Text me when you get here, and I’ll tell you where I am inside,” I say.

  “See you in ten.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sally sits quietly in a small meeting room in the back of the library reading the book she just stole. Will and I walk in together, and she freezes when she sees us. I click on my phone’s video camera.

  “Um, Mrs. Lake! Wh-what are you doing here?” Sally’s voice quivers, and she closes the book. I go in close with my phone to video the title of book, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

  She pulls it away, glances toward Will, and jumps up with a classic deer caught in the headlights look, ready to bolt.

  “Come on, Sally,” I nod toward Will. “We just want to talk.”

  Will also moves toward the petite young woman, her face now almost as flushed as her flaming red hair. Her eyes look up at him and then dart around the room, desperate for an escape. We slowly approach from different sides of the table. Sally finally sits back down with a look of resignation.

  “So what’s going on?” I ask.

  “I, I’m reading a favorite book that, uh, a friend lent to me,” Sally finally answers, clutching the book close to her belly as if she were a caged animal protecting her young.