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“What's this?” he asked suspiciously.

I proceeded to relate Lola's and my adventure last night, as we chased the SUV around town, concluding with our triumphant acquisition of a partial plate. I assumed he'd be ecstatic or, at a minimum, grateful.

“Only three letters? Where's the rest of it? What good is a partial plate number?”

I felt the air whoosh out of my internal balloon. “It's a New York plate. Can't you run black Escalades with the three letters through the computer and limit the search?”

“I guess so. But it's going to take time. There's probably a bunch of black SUVs with those first three letters.”

I doubted that, but there would be no arguing with Bill in this mood.

“Well, you're welcome, anyway,” I said, miffed.

He rubbed his hand over the top of his head. “Sorry. I'll put out an APB to surrounding towns. And notify New York. Thanks for the information. But I wish you had called me. I might have been able to catch up with him.”

“Called you in the middle of the chase? We're lucky we survived intact,” I said.

Bill exhaled. “Bad morning.”

I felt sorry for Bill. He was right, things were stalled. “I have this idea.”

“Dodie, I have to get—”

“But first, I think you'd better sit down.”

He slowly let himself sink into his desk chair. “Okay.”

I proceeded to tell him about Jerome's email contact with Forensic Document Services and my conversation with Marshall Wendover. His face registered the five stages of unlawful investigation: disbelief, skepticism, impatience, irritation, and astonishment.

“I can't believe you actually went through with—”

“Just hear me out. Of all the people connected to Jerome, and admittedly there aren't many, who would know the most about priceless documents? And who was in contact with Jerome?”

“Forensic Document Services?” he said cautiously.

“Yes!”

“But you said according to Jerome's email, Marshall Wendover wasn't even in touch with Jerome for two weeks before he died.”

“True. But what about his brother?”

“What about him?”

“Marshall said Morty runs the document services. I think someone should talk with him.” I pulled out the business card Marshall had given me.

Bill took the card and studied it. “Well . . . I guess I could give him a call.”

“Not you. Me.” I smiled confidently.

“Huh?”

“If you go, you are the police chief interrogating him about a murder. But remember, I'm Jerome's niece and can say I have the document but still need it to be authenticated.”

“I think this theater stuff is going to your head,” he said. “Not to mention the detective stuff.”

“Look, Bill, you said it yourself. We need to solve the murder. Now that we know about the document, this could be the break we need.”

He tapped a pencil against his blotter. “Okay. I'll run the plate number to see if there's any connection between the SUV and the company.”

I picked up the business card off Bill's desk. “I'll call and make an appointment for tomorrow morning early so that I make it back to the Windjammer for lunch.”

“Okay, but I want to be in the vicinity. Just in case.”

“Your own car. No uniform?”

He nodded. “It's not smart that you meet this guy alone.”

“I'll be fine,” I said.

“Let me know when you've confirmed contact.”

“10-4.”

“Dodie?”

“Yeah?”

“Is my face really all scrunchy?”

I
invited Lola to join me for lunch at the Windjammer.

“Henry's shrimp salad is wonderful today,” Lola said, wiping her mouth and taking a sip of water.

“I'll tell him,” I said. “I made the appointment with the document place for eight-thirty a.m.”

“So let me get this straight. You're going to act as though you are Jerome's relative—”

“Niece. That was my story with Marshall. I'm there to see what this Morty knows about the document.”

“Won't he want to see it?”

“I'll say it's in a secure place. For the time being. But we need to know if it's the real deal. Kind of a probate matter.”

“Sounds believable,” she said. “Are you afraid to go alone?”

“Bill is riding backup in plainclothes. I'll be fine.”

Lola scrutinized me. “I think you like playing detective. You need to audition for the next ELT production. If there is one,” she said gloomily.

“So tonight is Act V, if I remember correctly.”

“Walter rearranged things a little bit. He's running the wedding night scene. God help us, with the Ladies-in-Waiting doing a kind of dream sequence.”

“He changed the rehearsal schedule?”

“The Ladies have been complaining, and Walter feels like he has to give them more to do.”

“But Romeo and Juliet's wedding night?”

“Oh, you'll see. I think it's unnecessary, but Walter has a vision. Ever since Elliot became assistant director, Walter's been a little manic.”

“Dodie, Henry needs you in the kitchen,” Enrico said, appearing at my side.

“Tell him I'll be right there. Lola, see you tonight.”

* * *

Despite the seriousness of the scene on stage, I had to struggle to prevent myself from bursting into guffaws.

“This way, ladies,” Walter said and demonstrated an upper-body-flapping-in-the-wind kind of gesture. Lola and I exchanged dubious looks, and Penny bit off a chuckle with clamped lips. “Lift your arms. Sway. Let your heads roll.”

Walter had the six Ladies-in-Waiting/Servants/scenery movers lined up across the back of the stage trying to imitate his movement. Probably not what Shakespeare had intended: a break in the action so the “chorus” could interpret the emotional transition from Tybalt's death to the Romeo/Juliet wedding night. The Ladies looked confused, slightly embarrassed, and painfully awkward—none more so than Abby, who swung her arms defiantly as if daring anyone to laugh. She'd been sending ocular death rays to Juliet for several nights now.

“They look like insane chickens with their heads cut off,” Lola stage-whispered.

Her voice carried to the stage and made it seem as if we were making fun of the actors. Walter glowered, and Abby's eyes darted into the house, her face bitter.

“I don't think this whole thing works,” muttered Penny.

Romeo and Juliet, both looking slightly bored with each other, rehearsed their wedding night on a makeshift bed, two four-by-eight platforms on short legs. They lay side by side like two dead fish on ice.

Beads of sweat clung to Walter's forehead, and one or two had trickled down his face.

“The two of you are reclining in each other's arms,” he said. Not a bit of warmth between them.

Walter instructed the Ladies to circle the bed, still flapping and swaying. They spun faster and faster, running really, around the marriage bed creating a dizzying effect. Walter moved downstage, turning his back for a split second, and Abby pivoted around a corner of the platform, driving her elbow into the Lady ahead of her, who unintentionally bumped Juliet, sending her squarely into Romeo's chest. Their faces smashed together and—ready or not—lips locked. Juliet rebounded off Romeo's face, checking to confirm that all her teeth were intact, Abby sneered, and the other Ladies collapsed in exhaustion.

At nine-thirty, Walter gave up for the night, probably because the gaggle of Ladies tromping around the stage like demented seagulls was becoming too much even for him.

* * *

I took my time dressing, wanting to appear as mature, and also mournful, as possible. I settled on a brown tweed suit I hadn't even tried on in a year. With a dark green sweater, I looked professional but approachable. I pulled my Metro in front of the Municipal building and rolled down my window. Bill was waiting next to his BMW. He looked fantastic in a blue blazer, white button-down shirt, and khaki slacks.

“Morning,” he said, smiling. “You ready for this?”

“As I'll ever be,” I said, smiling back. “Try to keep up.”

We left Etonville via State Route 53 and entered the Garden State Parkway, traveling north to Exit 153B. It took only minutes to get on and off Route 46 West and find ourselves in the center of town. Such as it was. I'd never been in Woodland Park, but I had Googled the borough, population about twelve thousand, and discovered that it was home to a couple of business colleges, bounded on one end by Garret Mountain and the other by the Passaic River. I made a couple of left turns, as per my GPS, and arrived at an office park overlooking a reservoir and acres of undisturbed landscape.

The office complex where the lab was located was in stark contrast to the nondescript building with yellow siding that housed Forensic Document Services in Piscataway. Here, the landscaping was intricate and impressive. Magnolia and dogwood trees were scattered throughout the lawn fronting the building and the flagstone walkway leading to the entrance was lined with purple coneflowers.

I parked next to a handicapped area and watched Bill ease his BMW into a space a few yards away.

In the marble-walled lobby, a directory indicated that the Forensic Document Services Lab was on the third floor, in suite 302. The elevator door shut, and I glanced at a security camera in the upper corner.

I stepped into the third-floor hallway and found number 302 directly opposite the elevator. On the door was stenciled L
ABORATORY
S
ERVICES
.

“Here we go,” I said to myself and clasped my bag tightly.

The office waiting area was also a contrast to Marshall's domain: leather furniture, indoor carpeting, potted plants, and Muzak. The feel was pleasantly comforting and reassuring.

I approached the receptionist, a young woman with short blond hair, deep red lipstick, and earrings that dangled well below her earlobes. “Hello. I'm Dodie O'Dell. I have an appointment with Morty Wendover. I'm a little early.”

“Please have a seat. I'll ring Mortimer.” She picked up a telephone.

I was doubtful “Mortimer” had anything to do with the car repair or trucking aspects of the family business.

“Ms. O'Dell, Mortimer will see you now. First door on your right.” She pointed to a hallway on her left.

I followed her directions and walked into his office. Between Marshall and Morty, one of them had to have been adopted—or switched in the cradle. Morty Wendover was tall and svelte, with neatly combed brown hair, a white dress shirt, and a pinstripe suit. He held out his hand. “Ms. O'Dell?”

“Yes. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” I shook his hand.

“My sympathy for your loss,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Please have a seat.”

I settled myself into a maroon leather chair as Morty sat behind his mahogany desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand that my uncle Jerome was in contact with your company about a document.”

“Yes, I believe he emailed my brother Marshall. But nothing came of it. Every once in a while we get someone who cleans out an attic and thinks we're
Antiques Roadshow
and really just wants free information.”

Was it significant that Marshall used the exact same phrase?

“I understand that my uncle, for some reason, never went ahead with the authentication. But now I want to proceed with the process.”

Morty sat very still. “I see.”

“Yes. I understand that the initial fee is a thousand dollars?”

“That's the retainer. It's deducted from the final cost of the authentication,” he said.

“Would you do the authentication in this office?” I asked.

“Yes. We offer a whole range of services at this facility, from handwriting analysis and forgery identification to document authentication. Mostly we work with wills, deeds, arbitration agreements, that sort of thing, and, of course, historical documents.”

Some of this sounded familiar from my research on the Internet.

“Authentication of historical documents is a two-pronged process. First, there is identifying the physical evidence such as the age and type of ink and the paper the document is printed on. The fiber, etc. The second part of the process is establishing the provenance of the document, that is, its history. Who owned it, sold it, transferred it in a will, say, to another individual.” He paused. “Your uncle never discussed the details or provenance of the document. Do you have that information?”

“Some of it,” I said.

“You have the document with you?” he asked.

“No, it's in a safe location.”

“I would need to see it before we enter into an agreement. I can usually establish whether it is worth pursuing upon a quick inspection. If it is a fake, it saves time and money for both of us.”

“I see. Could we arrange an appointment in Etonville? Given its value, I think I would feel more secure meeting there.”

He looked at his calendar. “I'm available tomorrow afternoon if that suits.”

“I'll call you later today to confirm the time and place.”

“Of course.” He reached for a business card. “Call my cell phone directly.”

I took the card and stared at his number.

“Thank you, Mr. Wendover, for your consideration.”

“Not at all, Ms. O'Dell. It's not every day someone comes into possession of a Lincoln letter.” He escorted me to the door. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

I forced myself to walk calmly to the elevator, my heart thumping. As I stepped into the revolving glass door in the lobby, I was struck by the size of the man entering the rotating door from the outside. He was enormous, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his suit jacket. He looked familiar. Our eyes met, mine wide and curious, his flat and uninterested.

I drove past Bill, giving him a thumbs-up. He followed me to the Creston café; it was becoming my home away from home and a haven from the snooping eyes of Etonville.

“We need to smoke 'em out,” I said feverishly after our coffees came. “Morty referred to a ‘Lincoln letter.' According to Marshall, Jerome never mentioned the specific document. He knows more than he's letting on.”

Bill just shook his head wearily. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but how do you know Jerome didn't mention that it was Lincoln's letter to Morty in a phone call?”

“Jerome corresponded with Marshall by email,” I said. “He said they never talked on the phone.”

“But maybe Morty and Jerome did.”

We drank our coffee in silence.

“Any word on the license plate?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“I told Morty I'd call him this afternoon and set up a meeting. What have we got to lose?” I asked. “We get him to Etonville, we confront him with the document, and we see how he responds. Worst-case scenario, we get an initial evaluation of the letter that the library can hopefully take to the bank.”

“Best case?” he asked.

I shrugged. “He incriminates himself by something he says or does? Who knows, maybe returning to the scene of the crime will trigger a confession?”

“In all my years of law enforcement, I've never seen
that
happen,” Bill said glumly. “What do you mean ‘returning to the scene of the crime'?”

“I think we should meet in the theater.”

“The theater? Why?” Bill asked.

“Where else? We don't want to tip our hand, but we need privacy and security. That leaves out the Municipal Building or a restaurant or some isolated location. Our homes aren't safe if Morty thinks we have the letter stashed there. The theater is public, but not too public. It's empty in the afternoon before rehearsals. It has possibilities. I could hook up with Morty in the front row of the house, and you could still be somewhere on the premises watching it all, like from the light booth or backstage.”

“That is the wackiest plan I've ever heard,” he said.

“So you come up with a better one.”

Bill drummed his fingers on the table.

* * *

In the end, Bill agreed to my calling Morty and inviting him to the theater tomorrow at five o'clock—on the pretext that I worked for the ELT and it was most convenient for me to connect there. Of course I would not have the actual document, just a photocopy that Morty could examine as a preliminary appraisal. Bill would take care of that. I'd call Lola to make sure that no last-minute afternoon meetings or crew work were added to the schedule, and Walter didn't show up until seven these days. That would give us two hours. Bill would be backstage, with a clear view of the front row. Suki would be on the street in an unmarked car just in case backup was needed. And Edna would be on dispatch. The plan seemed simple enough. I was wound up with the possibility of actually moving the murder investigation forward; Bill was skeptical but grudgingly willing to give it a try.