Midsummer Night's Mischief (20 page)

“What about Scarface? We could say we work for the casino, too.”

“I don't think so, Farrah. They would know we're lying. We have to find a way to get out of here.”

I looked around for a possible escape, cringing as I heard another vehicle come up the lane. Clearly, we couldn't go back the way we came. For one thing, there were too many gaps between the oak trees, and behind the line of trees was an open field with nowhere to hide. An even bigger challenge would be coming out from behind the garage without being seen.

However, looking in the other direction, behind the garage, I noticed that the open field abutted a thicket of woods. And the woods appeared to fan out into a forest for who knew how many miles. To get to the woods, we would have to climb over a barbed-wire fence and escape the notice of anyone who happened to be behind the stable. Glancing that way, I could see a brown horse grazing along the edge of the corral. Children's laughter filled the air, followed by a shrill whistle. The horse looked up and trotted toward the sound.

“We've got to get to the woods,” I whispered, my heart thumping a rapid cadence in my chest. “Fast.”

Farrah nodded. “You know that will take us away from your car, right?”

“Doesn't matter. We'll find a way back. We'll exit the woods someplace else, far away from here.”

We backed away from the garage, and the farther we strayed from its shelter, the more anxious I became. When we reached the barbed-wire fence, a rusty, mean-looking obstacle, we hesitated, trying to figure out how we would get over the thing without suffering great bodily harm. Finally, after some tricky stepping, holding, and squeezing, we were halfway over the fence. And then my shorts caught on a barb.

“Ouch!” Farrah made it to the other side, but not without a long scratch on the side of her leg. “Ooh, that stings!” Ignoring the trickle of blood on her leg, Farrah tried to help me free my shorts from the sharp barb. Suddenly, we both jumped at the sound of a deep, resonant bark of a big, big dog.

CHAPTER 20

I jerked my head toward the corral and saw the brown horse again, this time with a rider on its back. The horseman, dressed in designer denim and plaid, was a silver-haired man whom I'd met once or twice before, and whose picture often graced the pages of the
Edindale Gazette
. It was the gentleman of the gentleman's ranch, the master of his domain, the wheeler-dealer powerhouse that was Edgar Harrison. And he stared right at me. As I stood there, caught on the barbed-wire fence in an awkward straddle, part of me prayed he wouldn't recognize me as one of the lawyers at Olsen, Sykes, and Rafferty. The other part realized I had even bigger problems right now.

Edgar yelled something I couldn't understand, and then another man walked around the stable, the barking dog at his heels. It was Scarface, looking none too happy to find us guilty-looking interlopers. Striding over quickly, he opened the gate of the corral and let out the zealous watchdog—which turned out to be a Doberman pinscher.
Perfect.

I didn't know if I was more scared of Scarface or the Doberman, but I ripped my shorts from the fence and took off headlong for the woods in a heartbeat, Farrah right beside me. We were both experienced runners, but I didn't think we had ever pounded the ground like this before. Flying over the earth, our legs and arms pumping, we reached the woods in seconds and kept going. Hurdling over fallen limbs and twisty roots, slapped by insects and branches, but never looking back, we drove ourselves deeper and deeper into the forest.

At first, we followed a well-worn bridle path, then a dry gully, until finally we found ourselves with no trail to follow at all. When we reached a small clearing with no obvious path out, we stopped running and instead walked in circles as we gathered our bearings. The only sound to be heard was our own panting and wheezing.

After a minute, we looked at one another, taking in the scratches, the flushed skin, the leaves in our hair—and burst out laughing. Farrah doubled over, then winced at a pain but kept laughing. I drew my fingers through my shredded shorts, giggling at the absurdity of it all, and hobbled over to sit on a fallen tree trunk.

“Oh, God,” Farrah gasped through her laughter. “Were they even chasing us?”

I shook my head and tried to pull myself together. “I don't know. Maybe at first?”

“Where are we?” asked Farrah, looking around again as her giggles subsided. “Got a GPS app on your phone?”

I pulled the phone out of my mini–sling purse and frowned. “No signal out here.”

“Figures.” Farrah reached out to touch the mossy back of a nearby tree. “What's that saying? Moss grows toward what direction?”

“I think the sun is more reliable,” I said, looking up at the sky. “So . . . setting sun in the west. We parked west of the ranch. So let's walk that way for a while and then cut south.” I pointed with my straightened arm toward the lowering sun and realized we had maybe an hour of daylight left at most.

“We better get a move on,” Farrah said, evidently having the same thought.

I pushed myself to my feet, and together we picked our way through the brambles and underbrush in a more or less westerly direction. As my body cooled down, the air on my damp skin started to make me feel chilly, and I shivered in spite of myself.

“I once thought trail running sounded kind of fun,” Farrah remarked, stepping over a large, snaky root. “Not anymore.”

I grunted in agreement. “You'd have to like a certain element of risk, for sure. I prefer to play it much safer.”

“This coming from a woman who trailed a goon and trespassed onto private property.” Farrah laughed.

“Hey,” I protested. “Not my idea. I'm going to have to stop listening to you.”

“Sure,” drawled Farrah. “Just remember, this whole caper started with you.”

“Humph.”

After a moment's silence, Farrah spoke in a more serious tone. “So you think Scarface threw the rock at your window? He seems menacing enough.”

“Doesn't really make sense. What would he have to warn me about?”

“Good point. Okay, let's think about this. We can be fairly certain our buddy Rob has a gambling problem, right? Scarface guy seems to want something with Rob, while Rob wants nothing to do with him.”

“I bet Rob owes him money,” I said. “Scarface is probably a loan shark or something.”

“Rob probably has a pretty good throwing arm, being a baseball player and all,” Farrah ventured.

I sighed. “I thought of that. And it would seem he had a compelling motive for taking the Folio.”

“He's not the only one, though. I didn't get a chance to tell you what I learned about Kirk.”

“Something interesting?” I paused while Farrah picked up a broken branch and broke off the twigs to fashion a walking stick. We had finally found a genuine dirt path, which made for easier hiking and gave me hope that we might actually be getting someplace.

“Mm-hmm. He not only went off to New York to be a Shakespearean actor, but he also tried to bring Shakespeare back home. After bumming around in the Big Apple, never quite making it to Broadway, I guess, he moved to Indianapolis and started up a Shakespeare theater company with another guy. They struggled for a time, then had a big falling-out. Evidently, Kirk shut the guy out and tried to make a go of it himself. Well, the partner wound up suing Kirk for breach of contract, among other things. And Kirk lost. I found a record of the court decision.”

“Pays to have a legal research expert on your side,” I quipped. “So, bummer for Kirk. How much did he owe?”

“Eighty thousand dollars.”

“Yikes. That's not a little.”

“And that's not all. Around the same time, his wife divorced him. Then the theater went under, leaving Kirk with a boatload of debt.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Three years ago. He's been doing odd jobs ever since, trying to get acting jobs here and there. He moved from Indy to a small town right on the border of Illinois and Indiana, so he's not too far from Edindale. Just an hour's drive or so.”

I thought about this as we walked on, but I was soon distracted by a symphony of tree frogs, which had started up all at once. Farrah and I chuckled at this, but I glanced nervously at the sky. The sun was sinking ever closer to the horizon, and we had no idea how much farther we had to go. And although I didn't want to mention it, my throat was exceedingly dry and my stomach growled.

“I heard that,” said Farrah. “I'm starving, too. Oh! What's that up ahead? A bench?”

We raced for the simple wooden bench and plopped down side by side. We were both cheered by this sign of civilization. I figured we must be in the Forest Preserve. With any luck, we should at least happen upon a trail map or a guidepost or maybe even a real hiker.

“Ready to go on?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Farrah, getting up with a groan.

We continued down the path, moving slower than ever. There didn't seem to be any part of me that didn't ache. To keep my mind off my body—and the darkening trees around us—I brought up the mystery again.

“So Kirk needs money. Rob needs money. Lots of people need money, if you think about it.”

“True. Wes needs money, too, since his brother wiped out his savings and maxed out his credit cards,” said Farrah, giving me a sidelong glance.

I didn't say anything, just kept plodding along in the dusk.

“Speaking of Wes,” Farrah continued, “there was something else I learned from Jimi that night I found out Wes was sleeping in the back room at the Loose. Jimi told me Wes and Rob used to be really close. Rob would look up to Wes, while Wes looked after Rob. Rob would get into trouble, and Wes would bail him out.”

“Okay. So what are you saying?”

“All I'm saying is that maybe, possibly, Wes found a way to bail out his brother again. Either that or he could be protecting him. I'm just saying we can't rule him out.”

“Mmm.” I wasn't ready to concede Farrah's point, though I knew she was right.

We walked along in silence, listening to the night sounds and shuffling our feet in the dust. I was grateful that at least it wasn't raining. In fact, the moon above cast a soft glow bright enough for us to see the path ahead.

Still, I felt so weary. I felt like we had been in the woods for hours and hours. Now, surrounded by an oppressive darkness beyond the moonlight, I feared I might be bordering on delirium. For sure, I was starting to feel faint from hunger and exertion. I was also becoming a little freaked about where we were going to end up spending the night. With all these thoughts swirling, my heart began racing until I could almost feel the vibration of it in the earth beneath my feet.

“Do you hear that?” Farrah whispered.

I started at the sound of her voice and looked at her in surprise. She appeared a little freaked herself.

“Is that drumbeats?”

I furrowed my eyebrows and listened. Sure enough, the air carried a steady rhythmic pounding, which was not coming from my chest. We took a few more steps forward and found ourselves at a fork in the trail. I turned in the direction of the drumming, and Farrah followed close behind.

“What is that? A powwow?” she asked. “Is there an Indian reservation near here?”

I shook my head. “I don't—”

“I see something!” Farrah hissed, grabbing my arm.

Following her gaze, I saw it, too. Up ahead we could see firelight flickering behind a wall of trees and hear the rise and fall of spirited voices. All at once, I knew what it was.

“Oh, my God,” said Farrah, sounding panicky. “How many are there?”

“Shh. Calm down.” I spoke softly, trying to soothe Farrah. Moving closer, we crouched behind a fallen tree to witness the solstice celebration.

It was just as Mila's friends had told me. At least twenty women, men, and children were gathered around the sacred bonfire, dancing, chanting, and drumming. The revelers looked to be having a good time, laughing and passing jugs of cider and ale. Some of the women wore rings of flowers in their hair and floaty cotton dresses, giving them the appearance of woodland nymphs, while the men represented the Horned God or the Oak King with antlers or chaplets of oak leaves on their heads. A few dancers tossed herbs into the flames as they circled the fire, causing it to crackle merrily.

As we watched the scene, I could feel my earlier fear and worry dissolve away. The once foreboding darkness was now a mysterious and comforting blend of light and dark, the shadows soothing and warm like a mother's embrace. It was Midsummer Eve, a time for gratitude and celebration. I smiled, suddenly feeling close to my aunt Josephine, who, I was certain, had once lived somewhere out here in these woods.

Then I spotted Mila, smiling and radiant, with a chain of daisies on her head. She twirled gracefully with the other dancers. I almost stood up to go join her.

“I am freaking out!” whispered Farrah. “I can't even believe this. We've stumbled upon some kind of cult, some kind of sacrificial ritual.”

I felt my heart sink as I turned toward my friend. “Get a grip, Farrah. This looks peaceful to me.”

“How do you know?” demanded Farrah, her eyes wide. “I have never seen anything like this before.”

“It's some kind of festival, I'm sure of it. Look, they've got flowers in their hair. Today's the first day of summer. That must be it. Nothing to worry about.”

Farrah shook her head doubtfully, the disgust apparent in her expression. “It's weird, whatever it is.”

I was at a loss, caught between two worlds and too tired to think of a response. That was when my cell phone rang.

I jumped and backed farther away from the bonfire, though no one could have heard the ring above all the party noise. With Farrah watching expectantly, I took my phone from my purse and answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Counselor! T.C. Satterly here. Satterly's Rare Books. Your office gave me your personal number after I insisted I needed to speak with you. I hope this is a convenient time.”

“Um.” I glanced at Farrah and shrugged. “Sure.”

“Listen, I had a
very
interesting message on my answering machine today. Male voice, sort of muffled like. Said he's having a silent auction, and if I'm interested in rare Shakespearean works, I'm to tweet the words ‘Got a penchant for seventeen c reserve #ytfnrq.' Said that he will contact me if he sees that tweet. Strange, I know. Still, I wrote it down. Got it right here.”

“Wow. You're kidding.”

“I kid you not. And that's not all. Word on the street is that a
certain
broker is going to be at LitCon this Saturday. This
certain
broker is well known in the book world to have, let's say,
questionable
scruples, if you know what I mean. Rumor has it that he might be meeting with a prospect to discuss a
certain
acquisition. It's all very hush-hush. But I do know that this broker wouldn't normally come to LitCon unless he believed he might get something lucrative out of it.”

“So, you think this guy got the same kind of message? And he posted some obscure code tweet?”

“Now, I don't know about all that. All I'm saying is, if you're still on this case, you
must
be at LitCon on Saturday.”

“Okay. All right. So who is the broker? What's his name?”

“Now, remember, you didn't hear it from me. I'm not one to cast aspersions on other dealers. But look out for a fellow by the name of Stenislaw. Got me?
Stenislaw
.”