Midsummer Night's Mischief (10 page)

“Dr. Eisenberry?” I said pleasantly.

The young man raised his eyebrows in surprise, while the redhead answered. “That would be me,” she said.

“Oh! Sorry,” I said.

I stood there like an idiot while she pulled some keys from her bag and unlocked the door. She disappeared inside and returned at once with a book, which she handed to the well-dressed guy.

“Thanks,” he said to her. Then he threw a look my way that was a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

Damn.
That was two times in one week I'd prejudged a person based solely on their name. How unenlightened of me.

“I'm really sorry,” I said again to the professor. “I thought Max—”

“Short for Maxine,” she said. “Not a problem. What can I do for you?”

I took a breath and plowed ahead. “My name is Keli Milanni. I'm an attorney who represented a woman who owned a copy of Shakespeare's First Folio. Recently, my client passed away, and the Folio was apparently stolen.”

“Come on in,” she said.

Her office was small but tidy. A large window dominated one wall, offering a nice view of the quad below. Bookshelves lined the other walls, surrounding a metal desk that was squeezed into the corner. There were few decorations, just a wall calendar and a framed photo of the teacher and her cute little family of three—teacher, hubby, and a dolly of a baby with red hair like her mommy. I smiled at the photo as I settled into the single guest chair next to the desk. Professor Eisenberry took her seat behind the desk and regarded me with interest.

“You don't seem to be surprised,” I said.

“No. I heard about the Mostriak Folio,” she responded. “Word gets around. It's a shame it wasn't examined and authenticated before it disappeared. Otherwise, there would probably be more publicity around the theft. As it happened, we learned the Folio was lost before we even knew it was found. It's almost like one of Shakespeare's own dream scenarios, really.”

Hmm. Okay.
I didn't know about all that. But as far as I was concerned, the theft was going to cause a tragedy for my career if the plot didn't turn around real soon.

“Well,” I said, “I feel terrible about the whole thing. And I was wondering if you might have any ideas about where someone might try to sell the Folio. Also, even if it does turn up, will it even be possible to know it's the Mostriak Folio, as you say? I understand there were more than two hundred copies.”

“Actually,” she said, “there were seven hundred fifty originally printed. Around two hundred twenty copies are known to exist today. But those aren't just floating around out there. Eighty-some copies are at the Folger Library in D.C. Several copies are at the British Library, and several more at a university in Japan. All the known copies have been indexed and described, down to the smallest detail. For example, there are differences in binding and condition, et cetera. So, if a previously unknown copy were suddenly to appear at an auction house, it
could
be the stolen copy. The coincidence of having an unindexed copy appear soon after one was stolen might lead you to presume they are one and the same copy. But, whether or not such a presumption would hold up in a court of law, I have no idea. You would know better than I.”

“Right.” I nodded glumly. Without some documentation on Eleanor's copy, something to identify it, it would be virtually impossible to prove that a newly surfaced copy of the Folio was
her
copy, rather than some unindexed copy. Unless . . .

“I wonder,” I said, thinking aloud, “if maybe there was a description of this copy at one time. Eleanor Mostriak's husband, Frank, inherited the book from his uncle, who was a collector. Maybe the uncle had it authenticated. Maybe there
is
a record on this copy someplace.”

“Well, I'd say that's a highly likely probability.”

Yay!
I brightened at the professor's words. But then I slumped in my chair again, as I realized I had no idea what to do next. Ever patient, the good Dr. Eisenberry had the answer for me again.

“You know who you should talk to? My predecessor, the former Shakespeare instructor here. He retired after more than half a century of teaching, and even then I don't think he slowed down much. Now, here's a true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool Shakespearean scholar for you. If he doesn't already know the particulars on the missing Folio, he'll at least know where to turn. I have his number here somewhere.”

While she rummaged through a desk drawer, I noticed a copy of the flyer about the Renaissance Faire lying on the edge of her desk. I turned it around and traced the black-and-white comedy and tragedy masks that adorned one corner of the flyer. “Is there always a play at the Renaissance Faire?” I asked. “When I was in law school here, I seem to remember the festival being mostly about food and drink, with some juggling and jousting and merry music thrown in.”

The professor looked up. “Oh, this is the second year the drama department has participated, I believe. They had a Shakespeare in the Park program some years ago. They switched to a more modern playbook for a while, and now they're back to Shakespeare. I'm helping out in an advisory capacity.”

She turned back to her drawer and pulled out a yellowed business card. “Here it is,” she said. Then she paused, rested her elbows on the desk, and stared at the flyer. “You know what?” she said. “If you want to find potential buyers for the First Folio, this would be a pretty good starting place.” She tapped the flyer, and I followed her gaze. In smaller lettering toward the bottom, it said
12TH ANNUAL LITERARY CONVENTION, 9:00–4:00, UNIVERSITY BALLROOM.

“Literary Convention?” I said.

“It's a literary conference that coincides with the Renaissance Faire each year. Actually, it's not so much for students. It's more of a networking event for those in the rare-books business. The head of the English Department helps to organize it.”

“Rare books, huh? Like Satterly's Rare Books downtown?”

“Sure. Dealers and collectors from all over the state tend to come to LitCon, as they call it. And I'm sure they'll be buzzing about the Mostriak Folio, authenticated or not.”

“Wow,” I said, halfway to myself. “I wonder if the thief knows about this.”

“You might ask Dr. Knotts about LitCon. I don't think he's missed one yet.”

I raised my eyebrows in question, and Dr. Eisenberry handed me the card she had retrieved. “The retired professor I was telling you about.”

I took the card and glanced at the name with a start. The former professor of Shakespeare was none other than Wendell Knotts. The same name I had seen on the back of the carving in Rob's apartment.

CHAPTER 10

Farrah picked me up at 4:00 p.m. in her sporty blue hatchback, and we zipped on over to Eleanor's house. During the fifteen-minute drive, I filled her in on what I'd learned from Max Eisenberry, and she told me what she had found out from her police officer contact.

“Jake's buddy, Dave, was eager to help,” she said. “He's married, has a young family, and wants Jake to settle down, too. He's hoping we'll get back together.”

“Oh?” I'd been through a Jake breakup with Farrah before. I knew better than to comment on their relationship, one way or another.

“So I let him think it was a possibility. I told him to tell Jake hello from me, you know?”

“Nice touch,” I said. “So, what could he tell you?”

“About Jake?”

“No, silly. About the case.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, the police don't know much more than we do—which, of course, isn't much. It looks like they're referring this case to the state. The state police have a Bureau of Stolen Arts and Antiquities, or something like that. Dave wasn't sure if the referral had actually been made yet, but he did say Shakley and Buchanan have moved on to other assignments.”

Terrific.
While I kept telling people the cops were all over this case, they were really dragging their heels and passing the buck. All the more reason to take matters into my own hands. But as we rounded the corner onto Willow Street and the big yellow house came into view, I felt the confidence seep right out of the bottom of my feet. “Farrah, I really don't know what we hope to find here,” I said as she parked by the curb. “I guess it would be nice if we found some evidence of a break-in.”

“Mm-hmm,” Farrah murmured, shutting off her car and peering through the side window.

“Because,” I went on, “if there was no break-in, then what we're looking at is an inside job, right? Somebody in the family. And I really don't want it to be somebody in the family.”

“Speaking of which,” said Farrah. “Whose car is that in the driveway?”

It was a dusty-looking black two-door, with a bug-spattered windshield. We stepped out of Farrah's car and ventured over to look inside it. Fast-food wrappers littered the passenger seat, and the backseat so resembled a gym locker—with baseball bat and glove, tennis shoes, duffel bag, and other such guy stuff—that we could practically smell it through the windows.

“Something tells me this isn't Darlene's.”

“Gotta be Rob's,” I said. “I've been in Wes's car.”

We looked at each other, and I shrugged. Up to the front door we went. Along the way I noticed that a few of the decorative stones lining the front path had been pushed out of place. And the lawn appeared to be several days overdue for a trimming. Farrah rang the bell. A few seconds passed, and then I saw a curtain move in the living room window. I reached over to press the bell again. Finally, the door opened and Rob stood there, looking a little sheepish and trying to cover it up. He had that cute college boy look going on again, with gym shorts, a rumpled sweatshirt, and a baseball cap pushed back to reveal mischievous blue eyes.

“Uh, Keli, right?” He looked from me to Farrah and back to me. “How—how's it going?” he said uncertainly.

“Hi, Rob. This is my friend Farrah. She's a lawyer, too. We're doing a little investigating, and I wanted to show her where the Folio was stolen.” I said this like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if I had every right to investigate the matter or even be at Eleanor's house. I was counting on a certain level of naïveté I'd noticed in Rob, as well as the fact that he seemed to be more concerned with appearing natural himself. Then there was the disarming charm that Farrah could turn on anytime she so chose.

“Hi there,” said Farrah, with a brilliant smile. She offered her hand to Rob for a friendly handshake. “I hope we're not intruding. Wow. What a beautiful house.”

Rob held on to her hand a fraction longer than necessary, then stepped aside to let us enter. “No trouble,” he said. “I, uh, was just checking on things, you know? Thought I'd make the place look lived in for a while. I was getting ready to watch the ball game. Grandma has satellite TV, so it's always better over here.” Rob nodded toward the living room, which appeared dark and unused.

“Oh, the game!” said Farrah. “Want some company?” Farrah looked up into Rob's eyes and twirled a finger in her hair.

“Sure!” he said. “Um, I doubt if there's any beer here, but I bet there's some sodas in the pantry. And maybe some popcorn.”

“Sounds great!” said Farrah. “You're so sweet!” Farrah went over to turn on the TV, while Rob went into the kitchen.

I met Farrah's eyes and smirked. “You rock,” I whispered.

“Go find that evidence you were talking about,” Farrah whispered back.

We heard the sound of popcorn popping in the microwave and the refrigerator door opening and closing. I zipped into the library and saw that someone had straightened it up since the last time I'd seen it. After a brief look around, I decided what I really wanted to see was the upstairs. So I tiptoed down the hall and padded up the carpeted stairs. When I reached the top landing, I heard Farrah say, “Keli went to go find the little girls' room. So, do you play baseball, Rob? Are you on a team?”

On the dimly lit landing, I found myself facing several wooden doors, two open and three closed. Quickly, I peeked into the rooms with the two open doors—a bathroom and what looked to be the master bedroom. Then, one by one, I opened the closed doors. There was a linen closet; a spare room with purple and pink accents, probably Darlene's when she lived here while growing up; and a smaller spare bedroom in navy and red, Kirk's room, no doubt. Each of the bedrooms looked to be tidy and undisturbed, yet they felt stuffy and closed in. The small windows in these rooms, which faced the front of the house, were shut tight.

I went back to the master bedroom, Eleanor's room, with some hesitation. It was also tidy and quiet, but fresher smelling. I stepped inside and gazed around. A queen-size bed, neatly made with a colorful green, yellow, and blue quilt, dominated the center of the room. To the side was a closet, with door ajar, dresses, pants, and blouses hanging neatly in a row. On a chair next to the bed was draped a long cotton nightgown. A pair of faded blue terry-cloth house slippers sat side by side, expectantly, under the chair.

Seeing the nightgown and the house slippers, I felt a lump rise in my throat. I felt like an intruder. I was about to turn and leave when I noticed several dresser drawers in the horizontal bureau were pulled open. Upon closer inspection, I could see they had been riffled through. Maybe Darlene had been looking for something for the viewing?

I felt a draft of air and turned to the window, which was open a couple of inches. A ruffled curtain fluttered in the light breeze. This was the room, I realized, with the open window that I had noticed the other day, while waiting for the police to arrive. I walked over to the window and felt the sill. It was slightly damp from this morning's rainfall.

Should I close it? I tested the sash, and it slid easily. Looking outside, I saw the big pine tree. It was too far away to reach from the window. To the right, toward the front of the house and about twenty feet away, was another mature tree. Its thick, leafy branches effectively shielded the window from the street.

As I turned away from the window, something on the floor caught my eye. I leaned over and picked it up. It was a piece of dried mud about an inch long. I looked out the window again, down at the ground below. The grass was sparse in that spot, and there was some mud. It didn't look very dry now, but maybe a few days ago . . . ?

I jumped when the TV downstairs roared in volume, then just as quickly became quiet. Then I heard Farrah emit a shrill laugh. “Sorry about that! Wrong button.” I took that as my cue and darted out of the room. For good measure, I shut myself quietly in the bathroom, flushed the toilet, then rinsed my hands under the faucet. Then I hopped back downstairs. I reached the living room just in time to see Farrah stretch her arms above her head with an audible moan, simultaneously thrusting out her chest, where Rob's eyes, naturally, were glued. She spotted me and dropped her arms with a giggle.

“Keli!” she said. “Rob has a ball game tomorrow afternoon at Fieldstone Park. We should go.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

I wandered over to the framed photos on the mantel, drawn to the ones that featured Wes. There was an old one of Darlene's family: she and Bill with big eighties hair, sitting side by side with stiff smiles while the two young boys clowned behind them. Wes and Rob looked like a couple of rascals who probably got into a lot of mischief together. And had lots of fun. I wondered when it turned sour. I turned back to the half of the dynamic duo sitting on the couch.

“Rob, I must have just missed you at your grandma's memorial service. I got there around six, I think.”

“Huh?” Rob peeled his eyes from Farrah. “Oh, yeah. I stayed for a while, but then I had some business to take care of.”

“What kind of business?” asked Farrah in her most girly “everything you say is fascinating” voice.

“Nothing too exciting,” said Rob, patting Farrah on the knee.

“So, you didn't make it to the dinner with your family?” I knew I was pushing it, but I really wanted to know where he went that night.

“Nah. I paid my respects. I didn't feel like hanging out with my family anymore. They can be kind of stifling, if you know what I mean.” Rob stood up, as if he was feeling stifled now, and took the popcorn bowl to the kitchen.

Farrah looked at me questioningly, her brows arched.

“Let's get out of here,” I whispered.

We followed Rob to the kitchen and told him we had to take off.

“It was great to meet you,” said Farrah, briefly touching his arm. “Hopefully, we'll catch your game tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you later, Rob,” I said. Then we scooted out the front before the situation could get awkward. Once on the sidewalk, I couldn't resist teasing Farrah.

“Well, well, Miss Marilyn Monroe. You seemed to be enjoying your little distraction role in there.”

“Hey!” she protested. “I had to do something. You were taking forever up there.” Then she looked at me and grinned slyly. “He was pretty cute, though. Who knew detective work was going to be so fun?”

“Ha,” I replied, climbing into her car.

“Where to now, Chief?” she asked.

“Let's drive down the alley behind the house. I'm wondering how shielded it is back there.”

Farrah rounded the corner and slowly entered the alley. We went past backyards and garages until we reached the back fence that belonged to Eleanor's house. Just as I thought, with the fence, the garage, the toolshed, and all the trees, you couldn't even see the back door of the house or any of the windows.

“Shame, shame,” said Farrah. “Somebody's being naughty.” I followed her gaze to the roof of a back porch on the other side of the alley. A girl sat on the rooftop, leaning against a window and smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, I know that girl,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “She's what's-her-name. Brandi. The girl who acted all weird when the police questioned the neighbors.”

“Interesting,” said Farrah. “From up there, a person might be able to see someone leaving out this back gate.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Farrah shut off the ignition, and we exited the car, then strolled over to the short chain-link fence that marked the edge of Brandi's backyard.

“Hi there!” I called, causing Brandi to jump out of her over-tanned skin. “Can we talk to you for a minute?”

She looked nervously over her shoulder, then stubbed out her cigarette without a word. Farrah and I looked at each other; then I tried again.

“Don't worry,” I said. “We won't tell your mom. We just want to ask you a couple questions.”

Again silence. Brandi squinted at us suspiciously. “About what?” she finally said.

“About the other night,” I replied. “We think somebody was here at the Mostriaks' house last Saturday evening. Did you notice anybody coming or going?”

Brandi stared at us for a second, then slowly shook her head.

“What's her deal?” Farrah whispered. “She's obviously hiding something.”

“Maybe she's just feeling guilty about the smoking,” I said quietly. In a louder voice I said, “Look, we're not the cops. We're just looking for some information. Why don't you come down from there so we don't have to shout?”

The girl hesitated, then looked behind her and through the window again. Making up her mind, she shook her head for the second time. “Sorry. I don't know anything. I gotta go.”

“Hey!” yelled Farrah, causing Brandi to turn back, wide-eyed. “Don't you know that smoking is a nasty, unattractive habit? It totally makes you stink.”

“Farrah!” I said. “We're trying to make friends here.”

I turned back to Brandi to try to make nice again, but she was already gone.

“Dude!” I chided Farrah. “When it comes to the interrogations, I think you better stick to the boys.”