The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) (12 page)

“I hope so, Miss Bingham. I certainly hope so.”

There was no doubt in my mind that Vera meant it.

Somewhere in that moment I made the decision that if perfectly legal but sneaky approaches didn’t work, I was prepared to be resourceful and use the skills of those less concerned with the law. No point in making Vera a co-conspirator. Not yet, anyway.

I felt a great sense of relief, which I celebrated shortly after with the signora’s amazing rustic Italian prune plum cake and gelato. I felt more than a little entitled, as I was about to venture out again into the dismal fall night in Vera’s service. To accentuate that point, the dining room windows rattled and the driving rain beat against them. I had seconds of the cake. This made the signora very happy and me even happier.

I barely managed not to burp loudly when the bad cat plopped into my lap. The second dessert did, however, test the stitching on the blue dress.

• • •

I WASN’T SO
sure about Harriet Vane, but I figured Lord Peter Wimsey would manage to be witty and urbane in any kind of weather. He seemed like the right sort of role model as well as fictional heartthrob. A guy you could count on to be perfectly dressed for any occasion 100 percent of the time. Of course, it helped to have a valet who never seemed to sleep. This reminded me of Uncle Kev—the anti-Wimsey—a guy you could count on about 40 percent of the time if you were lucky. For instance, for the last couple of hours, he hadn’t answered his phone. And I knew that even if he couldn’t talk, he could almost certainly have texted me to say he was on the job and things were okay.

I decided to give Karen a break on this part of my plan. She needed to warm up and rest, and she didn’t need to take any chances with the law. Anyway, there was no point in everyone being miserable. I wished fervently that my wardrobe included some wet-weather gear that wasn’t just for style. But it didn’t. Jeans, fleece and hooded jacket were the best I had.

I headed back to Uncle Mick’s to see if Mick or Lucky had heard anything about how Kevin was making out. I tried his phone again a couple of times with no more luck.

In the short distance from the Saab to Uncle Mick’s kitchen my umbrella blew inside out. Uncle Mick looked up from the stove where he’d just finished heating up the contents of two cans of Alphagetti. It’s always been a favorite rainy night dinner at the Kellys’. Usually followed by a bouquet of Tootsie Rolls.

“Late dinner?”

“Business. I got a little project going. Your uncle Lucky’s got one of his own.”

I glanced at Uncle Lucky, who beamed mysteriously.

Mick wiggled his ginger eyebrows. “It’s keeping us busy. Got to go when the fish are biting.”

I knew better than to ask which fish and tried not to worry about what that could mean.

“Any word from Kevin?”

“Kev? He left to go to Burton for you. He hasn’t been back here. Can’t say I mind. The project’s a bit harder with Kev underfoot.”

I understood. Uncle Kevin could derail any activity. He just needed to be within a one-block radius to do that. And Uncle Mick’s and Uncle Lucky’s pet projects always seemed to involve split-second timing and complete discretion. Neither was Kev’s best thing.

“Well, that’s not so good, because I haven’t heard from him either.” I decided this was the right time to fill the uncles in on the details. They listened without interrupting. I was pretty sure that scenarios of all the trouble Kev could get into were playing in their heads.

“Oh boy,” Mick said. “This won’t end well.”

“What’s he driving?”

“He’s in the Kia.” He sighed. “I loved that car.”

Full-blown disaster seemed a foregone conclusion. With Kev you never just assume a flat tire.

Uncle Lucky glowered. He loved that Kia too.

Walter snuffled from his chair. He didn’t care about cars. Mostly he just loved his dinner, and that didn’t seem to be getting to his dish.

“I hope the neighbor doesn’t recognize it. I’m going back to check on him. I’ll take the Saab. No one there has seen it in that neighborhood.”

Mick shook his head. “They could find out who you are from the license plate if they’ve got any brains at all.”

“I’m not sure that they do, actually.”

“No point in taking the chance. Lucky can take you in the Navigator. Right after dinner. You hungry? I know you love Alphagetti.”

Ah. Yet another moment of truth. “Sorry, I’m feeling just a bit queasy. Probably because I’m worried about Kevin. It will pass.”

Was it my imagination or did Walter look relieved?

The back room of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques was always full of wonderful finds. The yellow sou’wester and jacket were an unexpected bonus. They didn’t fit, but you can’t have everything, and bigger was definitely better in this weather. I’d stopped worrying about my appearance, as it was a lost cause today. I was surprised to learn that Walter had his own little bright yellow slicker and boots, the latest gift from the newly crazy pet-owning uncles. Walter was yet another plus.

I asked for and received one of the burner phones that my uncles always have tucked around their living quarters. Safety first, and all that.

I left the Saab at Uncle Mick’s and joined Uncle Lucky in the Navigator.

Time to head out.

W
ITH LUCKY AT
the wheel and Walter quivering with excitement, we soon arrived back at 87 Lincoln Way and parked two doors down. Lucky became invisible in the car, a trick I would like to master someday. I mean, how does he do that? Instead of being warm, dry and invisible, Walter and I went for a walk. Apparently, Walter wanted walks in any weather. Our yellow slickers—and my sou’wester—were the opposite of invisible. They were in-your-face visible. They were “you cannot unsee me” visible. They were “we cannot possibly be up to anything while dressed like this” visible. I figured there were worse strategies. And I stayed dry.

It’s easy to meander if you have a dog with you. Chances are that dog is not going anywhere in a hurry, unless there’s a squirrel involved. As it was too wet for any self-respecting squirrel, we meandered. That meant I could keep an eye on Number 87 without appearing to. Walter ogled the bushes for all the wrong reasons. As we walked and I occasionally stooped to do my civic duty with the attractive plastic bags provided by Lucky, I could see movement behind some of the curtains in the Adams house. Lights went on in rooms. Went off in rooms. Went on in different rooms. It was hard to make out who was in which one, but I figured the slender shadow was Delilah and the taller one had to be Mason. There was no shadow corresponding to the courtly Mr. Randolph Adams. I didn’t know what the shadows were doing, but they were certainly busy and purposeful.

Next door there was only one light in the front room downstairs, which I took to be the living room. A television flickered and I could clearly make out Harry Yerxa sitting in front of it. So much for being our operative. I do despise a quitter. Walter, now, was no quitter. Amble. Amble. Amble.

At least we could be fairly sure that all the Adamses were firmly tucked in their well-protected home. But where was Kev? Walter was not just another pretty face. He was there to see if Uncle Kev could be located.

Of course, there were two purposes to this trip.

“Find Kev, Walter. There’s a treat in it for you if you make it snappy.”

Walter was well aware that my pockets were full of treats. I had made sure of that.

I unhooked his leash and gave him a little push. “Find Kev, Walter, and, as Vera would say, ‘in my lifetime.’”

He waddled forward and I splashed after him. His curly stub of a tail reverberated with excitement. Nice that someone was having a good time. Up to the end of the block and then down to the opposite end we went. I was beginning to think Walter was stringing me along. Worse, there was another dog walker, almost certainly one of the neighbors. Since nobody in their right mind would bring a dog to someone else’s neighborhood on a night like this, I thought he or she might be suspicious of us. We kept our distance, only giving a falsely cheerful wave once. The other dog walker waved back, but kept his head down. His (or was it her?) dog was a large shambling creature, of no recognizable breed, although that may have been the effect of the rain on its fur.

I kept my face averted as we passed a black Impala parked outside Number 89, next to the Adamses. I tried to keep my mind on the two most important men: Randolph Adams—of course there wasn’t much I could do for him at the moment—and Uncle Kev, who I had begun to really worry about. Why wasn’t he answering his cell? Was he lying injured somewhere, having fallen out of a tree? Or was he possibly reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes, having grabbed onto a live wire to steady himself in some hiding place? Or he had already drowned in a backyard pond that he failed to notice in the dark and was now being nibbled by koi, which would mean a closed casket and it would be all my fault and . . .

You see, this is the impact that Kevin has on people. “Being around him can make you question your hold on sanity itself,” to quote Uncle Mick.

“And Kev has treats too,” I whispered. Walter’s wild eyes bulged with excitement, but he didn’t move. I gave him just enough of a nudge to get him to trot down the side yard of the house on the far side of the Adams home. I squished after him, waving my arms and calling “come back” and other commands that Walter would never obey. No danger of that.

The fake runaway dog routine allowed us to wander through that backyard looking for Kev. We found no bodies with broken necks and expressions of frozen horror on their handsome faces. We found no smoldering corpses. No floaters surrounded by malevolent koi. We found sweet bubkes. Well, Walter located a couple of items that were too disgusting to mention, but that was the extent of it. I found that my shiny black rubber galoshes had filled with very cold water. I also found that we were not alone.

From the back corner of Number 89, I took a quick peek out onto the street. To my surprise, I could see the Impala was still parked, its interior dark and apparently unoccupied. There was something wrong about the car. I crept forward toward the street, hugging the side of the house and desperately hoping that no one chose that moment to peer out the windows of the Adams house. The car was not unoccupied after all. I could tell from the way the glass was fogged. Someone was slouched down in there, and that someone could have taken a few invisibility lessons from Uncle Lucky.

Who was he?

Why was he there?

Was he a he?

Could this be a potential buyer for the loot that Delilah and Mason were plundering from Randolph? Or a confederate?

Too many questions.

Not a single answer.

But if he was watching the Adamses—and seriously, who else could he possibly have been watching—then he must have been watching me too. And most likely seeing right through my ridiculous ploy. What would Wimsey do? Use the truth with just an element of deception? I thought so. Perhaps that’s why I had what was not my best idea ever, maybe even one that Wimsey would have warned against.

I don’t know what came over me. I tossed a handful of treats toward Walter, which sent him off to the furthest end of the yard. Then I dashed forward and ran down the sidewalk, waving my arms and yelling, “Walter! Where are you?”

Not quite as dangerous as it would have been without Uncle Lucky, parked nearby as a fail-safe and a witness. Speaking of witnesses, the other dog walker was now slowly making his or her way down the opposite side of the street with the large, shaggy pooch. I decided the dog walker was a man, as he was on the tall side for a woman.

I walked up to the car with the fog on the windows and pressed my face close to the window. I knocked. The man inside could clearly see me and could just as clearly see me see him. He stared. I knocked again. And smiled. Slowly the window lowered.

“Can you help me?” I whimpered. “I’ve lost my little pug, Walter. He’s my fur baby and he was just here with me and he ran behind these houses, but he’s not there now and I don’t know where he got to. Have you seen him? Did he run out of the yard and down the street? I just need to know what direction he ran in if so. And I saw you here and I wondered . . .”

My uncles have taught me to be observant. I took careful note of the man inside the car. He had a narrow, lean face, chiseled cheekbones and a jawline that should have made him handsome but just made him look fox-like. His dark eyes glittered at me. Maybe he was bitter because someone somewhere had broken his nose more than once. Possibly the same person who’d left the scar that cut his forehead and eyebrow, and even his cheek. He was fortunate he hadn’t lost an eye.

A snuffling sound at my ankles somewhat detracted from my story. If that wasn’t enough, Walter uttered a sharp pair of barks.

“There you are, Walter,” I squealed. “Thank heavens.”

The foxy-faced guy leaned forward, squinted down at Walter and back at me. Thanks to the sou’wester I wouldn’t be that easy to identify. The window rose, the engine started and the Impala peeled off down the road, spewing Walter and me with muddy water. Maybe that was the same mud that made the license plate impossible to read, unless I was one of those brainless people Mick mentioned earlier.

I hoped that Uncle Lucky had picked up on the car and the driver and had found something to ID him. One thing for sure, solid citizens don’t behave that way.

“Thanks a lot, Walter,” I said. “You’re a perfect sidekick.”

Walter wagged his tail and took off into the inky night. I chased after him into the backyard of a plain brown house two doors to the right of the Adams residence. Calling for Walter was part of my cover story. I figured on such a vile night, people wouldn’t pay too close attention and certainly no one would step outside to help me. I was counting on it.

“Come on, Walter, we have to go get in the car with Lucky. Walter? Walter?” Really, what was I doing trying to reason with a dog, a spoiled dog at that? Walter stayed just out of my reach. “What’s the matter with you? Wouldn’t you like to be warm and dry? Aw, come on, Walter.”

But Walter was hiding. This hiding place had nothing to recommend it. You couldn’t see Number 87 from here. You couldn’t really see anything. It was as if Walter hadn’t listened to the plan at all. Number 89 was in total darkness, something I don’t advise for homeowners who don’t want to get burgled. Just sayin’. Dark house equals not home. Not home equals opportunity for housebreaking. In these days of automated timers, there was no excuse for it. Not only was it dark, it was dangerous. Kids’ toys and garden tools were strewn across the side and backyard. I tripped over a bicycle, swore and kept going. I imagined Walter wheezing with laughter.

“You can have my Alphagetti any time you want it. Let’s go, Walter.”

I tried being tougher. “You want to walk home by yourself? Good luck with that, Walter.”

I could see the spoiled little fiend dancing just out of my reach.

“Fine. You’re on your own. I’m going to the car to eat a treat with Lucky.”

I felt a powerful push on my shoulders. I staggered forward, tripping over a rake and splooshing into the cold, slippery and treacherous mud. Walter barked in approval. I couldn’t respond as the breath had been knocked out of me.

Something licked my ear and panted. A dog? What dog? Of course, it could only be the large, shaggy pooch that pokey dog walker had been idling with.

“Nice doggy,” I said, trying not to inhale the reek of wet dog hair.

“You shouldn’t have mentioned that treat,” a male voice said.

I managed to twist my head and look up. A man with a beanie
and
a hoodie was staring down at me. That might have been less intimidating if I hadn’t been lying belly-down in the mud in this forlorn and dark yard. With a dog more or less standing on my back.

“I hope you really do have a treat,” the hoodie guy said.

“Oh, sure. Call off the Hound of the Baskervilles and I’ll get it out of my pocket. Is this dog dangerous?”

“No more dangerous than Walter,” he said.

“How do you know Walter’s name?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Well, aside from the fact that you have been bellowing it for about half an hour, Walter and I are old friends.”

He moved around to face me and took his hand out of his pocket and leaned toward me. I managed to get my hand into my pocket and reach for a treat. I sloshed in the mud and struggled to my feet, but my galoshes slipped and I was down again.

The guy grabbed for me. The dog barked loudly. Walter yipped. Just as I had managed to grip the treat, he spoke again. “Give me your hand before you drown in this mud, Jordan.”

Jordan?

He knew my name too?

I stared. I attempted to struggle to my feet.

“Who the hell are you?” I sputtered and slipped again.

“What do you mean? You mean you don’t recognize me?”

In my cartoon life a light would have gone on over my head at that moment. But of course, this was real life and all I could think of was, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Same as you. Walking the dog.”

“You don’t have a dog, Tyler Dekker.”

“I do now. But
you
don’t have one, Jordan Bingham.”

“Walter is Karen’s dog, as if you didn’t know that. I’m just helping walk him.”

He extended his hand to help me up. Beggars can’t be choosers, as my uncle Mick likes to say, and people lying in the mud can’t be too choosy either in my opinion. I reached out for his hand and pushed forward.

“Mud becomes you,” he said. “Who would have thought it?”