Midsummer Night's Mischief (19 page)

“A couple days ago. Monday, I guess it was.”

So he was already living there when the break-in happened this morning. I narrowed my eyes and faced Jimi squarely. “Jimi, what is the deal with your buddy Wes? He's a photographer, right? Is he, like, a starving artist or something? Why did he leave New York? Why doesn't he have a job?”

Jimi looked away and shifted uncomfortably. “Who says he doesn't have a job? He works. He bartends here sometimes.”

I gripped Jimi's wrist and looked at him intently. “Why can't he afford his own place to live? Did he lose all his money gambling or something?”

Jimi looked at me in surprise, then pulled me to a quieter spot and lowered his voice. “Not Wes. Rob.”

Now we were getting someplace. “Rob lost all his money?”

“Rob always needs money. It's gotten pretty bad in the past year or so. He went out to New York to see Wes, ask for a loan, I think. Wes had helped his brother before. But this time he wouldn't give him any money. So Rob stole it instead. He took Wes's wallet, took his debit card, and wiped out his bank account.”

Stunned, I could only stare at Jimi.

“That's not all. Besides taking all the cash in Wes's wallet and emptying his bank account, Rob racked up huge bills on Wes's credit cards, too. Bought a bunch of merchandise, which he then sold for cash. Or that's what Wes thinks, anyway.”

My brain was swimming. All the birthday drinks people had kept plying me with might have something to do with this, but more than that was my shock. Happy-go-lucky Rob had really done that to his brother? Eleanor's grandson Rob was capable of such a thing?

“And Wes,” Jimi continued, “being who he is, refused to turn his brother in. I mean, he was pissed for sure. He had a huge argument with Rob, told him he needed help, really had it out. But he wouldn't call the police. Instead, he packed up and came back to Edindale—partly to start saving up money to pay off his debts and eventually move back to New York, and partly to keep an eye on Rob and convince him to get help.”

So that was the big rift between Wes and Rob. Before I could think of any more questions, Jimi squeezed my arm and scooted off toward the kitchen. I noticed then that the band was packing up and the crowd was thinning. I was eager to find Farrah and share the new info I had on the Callahans. But she was occupied with Katie, apparently trying to cut her off and hold her up at the same time.
Yikes.

I went to the washroom, still reeling from the news about Wes and Rob. When I came out, friends told me good-bye. Then Farrah came up and gave me a big hug.

“I hope you had a marvelous birthday, Keli-Beli. I called a cab for Katie. I'm going to ride with her and then go on home. You want to go with us?”

“Oh, no. I'm fine. It's such a short walk for me, and I could use the fresh air.”

“Okay, girlfriend. Call me tomorrow!”

“I will! And thank you again for all this! I did have a marvelous birthday.”

I gathered up my gifts, waved at Gary the bartender, and headed out into the night. It was nearly 1:00 a.m. and the streets were quiet as a ghost town. Frankly, I was surprised so many folks had stuck around so late, closing out the bar on a Wednesday night. Now there wasn't a soul in sight.

Everyone must be tucked safe and sound in their cozy little homes
, I thought sleepily.
Which is where I ought to be
. For once I was grateful I didn't have to get up early for work in the morning. Yawning, I crossed the street to Fieldstone Park.

The paved walkways were well lit, so I didn't think twice about cutting through the park at this hour. I had done it before after late nights at the Loose. Granted, I was normally with a companion. As the seconds passed and my footsteps echoed in the silence, the shadows seemed to deepen around me. And I soon began to second-guess my cavalier attitude. Especially when my ears detected a second set of footsteps on the pavement behind me.

I picked up the pace, and the steps behind me did likewise.
Shit
.
You've got to be kidding me.
I couldn't tell how close the person was, but I guessed they were probably some distance back. But getting closer. And here I was, smack-dab in the middle of the park. Up ahead, I saw that the winding path was leading me under a thick canopy of trees.

This was not good.

My pulse quickened with my steps, and the bags I held shook from the bounce in my gait. Shifting my eyes to the left, I noticed the tennis courts next to an open grassy area. I could cut through there, I decided, and meet up with the sidewalk on the other side.

Still walking quickly and keeping an eye on the ground in front of me, I looked behind me. Sure enough, there was someone on the sidewalk about forty feet back. He was tall, well built, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. And wearing a baseball cap.

Just like whoever had prowled around my front door that morning.

I sucked in my breath and walked faster, nearly breaking into a trot. I spared another glance over my shoulder and saw that the man had left the sidewalk, too. He was following me. And gaining on me.

Okay, sandals or not, I was done pussyfooting around here. I broke into a sprint and propelled myself forward with all my might. I was nearly to the path again, with lungs burning and an awful stitch piercing my side, when my pursuer called out to me.

“Keli! Wait up!”

Panting, I slowed to a stumbling jog and tried to place the voice. On the plus side, it hadn't sounded threatening. Even if it had, I was pretty much spent. Running at full tilt with a stomach full of alcohol was not working out so well. At this point, my best defense might be to hurl on the guy.

The sound of a passing car told me I had reached the edge of the park, so I slowed to a stop under a streetlamp. Fighting to calm my nerves, I turned around slowly and sized up the approaching figure.

“Jeez, Keli,” he said, taking off his cap and wiping his forehead. “You're hard to catch. I'm sorry if I freaked you out.”

I squinted at him, then widened my eyes in recognition. “Jake?”

“I tried to get your attention, like, two miles back, but you were in your own world. And then you kept speeding up.”

“Well, yeah! I didn't know who was following me. What do you expect, chasing a girl in a dark park?”

“I'm really sorry,” he repeated, looking down. “I wanted to talk to you about Farrah.”

“Walk with me,” I said, heading out to the boulevard. “I need to keep moving to keep my stomach under control. I had a few too many tonight.”

“Oh, right. Happy birthday.” Jake walked alongside me, looking glum.

“Aw, it's over now, anyway. So . . . how are you, Jake?”

“Confused. I thought Farrah loved me. I thought we were in agreement about making a future together. I can't figure out what she wants.”

We crossed the street together and neared my town house. I looked up at Jake and sighed. “You know, if there's one thing about Farrah, it's that she's honest. If she told you she needs space, then that's what she needs.”

“Space for what? We were apart for three weeks. Then when we got back together.... She said she never wanted to be apart from me again. I don't get her.”

“Jake, trust me. Farrah does love you. She's just a very independent person. I don't think you two had actually talked about marriage, did you? I think you caught her off guard. She needs time to think about things.”

And I need to get to bed
, I thought, pulling out my keys.

“I guess you're right,” said Jake. “I'll give her some space, let her come to me when she's ready.”

“Good. Now, go home and stop worrying.” After sending Jake on his way, I went inside, locked the door behind me, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. What a night. The truth was, Jake was a really nice guy and would probably make a fabulous husband. I mean, I sort of understood Farrah's hesitance. Then again, I also sort of envied her opportunity.

The closest thing I had to a boyfriend right now was . . . not even close at all. I hadn't heard from Wes since our so-called date three days ago, and he had never showed up tonight.

Ugh.
I kicked off my shoes and prepared to go flop into bed and sleep away all such boy troubles.

Until a rock came crashing through my front window, shattering all hope of a peaceful night's rest.

CHAPTER 19

It was always hard to get out of bed on an overcast morning. But after the night I had had, I expected to sleep in, anyway. When I woke up and pushed off the covers, I figured it must be at least 11:00 a.m. I squinted at my clock radio. It was nearly 1:00 p.m.
Oops.

I padded to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and turned on the shower. The fear and distress of the night before were starting to come back, and I wanted nothing more than to wash it all away. I groaned as I remembered the chaos that had followed the rock hurtling through my window. The noise from the breaking glass was so jarring, it had woken up my neighbors. Then everyone had seemed to arrive at once: Mr. and Mrs. St. John in their matching robes and Larabeth and Bryan, the couple who lived on the other side of my house, in their pajamas.

Luckily, Mrs. St. John had seen a car door slam on a dark vehicle in front of my place. The car had sped off, tires squealing, and had been gone before she could notice any kind of detail.

Still, I'd been relieved that Mrs. St. John had seen the vandal leave. At least then I had felt relatively safe from any further disturbances. I had tried to tell my neighbors that it really wasn't necessary to call the police, as there was nothing they could do. But they wouldn't listen to me. Mrs. St. John kept telling me I was in shock and trying to make me stay seated on the couch. Then she told the others about the prowler she had scared off in the morning, so I had to relent.

Farrah arrived right after the police did. In the immediate aftermath, when everyone was talking at once and my heart was still racing, I had called her up for moral support. She had gotten home from Katie's house and instantly said she would come right over. She was both surprised and not surprised to find that Jake had come to talk to me. When I told her about it, a look passed over her face that was an odd mixture of affection and perturbation. I knew she would have a long talk with him later. For now, she was more interested in the rock the police were bagging up, and the letters that were scratched into it.

Now I turned off the shower, toweled off, and dressed in comfy shorts and a T-shirt. Then I went out to the living room to take another look at my damaged window. In the light of day, the whole incident didn't seem quite as scary as it had the night before. Still, I shuddered as I recalled finding the rock halfway across the room.

It was oblong, about three and a half inches long and two inches wide, with sharp edges. Whoever had thrown it had lobbed it hard, ensuring that it would break through the window. I shuddered to imagine what would have happened if it had hit me. I wondered if the perpetrator had thought about that or if they had even cared. One thing was for sure: They had a message for me, and they were going to make sure I got that message.

Before the police arrived, I had turned the rock over in my hands and had read the crudely scratched letters.
MYOB.
There was only one thing it could stand for.

Mind your own business.

Farrah had pulled me aside after the police left. “Do you realize what this means? Somebody is getting nervous. This means we're on the right track. The Shakespeare thief has to be somebody you've questioned. Or at least somebody who knows you've been asking questions. This is great!”

“I don't know if ‘great' is quite the word I would use,” I'd said, glancing at the jagged hole in my window. “I've just been told to back off. If the thief feels the need to threaten me . . .” I had trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. Just what
was
the threat? What would this person do if I didn't back off?

“Do you want me to stay here tonight?” asked Farrah. “Better yet, why don't you come home with me?”

“No, that's okay. My neighbors are on alert now, and, anyway, I'm sure the creep won't come back tonight.” I squeezed Farrah's arm and gave her a tired smile. “Besides, you need to go home and call Jake. Poor guy. Go easy on him, okay?”

Farrah rolled her eyes and sighed. “Right.” Then she went to shuffle my neighbors back to their homes, while I got a broom to sweep up broken glass and soil from an overturned plant and found a board to cover the hole for the night.

After Farrah left, I burned a sprig of dried sage in a ceramic bowl on my coffee table. Then I walked around, sprinkling consecrated salt water on all my windows and doors, all the while murmuring a protection spell. This made me feel safer and allowed me to feel comfortable going to bed. Finally.

Now, in the early afternoon hours, which still felt like morning, I went into the kitchen to make myself some warm lemon water with a sprinkle of cayenne. It was just the thing I craved to cleanse my system. After that, I planned to make myself a great big brunch for one, but first I needed to call somebody about fixing the window.

While on the phone with a repair service, I walked over to remove the board and describe the damage. It was then that I noticed the envelope on the floor, next to the front door. Someone must have slid it underneath while I slept. The thought was alarming. Was it another warning?

As soon as I hung up the phone, I picked up the envelope and opened it warily. Then I breathed a sigh of relief. It was from my neighbor Larabeth. There was a single sheet of paper folded over a postcard:

I looked at the postcard and smiled, even as unexpected tears sprang to my eyes.

She was alive. She had remembered my birthday. And her timing was perfect.

Standing in my living room, I cradled the postcard in my palms like a priceless treasure as I read and reread the short lines. The front simply said
Birthday Greetings
over a picture of a candle-studded birthday cake. The back, however, was amazing. Like a voice from the beyond, Aunt Josephine's words spoke straight to my heart:

Aunt Josephine. Or Josie, as my mom sometimes called her. She would be sixty now. I always imagined her with waist-length hair, wearing a Bohemian skirt and Birkenstocks, still a hippie after all these years. Or maybe she was a gray-haired recluse, proud, eccentric, and set in her ways. But she would be kind and bighearted. Definitely bighearted.

* * *

It was about 5:30 in the evening when I picked up Farrah to set out for the Loose. Again. We were going to put our heads together, compare notes, analyze the mystery from all angles. I would grill Jimi some more if I could manage it. Plus there was my ever-present wish that I would bump into Wes again.

“Why don't you call the guy?” asked Farrah as we drove out of her parking lot.

“I don't know. I can't bring myself to do it. I feel kind of awkward about the whole thing.” I sighed as I slowed to a stop at a red light. “I mean, I know I should. And maybe I will after . . .”

“After what?”

“Um.” I lost my train of thought. Leaning forward, I peered through the windshield at a man leaving a check-cashing business in the next block. “Farrah, look at the guy across the street, the one getting in the black SUV.”

“Whoa,” said Farrah. “Bouncer, boxer, or hit man. What do you think?”

“He's the guy from the casino I told you about. Scarface.”

“Oh! Right. No wonder Rob was running scared. Not to judge a book by its cover, but there's a thug if I ever saw one.”

The SUV pulled away from the curb as the light changed and I entered the intersection.

“Follow him!” said Farrah.

“What? Really?”

“Yeah! Why not? We're supposed to be detectives, right? Maybe he'll lead us to a clue.”

I could think of a few reasons why not. But I also believed things happened for a reason. This opportunity had to be a gift from the Goddess. Nodding at Farrah, I lowered my sunglasses, slid down in my seat, and pressed on the accelerator just in time to avoid being stopped at the next light.

We drove through town, trying to stay back far enough to avoid suspicion while still keeping the black vehicle in sight. Farrah bounced in the seat next to me, calling out instructions and location updates.

“Oh, change lanes. He's turning!” Then, “Speed up. He's losing us!” Then, a minute later, “Fall back. We're too close!”

I white-knuckled it, doing my best to keep up the chase while hoping to Goddess we wouldn't actually catch the dude. Originally, I had thought he might be going to the riverboat, but then he turned in the opposite direction. Pretty soon it became apparent that we were heading out of town, as we found ourselves on the same country road I had driven with Wes a few days earlier. Letting up on the gas, I allowed a greater distance between us and Scarface. After a few miles, he turned onto another hilly, winding road, and I followed, now more reluctantly.

“What do you think? How far should we go?” I said.

“Let's keep following for a few more minutes. This is so exciting!”

I glanced at Farrah and laughed. “You know, you're acting more and more like your namesake every day. Next thing you know, you'll be joining the police academy.”

“Oh, please,” said Farrah, waving off my comment. “As if... Oh, wait. He's slowing down!”

I hit the brakes, holding back while the SUV made a right turn off the country road. Alongside us, I could see a whitewashed rail fence lining the road and a bucolic pasture on the other side. As we came to the point where the SUV had left the road, we looked up at the arched Western-style gateway marking the entrance to a private tree-lined lane. Elegant lettering on the arch named the place Dogwood Ranch.

“I don't think we should follow him in,” I said.

“No. It would be too obvious. Just keep going and then find a place to pull over.”

Less than a mile farther down the road, we spotted a tractor path in a wheat field. I pulled over and turned off the car. “Now what?”

“Let's walk back and follow that lane. There were a lot of trees. We should be able to stay more or less hidden.”

“It's the
less
part I'm worried about,” I murmured as I got out of the car to join Farrah on the edge of the road.

We trekked along, trying not to scratch up our bare legs too badly on the weeds and brambles. When we arrived at the private lane, we crossed under the black steel archway and slunk behind the tall oaks lining the driveway. At least, I felt like we were slinking. As we picked our way cautiously farther onto this private property, I kept imagining what I would say if we were caught.

“Check out the spread,” Farrah whispered beside me.

I peeked through the trees to see an expansive, beautifully landscaped front yard with manicured shrubbery and a dozen deep-green dogwood trees. In the center of it all stood a large brick colonial, complete with imposing white pillars. An ornate hanging sign on a tall oak post declared the owner of the estate: Harrison.

As in Edgar Harrison: investor, landowner, prominent citizen of Edindale. And important client to Olsen, Sykes, and Rafferty.

Farrah and I looked at one another; then Farrah snapped her fingers. “Of course! Edgar Harrison owns the casino. There's the connection.”

“He does? I didn't know that.”

“Yeah, it was in the news years ago, before you moved here. There was some opposition to the riverboat, as there always is with gambling. But Harrison pulled strings or greased palms or whatever, and the city approved his plans.”

“So Scarface must work for him, then.” I looked back at the house as the front door opened. “Oh, speak of the devil. Back up. Here he comes!”

From behind the trees, we watched as the thuggish figure jogged down the front steps and circled toward the rear of the house. Creeping forward, we saw a mammoth four-car garage at the end of the driveway and farther back a stable attached to a horse corral and a grazing area. Scarface headed toward the stable.

I was about to suggest to Farrah that we retreat while we had a chance when I heard the sound of tires crunching on the gravel lane behind us. Just then the front door of the house opened again, and a middle-aged woman came outside to greet the approaching car. Without a second to lose, Farrah and I darted around the corner of the garage.

“Ooh. Close call,” said Farrah, exhaling.

“No kidding.”

Cautiously, I peered around the edge of the garage and observed a young family of four pour out of both sides of the car, which had parked behind the black SUV. The youngest child yelled, “Grandma!” and ran into the open arms of the woman from the house. Then two more cars rumbled up the driveway.

“Oh, man,” I breathed. “This doesn't look good.”

From out of the second car emerged a young couple carrying a bocce ball set, which they proceeded to set up in the front yard. The third car held another family, this one bearing bags of food. A kid from that car ran back toward the stables, shouting, “Can I see the horses?”

“This is
really
not good,” I repeated, nervously tapping my knuckles on my mouth.

As we crouched behind the garage, feeling like trapped animals, the smell of lighter fluid and wood smoke drifted from the direction of the backyard. “Guess they're having a barbecue,” said Farrah. “Maybe we could act like we were invited?”

I shook my head. “The party's not big enough to pull that off. I think they'd notice we're not members of their family.”