Vera waited, drumming her fingers on the table.
“And?”
Nothing to do but bite the bullet.
“We’ve had a setback.”
Silence.
Even the imaginary Lord Peter Wimsey winking at me over the flickering candles on the table couldn’t make that silence pleasant.
“We have found the person that Karen sold them to.”
“So what’s the setback? Doesn’t he want to sell them? Is it a he?”
“He is a he and he is willing to trade them.”
“For what?”
“For a pristine signed first edition of The Old Man and the Sea.”
“The fool.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Can’t stand Hemingway. Never could. Pretentious, drunken oaf.”
“Oh. Well, the collector, a man called Randolph Adams, is itching to get it and seems happy to trade.”
“As I said, a fool.”
“However—”
“Why do I think that I won’t care for the direction this story is about to take?”
“You won’t,” I said.
“Out with it. What is the obstacle? Money?”
“No. Karen feels terrible about selling your books without checking the provenance adequately, so she is willing to give the Hemingway.”
“Humph.”
“I think it’s very decent of her.”
“If you say so.”
Sometimes you just have to take a stand. Even against Vera. “I do say so. She’s trying to make amends for something that really wasn’t her fault.”
“Carelessness. Sloppy business practices.”
“Perhaps. But if I may say, she wasn’t the only one fooled by the perpetrator. I was and you were too.”
That hit home.
I added. “She’s trying to do the decent thing.”
“Big deal.”
I took a deep breath. I kept my voice even. But I felt I had to defend Karen. “It is a big deal. She’s having a tough time with her business and her health. This was not her fault.”
Vera waved her hand. “Whatever. What’s the holdup with the Sayers firsts?”
“A crime in progress as far as I can tell.”
“What? Book theft?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know, Miss Bingham?”
“Well, I know that Randolph Adams bought the collection in good faith from Karen.” I paused and held up a hand to stop Vera’s inevitable interruption. “As I have mentioned several times, Karen did not know the books had been stolen. Randolph’s family seems to keep him drugged, more or less a prisoner in his home. They don’t want us to do the trade, so that makes me wonder if they’ve sold the Sayers.”
Vera scowled. The signora swooped in from the kitchen with a platter of chicken cacciatore, another Italian dish perfect for this wicked weather. I like it when she serves it with orzo, and that’s what she’d done. My mouth watered.
The food and earlier “tea” and bath strengthened my resistance to Vera’s perpetual negativity and lack of faith in me. I have learned not to resist when the signora gives me a plate that’s enough for twin truck drivers. It really does keep up my strength.
As usual Vera paid no attention to the food. “And if they have sold the Sayers books?”
“Then I have another challenge.”
“Yes, you do, Miss Bingham.”
“First I have to find out if the collection is there.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
“We have enlisted the help of the neighbor to let us know if the daughter and grandson go out. He’ll call if they do, and Karen and I will head over and try to get in to see Randolph.”
“And . . . ?”
“And we have someone else keeping an eye on the place.” Just as well not to mention that it was my most felonious uncle, the one with a tendency to distraction and impulsiveness.
Vera raised an eyebrow. “You are missing something, Miss Bingham.”
“What?”
“Eat,” the signora cajoled.
“Sure thing,” I said. “It looks wonderful. Smells great too.”
As she advanced yet again toward Vera, Vera said, “What is this?”
“Cacciatore! Chicken! Very good.”
“What’s that green stuff? Is it zucchini? You know how I feel about zucchini. What’s it doing in the chicken cacciatore? That’s one of the few things I like to eat. How many times have I told you I won’t have zucchini in the house? Let alone contaminating my food.”
Chunks of zukes were clearly visible in the savory dish, but the signora brazened it out. “You eat. No zuccy in. Chicken is good. You too thin, Vera. Eat.”
There was love in the signora’s helicoptering ways. And it was one of the things I enjoyed most about dinner. The signora knew how to handle Vera. She was an Italian ninja, never in the same place for more than a second. It even flustered Vera into submission. Sometimes.
“Oh never mind. So Miss Bingham, are the police not missing from this scenario?”
“Uh yes, yes, they are.”
“And why would that be, since you believe these people to be committing crimes?”
Well, let’s see now, first of all, because Kellys and Binghams avoid the police at all costs for very practical reasons. Secondly, because Uncle Kevin was now involved in our plan to get the Sayers books back and Uncle Kevin was what people called a “heat score.” As Uncle Mick had once explained it to me: “Your Uncle Kevin is like a nineteen-year-old kid, in a bright yellow sports car, doing sixty-five in a school zone, blasting his music, wearing his cap backward. The cops can spot him from miles away, and they know at the very least he’s guilty of being an idiot.” Those were two good reasons. Best not to bring them to Vera’s attention, especially when my stock was low enough with her. I tossed out a better explanation.
“We thought of that and gave it quite a bit of consideration—”
“Get to the point, Miss Bingham.”
“Yes. Well, the main point is your Sayers collection, if it’s there. We are afraid that if the, um, authorities get involved and the Adams relatives put up a good argument, the Sayers collection may actually be considered evidentiary material and then who knows when you’d get access to it. Could be years the way trials play out these days, and that’s if they ever find the scoundrels.”
Okay, so that was a stretch.
Vera said, “Humph.”
I held my breath. I’d been expecting to be fired for days now. I had been hoping to finish this delicious meal before that happened. I made up my mind that if Vera pulled the plug on my job, I would finish my dinner before I left. I said, “We’ll be back there in a flash if we hear from our . . . operatives.” Operatives, would she buy that?
“And if you don’t?”
I picked up my fork. I was going to get a few mouthfuls soon. The return to my uncle Mick’s cooking, or worse, my own, didn’t even bear thinking about.
“I am sure that we will.”
“What if you can’t gain access to the house? What if Randolph doesn’t let you in? Where does that leave my collection?”
Gone. Pfft. Up in smoke.
I said, with the confident manner I’d been brought up with, “I’m certain that you’ll have your books back in the near future.”
“To reiterate, what if you fail, Miss Bingham?”
“Then I will find a way to rebuild that collection for you at my own expense.” Yikes! Where did that come from?
Vera’s eyebrow shot up again. No comment from her though. Not an “Oh no, you can’t afford that, Miss Bingham” or an “It wasn’t your fault.” Zip.
“I value my job. I care about it. Although the loss of the Sayers books was not my doing, I want that collection back as much as you do, and you can count on me.”
“I hope so, Miss Bingham. I certainly hope so.”
There was no doubt in my mind that Vera meant it.
Somewhere in t
hat moment I made the decision that if perfectly legal but sneaky approaches didn’t work, I was prepared to be resourceful and use the skills of those less concerned with the law. No point in making Vera a co-conspirator. Not yet, anyway.
I felt a great sense of relief, which I celebrated shortly after with the signora’s amazing rustic Italian prune plum cake and gelato. I felt more than a little entitled, as I was about to venture out again into the dismal fall night in Vera’s service. To accentuate that point, the dining room windows rattled and the driving rain beat against them. I had seconds of the cake. This made the signora very happy and me even happier.
I barely managed not to burp loudly when the bad cat plopped into my lap. The second dessert did, however, test the stitching on the blue dress.
• • •
I WASN’T SO sure about Harriet Vane, but I figured Lord Peter Wimsey would manage to be witty and urbane in any kind of weather. He seemed like the right sort of role model as well as fictional heartthrob. A guy you could count on to be perfectly dressed for any occasion 100 percent of the time. Of course, it helped to have a valet who never seemed to sleep. This reminded me of Uncle Kev—the anti-Wimsey—a guy you could count on about 40 percent of the time if you were lucky. For instance, for the last couple of hours, he hadn’t answered his phone. And I knew that even if he couldn’t talk, he could almost certainly have texted me to say he was on the job and things were okay.
I decided to give Karen a break on this part of my plan. She needed to warm up and rest, and she didn’t need to take any chances with the law. Anyway, there was no point in everyone being miserable. I wished fervently that my wardrobe included some wet-weather gear that wasn’t just for style. But it didn’t. Jeans, fleece and hooded jacket were the best I had.
I headed back to Uncle Mick’s to see if Mick or Lucky had heard anything about how Kevin was making out. I tried his phone again a couple of times with no more luck.
In the short distance from the Saab to Uncle Mick’s kitchen my umbrella blew inside out. Uncle Mick looked up from the stove where he’d just finished heating up the contents of two cans of Alphagetti. It’s always been a favorite rainy night dinner at the Kellys’. Usually followed by a bouquet of Tootsie Rolls.
“Late dinner?”
“Business. I got a little project going. Your uncle Lucky’s got one of his own.”
I glanced at Uncle Lucky, who beamed mysteriously.
Mick wiggled his ginger eyebrows. “It’s keeping us busy. Got to go when the fish are biting.”
I knew better than to ask which fish and tried not to worry about what that could mean.
“Any word from Kevin?”
“Kev? He left to go to Burton for you. He hasn’t been back here. Can’t say I mind. The project’s a bit harder with Kev underfoot.”
I understood. Uncle Kevin could derail any activity. He just needed to be within a one-block radius to do that. And Uncle Mick’s and Uncle Lucky’s pet projects always seemed to involve split-second timing and complete discretion. Neither was Kev’s best thing.
“Well, that’s not so good, because I haven’t heard from him either.” I decided this was the right time to fill the uncles in on the details. They listened without interrupting. I was pretty sure that scenarios of all the trouble Kev could get into were playing in their heads.
“Oh boy,” Mick said. “This won’t end well.”
“What’s he driving?”
“He’s in the Kia.” He sighed. “I loved that car.”
Full-blown disaster seemed a foregone conclusion. With Kev you never just assume a flat tire.
Uncle Lucky glowered. He loved that Kia too.
Walter snuffled from his chair. He didn’t care about cars. Mostly he just loved his dinner, and that didn’t seem to be getting to his dish.
“I hope the neighbor doesn’t recognize it. I’m going back to check on him. I’ll take the Saab. No one there has seen it in that neighborhood.”
Mick shook his head. “They could find out who you are from the license plate if they’ve got any brains at all.”
“I’m not sure that they do, actually.”
“No point in taking the chance. Lucky can take you in the Navigator. Right after dinner. You hungry? I know you love Alphagetti.”
Ah. Yet another moment of truth. “Sorry, I’m feeling just a bit queasy. Probably because I’m worried about Kevin. It will pass.”
Was it my imagination or did Walter look relieved?
The back room of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques was always full of wonderful finds. The yellow sou’wester and jacket were an unexpected bonus. They didn’t fit, but you can’t have everything, and bigger was definitely better in this weather. I’d stopped worrying about my appearance, as it was a lost cause today. I was surprised to learn that Walter had his own little bright yellow slicker and boots, the latest gift from the newly crazy pet-owning uncles. Walter was yet another plus.
I asked for and received one of the burner phones that my uncles always have tucked around their living quarters. Safety first, and all that.
I left the Saab at Uncle Mick’s and joined Uncle Lucky in the Navigator.
Time to head out.
Chapter Seven
WITH LUCKY AT the wheel and Walter quivering with excitement, we soon arrived back at 87 Lincoln Way and parked two doors down. Lucky became invisible in the car, a trick I would like to master someday. I mean, how does he do that? Instead of being warm, dry and invisible, Walter and I went for a walk. Apparently, Walter wanted walks in any weather. Our yellow slickers—and my sou’wester—were the opposite of invisible. They were in-your-face visible. They were “you cannot unsee me” visible. They were “we cannot possibly be up to anything while dressed like this” visible. I figured there were worse strategies. And I stayed dry.
It’s easy to meander if you have a dog with you. Chances are that dog is not going anywhere in a hurry, unless there’s a squirrel involved. As it was too wet for any self-respecting squirrel, we meandered. That meant I could keep an eye on Number 87 without appearing to. Walter ogled the bushes for all the wrong reasons. As we walked and I occasionally stooped to do my civic duty with the attractive plastic bags provided by Lucky, I could see movement behind some of the curtains in the Adams house. Lights went on in rooms. Went off in rooms. Went on in different rooms. It was hard to make out who was in which one, but I figured the slender shadow was Delilah and the taller one had to be Mason. There was no shadow corresponding to the courtly Mr. Randolph Adams. I didn’t know what the shadows were doing, but they were certainly busy and purposeful.
Next door there was only one light in the front room downstairs, which I took to be the living room. A television flickered and I could clearly make out Harry Yerxa sitting in front of it. So much for being our operative. I do despise a quitter. Walter, now, was no quitter. Amble. Amble. Amble.
At least we could be fairly sure that all the Adamses were firmly tucked in their well-protected home. But where was Kev? Walter was not just another pretty face. He was there to see if Uncle Kev could be located.
Of course, there were two purposes to this trip.
“Find Kev, Walter. There’s a treat in it for you if you make it snappy.”
Walter was well aware that my pockets were full of treats. I had made sure of that.
I unhooked his leash and gave him a little push. “Find Kev, Walter, and, as Vera would say, ‘in my lifetime.’”
He waddled forward and I splashed after him. His curly stub of a tail reverberated with excitement. Nice that someone was having a good time. Up to the end of the block and then down to the opposite end we went. I was beginning to think Walter was stringing me along. Worse, there was another dog walker, almost certainly one of the neighbors. Since nobody in their right mind would bring a dog to someone else’s neighborhood on a night like this, I thought he or she might be suspicious of us. We kept our distance, only giving a falsely cheerful wave once. The other dog walker waved back
, but kept his head down. His (or was it her?) dog was a large shambling creature, of no recognizable breed, although that may have been the effect of the rain on its fur.
I kept my face averted as we passed a black Impala parked outside Number 89, next to the Adamses. I tried to keep my mind on the two most important men: Randolph Adams—of course there wasn’t much I could do for him at the moment—and Uncle Kev, who I had begun to really worry about. Why wasn’t he answering his cell? Was he lying injured somewhere, having fallen out of a tree? Or was he possibly reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes, having grabbed onto a live wire to steady himself in some hiding place? Or he had already drowned in a backyard pond that he failed to notice in the dark and was now being nibbled by koi, which would mean a closed casket and it would be all my fault and . . .
You see, this is the impact that Kevin has on people. “Being around him can make you question your hold on sanity itself,” to quote Uncle Mick.
“And Kev has treats too,” I whispered. Walter’s wild eyes bulged with excitement, but he didn’t move. I gave him just enough of a nudge to get him to trot down the side yard of the house on the far side of the Adams home. I squished after him, waving my arms and calling “come back” and other commands that Walter would never obey. No danger of that.
The fake runaway dog routine allowed us to wander through that backyard looking for Kev. We found no bodies with broken necks and expressions of frozen horror on their handsome faces. We found no smoldering corpses. No floaters surrounded by malevolent koi. We found sweet bubkes. Well, Walter located a couple of items that were too disgusting to mention, but that was the extent of it. I found that my shiny black rubber galoshes had filled with very cold water. I also found that we were not alone.
From the back corner of Number 89, I took a quick peek out onto the street. To my surprise, I could see the Impala was still parked, its interior dark and apparently unoccupied. There was something wrong about the car. I crept forward toward the street, hugging the side of the house and desperately hoping that no one chose that moment to peer out the windows of the Adams house. The car was not unoccupied after all. I could tell from the way the glass was fogged. Someone was slouched down in there, and that someone could have taken a few invisibility lessons from Uncle Lucky.
The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) Page 10
