Midsummer Night's Mischief Read online

  Beverly frowned impatiently, but I thought I detected a slight softening in her countenance.

  “Plus,” I went on, “the Folio may be found. Efforts are under way to trace several leads even as we speak.” Okay, that last bit might have been a slight exaggeration. But I, for one, would be tracing a lead as soon as I could hightail it over to the university.

  Beverly looked at Randall, who shrugged, and at Kris, who shuffled through the papers on her lap.

  “Keli has two weeks of unused vacation,” Kris reported. “Unpaid leave is also an option.”

  “Okay,” Beverly said abruptly. “You can use up that vacation time. Starting today. After that, we’ll see where we are.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I stood up in a flood of relief. But Beverly was already turning back to her office. Randall and Kris headed to the door.

  Before leaving, Kris looked back and said softly, “Good luck.”

  I was preparing to follow them out when Crenshaw again cleared his throat. He stood by the window, hands behind his back, brow furrowed wistfully. “Let us hope,” he said, “that this unpleasant business will have been much ado about nothing.”

  “Yeah,” I said, wanting to kick him in the “much ado.” “Let’s hope so.”

  * * *

  “I was fired!”

  “What!”

  “Well, asked to resign. Same thing.”

  Farrah ushered me into her spacious apartment, where I followed her around while she got ready for work. She was going to be “in the field” today, visiting various law offices to demonstrate her company’s legal research software, and she didn’t have to be at the first location until 9:30 a.m. It was one of the many perks of her nontraditional law job.

  “Nuh-uh,” she said. “You were not fired. Impossible. They love you at that place. Everybody loves you.”

  “I nearly was fired. I swear!”

  Farrah looked at me skeptically in her bathroom mirror. But by the time she finished putting on her makeup, during which I relayed the details of my awful morning, she regarded me with more sympathy.

  “That really blows,” she said. “And with no time to plan a proper vacation getaway. I take it you’re not going away, right?”

  “Of course not. I’ve got a thief to catch.”

  “Right.” Farrah laughed. “Keli Milanni, girl detective. No problem.” Farrah stepped into her bedroom for a pair of earrings and put them in while she walked to the kitchen. “Coffee?” she said. “I’m making it to go, but I’ll brew some for you, too.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, sliding onto a stool at her granite kitchen island. “Listen, Farrah, I’m serious. Like I said the other day, the suspect list isn’t that long. Plus, I don’t think the Folio is going to be that easy to fence. I had a call from T.C. Satterly, and he suggested I talk with a Shakespeare expert at the university.”

  “Hmm.” Farrah popped a raisin bagel in her toaster, then turned to face me. “You really are going to play investigator on this, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “I have to. It may be the only way to save my job.”

  “In that case,” she said, “count me in.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be the Cagney to your Lacey. The Velma to your Daphne.”

  “Um, don’t you mean the Daphne to my Velma?”

  “No way. I’m Velma. You’re Daphne.”

  “You are way more—” I stopped myself and hopped up to give her a hug. “Thank you,” I said. Then I opened a cabinet, grabbed a mug, and helped myself to some of her coffee.

  “So, partner,” I said, “any suggestions?”

  “Well,” said Farrah, looking thoughtful as she spread cream cheese on her bagel, “I know someone at the police station. A friend of Jake’s. I’ll make a call and see if there’s any public info available. You go ahead and follow that lead you have today. Then we’ll meet up this evening and do what any good detective would do.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Return to the scene of the crime.”

  * * *

  Without too much trouble, I found my way to McCallister Hall, a turn-of-the-century redbrick building in the original quad of SCIU’s sprawling green campus. Unlike the shiny modern law school building, where I’d spent the bulk of my time at SCIU, McCallister Hall retained a quaint, traditional feel. It even had the musty aroma of old books and polished wood, like the old-fashioned county courthouse where I’d interned one summer. Without central air, the place was warm but not stifling. I climbed the marble staircase to the second floor, which housed the English Department, and located the office of Dr. Max Eisenberry. According to the sign on the door, Professor Eisenberry would be back for office hours in about twenty minutes.

  To kill time, I wandered around, peeking into classrooms and perusing bulletin boards. Although the summer session had started a week ago, the halls were quiet and largely empty, save for two students reading in a small lounge area in one corner of the floor. I watched them for a second and felt a twinge of nostalgia for my own college days. All that knowledge just waiting to be lapped up. All those new ideas and theories to learn and research. All that reading. All the homework.

  Okay, maybe I didn’t miss it quite so much, after all. Besides, the education part was really only half the college experience. The other half was the newfound independence and pursuit of f-u-n. For the first two years of undergrad, this included a conscientious determination on the part of my friends and me to sample—er, date—a variety of new and interesting college boys. That is, until Mick came along. Once he and I hooked up, that was it. We were inseparable. We were in love. We were gonna take on the world together.

  And then we weren’t.

  For a moment I stood in place, eyes ahead but unseeing, all my attention directed to the past. And then the past dissolved as the words on a flyer in front of me came into focus: SHAKESPEARE’S A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM, PERFORMED BY THE SCIU DRAMA TROUPE. EDINDALE RENAISSANCE FAIRE, SATURDAY, JUNE 22.

  Shakespeare. Right. The reason I was here. I turned back toward Professor Eisenberry’s office as two people approached, presumably the prof and a student. Dr. Eisenberry was younger than I expected, and sported a trim brown beard, Dockers, and a short-sleeved, buttoned-up cotton shirt. The student was an earnest-looking redhead who wore a denim skirt and was carrying a patchwork hobo bag. They paused before the office door and glanced at me as I walked up.

  “Dr. Eisenberry?” I said pleasantly.

  The young man raised his eyebrows in surprise, while the redhead answered. “That would be me,” she said.

  “Oh! Sorry,” I said.

  I stood there like an idiot while she pulled some keys from her bag and unlocked the door. She disappeared inside and returned at once with a book, which she handed to the well-dressed guy.

  “Thanks,” he said to her. Then he threw a look my way that was a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

  Damn. That was two times in one week I’d prejudged a person based solely on their name. How unenlightened of me.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said again to the professor. “I thought Max—”

  “Short for Maxine,” she said. “Not a problem. What can I do for you?”

  I took a breath and plowed ahead. “My name is Keli Milanni. I’m an attorney who represented a woman who owned a copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio. Recently, my client passed away, and the Folio was apparently stolen.”

  “Come on in,” she said.

  Her office was small but tidy. A large window dominated one wall, offering a nice view of the quad below. Bookshelves lined the other walls, surrounding a metal desk that was squeezed into the corner. There were few decorations, just a wall calendar and a framed photo of the teacher and her cute little family of three—teacher, hubby, and a dolly of a baby with red hair like her mommy. I smiled at the photo as I settled into the single guest chair next to the desk. Professor Eisenberry took her seat behind the desk and regarded me with interest.
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  “You don’t seem to be surprised,” I said.

  “No. I heard about the Mostriak Folio,” she responded. “Word gets around. It’s a shame it wasn’t examined and authenticated before it disappeared. Otherwise, there would probably be more publicity around the theft. As it happened, we learned the Folio was lost before we even knew it was found. It’s almost like one of Shakespeare’s own dream scenarios, really.”

  Hmm. Okay. I didn’t know about all that. But as far as I was concerned, the theft was going to cause a tragedy for my career if the plot didn’t turn around real soon.

  “Well,” I said, “I feel terrible about the whole thing. And I was wondering if you might have any ideas about where someone might try to sell the Folio. Also, even if it does turn up, will it even be possible to know it’s the Mostriak Folio, as you say? I understand there were more than two hundred copies.”

  “Actually,” she said, “there were seven hundred fifty originally printed. Around two hundred twenty copies are known to exist today. But those aren’t just floating around out there. Eighty-some copies are at the Folger Library in D.C. Several copies are at the British Library, and several more at a university in Japan. All the known copies have been indexed and described, down to the smallest detail. For example, there are differences in binding and condition, et cetera. So, if a previously unknown copy were suddenly to appear at an auction house, it could be the stolen copy. The coincidence of having an unindexed copy appear soon after one was stolen might lead you to presume they are one and the same copy. But, whether or not such a presumption would hold up in a court of law, I have no idea. You would know better than I.”

  “Right.” I nodded glumly. Without some documentation on Eleanor’s copy, something to identify it, it would be virtually impossible to prove that a newly surfaced copy of the Folio was her copy, rather than some unindexed copy. Unless . . .

  “I wonder,” I said, thinking aloud, “if maybe there was a description of this copy at one time. Eleanor Mostriak’s husband, Frank, inherited the book from his uncle, who was a collector. Maybe the uncle had it authenticated. Maybe there is a record on this copy someplace.”

  “Well, I’d say that’s a highly likely probability.”

  Yay! I brightened at the professor’s words. But then I slumped in my chair again, as I realized I had no idea what to do next. Ever patient, the good Dr. Eisenberry had the answer for me again.

  “You know who you should talk to? My predecessor, the former Shakespeare instructor here. He retired after more than half a century of teaching, and even then I don’t think he slowed down much. Now, here’s a true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool Shakespearean scholar for you. If he doesn’t already know the particulars on the missing Folio, he’ll at least know where to turn. I have his number here somewhere.”

  While she rummaged through a desk drawer, I noticed a copy of the flyer about the Renaissance Faire lying on the edge of her desk. I turned it around and traced the black-and-white comedy and tragedy masks that adorned one corner of the flyer. “Is there always a play at the Renaissance Faire?” I asked. “When I was in law school here, I seem to remember the festival being mostly about food and drink, with some juggling and jousting and merry music thrown in.”

  The professor looked up. “Oh, this is the second year the drama department has participated, I believe. They had a Shakespeare in the Park program some years ago. They switched to a more modern playbook for a while, and now they’re back to Shakespeare. I’m helping out in an advisory capacity.”

  She turned back to her drawer and pulled out a yellowed business card. “Here it is,” she said. Then she paused, rested her elbows on the desk, and stared at the flyer. “You know what?” she said. “If you want to find potential buyers for the First Folio, this would be a pretty good starting place.” She tapped the flyer, and I followed her gaze. In smaller lettering toward the bottom, it said 12TH ANNUAL LITERARY CONVENTION, 9:00–4:00, UNIVERSITY BALLROOM.

  “Literary Convention?” I said.

  “It’s a literary conference that coincides with the Renaissance Faire each year. Actually, it’s not so much for students. It’s more of a networking event for those in the rare-books business. The head of the English Department helps to organize it.”

  “Rare books, huh? Like Satterly’s Rare Books downtown?”

  “Sure. Dealers and collectors from all over the state tend to come to LitCon, as they call it. And I’m sure they’ll be buzzing about the Mostriak Folio, authenticated or not.”

  “Wow,” I said, halfway to myself. “I wonder if the thief knows about this.”

  “You might ask Dr. Knotts about LitCon. I don’t think he’s missed one yet.”

  I raised my eyebrows in question, and Dr. Eisenberry handed me the card she had retrieved. “The retired professor I was telling you about.”

  I took the card and glanced at the name with a start. The former professor of Shakespeare was none other than Wendell Knotts. The same name I had seen on the back of the carving in Rob’s apartment.

  CHAPTER 10

  Farrah picked me up at 4:00 p.m. in her sporty blue hatchback, and we zipped on over to Eleanor’s house. During the fifteen-minute drive, I filled her in on what I’d learned from Max Eisenberry, and she told me what she had found out from her police officer contact.

  “Jake’s buddy, Dave, was eager to help,” she said. “He’s married, has a young family, and wants Jake to settle down, too. He’s hoping we’ll get back together.”

  “Oh?” I’d been through a Jake breakup with Farrah before. I knew better than to comment on their relationship, one way or another.

  “So I let him think it was a possibility. I told him to tell Jake hello from me, you know?”

  “Nice touch,” I said. “So, what could he tell you?”

  “About Jake?”

  “No, silly. About the case.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, the police don’t know much more than we do—which, of course, isn’t much. It looks like they’re referring this case to the state. The state police have a Bureau of Stolen Arts and Antiquities, or something like that. Dave wasn’t sure if the referral had actually been made yet, but he did say Shakley and Buchanan have moved on to other assignments.”

  Terrific. While I kept telling people the cops were all over this case, they were really dragging their heels and passing the buck. All the more reason to take matters into my own hands. But as we rounded the corner onto Willow Street and the big yellow house came into view, I felt the confidence seep right out of the bottom of my feet. “Farrah, I really don’t know what we hope to find here,” I said as she parked by the curb. “I guess it would be nice if we found some evidence of a break-in.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Farrah murmured, shutting off her car and peering through the side window.

  “Because,” I went on, “if there was no break-in, then what we’re looking at is an inside job, right? Somebody in the family. And I really don’t want it to be somebody in the family.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Farrah. “Whose car is that in the driveway?”

  It was a dusty-looking black two-door, with a bug-spattered windshield. We stepped out of Farrah’s car and ventured over to look inside it. Fast-food wrappers littered the passenger seat, and the backseat so resembled a gym locker—with baseball bat and glove, tennis shoes, duffel bag, and other such guy stuff—that we could practically smell it through the windows.

  “Something tells me this isn’t Darlene’s.”

  “Gotta be Rob’s,” I said. “I’ve been in Wes’s car.”

  We looked at each other, and I shrugged. Up to the front door we went. Along the way I noticed that a few of the decorative stones lining the front path had been pushed out of place. And the lawn appeared to be several days overdue for a trimming. Farrah rang the bell. A few seconds passed, and then I saw a curtain move in the living room window. I reached over to press the bell again. Finally, the door opened and Rob stood there, looking a little sheepish and trying to
cover it up. He had that cute college boy look going on again, with gym shorts, a rumpled sweatshirt, and a baseball cap pushed back to reveal mischievous blue eyes.

  “Uh, Keli, right?” He looked from me to Farrah and back to me. “How—how’s it going?” he said uncertainly.

  “Hi, Rob. This is my friend Farrah. She’s a lawyer, too. We’re doing a little investigating, and I wanted to show her where the Folio was stolen.” I said this like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if I had every right to investigate the matter or even be at Eleanor’s house. I was counting on a certain level of naïveté I’d noticed in Rob, as well as the fact that he seemed to be more concerned with appearing natural himself. Then there was the disarming charm that Farrah could turn on anytime she so chose.

  “Hi there,” said Farrah, with a brilliant smile. She offered her hand to Rob for a friendly handshake. “I hope we’re not intruding. Wow. What a beautiful house.”

  Rob held on to her hand a fraction longer than necessary, then stepped aside to let us enter. “No trouble,” he said. “I, uh, was just checking on things, you know? Thought I’d make the place look lived in for a while. I was getting ready to watch the ball game. Grandma has satellite TV, so it’s always better over here.” Rob nodded toward the living room, which appeared dark and unused.

  “Oh, the game!” said Farrah. “Want some company?” Farrah looked up into Rob’s eyes and twirled a finger in her hair.

  “Sure!” he said. “Um, I doubt if there’s any beer here, but I bet there’s some sodas in the pantry. And maybe some popcorn.”