The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) (11 page)

A few thoughts bubbled to the surface. First, it was nagging at me that we’d run into Tyler Dekker on our first visit to Burton. What was he doing there? Was Tyler also following a hunch about something in Burton? What were the chances that those two things were the same? Why had he pulled us over even though he was out of his jurisdiction? And he said he liked the wig. I hoped he was flirting with me and wasn’t going to turn into some sort of horrible pervert with a bad hairpiece fetish.

I let the lavender bubbles slowly wash away Officer Smiley’s image. There were other things bothering me. That Mason kid. He had really spooked us. I’d seen confidence and calm beyond his years. That urged me to believe his threats.

“Teenagers can be right little psychos,” Mick had exclaimed watching the news one night, about two weeks earlier. Maybe this was one of those times. Was Mason a psycho? If so, what did that mean for Randolph or for us if we went back?

Perhaps it was the rum in the “tea” that caused me to doze off in the tub. There was Lance in the moonlight, doing his Lord Peter impersonation. I loved the character for who he was, but also for his unrelenting romantic pursuit of Harriet Vane, no matter what. As the dream drifted, I found myself dressed as Vane and Lance as Wimsey ready for a fancy-dress Halloween ball, not that anyone in Harrison Falls but Vera would know who they were. Still, we looked very glam, me in a drapey velvet gown and Lance with a monocle. And just as we were about to touch lips, my eyes popped open.

“Kevin.” I sat upright sloshing water and “tea” onto the floor. My most aggravating and talkative uncle was alone with a cell phone and no one to chat with. Yet, I had not even had a text.

Unnerving.

No time for worrying though. I was going to be late for dinner.

D
INNER HOUR WAS
eight p.m. at the Van Alst residence. Early on, I had learned not to be late and to give the signora plenty of notice if I was not going to be there. Vera insisted on it, and I had a theory that was so she didn’t end up having all that food thrust at her. I am a dinner diversion of a different kind.

I hustled downstairs and raced along the endless corridors, hoping to make it before I turned into a pumpkin. I’d barely had time to work my wet hair into a French twist and slip into the full-skirted, three-quarter-sleeved vintage royal blue wool dress with a belt and a peplum waist. I’d laid it out before I left for our Adams misadventure. Except for my elegant black leather dress boots and traces of Siamese hairs, it was all very Christian Dior “New Look.” I can’t believe the treasures that people donate to church bazaars. The wool dress was warm too, something to be treasured in my new home, as Vera was stunningly cheap with the heat. I’d have been grateful if someone set my socks on fire, as I still needed to shake the chill of our wet afternoon. My mother’s lapis earrings and her cocktail ring could dress up a paper bag, but with this dress, they looked divine. I’d run out of time for makeup, but in my little satin clutch I kept an emergency tube of Dior red. Not that it mattered, as Vera couldn’t have cared less what I looked like, as long as I was dressed for dinner, arrived on time and had some information on the missing Sayers books.

She glanced at her watch as I waltzed into the dining room. I slid into my regular chair at the opposite end of the Sheraton table from Vera and smiled, showing off my Dior smile, a bargain at our local discount store, BTW. I was still close enough to see that Vera had found yet another gruel-colored sweater, this one missing two buttons but only one elbow. Where did she get her wardrobe? Most respectable charity shops or church bazaar volunteers would toss those items into the trash as soon as they spotted them. However, this was a mystery for another time, as I had more than enough on my mind between Fort Adams and getting my mitts on the Sayers collection.

Before Vera could grill me on the missing books, the signora arrived with her giant tray containing a tureen of my favorite soup, homemade chicken broth with lovely little pasta stars, and a large bowl of what looked like freshly grated Parmesan. She ladled the soup into my Crown Derby soup bowl and said, “Cheese? Yes? Yes, yes, cheese.”

“That’s fine thanks, Signora,” I said as the fragrant Parmesan cheese kept coming. From the sideboard, one of the Siamese gave me an evil look. Bad Cat. Identical to Good Cat, except in temperament and behavior. I met its eye, curled my lip and pointed at my boots.

“Cheese,” the signora insisted, not liking my diversion.

“Stop now, Fiammetta, for heaven’s sake. Listen to what people are telling you,” Vera bellowed.

That stopped the cheese talk but sent the signora scuttling with the tray to Vera’s end of the table.

“Soup, Vera. Very good for you. Eat!”

Vera looked at her soup with a total lack of interest. As usual she’d probably have three tablespoons while I would probably have three bowls. At least that would be the signora’s plan. There’d be no point in fighting. Luckily, I think that hot homemade soup is the perfect fall food and the best way to get over getting drenched and disappointed. And it’s a terrific warm-up for the main course. The sound of rain slashing against the windows and the shriek of the wind couldn’t dim the magic of the signora’s soup.

“So,” Vera said, “when will my Sayers collection be coming back?”

The moment of truth. Of course, for one raised in the Kelly tradition, the truth does not come easily. I could always bluff. However, Vera had a sixth sense about that kind of thing. I gazed around the dining room before I spoke. If I got fired, I’d miss this amazing room where Vera’s grandfather Van Alst entertained captains of industry, governors and the upper crust of the region. Lord Peter Wimsey would have felt at home in this room, I was sure of that. I would particularly miss the Sheraton table and chairs and the silver candelabra on the priceless carved–black walnut sideboard with the dragon’s head knobs. It seemed to me there was a bit less silver sitting on it than there had been. Disappearing valuables were part of life in Van Alst House. Vera had to keep going somehow, and there was no way she’d part with her rare book collection. Better to auction off the candlesticks great-grandfather Van Alst gave his bride than mess with the books. But of course, the books had been messed with. That was the point.

“In my lifetime, Miss Bingham.” She loved saying that.

“Sorry.”

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.”