Midsummer Night's Mischief (13 page)

“Jeez.
Two
cases now? What are you? Keli Milanni, PI? If the lawyer thing doesn't work out, you could start a whole new career as a detective.”

“Yeah. Right.” And how very not comforting at all. Laughing faintly, I told Farrah to go have fun with Jake while I drifted off to dreamland.

CHAPTER 13

On day two of my unplanned sabbatical, I decided not to stick around the house any longer than absolutely necessary. After an early morning run through the park, down the rail trail and back, I showered, dressed in my usual Friday business casual—skinny pants, a cropped blazer over a low-slung cami, and ballet flats—and called retired professor Wendell Knotts. When I told him Professor Eisenberry had suggested I contact him to discuss the First Folio, he eagerly agreed to meet me for coffee within the hour. He suggested the Cozy Café, which wasn't far from the university, and that suited me just fine.

Upon entering the restaurant, I spotted a slight man leaning over a newspaper at a window seat, his trim white hair encircling a perfectly round bald spot. His elbow-patched sports coat and horn-rimmed bifocals appeared to be circa 1979.
Too obvious
? I wondered, not wanting to jump to an erroneous judgment yet again. But when he looked up and saw me hesitating by the doorway, he lifted a hand in greeting.

“Keli Milanni, I presume?”

“Professor Knotts. So nice to meet you.” I smiled warmly and took the seat across from him. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Call me Wendell,” he said, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “I haven't been in a classroom for nearly a decade now.”

The waitress appeared to take my order. It was the same woman from the other day, with the nose ring and reddish-blond hair. She snapped her fingers when she recognized me. “Oh! It's you! I was hoping you'd come in again. That guy was here yesterday, the one you asked about.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Actually, I was surprised she remembered.

“Oh, yeah. Good looking, tattoo on his arm. He fit the description perfectly. I told him you were looking for him.”

I nearly choked on the water I'd just sipped. “You did what? But how . . . ? I mean, what did you say?” Now I was all spluttery and embarrassed, not least of all because Wendell Knotts was following this exchange with great interest.

“Well, I didn't know your name,” the waitress went on, oblivious to my concern. “I just said a pretty woman with long brown hair and a figure to die for was asking if he came in here.” She grinned at me, clearly assuming I'd be flattered. But all I could think of was what Wes must have imagined when a random waitress told him I was asking about him.
Desperately Seeking Wesley
, maybe?

“Wow,” I said. “He must have been surprised, huh?”

“I guess.” The waitress shrugged. “To be sure it was you, he asked if you had hazel eyes. He also asked if you came in here a lot. So, what'll you have?”

He had remembered my eye color. Now I was slightly more touched than mortified.

“Ahem,” the waitress said, interrupting my thoughts. “Do you need more time?”

“Oh, sorry. I'll just have coffee. By the way, what time was Wes here yesterday?”

“Late morning. Between eleven and eleven thirty, I'd say.”

Probably came here right after bumping into me outside the gallery.
Terrific.

When the waitress left, I turned to the professor with an apology on my lips. But before I could speak, he leaned forward and said softly, “‘Love sought is good, but giv'n unsought is better.'”

“I beg your pardon?”

He gave me a charming, crinkly-eyed smile. “It's from
Twelfth Night
. When you live and breathe Shakespeare as long as I have, you find the bard had an insightful comment for just about every situation known to mankind.” He paused. “In fact,” he said, lowering his voice, “the secret to Shakespeare's longevity—his very genius—lay in his ability to recognize those universal traits that make us human, no matter what the time or place.”

He sat back in his chair then, looking a little wistful. I didn't know if he was missing his teaching days or missing Shakespeare himself.

“So, speaking of Shakespeare quotes,” I said, then paused as the waitress poured my coffee and refilled Wendell's cup. “I recently saw a wood carving you made that featured one. ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be,' it said.”

Wendell nodded and smiled that soft crinkly smile again. “
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. I've made several such carvings. It's a little hobby of mine. But given that you asked to speak to me about the First Folio, and given the rumors I've heard about the Mostriak Folio, I'm going to go out on a limb and say you saw the carving I gave to Frank Mostriak.”

“You're right,” I said, nodding. “I'm acquainted with the Mostriak family. Frank's grandson Rob has the carving now, and I was curious about it. Did Frank really quote that line a lot?”

“It
was
his favorite,” said Wendell, chuckling softly.

I took a sip of my coffee. “So, Wendell, how did you meet Frank? Did you know him well?”

“I knew Frank for a good many years. And, believe it or not, it was Shakespeare who introduced us.”

“Oh?”

“In a manner of speaking. I was a young professor back then, but already quite the Shakespearean scholar, if I do say so myself.” Grinning boyishly, Wendell leaned back and continued, as if telling a story. “It was nineteen forty-nine, I believe, when this youngster, Frankie Mostriak, sought me out at the university. He had inherited the First Folio from his uncle, and he wanted to learn everything there was to know about it.”

“Did
you
see the book?” I interjected.

“Mm-hmm,” he answered. “I saw the Folio, and I saw the certificate of authenticity that came with it.”

“There was a certificate?” This was news to me.

“Oh, yes. Frank's uncle was wise to keep the certificate with the Folio. It included a detailed description of the volume and attested to its provenance. The certificate was issued by a well-known expert appraiser out of New York City.”

“Interesting. I guess the certificate must be lost now. Do you think there would be a record of it still, in New York? Is it possible the appraisal company still exists?”

“I could make some inquiries for you, if you'd like,” Wendell offered.

“That would be
great
,” I said enthusiastically. “I would really appreciate it. So, back to nineteen forty-nine. You and Frank bonded over Shakespeare?”

“Frank enrolled at the university for a semester and took my introductory course on Shakespeare. After that, he ended up leaving school to go to work and support his new family. But he would still drop by now and then, and I let him audit my courses anytime he wished. He was genuinely interested in the plays and the history—more so, even, than many of my students. So, of course, over time we became friends.”

“Hmm. So you must know Frank's family pretty well, then?”

“Well, at one time, certainly. My wife and I would have dinner with Frank and Eleanor on occasion. And I've met their children, of course. Darlene and Kirk.”

“Did you make it to Eleanor's memorial service?”

“I did. I was probably one of the first ones there.”

“I must've just missed you. I was there later. After six,” I said.

The waitress appeared again, but Wendell put his hand over his cup to decline a refill, and I realized our meeting was about over.

“So, Mr. Knotts . . . Wendell. Do you know anything about the fire that supposedly destroyed the Folio? I mean, did you know Frank still had it all these years?”

“Well, it's a funny thing,” he replied. “About a month after Frank came to me, he did inform me he no longer had the Folio. He said that it had been lost in a fire. And yet Frank was no less interested in Shakespeare. Indeed, he did not exhibit a great deal of remorse over the loss. So, let's just say I was not greatly surprised to learn that Eleanor had found the prize hidden away all these years later. Truth be told, I imagine Frank had intended for her to find it long ago. But, for whatever reason, he never got around to cluing her in.”

I nodded in agreement as we stood up. I tried to pay for Wendell's coffee, but he wouldn't hear of it. Instead, he left enough money on the table to cover my coffee, as well as the tip. I thanked him and handed him my card.

“I'm looking forward to hearing about the certificate. If the Folio is ever recovered, I think the certificate will be crucial to its identification. Don't you think so?”

“Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed.” Wendell held open the door for me as we exited the café.

“Are you attending the literary conference next week?” I asked before we parted ways.

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” he said. With that, he gave me a quick wink and sauntered toward the bus stop on the corner.

* * *

Next on my list of interviews for the day was Sharon Baxter, niece to Frank and Eleanor, cousin to Darlene. When I last saw Sharon, at Eleanor's the day the Folio was discovered missing, she had mentioned that she usually worked the first shift at the intake desk at Edindale Medical Center. Last week she had been on the second shift to fill in for a coworker. I had no idea if she would be there now—or if she'd be of any mind to talk with me. But it was worth a shot.

Amazingly, when she spotted me walking through the sliding glass doors at the front of the hospital, Sharon greeted me like a long-lost friend. She stood up from her computer behind a broad counter and waved me over. “Keli, what a nice surprise! Did you come to see me? You're not checking in, are you?”

“Oh, no. I mean, yes. I came to see you. Is now a good time? I don't want to interrupt your work.”

“This is a fine time, actually. We're slow this morning. The other two can man the ship for a few minutes.” She nodded down the counter to two other women in hospital uniforms and placed a little CLOSED sign in front of her station. Then she led me to a quiet plant-filled alcove at the edge of the lobby.

“Any leads on the Folio?” she asked as we sat side by side in connecting maroon-colored chairs. Seeing my surprise, she went on. “I saw Robby at Darlene's house the other day. He told me you were investigating the theft.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I'm trying, anyway. So, um, did Darlene say anything about me? You know, my firm received a letter from her lawyer regarding the Folio.”

“Well, I don't really know much about all the legal stuff,” Sharon said. “But I did tell Darlene she ought to be thankful for your help. I also reminded her that having the book insured wouldn't have amounted to a hill of beans if it turned out a family member took the Folio. Wouldn't that be like insurance fraud?”

I was so grateful to Sharon for her candor that I could have hugged her. “Yes. I'd say collecting insurance for the loss of something that someone still possessed could definitely be construed as insurance fraud. Among other things.” Proceeding cautiously, I added, “Do you think it
was
someone in the family?”

Sharon looked away and heaved a sigh. “I don't know what to think. Oh, I'm sure Darlene has no idea where it is. But I do know there was an awful lot of pride for Shakespeare in that family.”

“What do you mean?”

“After Uncle Frank inherited the antique book, he was crazy for Shakespeare. Took college courses, took his family to Shakespeare plays. He even named his dog Hamlet.”

I smiled with Sharon. “I actually just met Frank's old Shakespeare professor, believe it or not. He told me Frank didn't act very upset when the Folio was supposedly lost in a fire. Do you know anything about that? There wasn't insurance collected back then, I hope.”

“No. I'm pretty sure there wasn't. Uncle Frank was a hard worker and did well for himself and his family, but he never had money to spare. No, that wasn't why he pretended it was destroyed.”

“Do you have another theory?”

“Oh, my mom was sure she knew. My mom, rest her soul, was Frank's older sister. She never straight-up confronted him about it, as far as I know. But she used to say she had a feeling Frank still had that Folio hidden away.”

“She did?” I was so fascinated by Sharon's tale. I was hoping she would keep talking and not notice the time—or the looks her coworkers were shooting in our direction.

“Oh, yes. Frank used to like to say, ‘I once touched greatness. I once owned the First Folio,' as if that were enough for him to die a happy man. But my mom saw right through him. She figured he set the fire himself to keep the book out of the hands of Little Bo McPepper.”

I yelped a short laugh, then clapped a hand over my mouth. “Little who?”

Sharon laughed. “Bo McPepper. His father was Big Bo. Bo Jr. was always called Little Bo. Now, there was a wily bunch, the whole McPepper crew. They were neighbors to Frank's people and regulars at the poker games Frank played every weekend.”

“Right. I remember Eleanor saying the Folio was thought to have been lost in a fire or in a bet. She was kind of vague on that point, come to think of it.”

“Well, to hear Mom tell it, some people blamed Little Bo for starting the fire on account of he was mad at Frank. There was a high-stakes poker game one night, and the Folio ended up on the table. I guess Bo thought he had won, but then Frank did. Bo blamed him for cheating, but everyone else there backed up Frank. Anyway, my mother always suspected Frank set the fire to get Bo off his case about it.”

I shook my head in wonder. It sounded like Eleanor had married a wild one.

“Oh, goodness,” said Sharon, finally noticing the daggers her coworkers were sending her way. “Break time's over.”

I had one more question before Sharon hurried off. “You said there was a lot of Shakespeare pride in the family. Did you mean currently, as well as back in the past?”