The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) (19 page)

I wondered if she’d always been like that or if a softer Vera had once roamed these grounds.

I shook my head to clear the competing thoughts. Time to get back to productive thinking. At the Adams house, I hadn’t located Sayers’s second book,
Clouds of Witness.
I had really enjoyed
Clouds of Witness
because it dealt with the crazy situations that one’s nearest and dearest can drop on your doorstep. Or as my uncles would say, “Ya can pick your friends, but ya can’t pick your relatives.” This was usually in reference to Uncle Kev, no big surprise.

Clouds of Witness
was definitely one of the stolen fine firsts. I knew that. Or did I? Was I wrong? So many strange things had happened, I could hardly trust my brain at this point. Eleven Dorothy L. Sayers first editions, that’s what I needed to get back. All the Sayers novels had been pinched. None of her collaborative efforts had been taken, nor had the short story collections. I loved those short stories. Perhaps they would have been swiped next if the perpetrator hadn’t been stopped. But they weren’t missing now. I was sure of it. Or was I? I had brought back eight volumes. Were there only eight missing books? I knew the hamster in the wheel would never get a break if I didn’t find out for sure.

Karen would be fast asleep, helped along by medications. Naturally, I was reluctant to ask Vera, since that kind of inquiry could easily blow up in my face. And I felt attached to that face. Mind you, it had a pretty dumb look on it right now. I should have been absolutely certain how many books were missing. It was too late to call Lance and check, so I closed my eyes and tried to recall the books.
The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club
hadn’t been there either. But
Unnatural Death
had been. I’d checked
Unnatural Death
gingerly and found it to be in excellent condition. At least it hadn’t been damaged by the rough treatment in the Adams house. It would certainly pass the Vera test.

I clearly remembered picking up
Strong Poison
, where we readers first met the splendid Harriet Vane in the prisoner’s dock, accused of murdering her lover. That’s when Lord Peter first fell and fell hard. Lucky lady, except for the murder charge. Then I’d inspected
Five
Red Herrings
, a classic puzzle mystery. Sayers said that every sentence in this book was important to the solution. So many of those sentences involved the minute details of railway schedules that it had failed to get my motor running.
Five Red Herrings
was Vera’s favorite Sayers book, but then she adored puzzles.

I had moved on to
Murder Must Advertise
, in which Peter really shone, in my opinion, as he assumed another identity and went undercover in an advertising agency. I found that undercover thing exciting when it was happening on the page, but not so much when it was happening to me.

I hated to be out of my depth. Sayers lived and breathed advertising for years, and that’s why
Murder Must Advertise
seemed so authentic.

Next I’d inspected
Gaudy Night
, where I really got to know Harriet Vane and started picturing myself living that scholarly way of life in the nineteen thirties. What would it have been like to be born in an earlier century and to have enjoyed the academic life in a women’s college at Oxford in that era? I thought I’d look good in the billowing academic gown. But I mustn’t digress. At any rate, I knew perfectly well, if Harriet Vane had been born in my circumstances she would be in graduate school right at that very moment, come hell or high water. Something to ponder. But for now back to my task of remembering:
Busman’s Honeymoon
was right up there on my A-list too. And it had been one of the books I’d recovered.

But I was troubled by the missing books:
Clouds of Witness,
Have His Carcase
and
The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club
. I’d failed to find them.

Late or not, I called Lance. He was surprisingly agreeable, conisdering the hour. He was also willing to take a look at the books. He confirmed all eight of the titles were there and also verified that the other three were not.

“So I’m not crazy,” I said.

“Not sure I’d go that far,” he chuckled. “It is the middle of the night. I’m going back to sleep.”

After Lance disconnected, I closed my eyes and thought back to the room at 87 Lincoln Way. Had I located every Sayers book on that section of the shelf and on the floor? Had Randolph chosen a few of his favorites to take on the Adams family trip to wherever? Or did I manage to miss those three in the chaos of the Adams house? I’d been in a minor panic because, at any moment, Officer Candy could have thumped down the stairs from the attic and caught me. Perhaps I just hadn’t realized what they were in the midst of the debris. Or maybe the three books had landed under a piece of furniture. A dozen possible scenarios flashed through my mind.

What if there was a miracle and it turned out that they’d never been stolen at all?

I got out of bed and headed downstairs to check the library. Hammy the hamster and I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t.

• • •

OF COURSE, EVERYTHING
in Van Alst House feels like it’s two miles away. The library is on the first floor, down not one but two endless corridors. I keyed in the security code, closed the door behind me and switched on the light. Even when I’m in a hurry, I always have to pause to admire the rosewood and the perfect shelves filled with perfect books. I always inhale the scent of old leather and paper. This library is one of my favorite places on earth, especially when Vera isn’t in it. I quickly climbed the wrought iron circular staircase to the mezzanine. Sure enough, despite my desperate desire to see them, the Sayers first edition novels were not there. The short story collections stood all in a row. I ran a hand over
Lord Peter Views the Body
. Some people turn up their noses at a few of these early stories, but to me it was a thing of beauty. Vera must have thought so too, because I knew she’d paid a thousand dollars for it, without so much as a blink. There was also a copy of
Striding Folly
, a collection of the last three Wimsey stories. I liked the long introduction by Janet Hitchman, with its blend of biographical details for Dorothy Sayers and Wimsey. Not complete, but interesting. I’d even bought a copy with a slightly psychedelic cover for myself, the New English Library 1980 mass-market reprint. I loved every one of those over-the-top covers and snapped up several in that reprint series. They were still on display on the coffee table, so I could admire their funkiness. Ten dollars a pop, well spent at the book fair.

I was getting to enjoy the hunt as much as Vera did, although at a much lower price range. I didn’t care so much about pristine first editions or books that had never been read. I loved to plunge into the era the books conveyed.

I turned back to the shelves and the large gap that had been left when the Sayers books had been stolen. Of course, the books would most likely have all been in the same room at the Adams house, and now, somehow, I’d ended up with three of them missing. Why was that? And more to the point, I wondered how much hair pulling I could take before I would need to invest in another wig.

• • •

AS I REVERSED
my trip down the two endless hallways and back up the steep stairs to my quarters, I thought hard. The missing books were either in the Adams house or they weren’t. And if they weren’t, then the absconding Adamses had taken them for some reason. As the Adamses had vanished—and in fact were not even the Adams family to begin with—if the books had gone with them, I had a really big problem, in a week of massive problems.

So, I had no choice really but to head back to 87 Lincoln Way. Officer Candy was keen to have a girls’ night, but I could hardly ask her to join me in a bit of lighthearted midnight breaking, entering and book pilfering. Even though the Hemingway was worth more than the whole haul of Sayers, a court might not see it that way. Definitely no Officer Candy for this gig. The same thing went for my friend, Smiley, wherever he was. That thought stopped me cold. Where was he? All I could do was hope he was all right.

Who could help me? I would have liked someone to keep watch and give me a heads-up if the cops showed up. Lance came to mind. Of course, as he had career plans in the library world, he’d want to avoid certain types of controversy, such as being tossed into the slammer. Tiff was completely off the grid. And I really preferred not to tell Vera that I may have left some of her precious babies alone in a house that probably had lousy climate control to begin with and worse now that it was unoccupied.

The signora’s talents lay elsewhere.

Karen was too fragile.

Well, the possibilities were shrinking, but I didn’t have much choice. I decided not to involve my uncles. They never wanted to encounter the police unless a major payoff made the risk worthwhile. And they needed their beauty sleep. Plus Uncle Kev was still missing.

At least I had my fictional role models.

I wondered who was the better advisor for this: Harriet reflecting alone on the situation and perhaps having a word with . . . well, herself. Or Lord Peter, man of action, expert lock picker who never avoided an unauthorized entry. For sure, he’d dress nattily and head into the thick of things. If he needed a helper, Bunter was the perfect person. I didn’t have a valet, a butler or any kind of person Friday.

I was on my own.

I dressed in a black cashmere turtleneck (very Audrey Hepburn), black skinny jeans (a bargain at Goodwill) and a black pashmina wrapped rather fetchingly as a scarf. I popped a black beret, one of my mother’s few remaining hats, into my jeans pocket. I took my lock picks (a sweet-sixteen gift from my uncles) and slipped them into the special slot on the side of my black messenger bag. It would take a pro to find them there. The messenger bag had been a gift from Uncle Lucky for my college graduation. Up until tonight, the special slot was a bonus that I’d figured I’d never need. Over my outfit and the bag, I added a very loud, plaid cape, a vintage prize from the early seventies. I’d be hard to miss in the cape, but I’d be ditching it soon enough. Between the cashmere sweater and the pashmina I’d still be a nice combo of warm and invisible. I had my old black Converse on my feet and I’d used a black marker to get rid of the white rubber around the soles.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up in front of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques and parked the Saab under a streetlight where it couldn’t be missed. Wearing the plaid cape, I couldn’t be missed either. I chuckled to myself as I’d gotten the clever idea from
Five Red Herrings
,
but sadly, I had no one to share my cleverness with.

I still had my key, but I tiptoed so as not to wake the uncles. Scavenging in Uncle Mick’s shelf of useful gadgets at the back of the antique shop, I came up with what I’d remembered seeing: night vision goggles joined the tools in the messenger bag. I ditched the cape and, black as the night, headed out the back entrance and two doors down where the uncles always have a collection of “extra” cars stashed. I took a set of keys from the hook and headed out in a burgundy Honda Civic that was nearly as old as I was.

• • •

IN LESS THAN
fifteen minutes, I had parked around the corner from 87 Lincoln Way and was creeping through a series of backyards, hugging the fences as I went. Of course, I avoided the crime-scene area. Obsessed: maybe. Nuts: no.

Soon I was at the back door of the Adams house. Like the front door earlier, the back door was not locked. I hadn’t needed those lock picks after all. So it seemed likely that no one had returned to set the security alarm. It had been off when Officer Candy and I “visited,” and I figured it still was. I pushed the door all the way open, and waited before easing in. I held my breath for two minutes and then slowly exhaled. Almost all security would have engaged by then if it was on. The security system being off was a good indication that the Adamses didn’t plan to return and didn’t care what happened. Or was it a clue that they’d been taken by surprise by someone they knew and trusted and from whom they fled or were taken? In which case, it was possible they might return if that danger was past.

I slipped on the night vision goggles and adjusted them. They were tight, making my eyes feel nearly suctioned out of my head. And they smelled like an army surplus store, rubbery and musty. But I still felt very Nikita in them. I stopped every few feet to listen for footsteps, breathing or other sounds.

Nothing.

It felt like an unoccupied house.

Nothing had changed as far as I could see. A few dozen books remained scattered on the floor and in the bookcases. This time, I searched carefully for the three missing titles. I peered under the overturned chairs and under the sofa. I checked under all the seat cushions and ventured into the dining room. But there was no luck. I felt like I’d been robbed. Vera sure had been.

Slowly, I crept up the stairs, hoping that the quality of the Craftsman house would mean that the stairs wouldn’t creak. The Converse didn’t let me down, soundless as long as I didn’t drag my feet.

On the second floor, I felt my way around. In my humble opinion, night vision goggles are overrated, except if you want to give someone else nightmares. It didn’t take long, although I double-checked upstairs and even looked under the beds and in the bathrooms. I didn’t care for my role as a light-fingered housebreaker, even though the Adamses were most likely long gone and probably had different names by now. Whoever would deal with the contents of the house, it wouldn’t be them. Still, I was reluctant to follow my uncles’ path. I needed to be honest and aboveboard, although this might not have been immediately obvious by my visit to this house in the night sporting dark clothing and night vision goggles. Still some loose ends to be worked out, you might say.