The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) (18 page)

I choked back a nervous giggle. “Hardly. But I am wondering who that guy was. No ID at all, you said. And no fingerprints. That sounds like someone who might be known to the police, as they say.”

“Sure, it’s a giveaway, especially no fingerprints. No idea is too bizarre to consider, especially as he had a wallet and cash on him. But his picture is circulating.”

“Did he have a driver’s license?”

“Yup.”

“Well then—?” The rest of my comment was drowned out by her hoot of laughter.

“Fake! Pretty good job. But it turned out to belong to some dead guy.”

“You mean he killed someone else?”

“Nah. We followed up. Looks like he just ripped off the identity to get new ID. No way to know who he was until the DNA gets analyzed, and that takes forever and a day. It’s not like on TV.”

It would have been pushing my luck to ask to see the photo of the dead man. I said, “I suppose you’ll be showing a picture to people in the neighborhood to see if they recognize his face.”

“Yup. We cops do that kind of thing even before our friends suggest it.”

I was not thrilled at the idea of being her friend.

“Sorry. I’m getting a bit too into it. Of course, we can’t ask the Adamses, as they’re missing, but their next-door neighbor, Harry Yerxa, is pretty nosy. I’d go so far as to say he doesn’t miss a trick.”

She raised a cop-like eyebrow. “How do you know him?”

“He struck up a conversation every time we tried to get in to see Randolph.”

“Every time?”

“Ah yes, well, um, they wouldn’t answer the door.”

“Uh-huh. And who is we?”

I made a strategic decision not to mention Uncle Kev. “Karen Smith, the dealer who sold the books to him.”

She leaned forward and held my gaze. “And when was the last time you talked to him?”

“To Harry? Why are you asking?”

She made a little cop-like face, thought a bit and then said, “Because Harry Yerxa seems to be missing too.”

My jaw dropped so fast I might have been a cartoon character. “Missing?” I squeaked. “Why would Harry be missing?”

“You tell me.”

“But I have no idea. Are you sure he’s missing?” I felt a surge of sadness tinged with panic. I had come to like Harry Yerxa, nosiness, bizarre wardrobe and all. He had spirit. And he hadn’t been home when I’d tried his door.

“We’re sure.”

“I mean did you check everywhere in the house? Again, he’s an older man. Maybe he slipped on the stairs. Maybe he fell in the bathtub. Maybe—”

She put a hand on my arm. “Just like you thought about Randolph? Everyone past the age of fifty doesn’t fall over at the drop of a hat, you know. We did check the house.”

“Oh. No. Could he have witnessed something?” Then an even more horrifying idea came to me. I gasped. “He wasn’t the body, was he?”

I hated this idea.

“Definitely not. For one thing, he’s too old, and for another, he is who he says he is. I imagine he has fingerprints too, although we won’t know for sure until we find him.”

“Wait a minute! Why did you check his house?”

“We got a call that something was happening on that street. An older person was injured.”

“A call?”

“Yes.”

“From?”

“Anonymous.”

“But none of that makes any sense.”

“Exactly. None of it makes any sense. Yet.”

I blinked at her.

“You seem—how can I put it?—excessively concerned.”

“I hardly knew him, but he was sweet, in a grandfatherly way. And full of energy. He did need someone to help him with his wardrobe.”

“Back to making sense. Are you sure you can’t add anything to help, Jordan?”

I was telling the absolute truth for once when I said that I couldn’t.

“Why are you so pale?” she demanded.

I couldn’t tell her that I was pale because I was worried the body would turn out to be Uncle Kev. It was entirely possible he wouldn’t have fingerprints and almost 100 percent certain he’d have fake ID. Tyler Dekker had been creeping around with a fake dog, and he wouldn’t have been carrying his ID either, as he was obviously up to something. But I doubted that a working cop would lack fingerprints. That was the only thing I could feel good about.

“I guess I am worried about Harry. I don’t know him well but I liked him right off the bat. Are you 100 percent sure that Harry Yerxa is not the, um, corpse? You sure we’re talking about the same guy? The older man with the passion for plaid. He lives to the left of the Adamses in that white Victorian-style house.”

“I know who Harry Yerxa is. And trust me, he’s not the victim. This guy was much younger. I already told you that.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to judge how old a person is.” I was indeed stretching the truth when I said, “Well, Harry Yerxa had a young-looking face. Maybe . . . No that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? And he didn’t have a young face. He was obviously a senior.”

She squinted at me and then sighed deeply. “Fine. I suppose it couldn’t do any harm. Come out to the car with me and I’ll show you the ID photo that we got at the station. I think it’s a real long shot that you’ll recognize this guy.”

She stood up and tugged at the waistband of her pants. Her clothes were all wrong for her body type and obviously the wrong size. Candy’s hair was so damaged and frizzled, it hardly looked real. I actually heard it cry out for a hot oil treatment. She’d obviously tried to tame it with at least a dozen ill-placed bobby pins. Even if my relatives hadn’t taken the opposite career path, I could never have been a police officer if they allowed themselves to be seen in public like this off duty. She should have been an attractive woman.

I had to resist the urge to drag her upstairs and give her a makeover.

I
FELT MY
throat tighten as we got near Candy’s navy-blue Tahoe. Especially as I was very, very worried that I would soon be gazing at the dead face of Uncle Kev.

“Something wrong?” Candy said, stopping and turning back to me in concern.

“Maybe I’m allergic to all the leaf mold in the air,” I croaked.

She shrugged, walked over to the driver’s side and unlocked the door of the Tahoe. “Get in,” she ordered.

I climbed into the passenger seat, although it’s very hard for anyone with my genes to sit in a car with a cop for any reason. I reminded myself she was just a junior officer in a small jurisdiction and she was off duty on my territory. Plus it was her own car. Nothing official. Still.

“I’m breaking a dozen rules here,” Candy said. She flicked on the interior light and handed me the image the police were circulating of the victim.

I must have exhaled in relief to see that it was no one that I’d been worrying about.

Again with the cop eyebrow.

“Expecting someone?” she said.

“Just relieved it isn’t Harry,” I said, failing to mention Kev. “I am so glad. I hate the idea of really liking a corpse.”

Candy rolled her eyes. I wished she wouldn’t do that quite so often. She said, “I told you more than once it wasn’t him. You’ll have to learn to listen to me. I do know my job, even if I’m new here.”

I barely heard her, as I’d leaned forward to get a better look at the victim. The face on the sheet of paper—once I got used to the idea that he was dead—was very familiar.

No question about it. This was the man in the car that had been parked outside the Adams house last night when I’d been walking Walter.

I must have gasped because Candy said, “What? You know this guy?”

I hesitated, which, of course, stimulated her cop senses.

She watched me very closely as I sat silently. “And?”

I decided to go with the truth. “You know what? I’m pretty sure this guy was parked near the Adams house the other night.”

“What?”

“He was parked near—”

“I heard you, but I can’t believe what you’re saying. You saw the vic?”

Had the truth been a bad idea? My uncles would have said so.

“I did see him. What’s the problem?”

“How come you didn’t mention it before? When was this?”

This was awkward. I would have regretted telling her, but she’d known right away that I recognized him. Note to self: learn not to react dramatically when surprised. Of course, she was going to interrogate me. She was a cop. I hadn’t told my new best friend that I’d been fake dog-walking Walter the previous night, so I needed to leave out that bit.

“Whoa, whoa! What’s with the interrogation? I see a lot of people every day. How was I supposed to know this guy would turn out to be important? ‘Important’ is not the right word, I guess. The fact is, I made several attempts to see Randolph Adams, as you know. And on one of the occasions this man, the victim, was parked there.”

“And?”

My turn to shrug. “And what?”

“And what happened?”

I stared at her. “Nothing happened. He was just parked on the street.”

“In front of the Adams house?”

“Well, no. In front of the next house down. Not Harry’s. Number 89. The one to the right of the Adamses. I figured he was waiting to pick someone up. He didn’t do anything to draw attention to himself.”

I left out how I knew he was in the car and how he could have used some better training in being invisible.

“Then what?”

“Nothing. He drove off.”

“But you noticed him.”

“He was in an older model Impala. I noticed it as I walked by. I guess I glanced inside to see the driver. That’s the person I saw.”

“You thought it was suspicious at the time?”

“I really didn’t. Just a guy in a parked car who drove away. Of course, it was before the Adamses disappeared. And before there was a murder.”

“You notice anything else?”

My uncles had long ago taught me how to move my eyes if I want a lie to look truthful. I looked to the right, as I always do when I’m telling the truth. I let myself appear to try to recall for a minute, then shrugged.

“He sped off right after I glanced at him, for what that’s worth.”

“Well, well. I guess you really are a witness.” Candy gave me a penetrating look.

“Instead of . . . ?”

“To tell the truth, I thought you were just plain nosy. But I decided to show you this photo. What are friends for?”

“You knew I was really afraid it was Harry.” Or Kev or Tyler.

“Yes, and I could see how relieved you were, so you’re welcome. So he was outside the Adams residence?”

“Right. Not the best looking guy, was he?”

“Ugly as sin,” she said.

“But I didn’t really give him any thought at all. And I certainly didn’t worry about him.”

“No reason to.”

“In retrospect, I suppose I should have worried about him.”

She nodded. “Or worried about whoever killed him. There’s something smelly for sure. We’ll find out who he was. Fingerprints or not.”

I hesitated. “Good. Will you let me know? I guess I am nosy. But I feel involved.”

I was kicking myself by this point. As much as I had wanted to know who the victim was, I had made myself vulnerable to Candy. For a bit of reassurance. Candy was not only almost a stranger; she was a police officer with instincts.

She said, “Sure, why not. Unless I have a good reason not to.”

In addition to all the worry about Uncle Kev and Tyler and the missing books, the stress of being around an edgy police officer who wanted to make a name for herself on the Burton police force was starting to wear on my nerves.

My head was throbbing. I couldn’t wait to get away from Candy’s intense presence and back to my soothing little attic.

After I said good night for the third time, Candy reached out and tentatively touched my arm. “Hey, I don’t suppose you want to go to a movie this weekend? Or something?”

I smiled weakly.

• • •

AS SOON AS
Officer Candy drove off, I locked the back door and headed up the dark, narrow stairs to my flowered bower.

A note under my door indicated that Vera wanted to talk at me.

I headed back down the narrow stairs to the first floor and then along the endless corridor in the east wing to get to the front foyer and the stairs to the second floor and Vera’s suite. It’s not a place I visited often, although it was good exercise getting there. I knocked on the door and waited until Vera rolled over and opened it.

“No,” Vera said.

I blinked. “No what?”

“No unidentified injured males have showed up or been taken to Grandville General Hospital, last night or today. They’ve had heart attacks, strokes, gastrointestinal drama, premature babies, injured toddlers and teenagers as well as females hurt in collisions, all attended by relatives. No one of your descriptions, attended or unattended.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“I certainly hope so, Miss Bingham, because I went out on a limb for your request, taking advantage of my position on the board and leaning on the chief of staff. I hope it was worth it.”

I nodded. “I appreciate it.”

“What now, Miss Bingham?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“What about the body found in Burton?”

“No. That’s one good thing. Officer Mortakis showed me a picture of the victim. It wasn’t anyone I knew.”

To my astonishment, Vera said, “I hope your friend and your relative are fine and there is some explanation for this that doesn’t involve violence to them.”

As she spoke, a Siamese whipped through her bedroom door and disappeared into her suite. I really hoped it was Good Cat.

“Thank y—”

But by then she had shut the door in my face. Still, I had to think that our relationship had just made a great leap forward.

I headed back to my room, feeling equal parts gratitude and surprise.

• • •

IT IS USUALLY
wonderful to unwind in my attic space with the sloped ceilings and faded cabbage rose wallpaper, but usually I’m not worried about missing friends or relatives who may be lying unidentified in some lonely morgue. Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky were not used to chasing after their little brother and were probably just relieved that he was out of their hair. They didn’t seem to be bent out of shape by his absence. I didn’t know if Tyler even had any relatives. For the first time in the five months since I’d first met him, I considered that I knew nothing about him at all. Not even whether his parents were alive. Perhaps he had a ton of relatives and had just never mentioned them. I couldn’t imagine that. Maybe it was a guy thing. Could it be he’d ended up at the hospital and someone had come to take him home? But if that had happened, it hadn’t been in our local hospital.

I was tired but too restless to sleep. I thought about the books I had pilfered from the Adams house. If these books could talk, what would they tell me? I wanted to know why one of them was actually flung at a wall hard enough to damage the spine. I couldn’t imagine Randolph doing that under any circumstances. He loved these books enough to pay Karen well for eleven Sayers novels. Maybe he didn’t care as much as Vera. She was infatuated with every book in her collection, but he cared and paid plenty. So why had those eight been left behind? Where were the rest of the books?

Of course, it had to have been Mason who had tossed the books. But again, why?

Was there anything to be learned from them? I lay on my flowered quilt, closed my eyes and thought about
Whose Body?
the first of the Wimsey novels. Coincidentally, the book dealt with someone who was not who he appeared to be. That was relevant to me: Mason wasn’t who he appeared to be. None of the Adamses were who they appeared to be. Tyler Dekker was certainly not behaving like a cop. And Uncle Kev wasn’t behaving at all. As for the victim, who knew for sure, but I bet he hadn’t been what he appeared to be either.

I shook my head and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand and the books that were linked to this whole situation. At least that copy was pristine. I breathed a sigh of relief, even though
Whose Body?
was my least favorite of all the Sayers books, maybe because it’s such a short book compared to the others. But then it was Sayers’s first. Although you could always count on Lord Peter to be equal parts debonair, urbane, knowledgeable and silly, I felt that he improved with each book. It didn’t take Sayers long to expand to more substantial novels and, of course, to bring in Harriet Vane to spice up the action, because an intelligent young woman can bring a lot to a book.

Harriet Vane—a successful author of detective stories, like her creator. I enjoyed thinking about Harriet and wondering whether I might have liked the kind of life she’d lived. It made a nice change from thinking about the missing and dead people I knew. Fictional dead folks I can handle.

Could I become a detective novelist? I knew plenty about crime and also knew not to be fooled by what you see on the surface. I was well aware that pleasant, ebullient and attractive men could have more interest in your sterling silver than in your heart, no names mentioned. I loved reading and researching, and I loved writing, but Lord Peter would find that a bit less than original. I was better off with the career I was having so much trouble hanging onto.

I wondered idly whether Vera also might have daydreams about the people in the books she collected. I shook my head. Who would Vera Van Alst aspire to be? I’d read a lot about Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers. Christie had a family and exotic travel. Dorothy L. Sayers had a lively, creative and productive life. She worked tirelessly; she was intellectual and she loved good food and partying with her friends. So not Vera, then. On the other hand, Sayers was passionate about her beliefs and she liked a good argument. As does you know who. Being housebound for so long and now set in her ways, Vera was more like Nero Wolfe, without the “charm.”