Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) (17 page)

Several dozen pies chosen, I pushed the shopping cart toward his office while Solo walked alongside. We entered after a quick knock. Kevin wasn’t there.

“What?” Solo said over my shoulder.

I looked around and saw what was what. In the corner stood a huge stack of orange and black boxes, floor to ceiling, all in various sizes with a Hermes logo on the lids. Thunderstruck, I looked up and down, up and down.

“This is bad, Solo, really bad,” I said.

“It sure is crazy, but why bad?”

“Kevin was a kleptomaniac as a teen. Klepto, they called him. And he stole only empty Hermes boxes.” Sick at heart, I sighed. “He’s been straight for over ten years.”

“Maybe these boxes were from before,” Solo said.

I shook my head. “His therapist made him cut all ties to past behavior. He gave back or tossed everything he’d stolen.”

“You’re right, then. This is bad,” Solo said.

I nodded thoughtfully. “What should I do?” I asked him.

He brooded a moment. “Be honest, I guess. Tell him what’s bothering you.”

“Okay.” I groaned.

Whistling, Kevin strode into the office, rounded his desk, and took a seat with the ease of a sighted person. “I know you’re there,” he said after a minute of silence. “Hello, hello.”

“We have pies,” I said, stupidly lost for a way to bring up the Hermes boxes.

“Awesome,” he said and pulled closer the Braille calculator on his desk. “Fire away.”

I looked at Solo, and he shrugged.

Then came the sound of glass breaking in the hallway. A clerk opened the office door and popped his head inside. “It’s just a jar of pickles. I’ll get it cleaned up in a jiffy. By the way, boss, there wasn’t a single Hermes box in the Dumpsters this morning,” he said and closed the door behind him.

The surprise of that, and the sight of Kevin’s face unruffled and free of guilt, had me shaking my head. I bit my lip, willing myself not to blurt out cruelly, “Kevin, are you stealing again?”

Instead came a muttering from Solo. “So you hide the boxes in the Dumpsters?”

Kevin grinned at him, then at me. “Now I get it, the long silence. Guys, I am not stealing again. I’m clean, I promise. No more stealing to silence the noises. Believe me, all these boxes didn’t come from me,” he said. “I’ve got the staff collecting them from the Dumpsters out back each morning. It’s sort of a game now. A sick game, but they’ve no idea the significance of Hermes, or my history.”

I finally found my voice. “How long has it been going on?”

“Two months, shortly after I took over this store as manager.”

“Now you’re freaking me out,” Solo said. “Someone is out to get you by putting them close by so you’ll be blamed.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, the anguish in his tone roaring in the murmured word. “Their goal, I suspect, is to destroy my career.”

“You’re taking this pretty lightly,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don’t have a choice.”

“We always have choices,” I contradicted him. “Who’s doing this to you?”

He stared blindly ahead, but said nothing.

“Kevin,” I urged. “Who wants it to look like you’re stealing again?”

“Ya, mawn, tell us,” Solo said. “Maybe we can help.”

Kevin remained silent until at last I went to him and crouched beside his chair. “Rylie,” he said, a heartbreaking gleam in his sightless eyes. “I can’t.”

“But why?”

“There’s a weapon for every fight, and sometimes that weapon is silence,” was all he said.

The pies looked delicious. If I wasn’t so nervous about meeting Talon in a little while and worried for Kevin, I would have had a piece or two, maybe three. The seniors kept coming back for more. They munched as happily on the fruit varieties as they did the creams. In fact, it was only now with most on their second serving that I could get ahead of demand.

I had three plates of pecan awaiting pick up when Solo handed me a cherry pie from the box. With no one currently in line, I took my time cutting wedges and transferring them to plates. Though when I turned to place these beside the others, the three pecans where gone.

I scanned the vacant dining hall, hailed Solo, and asked if he’d seen who had taken them.

“Nope,” Solo said, and when I still looked stumped, he added, “All the seniors are outside on the patio. That Kevin sure was a nice guy, and he sounded sincere about not stealing again,” Solo said. “Wonder who’s trying to sabotage him. I think he knows, though. What kind of low life would want to kill his career?”

I was arranging the plates of cherry pie on the linen tablecloth. “A sibling low life,” I said. “I bet it’s Nava. She’s been jealous of Kevin forever. She thinks he gets more of their parents’ attention because he’s blind.”

“Unbelievable.”

I gasped. “Unbelievable is right. I just remembered something. I saw orange and black boxes in the Oleys’ van this morning.”

“So you’re saying they’re putting them in the Dumpster for Nava?”

I took a moment to puzzle it out. “No, I think it’s more likely that they’re taking them out. You know, I bet that’s why Leland paid them extra money. He’s trying to save Kevin’s career. Even though he loves Nava, he knows what she’s like, and he’s very fond of Kevin.”

“Aw, so nice,” Solo said.

“I know, right?”

With the seniors eating pie outside, we relaxed a little, our backs to the serving table, congratulating each other for our stroke of luck at putting together another piece to the puzzle.

Solo’s eyes went huge.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll tell Talon, explain about the extra cash. It’ll be one less black mark against Leland.”

Eyes frozen wide, Solo pointed a finger over his shoulder.

I turned my neck, my eyes narrowing as a skinny hand crept up from beneath the linen skirted cloth, fingered a plate of cherry pie, and dragged it beneath the table.

We both bent and lifted the skirted cloth. Teenager and FoY volunteer Farley McCray was beneath the table and beside him were three empty plates. The missing pecans.

“Taste good?” I grabbed another plate of cherry. “Let’s make a deal. All the pie you want in exchange for why you were in Otto’s room.”

He shook his head, his spectacles slipping down his slender nose.

“Probably should have asked him before he ate three pieces,” Solo said.

“You and Leland are close,” I said to the boy. “Good buds.”

Farley smiled a little, nodding his fine-haired head. Truth was I knew Leland saw a lot of himself in Farley as both were smart and bullied for it.

“I want to explain about being in Leland’s office,” I told him. “I know how it must have looked, no lights, looking through files. But sometimes being straightforward and investigating a murder don’t always mix—”

“Leland didn’t kill Otto,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “And I’m glad you know it, too. We’re trying to clear his name.”

Short silence. “I’ve been hiding from the police. Two were here before. The blond one seemed sort of mean.”

Lipschitz.
“The truth has to come out,” I said.

His bespectacled eyes narrowed.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Tell us what happened, I’ll see what I can do.”

He thought for a moment. Then he nodded.

However, first we had to serve more pie to a group of fast approaching seniors, while Farley ate another two slices. Anthelme Brillat-Savarin decreed, “Tell me what you eat, I’ll tell you who you are.” Farley was pie.

Suddenly Jane Gettelfinger pushed through the line of seniors and bore down on Elsa. “Where is it?” she demanded. “Where is Hank? What have you done with him?”

From the prep table, I looked to Solo, and he looked over at me. We both smiled. It was not a rumor of Hollywood proportion, but just as juicy, the seniors broke out in murmurs and chuckles.

“Tell me,” Jane said, almost in tears. “Where is he?”

Elsa shrugged. “Then tell me the truth.”

“Bitch,” Jane spat and stomped from the room.

Solo strode over. “Why would Elsa steal Hank?”

“To get even, I think, for her, you know, herpes,” I whispered.

A puzzled look came to his face. “Where was it again you found the medical files?”

“On the desk Gilad uses in Leland’s office. They were in his finished tray.”

“Finished as in worked on, information dealt with, stuff looked at?” He sounded worried.

“That’s my guess since the tray was labeled
Finished & Ready to File
.”

“Rylie.” His face was now grim. “Wouldn’t that mean Gilad knew Elsa had lied about the affair with Otto and the way she got herpes? Gilad would have seen Otto’s chart, Jane’s too.”

Omigod. “Gilad has no motive. He has no motive.”

“It’s all right. It’s okay. This isn’t as bad as it looks.” He skimmed a hand through his thick hair. “This is only a minor setback. We just need to move on to the next suspect.”

Needing something to take the taste of failure from my mouth, I licked pie off my fingers. “What other suspect? We’ve proved everybody innocent but Leland.”

“Then the best way to prove Leland innocent is to prove him guilty.” He flashed a smile too cute to be insincere. “So far it’s worked like a charm.”

I let myself lean against him. Let it soothe me. “Do you ever feel like you’re going backward?”

He tipped up my chin. “Not when the train is still on the track.”

It took another ten minutes, but finally the seniors had their fill of pie. Solo and I were anxious to talk to Farley, hoping his information would help exonerate Leland. For example, Leland might have found out about Otto breaking Jewish law by eating pork and sent Farley into his room to confiscate his morning bacon.

The moment had arrived; we were alone in the dining hall again. All three of us at a corner table, Farley still eating pie—peach—and Solo and I sitting across from him.

“Trust me, I didn’t go into Otto’s room to steal,” Farley said in between bites.

I slumped a little. “Not even bacon.”

“Huh?” he asked over his fork.

“Never mind. Go on,” I said.

Farley bent. “Otto hid something. I saw it when I mopped up after his toilet overflowed.”

“Damn low-flow toilets,” Solo put in.

Farley nodded and shoveled in another forkful. “I watched until Otto left and went back into his room. I wanted to show Mr. Leland, but it was gone. That’s when Miss Elsa saw me.”

“What did Otto hide?” I asked.

“When I hit the wall with the mop, a tile popped off. And there it was,” he said.

“What was it?” Solo asked.

“A stupid looking watch. I told Mr. Leland what I saw.”

“I saw that watch,” I said. “It’s the one Otto lost to Booth in the poker game.”

“Expensive watch,” Solo said.

“Totally,” Farley agreed. “The next day I listen in while Mr. Leland—” He grimaced, looked down. “I hide sometimes under Gilad’s desk, to read his medical journals. I would have asked, but you know how he is with, you know, germs. He’s got lots of journals. I like the ones on bacteria, rashes, and plagues best. They’re so creepy, especially the pictures.”

“Go on. Tell us what you overheard Leland say,” Solo said.

He scooped up a fork of pie; let it drop to the plate. “He called some jeweler about the watch. He said he was a collector of Holocaust memorabilia, especially stuff for a Nazi group called Death something—

“Death Heads,” I suggested after a moment.

“That’s it,” he said. “Mr. Leland told the jeweler he ran a secret Neo-Nazi museum.”

“That would explain the temporary skull tattoo,” Solo said. “I mean, if he wanted to pass himself off as a Neo-Nazi. He could pull it off, too, with his blond hair and blue eyes. And of course, he’s white.”

That popped a name into my head. “Was it White’s Jewelry?” I asked Farley.

He shrugged. “Leland never said the name, but he did tell this jeweler that he’d pay seventy thousand dollars if they could locate the watch mentioned in a boy’s diary. Then he described it, Otto’s watch.”

My eyes met Solo’s, and I could tell we were of one mind: Leland’s great uncle’s diary, the one who had died of typhus as a boy after escaping from Auschwitz.

“That so weird,” Solo said, “Otto having an heirloom from Leland and Gilad’s family.”

The wheels inside my head spun, but I didn’t like the direction. “Farley, what was it about the watch that made you think to tell Leland?”

“Moshe Rosenberg’s ring,” he said as though obvious, “the one on the painting in the hall outside the kitchen. It has the same crisscrossed flags. Leland says it’s the Kupper family crest, I say it’s creepy.”

“Creepy,” I agreed, realizing my aversion to the picture was why I had missed it.

“Then those same crossed flags must have been on the fountain’s plaque before Otto ruined it.” As I settled on an outrageous thought, I turned to Solo. “What if Otto Weiner was actually Alric Mueller? Is that too crazy to even consider?”

Solo bit his bottom lip, giving it some thought.

“Do you mean the Nazi?” Farley asked.

“You know about Alric Mueller?” I asked.

“Only that Leland made another call about him to a friend, I think. Patrick something.”

“Patrick Allen?” I asked.

He shrugged. “All I heard was Patrick, but it sounded like he worked for a newspaper.”

“Patrick Allen works for the Bellevue Journal. He’s Leland’s buddy.”

“He must be a good buddy because Leland asked him to print up a fake newspaper with a bogus headline, saying a Nazi war criminal was hiding in a Bellevue retirement home. He said to mention the name Alric Mueller, and to say the hunt for him is ongoing. Leland said he’d pick up the paper the next morning.”

“What morning would that have been?” I asked.

He thought a moment. “Wednesday.”

“And the poker game was Wednesday night,” I said.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Solo said. “Leland masqueraded as a Neo-Nazi to flush Otto—or rather Alric Mueller—out of hiding.”

“Looks like it.” I pursed my lips. “This is so complicated, but it fits. Otto Weiner was a Nazi in hiding.”

“Fits like a proverbial glove,” Solo said. “Now what?”

I glanced at my watch and gasped. “Oh God, I’m late for dinner with Talon. But—”