The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) (24 page)

I cut my losses and went over to the books. The usual bestsellers. A few tattered Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. Some vintage cookbooks. A dozen pristine Hardy Boys books for a dollar each. I knew I could get eight to ten for them online. I’m always on the hunt for the 1931 first edition of
What Happened at Midnight
, which I happened to know was worth about a thousand dollars. I did locate a copy of
Strong Poison
, a Sayers book from the New English Library reprint series with the psychedelic covers, but the paper was badly foxed and it smelled too musty to buy. Too bad, because it was the one where Lord Peter decides to save the mystery writer, Harriet Vane, from the gallows, when she was on trial for poisoning her lover. One of my favorites. But musty books are a no-no for me. Even though burying them in clean kitty litter for a couple of weeks can help take out some of the mustiness, I preferred to wait for a better copy.

Candy answered her cell, which was a relief. It was hard having her in my space. All that intensity.

“I got called back in,” she said. “Gotta go. Sorry. I know you’re having fun, but duty calls.”

“No problem. That was our arrangement,” I said, wishing we’d each had our cars. But then we wouldn’t have had those conversations on the way.

She headed out. I took my finds to the cashier. I realized I still had Candy’s Police Officer Barbie. I paid for the doll and grabbed the bag with the sweaters, the Barbie and the Hardy Boys.

Candy was surprisingly quiet on the way home. Whatever she’d been called back to, she didn’t want to talk about it.

I considered asking her thoughts about the Smiley situation. But she was not in a warm and receptive mood. And I reminded myself that she was a police officer and if Smiley’s activities violated policies, Candy had no ties to him.

As we approached the Van Alst property, she practically had a black cloud over her baseball cap. I didn’t think I’d done anything to bring that on. So what, then?

If it was related to the murder investigation, she would have been suppressing excitement. She was itching to get in there. No, it must have been something else.

Maybe she was just sleep deprived. I knew I was.

I felt a sinking feeling in my gut. What if she’d found out something about Tyler? Or Uncle Kevin?

T
HE VAN ALST
House was a perfect fall vision of brilliant foliage. I said good-bye and Candy responded with the barest of grunts. And no eye contact. I wasn’t sure what had happened. I hopped out of the Tahoe and Candy vanished with a spray of gravel. Still, the day was so gorgeous, nothing much could dim its effect. The Van Alst House was showing signs of age, and the property was in need of a decent gardener, but the vivid swirling leaves on the property looked amazing. What was even more amazing was the signora jumping in front of me.

She motioned wildly back at the kitchen door. “
Il gatto!
Oh,
Madonna!
” Her eyes were wild. At the door there were two bowls and a plate of cold cuts and what looked like bratwurst, from my best guess.

My Italian being limited to food items, I thought perhaps we were talking about cake. “
Gateau?
” I asked hopefully. “You want me to eat it?”

I tell you, it really does something to your self esteem when a person behaving this erratically looks at
you
like you’re the one who’s lost your marbles.

“Meeeoooo! Meeeoooo!” She seemed to be petting her arm, and grimacing in desperation. Her round little body shook. Then she motioned behind her to the dishes at the door again.

As I approached her, she began wailing like a kicked sheep. I held her by the shoulders, hoping that if I waited long enough, I’d be granted understanding.

She was petting her arm again. One last time she let out a “Meeeoooo” then her shoulders fell in defeat.

“I believe Fiammetta is trying to tell you that someone kidnapped my cats.”

The voice from behind and below us sent a cold jolt through me.

“What?” I said stupidly, whirling to gaze down at Vera in her wheelchair.

“
Dio mio!
” Signora crossed herself.

Vera had somehow managed to make her way out of the house and across the gravel without either of us hearing her approach. I figure the crunch of the gravel had been drowned out by the racket.

“The cats, Miss Bingham. The cats are gone. They are no longer in this house. While you were out gallivanting, Fiammetta and I have searched the entire house. Every. Single. Inch.” Her voice was calm and icy cold.

It finally dawned on me that the bowls at the back door and plates of salted meats were intended to lure the felines home. Unless someone had kidnapped them, not that the idea made any sense.

“And you’ve checked the—”

Vera did not let me finish. “Yes! Did you not hear me just now? We have checked every square inch. They are not here. Not. Here.”

“It’s just that they are often under the beds or tables. I know that the hard way. Check my ankles.”

“They are not. Fiammetta has checked everywhere, crawled under everything. They are gone. They are such creatures of habit and now, they are gone. Vanished.”

I knew those cats. They liked nothing more than a firestorm of emotion. They could be reveling in all this attention and drama. I said, “There’s the dumbwaiter. They like hiding in that.”

“Vanished, Miss Bingham. What will it take to convince you?”

• • •

FOR ONCE, THERE
was no sumptuous lunch in the conservatory. It was every girl for herself as the signora roamed the Van Alst estate calling for the cats. Vera rolled after her in the wheelchair. In the distance, I could hear her saying, “Pull yourself together, Fiammetta. The cats are Siamese, not Italian. They won’t understand a word you’re bleating.”

Of course, I joined in the great cat hunt, but inside the house. I started in my own attic garret and searched the third floor and then worked my way down.

Obviously, the signora had been in my room already, as there were small things out of place. She knew that one cat liked to hang out with me and the other one was interested in slashing at my legs from under the bed.

I was sure she’d done her best to search, but I was younger and more flexible. I could crawl right under beds and into attic eaves. I could even fit into the dumbwaiter. I did these things and many more, but after a couple of hours, I conceded defeat.

By then, the signora was glumly busying herself in the kitchen. I gathered that she was making some enticing treat for the cats. Vera was glowering at the
NYT
crossword in the conservatory. She hadn’t gotten far. Not like her at all.

I didn’t want to depress her more by saying that my long search had been for nothing.

She glanced up at me. “Have you had any success in finding your missing people, Miss Bingham?”

This took me by surprise. I felt a lump in my throat. It was so unlike Vera to be concerned about anyone.

I shook my head and then managed to say, “Thank you. One has shown up and I am sure the other one will too. And so will the cats.”

But in reality, I wasn’t sure. Where could those cats be? They were spoiled and indulged and weren’t likely to find a better situation anywhere else. We had no near neighbors and anyway, the felines were skittish around strangers.

I didn’t say anything, but I was worried about predators. There had been coyote sightings in our area. But coyotes don’t roam inside houses. What could have caused the cats to exit the house in the first place? That was the question.

I stepped into the kitchen to see if I could offer the signora a hand. She was in a flap and very distressed. However, I found myself shooed out of the kitchen in short order. I figured she found her cooking domain therapeutic.

I had lots of other things to do and to think about:

Was Uncle Kev alive and all right?

What was Officer Smiley up to?

Where were the three missing books?

What had happened to Randolph, Delilah and Mason?

How was the dead hit man connected to them? Or was he?

Was there a connection between him and the other death in Burton? It was too coincidental otherwise.

What about Harry Yerxa? Had the nosy old neighbor witnessed something? Had someone threatened him to shut him up? Was he hiding out?

What was Karen forgetting to tell me?

Why did Officer Candy’s mood change so abruptly on our trip?

Not in the least, where were the damn cats?

And why were all these terrible and inexplicable things happening to us, all at once?

• • •

VERA WAS BACK
in her regular vinegary mood. To tell the truth, I was a bit relieved. At least I know how to deal with the familiar Vera. The glimpse of her compassionate side had been a bit unsettling. Just before our regular dinner at eight, I ran into her as we headed down the endless corridor toward the dining room. I wasn’t sure if the signora had been able to produce a meal given her state of mind.

She looked up and raised an eyebrow at me. “Don’t think I have forgotten about my missing Sayers and your role in that.”

“I have not forgotten my role in repatriating the books that were stolen from you before I ever set foot in this house, if that’s what you mean. I am making progress too.”

I used my calmest voice—just to keep her from going on about it—when the long chime of the front door sounded.

We whipped our heads toward the noise. Vera spun around in her wheelchair. The signora came barreling out of the dining room. I was barely ahead of them both. And reached the door only mildly out of breath.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Open it!” Vera barked. “I’m sure it’s not the Girl Scouts selling cookies!”

No, I was equally sure the Girl Scouts had been warned on their first try not to ever attempt to sell cookies here again on pain of something dire. I swung the heavy door open to reveal Uncle Kevin.

My jaw dropped.

The signora burbled some unfamiliar syllables, but Vera was silent.

Uncle Kevin was holding a small pet carrier containing a blue point Siamese. An elegant paw with sharp claws was poking out of the front grate. Uncle Kev carried a friendlier Siamese cat on his shoulder, like a parrot.

My job and accommodations flashed in front of my eyes.

“Buh!?” was all I could manage before the signora pushed past me and Vera nearly ran over my foot getting out.

Good Cat leapt gracefully from Uncle Kevin to Vera’s lap. Kevin grinned. I wasn’t sure what was happening.

I leaned forward and whispered, “Where have you been?”

He whispered back, “Long story. For another time.”

Kev turned from me to face Vera and the signora. He twinkled. Shazam! He pulled out all that ginger-haired Irish leprechaun magic that is in the Kelly genes. They didn’t stand a chance.

Kev was saying, “Oh, hi, Jordan. Glad you’re back. Heard you were worried about me. I came by today to talk to you, and Miss Vera and Miss Fiammetta here were in a state about the kitties going missing.”

Really?

Why did that not strike me as the whole truth?

“And the cats?”

“I had nothing better to do, so I went looking. I found them down the road a bit. They jumped right in the car.”

I felt like I’d swallowed a stone. “You found them heading down the road and they jumped right in the car.”

“Yes. That’s what I said. How weird is that?”

“Oh, very weird.” The thing was, I knew my uncles, and for this uncle, in particular, the word “found” had a different meaning in his dictionary, as in, you might “find” a Rolex or another man’s wife in your bed.

By now, the signora had pulled Kevin and Vera inside and pressed the handle of the pet carrier into my hand. The feline in the carrier managed to lash out and slash my herringbone tights.

Stunned, I watched my worlds collide.

No questions asked. There were no accusations of wrongdoing. Vera stroked Good Cat, while the signora fussed over Uncle Kevin. He was radiating Kelly charm in her direction. You could practically see it: golden beams headed toward her. As many people have learned, that charm was enough to turn a person’s brain to mush.

“I noticed you have some beautiful landscaping. I saw a spectacular specimen of burning bush,” I heard Kevin say as they entered the dining room, toward his reward of homemade Italian food.

It was about three minutes before I could unhook Bad Cat’s claw and then gingerly set down the carrier. I was careful to stand safely behind it when I released the latch and a very unhappy Siamese raced, rowling, into the corridor. My tights were ruined, but I was happy to have escaped with only minor blood loss.

“Cats.” I muttered. At least you could trust dogs. Walter would never have done such a thing.

Kevin’s laugh boomed from the dining room and along the corridor.

I wasn’t sure if it was wise to race back to my quarters to remove the tights. But I did. I also applied antibiotic cream and bandages and put on fresh tights and the high dress boots I usually wore to dinner. Too bad I hadn’t thought of that before.

By the time I arrived back, Kevin was seated at the Sheraton table like a king, surrounded by delicacies and delights and two smiling women.

The signora had outdone herself this afternoon, probably in an effort to calm herself.

Kev’s hand gripped a crystal tumbler filled with expensive-looking amber liquid. Cognac? Who drinks cognac by the tumbler? Never mind with dinner. But we weren’t dealing with just anyone here.

“Here’s our girl!” Kevin trumpeted. “Beautiful thing, ain’t she!” He beamed with pride, but my spirits were sinking fast. I began mentally packing my bags.

“Quite.” Vera’s tone, terse as ever, made it impossible to know if she truly thought I was a beautiful thing. Maybe she was thinking about replacing me with Kevin.

“So, we’re going to be workin’ together, my girl!” Kevin said with a mouth full of pasta.