Midsummer Night's Mischief (24 page)

CHAPTER 25

It was dark when I arrived at Eleanor's house. By the glow of the streetlamp, I managed to unlock her front door and let myself in. I felt along the wall and flicked on the foyer light. As an afterthought, I turned around and slid the dead bolt in place. I felt a little nervous, being alone in the quiet, empty house. I wished Farrah were with me. Yet I also felt a strange calling to do this on my own.

Treading lightly, I went upstairs, walked down the hall, and opened the door to the large linen closet I had peeked in the last time I was there. I looked up. There, just within reach, was the rope that opened the attic hatch. With a strong yank, I pulled the hatch open and stepped back as the pull-down stairs unfolded before me.

Looking up into the dark expanse, I hesitated. Then I laughed under my breath. “Okay. I may be brave, but I'm not that brave.” I wasn't about to creep into the dusty, possibly spider-filled attic of a deceased woman without at least arming myself with a flashlight. Leaving the steps extended, I trotted down to the kitchen to check the drawers and cabinets.

Good ole Eleanor. The first drawer I tried held a slender red plastic flashlight, and it even had working batteries. Now I was ready. I was turning to head back upstairs when the blinking of fireflies in the garden captured my attention. Peering out the kitchen window, I watched with curiosity as the yellow flickering formed a winking path through the grass toward the toolshed.

This was a sign. I knew it. Without a second thought, I unlocked the back door and followed the way shown by the sporadic glowing lights.

The garden was fragrant in the dark, humid air. Cicadas and tree frogs competed for the title of most vocal nighttime critter. Strangely, I wasn't a bit afraid, even though the surrounding foliage screened the yard from neighbors on all sides.

When I reached the windowless toolshed, I pulled open the old wooden door and shined the flashlight inside. From the doorway, I trained the beam all around, searching for whatever it was I was supposed to see. There was a lawn mower, a rake, a hoe. An antique bicycle, a cobweb-covered hula hoop. Buckets of old paint, an extension ladder.

A ladder.
One of those lightweight aluminum extension ladders. Easy enough for one person to carry to the side of a house, slide open to full length, prop under a window and climb right in. It would be a brazen move, but entirely possible.

I nodded to myself as I remembered the piece of dried mud on the floor in Eleanor's bedroom, beneath the open window. So the spare key under the rock wasn't used, after all. Score one for the family . . . but I still didn't know who had used the ladder. I closed the shed door and returned to the house. The attic was still waiting.

Flashlight in hand, I carefully climbed the attic stairs and poked my head inside. It was hot and airless and smelled like old wood. As soon as I got my bearings, I went straight over to the window to let in some air. Then I located the light switch and turned on two overhead bulbs. Unfortunately, their dim illumination failed to reach the shadowy corners, so I kept the flashlight on as I took inventory.

Boxes and bins, cabinets and cases lined the walls. There was Christmas paraphernalia, of course, and other seasonal decorations. There were bins labeled
DARLENE
and
KIRK,
which seemed to hold childhood keepsakes. There were old toys, old books, old furniture, and even a box of Shakespeare memorabilia, which included playbills and ticket stubs from the 1950s through the 1970s. These last items made me think of Kirk—which caused me to cringe with embarrassment as I recalled the earlier disastrous meeting.

Then I spotted two trunks side by side. One appeared to be an army footlocker; the other a steamer trunk. I opened the army trunk first. Inside were woolly olive drab blankets, pressed World War II uniforms, a box of photos, and a big Folio-shaped hole, from where the book had been extracted like a tooth. I set the flashlight down and ran my hands carefully through and under the contents of the trunk. No clues here.

Next, I lifted the lid of the other trunk. This one contained photo albums, scrapbooks, and assorted keepsakes. There were also several bundles of letters. Kneeling before the trunk, I hesitated for a moment. Then I took a centering breath and closed my eyes. In a faint whisper, I murmured, “Guide me, Persephone. Reveal for me the missing thing, unveiled before my eyes.”

I opened my eyes, let my hand hover over the contents of the trunk, then selected a large bundle of letters. Sitting down cross-legged, I carefully removed the twine that held them together. Then I paused, feeling a twinge of guilt at what I was about to do—these were personal letters, after all. But this was for Eleanor, to solve the mystery for her. I felt sure she wouldn't mind. I slid a folded piece of stationery out of the first envelope and perused the faded writing.

Okay. This didn't tell me much. I moved on to the next letter.

I smiled as I read. So, this was how Eleanor and Frank met. I skimmed through the next few letters and learned all about Frank and Eleanor's courtship, marriage, and first baby, all through the secondhand comments of Eleanor's friend Sadie. Along the way, I also learned about Sadie's life on the farm and her eventual marriage and child rearing. Now and then, she mentioned the Mostriak family, as well as another farming family in the community, the McPeppers.

Now, that was a familiar name. It took me a second, but then I remembered Sharon's story about a dispute over the Folio between Frank and Little Bo McPepper. I went back to the letters, keeping an eye out for the name. It popped up now and then, but not in any really significant way.

When I realized I was nearing the end of the stack of letters, I furrowed my brow. Sadie had been a faithful correspondent, writing at least a couple times a year for decades. But why was I reading this now? Was this all a waste of time? My intuition told me to keep going, and when I opened the next envelope, my senses began to tingle.

I stopped and looked up, staring into the dusty darkness before me.
Eureka!
Connections snapped into place in my mind. Based on the date of the letter, McPepper's grandson would probably be close to my age now. A lawyer . . . who might believe he had a claim to the Folio based on his grandfather's assertion he had won it in a bet.

Lost in thought, I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.

And then a floorboard creaked behind me.

* * *

Please let it be the wind. Please let it be the wind.
This was an old house. Creaks and groans were perfectly normal. As I bundled the letters together and retied the twine, I tried to convince myself that the noise behind me was nothing. At the same time, I cast around for anything that could be used as a weapon. I couldn't see a single thing.

Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet and replaced the letters in the trunk.

The sound was unmistakable this time. With my heart jumping, I twirled around, clutching the little flashlight in my palm. There was a man standing in the attic, blocking my way to the hatch.

I screamed. He stepped under the light. It was Wes.

“Oh, thank God.” Exhaling heavily, I sat down on the army footlocker. Wes walked over to me with narrowed eyes.

“What? You're not afraid of me? After all, if I stole the book, who knows what else I might do?”

“I know it wasn't you, Wes.”

“Oh? What makes you so sure?”

What indeed? I looked at Wes as he stared at me, his dark eyes penetrating and . . . wary. His face was unshaven, like the first time I laid eyes on him; his hair disheveled, as if he had been running his hand through it repeatedly. He reminded me of a wild animal that was trying to decide whether to run, hide, or pounce.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked.

“Looking for you. My mom said you were coming here. But you didn't answer my question. How do you know it wasn't me?”

“Well, I just—”

“You were investigating us the whole time, weren't you? Rob, and me and our whole family. All this time, you were just trying to get information. You and your flirting—it was all a ruse.”

“What? No, Wes. That's not true.”

He shook his head. “It was all a trick. You played me.”

My eyes widened in dismay, and I inhaled sharply. Then I started coughing, choking on the dry air and the attic dust.

“Are you okay?” Just like that, Wes dropped his accusatory stance and looked concerned.

I nodded my head as I turned away and continued to cough into both of my hands.

“We should get out of here,” Wes said, tentatively touching my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I wheezed. As my coughs subsided, I wiped away the tears that had leaked from my eyes. “Wes, I want to—”

“Let's get you some water first,” Wes interrupted. “You go first. I'll get the lights.”

It was just as well. I wasn't sure what I was going to say. Why should Wes trust me when there was some truth to what he said? If I were in his position, I probably wouldn't trust me.

In the kitchen, Wes took a glass from a cabinet and filled it from the dispenser on the refrigerator door. Gazing out the window, I saw a single firefly blink once in the shadowy garden.

“Want to sit on the patio?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Wes, handing me the drink.

I took a grateful sip, then followed Wes outside. We sat side by side in lawn chairs, looking up at the stars. The waning moon, slightly smaller than a half circle, perched above the treetops like a curved beacon. We heard a rustling on the other side of the fence and then the yowl of an alley cat. After that it was quiet.

I sighed and looked at Wes. A little voice inside told me to open my heart and be honest.

“Wes?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry.”

He met my eyes, his expression inscrutable. I plunged ahead.

“You're right that I've been investigating your family. I think you know I was trying to find out what happened to the Folio. I felt I owed it to your grandmother, as well as to your mom and everyone else. So I had to be thorough. I couldn't rule anyone out.”

Wes looked away, running his fingers through his hair, and remained silent.

“But I hope you'll believe me when I say I was never dishonest with you. I never played you. You and I met before all this happened, and my . . . interest in you has been genuine.”

A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. He looked down at his hands and slowly nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I believe you.”

“You do?” My spirits soared as I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

Wes looked up at me and grinned briefly. “It has always felt genuine to me. I'm sorry about the scene upstairs. The truth is, I've suspected Rob all along. I've been trying to get through to him before this whole thing escalates. I mean, that was a nice try tonight, but I could have told you it wouldn't work. Though, to be honest, I'm out of ideas myself.” Wes heaved a sigh and pushed back his hair again.

I sat up straight. “Oh, but, Wes, I don't think Rob did it, after all.”

“What?”

“No, listen. I have this theory. Let me run it by you.”

I told Wes about the open window and the ladder in the shed—minus the part about being guided by fireflies. And I told him about the letter I'd found and about how Sharon had told me about the events leading up to the fire that had supposedly destroyed the Folio.

Wes looked thoughtful as he listened. “Interesting,” he murmured.

I sat back, feeling a little less excited now that I had articulated my idea. It sounded pretty flimsy. “The only problem is, I don't have any proof. And I don't know what to do next.”

Wes tapped his fingers on his knees. “Hmm. Seems to me the only way might be to catch the guy in some kind of trap. Like a sting, you know?”

I smiled, so happy to be on the same side as Wes again. Impulsively, I reached over and took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. “I'll tell you one thing. I'm not gonna give up.”

He looked at me, then leaned over and brushed my lips with his. “You know,” he said softly, “you really don't have to do this. But thank you.”

“You're welcome,” I said, right before kissing him back.

CHAPTER 26

Today was the day. I felt it in my bones. After a late night spent talking—and
finally
getting to know Wes better—Tuesday morning came a little too early. But as I lay under the sheets, stretching and yawning, my mind began to whirl. And soon I became overcome with the strong sense that this was an important day. Call it divine inspiration, or call it earthly intuition—either way, I knew. If I was going to find the First Folio, it had to be today.

After rolling out of bed, I hurried into the bathroom to splash water on my face. Then I quickly drew the shades and gathered some candles and jars of dried herbs, roots, and powders. Arranging the candles in a circle on my bedroom floor, I invoked the four elements. Then, forcing myself to slow down, I sprinkled the roots, powders, and herbs in concentric rings, forming a spiral that ended with me in the center. With a nod to the Weird Sisters, I chanted an improvised spell as I went:

Reaching the center, I stood still and muttered the final words, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth:

With a deep breath, I lowered my eyelids and pressed my palms together. For the next few minutes, I visualized myself as a powerful sorceress. I was confident and self-assured. I was wise and brave, as heroic as any knight on a quest. And I was supported—lifted up—by a whole pantheon of powerful, magical goddesses, who would show me the way.

Finally, I opened my eyes and raised my arms, performing a partial sun salutation. Feeling fortified and encouraged, I released the vision. Quietly, I closed the circle and cleared the floor. Then I took a shower, got dressed, and went into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Just your average, ordinary Tuesday morning.

At around 9:00 a.m., Farrah called, back from her conference and eager for a play-by-play of the “big reveal.” I told her that the true reveal had yet to happen, but something was brewing. I promised to fill her in very soon. There was something I had to do first.

With my cells still vibrating from the ritual, I hauled my bicycle out of the garage and rode through town to the university. After locking my bike in the rack near the law school, I walked inside the familiar three-story glass-and-steel building and headed for the law library, which made up the entirety of the school's east wing.

As I entered the library, I flashed my attorney ID card to the security guard, who gave me a bored nod. Strolling into the cool interior, I surveyed the first floor. Behind the circulation desk, a single librarian tapped at a computer. Since intersession hadn't started yet, I figured the library would be used primarily by local attorneys rather than students. But this morning, the library seemed to be largely empty of any patrons. That was fine by me.

Bypassing the casebooks and reference shelves, I made my way to the basement. Here and there, study cubicles were nestled between sections of foreign periodicals, superseded materials, and historical treatises. As the quietest area in the library, it made an ideal study spot. In theory. When I'd tried studying here during law school, I had found the deathly quiet disconcerting. I'd been too creeped out to concentrate.

Now, as I wandered deeper and deeper into the cavernous stacks, I felt goose bumps rise on my arms. And not because of the quiet. It was because I recognized the lines of bookshelves from my vision.

As I walked, I read the alphabetical labels on the end of each row.
Hmm. F
for “Folio”?
S
for “Shakespeare”?
W
for “William”?
No.
The Folio wouldn't be shelved like any other book. If it was here, it might be in plain sight . . . but it would still be hidden.

I continued down a side aisle, then stopped. Way in the back, against the far wall, tucked in a corner behind a study desk, was a column of shelves holding oversize Old English tomes in faded gray and brown. When I reached the shelves, I ran my fingertips lightly over a couple of dusty spines and caught a faint whiff of history and mildew. Looking up, I saw that the shelves reached to the ceiling. Nearly. In between the top of the uppermost shelf and the ceiling was a dark space of indeterminate size.

Grabbing a nearby stepladder, I climbed up, stretched to my tiptoes, craned my neck, and peered over the top of the shelf. Something was there. A book, lying flat on its cover, spine to the wall. My heartbeat quickened as I reached out and slid the book forward to the edge of the shelf. Without taking it down, I gingerly touched the pages with my thumb and then carefully rotated the book and turned it over so that I could read the cover. My breath caught in my throat.

The First Folio.

I could hardly believe it. I found it! After all this time, I actually found Eleanor's book.

The only problem was, I couldn't rescue it. In order to catch the thief, I was going to have to leave the book in place.

After glancing over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone, I turned the book back over and reluctantly pushed it toward the rear wall, then rotated it to its original position. With wobbly legs, I climbed down and moved the stepladder back to where I had found it. Looking back up at the top shelf, I bit my lip.

Now wasn't the time to retrieve the book. Now was the time to follow Wes's suggestion. It was time to set up a sting.

* * *

Before unlocking my bike, I texted Farrah and asked her to meet me at
T.C.
Satterly's shop. On the way, I formulated a plan. It might be a long shot . . . but, then again, I had magic on my side.

“So?” said Farrah as I rode up to where she was leaning against her car in front of Satterly's Rare Books. “I take it there wasn't a shoot-out last night. How about a confession? Do we have the culprit?”

“Better. We have the book.”

“Get out! You found the book? Where is it?”

“It's still where the thief hid it.”

“What? Oh, I get it.” said Farrah, following me as I locked my bike to a street pole and entered the bookshop. “A mousetrap? The book is the cheese, and we're gonna catch ourselves a mouse?”

“That's the idea.”

“Detective Milanni! Always a pleasure!” T.C. squeezed himself around the counter to greet me, then shook my hand with both of his plump mitts. Today he wore a white T-shirt featuring a print of Shakespeare's visage above the words
Will Power.

Perfect
, I thought, smiling broadly.

“T.C., this is my friend Farrah. She's been helping me track down the Folio.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. So tell me, did you see
Stenislaw
?” He said the name in an exaggerated whisper, looking left and right as he did so. I had to chuckle.

“Um, no. Somehow I missed him. But it doesn't matter. He doesn't have the Folio, anyway. At least, not yet.”

“Oh?” T.C. raised his bushy brows. “Then you know where it is?”

“I do. But it may not be there for long, so we'll have to act fast. Do you still have that message about the Twitter post?”

T.C.'s eyes lit up. “Yes, yes. It's right here.” He reached for a spiral notepad behind the counter.

“Okay, so here's the deal. I'd like you to post the message and wait for a call. When he calls you, tell him you have a cash buyer, but he's leaving the country tonight. So the exchange has to take place today.”

T.C. rubbed his hands together. “You betcha. I can do this. Oh, boy.”

Farrah, appearing impressed and a little bit astonished, looked from T.C. to me. “Well done, Scooby Gang. And then what? Do we rig up a giant fishnet?”

“Ha-ha,” I said. “Actually, I was hoping you could call Jake's friend, the police officer. Think he could wire me with a little recording device?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Farrah. “I'm sure he could. But are
you
sure about this? This sounds a little dangerous. We are talking about a rock-wielding, creepy note–leaving criminal here.”

“I'm sure,” I said.

Wasn't I?

* * *

Sure or not, five hours later I was back in the law school library basement, this time hidden inside a dark storeroom. I stood close to the door, which was open a crack, and waited for my cell phone to buzz. It would be Farrah's signal to me that someone—anyone—was entering the stacks. Although I had a pretty good idea, I wasn't 100 percent certain who had stolen the Folio. Or if he was working alone.

The first time my phone buzzed, it almost slid out of my slick palm. With heart thudding, I spied out the storeroom door. Footsteps sounded on the parquet floor, growing louder as the person approached. I held my breath. Finally, a young woman came into view. I watched as she entered a row of casebooks and soon emerged with a book. Then she left.

I sighed. Goddess, how long was I going to have to stay in this storeroom? I had unlocked my phone and had started typing a text to Farrah, to let her know the first person was leaving, when the phone buzzed again, causing me to jump. Jeesh. I closed my eyes, touched the amulet Mila had given me, and said a brief prayer to the goddesses Diana for courage and Hecate for protection. Then I peeked through the crack again.

Once again, I heard footsteps, this time approaching more rapidly. It sounded like the person was moving toward the rear section, but he or she was outside my field of vision. Slowly, I pushed open the door another inch. And then another, until I saw a man dragging a step stool to the back wall.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door farther and slipped out. Quick as a ghost, I darted behind the bookshelves adjacent to the back wall and peered through the gaps between books. As I watched, the guy climbed onto the step stool, grabbed the Folio, and stuffed it into a navy blue duffel bag. Although his back was to me, I recognized him right away—and remembered seeing that duffel bag before, too, under his desk. When he climbed down and turned to leave, I stepped out into the aisle right in front of him, blocking his path.

“Hi, Jeremy.”

At first he looked startled and confused. Then he feigned delight. “Keli! What a pleasure. Are you . . . doing research?”

“Actually, I've already found what I was looking for.”

Jeremy cocked his head inquisitively and continued with the false pleasantries. “Oh? Well, that's good. Me too. Want to walk out together?” He looked beyond me, clearly eyeing the exit.

“You can give it up, Jeremy. I know what you're doing. I know what you did.”

“What are you talking about? I didn't do anything. But I have to go now. I have an appointment with a client.”

He walked forward, as if to pass me, but I didn't budge.

“No,” I said, holding out my hand. “That doesn't belong to you. I know you have the Shakespeare Folio, Jeremy. You took it from Eleanor's home, and you've been contacting book dealers, looking for a buyer. It's time to come clean. Just do the right thing and turn it over.”

Like a dark cloud passing before the sun, Jeremy's fake smile transformed into a menacing sneer.

“Maybe it does belong to me. Ever think of that?”

“Come on, Jeremy. If you're talking about a gambling prize that may or may not have been won in an illegal poker game sixty-odd years ago, you know that can't be a legitimate claim.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Ever hear of history repeating itself?”

“Are you talking about Rob? I
knew
you knew him.”

“Yeah, I know Rob. I've known him for years. I even met his grandmother once, when Rob needed help moving something out of her shed. Robby's a regular at the casinos around here.”

“So Rob told you about the Folio?”

“He bragged about it. But what he didn't know was that I already knew about it.”

“Do you mean—”

“Enough of the chitchat, boss. Get out of my way.”

“I'm not moving, Jeremy.”

“Oh, I think you will.”

“Jeremy—”

“You'll let me pass, and you'll pretend this whole conversation never took place.”

“You're dreaming.”
The gall of this guy!

Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “You want your little vacation from work to turn into permanent unemployment? You really want to be fired?”

“What? You can't fire me.” What was he talking about?

“Ever hear of sexual harassment? Beverly would never tolerate it. And neither will the Attorney Disciplinary Commission.”

My mouth dropped open. Jeremy took another step closer. “You can't deny it, can you? You've been coming on to me ever since I started at the firm. Touching me, insinuating things.”

Now he hovered over me, his breath warm on my face.

“You want me,” he jeered. “Everyone knows it. It's so obvious. When I tell Beverly that you've been demanding special favors from me, you'll be out on the streets faster than you can say ‘quid pro quo
.
'”

My stomach clenched; I was so taken aback. Maybe I had broken some ethical rules in my interactions with Jeremy, but I had never demanded anything of him. I had never initiated anything—he was the one who had always started things.