Midsummer Night's Mischief (8 page)

Farrah came in just as I got back to the table. “I already ordered. Sorry,” I said. “I was starving.”

“You okay?” she said, taking the seat opposite me. Then, to the waitress, she said, “I'll just have an iced tea. Thanks.”

I leaned forward, propped my elbows on the table, and began rubbing my forehead. “I've had better days,” I said. I filled her in on the scene with Darlene. “I just came from seeing the appraiser dude. He told me he didn't think Eleanor had insured the book yet.”

“Well, that's not your fault, of course,” said Farrah, defending me at once. “All you were hired to do was draw up a will, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And I was going to represent her in the sale of the thing, too. And I
was
looking out for her interests.” I remembered Darlene's accusations and felt my face getting hot again. “I advised Eleanor to take the Folio to the bank. And I would have told her to have it insured . . .” I trailed off and shook my head.

Farrah reached over and patted my hand. “I'm sorry she died, sweetie. And it really sucks that somebody stole her Shakespeare book. I mean, who would do that? Who even knew where it was?”

The waitress, a college student with short strawberry-blond hair and a tiny nose ring, arrived with my food and Farrah's tea.

Addressing the waitress, I said, “Do you happen to know Wes Callahan?”

She tilted her head, nose ring flashing in the sunlight. “Wes Callahan,” she repeated. “I don't think so. Should I?”

“I thought he might have come in here a little while ago. Was there a good-looking guy here? About six feet, dark hair, blue T-shirt. Tattoo around his arm.”

“Not lately,” said the waitress. “I think I would've noticed. Too bad, though. Sounds nice.”

After she left, Farrah looked at me accusingly. “Is that why we're here? You're stalking Rock Star now?”

I bit into my burger and shook my head. Farrah snatched a fry from my plate and waited for me to answer.

“I saw him in the alley behind here,” I said, then took a sip of water. “I just thought it might be nice to run into him, you know? We've hung out, briefly, only a couple of times. But each time, I've felt like there could be something there.”

“Oh, there's something there, all right,” said Farrah, nodding. “You don't have to explain yourself to me.”

I laughed shortly, then frowned again. “Well, there's not going to be much of a chance for anything if he blames me like his mom does.” I heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I just wish that book would turn up.”

“Turn up?” echoed Farrah. “That's not likely, is it? It could be anyplace, right? I mean, like, in a million possible hiding places from here to Belarus.”

“Yeah, but wait,” I said, leaning forward. “I've been thinking about this. There may be a million possible hiding places, but there aren't a million possible suspects. Not very many people knew about the book.”

Farrah raised one eyebrow. “Go on,” she said. “What are you getting at?”

“Eleanor had the book for only five days.
Five days.
And it's not like she went to the press or anything. She told very few people, I'm pretty sure. Let's see.” I raised my thumb as I started counting. “There's her family, of course. And the book dealer, this T.C. character I just met. And me. And, well, my law office knew about it.”

“Okay,” said Farrah. “What about friends? Neighbors? Acquaintances?”

I shook my head. “I don't know,” I said. “I really don't think she was spreading it around that much. I don't remember hearing anyone talking about it at the memorial service. I kind of think she was keeping it as a surprise for her friends.”

“Hmm,” said Farrah thoughtfully. “I suppose we know she didn't tell her banker or insurance agent, because she didn't lock it up or insure it.”

“Right.” I winced. “Don't remind me.”

“Sorry,” said Farrah. “But, you know, you may be right about the short list of suspects. Too bad you can't talk to her daughter about who else knew about the book. What about the cousin you were telling me about? Sharon?”

I shrugged. “I'm really not sure where I stand with the rest of the family. But I've got to assume they're all about as happy as Darlene. Honestly, I'm not in such a big rush to talk to her again.”

“Okay,” said Farrah, stirring her tea with a straw. “So, do we know when exactly the Folio was taken? You said the family called the police yesterday?”

“Yeah. But here's the thing. Darlene remembered seeing it before the visitation, at around four o'clock or so. And then, afterward, she noticed it wasn't where she had seen it before. That was around eight thirty, I think. The family was heading someplace for a late potluck dinner or something.”

“So the robbery occurred during the visitation?”

“It looks that way,” I agreed.

“Unless Darlene was lying,” said Farrah. “She may have conveniently manufactured her own alibi.”

I shook my head. “I don't think so. I mean, anything is possible, but I'd bet my next paycheck she was being sincere. If I were a betting woman, that is.”

“Okay. Then does that mean the whole family is off the hook? Weren't they all at the visitation?”

I pondered these questions. “I'll have to make a list of all the family members who were in town. I believe Eleanor's will names all of them. I don't know if it's possible to get ahold of the guest book from the funeral home. I imagine Darlene has that. Anyway, it wouldn't really prove anything. People were coming and going throughout the whole thing.” I stared out the café window as I recalled all the people I'd met and observed at the visitation. And the ones I hadn't seen.

“What is it?” said Farrah, reading my thoughts.

“There were two family members who left early. And from what Eleanor told me, they were among the first to see the Folio after she found it.”

“Who?”

“Darlene's sons. Wes and Rob.”

CHAPTER 8

The next morning, when I arrived at my office, I was surprised to find a bouquet of pink and purple roses in the middle of my desk. No card. Puzzled, I lifted the flowers to my face, closed my eyes, and inhaled the heavenly sweet scent. I didn't know who had left the gift, but I was cheered by it. I took it as a sign that this day wasn't going to be as bad as I thought.

I walked up to the reception area to see about a vase. Julie was already pulling a large mason jar out from under her desk as I approached. She handed it to me with a pleased expression. “You have a secret admirer,” she said teasingly.

“Did you see who brought them in?” I asked. “And was he dark-haired, well built, and sexy-scruffy?” I wanted to ask.

“Well . . .” She shrugged, with a sly grin. “Some people might call him a brownnoser, but I'd call him supersweet.” She tilted her head toward the hall and rolled her eyes toward Jeremy's office.

All morning I kept looking for an opportunity to catch Jeremy alone, but it never happened. Between that and worrying about Darlene and the Folio, I was finding it hard to concentrate on work. But I did manage to photocopy the pages from Eleanor's will that listed all her living relatives. I put a line through the ones I knew weren't in town Saturday evening, based on what Sharon had told me. After hesitating for a second, I went ahead and put a line through Darlene's and Sharon's names, too. I started to cross out Kirk's name, as well, assuming that both of Eleanor's children would surely have been at the visitation the whole time. But then I remembered he had come in from outside while I was talking with Darlene. Better hold off on ruling him out.

I finally had a chance to see Jeremy that afternoon at the in-house seminar the partners had arranged. As all the attorneys gathered around the long table in the conference room, I snagged the empty spot next to Jeremy. He glanced at me and winked. While Crenshaw set up his PowerPoint presentation and began introducing himself—as if we didn't all already know everything we wanted to know about him—I opened my notebook and wrote the words
Thank you
on the first line. I slid the notebook in front of Jeremy, and he looked down at it. I was watching him, expecting to get another wink. Instead, he leaned over to whisper in my ear.

“You had a rough day yesterday, with that bitch screaming at you and everything. I thought you could use some cheering up.”

Okay, now I was confused. The flowers had nothing to do with the other night? These weren't “I'm sorry I made a drunken fool of myself and created a totally awkward work situation” flowers?

Before I had time to analyze it, a couple of latecomers squeezed in at the table, causing Jeremy to move his chair closer to mine. Then the lights dimmed and the presentation began.

Five minutes later I nearly jumped out of my seat when I felt Jeremy's knee touching mine under the table.
What the holy hell?

I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the screen and noticed in my peripheral vision that Jeremy seemed to be watching the screen, too. Then he started taking notes, as casual as can be. I waited for him to move over, and he did, all right—even closer. Our thighs were touching now.

Okay
, I reasoned to myself.
This is probably just that guy thing, where they gotta spread out and let their boys have some breathing room. Right?
As oblivious as Jeremy often was, he probably wasn't even aware he was encroaching on my space.

I was so irritated with myself for not moving away. Even worse, I was sort of liking it.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Here I was, touching the Untouchable. I really needed to get myself a boyfriend.

The second the presentation ended, I scooted my chair back and darted out of the room. I was nearly to my office when I was stopped by a sharp voice behind me.

“Keli! Could I see you in my office, please?”

Oh. Shit.
How could she have seen what happened under the table? Was it that obvious? Burning with embarrassment, I turned to see Beverly already walking away, expecting that I would follow her.

We passed through her cozy lounge and went directly into her spotless office. The mahogany desk gleamed under orderly stacks of legal documents. Souvenirs from her travels decorated the room, including a large African mask, which now seemed to stare reproachfully down at me. Judging me.

Beverly took her seat behind the desk, and I sat down in one of the client chairs facing her. She regarded me over red-framed bifocals.

“Keli, you didn't tell me you had a visit from Darlene Callahan yesterday.”

“Oh.”
Of course.
“Well, there wasn't much to tell.”

“That's not the way I hear it,” Beverly said. “A number of your colleagues informed me that Ms. Callahan was quite upset.”

“She
was
upset, understandably. She just lost her mother and then the Folio. And, unfortunately, her mother passed away before having the Folio insured.” I tried to keep my voice steady. If I didn't make a big deal over this, maybe Beverly would let it go.

“Yes,” said Beverly. “These are unfortunate circumstances. Also unfortunate is the fact that another client overheard your exchange with Ms. Callahan.”

I cringed. “I am so sorry, Beverly. I should have closed my office door.”

“That might have been a wise idea. However, it wouldn't have solved this problem. The fact is, not only is Ms. Callahan upset, but it also sounds like she blames you.”

“Beverly—” I began, but she held up her hand, cutting off any excuse I might offer.

“You need to get a handle on this, Keli. You need to undertake major damage control. Fix things with the family.”

“I know Darlene's son,” I offered. “Maybe if I talked to him . . .”

“If you think that might make a difference, then by all means talk to him. The sooner the better.”

I glanced at the clock behind Beverly's desk. It was only 3:50 p.m.

“Go ahead,” said Beverly, looking grim. “Go home early if you need to. Just nip this in the bud.”

I walked home quickly, the scene in Beverly's office looping in my mind. She might not have reprimanded me, not officially, but I still felt scolded. I hadn't felt this way since my parents chewed me out in the ninth grade for skipping school. It was not a good feeling.

I let myself in, dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight for the living room couch. After flopping down on my back, I stretched out and closed my eyes.
Breathe
, I commanded myself. My house was so quiet, I could hear the clock ticking in the small guest room I used as an overflow closet.
Maybe I should adopt a cat
, I thought halfheartedly. I longed to call Farrah, but I didn't want to bother her at work.

What should I do? After a couple more long breaths, I sat up and rubbed my temples. Then I reached for my laptop on the coffee table, propped it on my knees, and started typing.
Wesley Callahan, Edindale.
Bingo. He had a Facebook page, and, damn, what a cute picture. I stared for a second, then shook my head and clicked. Private. It figured. Did I want to send a friend request? Um . . . maybe later.

I searched the other Callahans and found an address and a phone number for Darlene. I wasn't about to call her. I also found an address, but no phone number, for Wes's brother, Rob. I recognized the address, an apartment complex called Woodbine Village. As I recalled from one or two parties I'd attended during law school, it was occupied mainly by older university students. It was in a woodsy area near the campus lake. The rail trail passed behind the place.

But forget Rob. Wes was the guy I really wanted to see. Might as well return to the place where I'd found him twice before. I took about ten minutes to freshen up, trade my trousers for skinny denim capris, and remove my blazer. The black cami would do. Then I ran a brush through my hair, slipped on some cute beaded sandals, and walked out to find my silver-blue Fusion where I'd left it parked on the street.

It was just past five o'clock when I arrived at the Loose Rock, and happy hour was already well under way. I went straight to the bar, hoping to get lucky again, but Wes was nowhere to be seen. I would have chatted up the bartender, Gary, but he was clearly too busy to talk. Instead, I walked toward the back and peeked through the kitchen door to look for Jimi. No sign of him there, so I went around to a door marked
PRIVATE
and rapped loudly. A couple of seconds passed, and the door swung open. Jimi wore a scowl, which he promptly dropped when he saw me.

“Oh. Hey, Keli. What's the matter?”

“Hi, Jimi. Nothing's the matter. I was actually looking for Wes. Have you seen him?”

“He's not here. Sorry.”

Okay, this was really awkward, but I had to do it. Swallowing my pride, I pressed on. “Could you give me his number? I really need to talk to him.”

Jimi hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” He pulled out his phone. “Ready?”

I took my phone from my purse and entered the number as Jimi read it. It had a 212 area code, which made me wonder if Wes would eventually be going back to New York.

“Thanks a bunch,” I said. Then, as an afterthought, casual as can be, I added, “Hey, so where is Wes staying, anyway? Not with his parents, right?”

“Uh, no.” Jimi looked away, stroked his goatee, and glanced at the floor.

What's with the evasive maneuvers
? I wondered.

He shrugged again. “He's staying with some friends or something, I think. Look, Keli, I gotta finish up with inventory and check on things in the kitchen. See you later, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” I said it to myself, as he had already closed the door.
Strange.

But I didn't waste any time worrying about Jimi. I hurried out to my car, where I could sit quietly and call Wes. Nervously, I punched in the number and waited. Two rings, three rings, four.

“Hi. This is Wes. Can't take your call right now. Leave me a message and I'll catch up with ya later.”
Beep.

With my heart in my throat—What was I? Twelve years old?—I left a message. “Hi, Wes. This is Keli Milanni. Give me a call when you get a chance. I'm calling from my cell. Um, I know your mom is upset with me. And, uh, I was hoping I could talk to you. Bye.”

Ugh.
I felt like such a dork. I immediately called Farrah, but she didn't pick up, either. So I started driving, no clear destination in mind. Sitting at a stoplight, I absentmindedly fingered the charm Mila had given me, which now dangled from my keychain. When the light changed, I turned left and soon found myself heading toward Woodbine Village. It seemed doubtful that Wes would be staying with his brother, considering the chilly relationship they seemed to have. Still, maybe I would learn something from Rob.

From the outside, number 103 looked like a lot of the other apartments. Except this stoop had a lawn chair instead of potted flowers. The worn welcome mat looked like an artifact from the 1970s, and the black handrail suffered from rusty measles. A crushed beer can lay forlornly on the ground by the steps.
Classy.

On the other hand, the trees surrounding the complex were mature and beautiful. Before knocking on the door, I fixed my gaze on the leafy branches and took a deep, centering breath. Now I was ready for whatever reception I might get from this Callahan son.

Rob opened the door as I raised my arm to knock a second time. For a moment I felt a little flustered, as I took in how cute he looked, standing there barefoot, in gym shorts and a fresh white T-shirt. His sandy hair was damp, as if he'd just gotten out of the shower.

“Hi,” I said brightly, recovering myself. “Rob, I'm sorry to drop in unannounced like this. I'm Keli Milanni. We met at your grandmother's house on Sunday.”

“Sure. I remember,” he said. Was that an amused look in those crinkly blue eyes? “You're the lawyer, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

“Uh . . .” He paused, looked over his shoulder, then ushered me in. “Sure. Uh, don't mind the mess. I'm barely home long enough to clean.” Moving quickly, he cleared off a fuzzy brown armchair, tossing a stack of newspapers to the floor and wadding up a wrinkled shirt, which he then lobbed into an open doorway around the corner. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying my best not to look at the crumpled tissue lying on the floor by my feet. “Is this a bad time?”

Still dashing around the room, Rob gathered an armful of empty cans and tossed them noisily into a kitchen trash can. He spoke to me through an opening under some cabinets built over a countertop bar that divided the living room from the kitchen. “No, it's fine. I just got home from the gym a little bit ago. I worked just a half day today. The job was slow. Want a beer?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. Might as well be sociable. “What kind of work do you do?”

Rob came around the bar with two cans of beer. He handed me one, then sat on the couch and popped open the other. “I'm a CPA,” he said. “I work for Boone, the tax preparation service. It's pretty seasonal, as you can imagine.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, nodding my head. I took a sip, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Now that I was here, I had no idea what to say. And Rob, with that disconcerting twinkle in his eyes, stared at me, not making this any easier.

I cleared my throat and tried for honesty. “So, Rob, I feel really bad about the Folio being stolen. Your mom came to see me yesterday, and she seemed really upset.”

Rob looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Then he nodded his head slowly, so I went on.