Midsummer Night's Mischief Page 13

  Rounding the corner, I entered the alley and rolled to a stop behind Eleanor’s garage. I peered over the gate, recalling my vision about her yard and wondering if the answer lay close to home. But there was nothing new to see. I turned and looked up at Brandi’s window, half hoping she’d be up there, sneaking another smoke. No such luck. Well, I would have to make my own luck, then. If that girl had seen something, I was going to wheedle it out of her one way or another.

  Just as I was about to return to the street and knock on Brandi’s front door, the teenager came out the back, letting the screen door slam behind her. I watched as she spread a blanket on the lawn and settled herself down with a tall glass of iced tea and a paperback novel. The strong scent of coconut suntan lotion made me long for my own beach blanket, tall drink, and escapist paperback. Some “vacation” this was turning out to be.

  “Hi, Brandi.”

  She sat up and frowned at me behind hot pink Wayfarer sunglasses. I entered through the garden gate and pulled a lawn chair up next to her blanket.

  “My name’s Keli. I’m a friend of the Mostriak family. I was hoping you would talk to me about the other night and what you saw from the rooftop.”

  She swallowed and glanced at her back door. I didn’t know if she was planning to bolt or expecting someone to come outside. Either way, I figured I better talk fast.

  “Look, Brandi. I don’t know if you’re protecting someone or if you’re afraid of getting into trouble yourself. But I do know it’s against the law to obstruct justice. If you have any information related to the burglary that took place across the alley, you’re legally bound to disclose it.” Of course, she wasn’t legally bound to tell me anything, but I didn’t let that stop me from asking. “Now, if you—”

  “I don’t know who he was, okay! It was getting dark. He was in the shadows. I don’t have any useful information, anyway. I didn’t see any harm in keeping quiet.”

  For a moment, I was so stunned that she’d opened up, I couldn’t think of a response. But I recovered quickly. “So, you did see someone. What was he doing?”

  “Nothing. He just came out of the gate over there, put something in his trunk, and . . . and left.”

  I had so many questions I wanted to ask the girl, I hardly knew where to begin. And my heart was palpitating so hard, I feared I would scare her away. I forced myself to take a slow breath and speak lightly. “Brandi, this is actually really helpful. Could you see anything at all of what he put in the trunk? The shape, the size?”

  “Oh, it was a bag.”

  “What kind of bag?”

  “Like a gym bag.”

  “Did you notice what color it was?”

  “No. I told you, it was dark down there.”

  “Okay. No problem. So, what did this guy look like? Can you describe him at all?”

  “He had on a baseball cap. I really couldn’t see his face very well. But I could tell he was cute.”

  “Oh? Did he seem to be young?”

  “Oh, no. He was definitely a man. Not a kid.”

  “A man?”

  “Yeah. Like, the strong, silent type.” I was beginning to guess why Brandi thought she wanted to protect this guy.

  “Was he muscular?”

  “Not, like, beefy or anything. But he had a nice body, from what I could tell. I don’t know. He just seemed hot, you know? From his movements.”

  “Can you describe his movements?”

  “Well, he seemed real sure of himself when he came out the back gate. Like, confident. Not like a sneak or anything. He put his bag in the trunk, and then he walked over to open his car door. That’s when he noticed me.”

  “Up on the roof,” I prompted.

  “Yeah. He looked up and paused and, like, tipped his hat at me. Like a gentleman, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then he put his finger to his lips like this, like he was saying, ‘Shhh.’ And then he did the gesture like you’re zipping your lip and locking it, you know? Like, as if you won’t tell a secret.”

  “Did you think he had a secret?”

  “Well, at first I thought he was referring to my secret. Smoking up there. But then it kind of felt like we both had secrets. And he wouldn’t tell mine, and I wouldn’t tell his. At least that’s what it felt like.” She started to sound a little defensive, so I nodded encouragingly.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then he blew me a kiss and got in his car and took off.” Brandi’s face colored, and she looked away.

  “What kind of car was it?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know much about cars. It was just a regular car, not a truck or anything.”

  A regular car. Well, that was helpful. “Did you notice the color?” Make, model, license plate number?

  “It was a dark color, I think.”

  “How about the guy’s clothes? Or his hat? A team name or anything else descriptive?”

  She shook her head. “His clothes were darkish, I’d say. The hat might have been blue or brown. Or green. I’m not sure.”

  I stared at her, finally at a loss. Did this girl need glasses?

  “Brandi, who did you think he was? Any ideas at all?”

  “I don’t know. There are always people coming and going from the Mostriaks’. I guessed he was a friend of the family or a relative or something. He didn’t act like somebody who had committed a crime.”

  “Right. I guess not. So, do you know what time this was?”

  “Um, sometime after eight. I had just watched the sun set. There’s a nice view on my roof.”

  I smiled at her. “I’m sure there is. Hey, thank you for confiding in me. Here’s my card, in case you think of anything else. But you really should tell the police everything you told me.” Not that they would do anything with the information, from what I could tell.

  She took the card, looked at it, and stuck it in her book. “This guy I saw, he wasn’t necessarily the thief, right?”

  “No. Not necessarily.”

  “Mmm. Well, I hope they do catch the thief. Mrs. Mostriak was a nice lady. That’s pretty messed up that somebody would steal from her after she died.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Messed up. You’re right about that.”

  * * *

  “Wow! You got an eyewitness report? This is huge!”

  “I know, right?”

  We were sitting in Farrah’s living room, a bottle of wine on the coffee table between us, all set to premeditate our perfectly legal scheme to break in, enter, and search my law office in the dark of night. Of course, when I told Farrah about my coup with Brandi, we had to revel for a moment. And then analyze.

  “I mean, she saw the thief.”

  “Well, the presumed thief.”

  “She interacted with him, could describe him.”

  “More or less,” I said.

  “Hey, we know it’s a him!”

  “Yes. This confirms my decision to rule out Darlene. We can also cross Sharon and all the other female relatives off the list.”

  “Okay. So, what else do we know? Tell me again. Exactly what did Brandi say?”

  Farrah grabbed a pen and paper from a desk drawer and listened intently as I repeated my conversation with Brandi. When I finished, she still held her pen poised over the blank sheet. We looked at each other in silence, and then Farrah made a face and put down the pen.

  “She didn’t happen to take a picture, did she?”

  I shook my head. “Her powers of observation are, admittedly, somewhat lacking.”

  “So, all we really know is that he . . . what? Has a manly body?”

  I laughed in spite of myself.

  “Which,” Farrah continued, “to a teenage girl could mean anything from a twenty-year-old to a very fit fifty-year-old.”

  “Well,” I said, trying to look on the bright side, “at least we can rule out T.C. Satterly, who runs on the heavy side. And Wendell Knotts, who runs on the elderly side.”

  “I suppose so.
I guess it’s a start.” She finished off her wine, set the glass down, and pushed herself up from the couch. “Anyway, we should get going. Time to go catch us a cheater.”

  We took my car and parked on the street in front of the building that housed my law office. Farrah, who had insisted on wearing black tights, a black Lycra top, and a black stocking cap, even though she was staying in the car, whipped out her cell phone like it was a spy gadget.

  “Synchronize watches,” she whispered. “I got eleven-oh-eight.”

  “Right,” I said, opening the car door. “Same satellite, same time. Now, watch the entrance and buzz me if anyone enters the building.”

  Unlike Farrah, I wore the same outfit I’d put on to meet Wendell Knotts oh, so many hours ago that morning. Stifling a yawn, I crossed the sidewalk, my footsteps echoing in the silence. There were no nightclubs on this side of the square, no late-night hangs, and the street was empty. I was pretty sure the maintenance staff wouldn’t arrive until 6:00 a.m. and I would be alone in the building. Still, I moved quickly and furtively. Catlike, in honor of Farrah and her Mission: Impossible fantasies.

  Once inside the suite, I went straight to Julie’s desk, where I retrieved the master key that unlocked all the interior offices. Lucky for me, this place wasn’t exactly high security. Then I proceeded to Jeremy’s office, let myself in, and flipped on the light. I glanced around, took in the clutter and general disarray, then sat down at his desk. Bits and pieces of spilled caramel corn lined the edges and filled the crevices in his keyboard. Blech. I’d have to talk to him about that.

  Carefully, I set aside the legal pads, folders, and assorted papers, mentally noting their arrangement so I could replace them after studying the blotter. Then I leaned down and squinted at Jeremy’s scrawls to see what I could make out among the coffee rings and the unidentified food stains. Okay, Jeremy. Where ya been? Meetings with clients, closings, court dates, a dentist appointment. Good luck with that, considering all the sticky caramel corn. But what about Thursday night, when Stacey showed up at my town house? I zeroed in on the calendar square for June 13 and . . . Bingo. There, in the corner, it said, RQ 8:00.

  RQ?

  I searched the other dates and found several more with the same cryptic notation, though sometimes with different times: RQ 7:00, RQ 9:30. And coming up? Well, what do you know, I breathed. For tomorrow night, Saturday: RQ 6:30.

  I took out my cell phone, pressed the camera icon, and snapped a flash photo of Jeremy’s blotter. Then I replaced his jumble of papers as best as I could and rolled back from his desk. Frowning, I looked around the room for any further clues. Who or what was RQ?

  The desk drawers held office supplies. And more food crumbs. The filing cabinets contained files. The space under his desk hid gym shoes, a navy blue duffel bag, a box of case files, and a portable fan. The trash can . . . I shuddered to think what might be in there. But I knew I should check. Carefully, I tipped it on its side and, with a ruler from Jeremy’s desk, stirred the contents, eyeing each piece in the mess. A wadded-up sandwich wrapper, an empty chip bag, a pop can—which, I noted to my chagrin, should really be in the recycling bin in the kitchen instead of in the trash—some junk mail, also recyclable, and a clump of folded receipts.

  Hmm. Receipts. There could be evidence there of Jeremy’s whereabouts. I grabbed them from the can and slipped them into my purse. I wanted to get out of there; Farrah was probably getting antsy. After taking a last quick look around Jeremy’s office, I righted the trash can, shut off his light, and left the room.

  But once out in the quiet hall, I paused, struck by a thought. Maybe it was something about snooping around a deserted place in the middle of the night that put me in a suspicious frame of mind, but it suddenly occurred to me that all my colleagues here knew about the Shakespeare Folio. I tried to think back as to who might have known Eleanor still had the book when she died. Who might also have known the hour of the visitation—a time when Eleanor’s house was likely to be unattended. Of course, anyone might have learned of the visitation from the obituary or even by inquiring at the funeral home. But I recalled three people I had told directly the day after Eleanor died: Pammy, Jeremy, and Crenshaw.

  Pammy’s office was right there in front of me, and Crenshaw’s next to hers. After the slightest vacillation, I let myself into her room, flicked on the light, and gazed around a neat but crowded office. The lingering aroma of heavy floral perfume filled the air. Vases, picture frames, and knickknacks covered every surface, while stacks of files filled the corners. Under Pammy’s desk were several department store shopping bags. I took a peek and found they held boxes of shoes and assorted articles of clothing with the price tags still attached. A cabinet in the credenza contained even more shopping bags. I raised an eyebrow and considered this for half a second. Then I shook myself. What am I doing? Brandi saw a well-built guy leaving Eleanor’s place. Pammy did not fit the description.

  But a newly shaven Crenshaw?

  I slipped into his office next, opened drawers and cabinets, riffled through papers, searched under his desk and in every corner. At a minimum, I thought I might find evidence of him stealing my clients, but there was nothing of interest. Even his wastepaper basket was nearly empty. I was about to leave when something about Crenshaw’s bookcase caught my eye. The second row of law books, which were lined up perfectly straight and flush with one another, stuck out a couple of inches from the shelf. I cocked my head, mentally measuring the space. Could there be something hidden behind the books?

  I grasped Black’s Law Dictionary, slid it out, and sure enough, there was another book tucked behind the others. Removing a couple more from the front row, I reached in to extract the hidden book and started when I made out the word Shakespeare on the cover. For real?

  Of course, it wasn’t the Folio. It wasn’t nearly as large or as old. Plus, this book had a red binding. Still, it was an interesting find. I plopped myself down on the carpeted floor, folded my legs, and took a look at the book Crenshaw had so carefully hidden away: Shakespeare’s Sonnets. I opened the cover, scanned the contents, read a few lines of poetry. It was no surprise Crenshaw was a Shakespeare buff. He quoted the bard any chance he got. So why hide this book away?

  Then I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from the book. Turning to the marked page, I found it was the section on love sonnets. I unfolded the paper to find, in Crenshaw’s careful slanting hand, an apparent attempt at his own fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. There were strike outs and alternative rhymes jotted in the margins. The work was clearly unfinished. But I knew what was going on here. A slow grin spread across my face as a singsong chant floated through my mind. Crenny’s in love. Crenny’s in love.

  I looked down to read his effort at poetry again, vaguely wondering about the object of his affection. Softly, I read aloud, “Your sparkling beauty I have long ador’d. With silken hair and eyes like—” A noise from the lobby made me jump.

  Was that the door? Slowly, I closed the book on my lap and listened intently, eyes wide. Another sound, definitely from the lobby. After scrambling to my feet, I hastily shoved the book back in its hiding place and returned the law volumes to the shelf, doing my best to make them even. Then I shut off the light, hurried out of the room, flew down the hall, and skidded to a stop as I found myself face-to-face with none other than Crenshaw Davenport. The Third.

  I squeaked out a gasp as my hand flew to my chest. For a moment, he looked as startled as I felt. Then his gaze slipped behind me to his own office door, which, I belatedly realized, I had failed to close tightly in my mad-dash exit.

  He narrowed his eyes and looked at me accusingly. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I work here,” I answered, jutting out my chin defensively. “I wasn’t fired, you know. I—I needed to get something from my office. Anyway, what are you doing here?”

  “I saw that the lights were on.”

  “Oh.”

  “It seemed unusual, given the ripen
ess of the hour.”

  “Yes, well, I thought it was better to stop in after hours. You know, under the circumstances and all. But it is late, so I’ll be going now. Good night.” I scooted past him and rushed out the door before he could question me any further. I had never been a very good liar.

  So much for giving Crenshaw a piece of my mind.

  As I walked up to my car, I saw that Farrah was outside, leaning on the trunk and facing the alley adjacent to the office building. She was on her phone. I tapped her on the shoulder, causing her to jump, twirl, and drop the phone.

  “Hey,” I said. “Lookout kid. You were supposed to be watching the entrance. I was caught!”

  “What? Oh, no! Jeez. I’m sorry.” She picked up her phone, saw the call had ended, and shrugged. “Jake called, and I got distracted. Who caught you?”

  We got in the car, and I told her everything as I drove her home. Well, not quite everything. I filled her in on what I had found in Jeremy’s office and on my little encounter with Crenshaw. But I skipped the middle part, where I poked around in Pammy’s and Crenshaw’s offices. I wasn’t quite ready to accuse my colleagues of anything nefarious in connection with the Folio. Now that I thought about it, the idea that they could be involved in any criminal activity was pretty outlandish, and the fact that I had snooped in their things only made me look childish and disloyal.

  After braking at a stoplight, I reached into my purse and handed Farrah my phone. “Check out the photo I took.”

  She squinted at the photo of Jeremy’s calendar, then tossed the phone back in my purse. “I’ll look at it after you transfer it to a bigger screen. So RQ, huh? Randy Quaid?”

  I snorted. “That’s better than the one I came up with—Ramona Quimby. Oh, see what this is.” I fumbled in my purse again and dug out the wad of receipts.

  Farrah took them and turned on the overhead light. “Contents of a man’s pocket?”

  “Probably.”

  “Roast beef sandwich, medium Coke.”

  “Skip that one. Anything else?”

  “Box of Cracker Jack. Bottle of Gatorade.”

  “Next.”

  “Cash-out voucher.”