The Sayers Swindle (A Book Collector Mystery) (5 page)

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A LITTLE UNCLE
Kevin goes a long way, even if you’re as fond of him as I was. After all, he’d been the one who showed me how to climb out a window using a rope, scamper up a tree to escape an imaginary bear or a real police officer and pinch Oreos from the package leaving no evidence. Not to mention the frogs in the closet, but the less said about that the better. Growing up as an only child, Uncle Kevin was the next best thing to a misbehaving brother who would get stuck with all the blame for joint escapades. Still, by the time we reached Burton, I was desperately trying to tune out the constant whistling, chat, squirming and drumming on the steering wheel. The Kia Sorrento was a good-sized vehicle, but I sure felt claustrophobic cooped up in it with Kevin.

On the other hand, I was very pleased with our new appearances. For once I was the redhead in the family, with a shoulder-length mane of glossy auburn. Uncle Kevin was jaunty with a silver mustache, fake tortoiseshell glasses and a herringbone fedora. He would have made an excellent companion if he’d been able to keep still. It was a challenge to convince him to take an orderly approach to our slow cruise of the streets of the older section of Burton. He preferred random and of course he liked speed, but he didn’t do too badly, more or less. Anyway, the drive was beautiful.

Luckily, it wasn’t hard to find a prime example of a Craftsman house in the older section of Burton, as it was small and compact. Unluckily, I found three. I hadn’t asked Karen for any distinguishing features of the home where she delivered the Sayers collection. I’d thought that Craftsman would say it all. So I was stuck with 4 Washington Avenue, 22 Madison Street and 87 Lincoln Way.

All very presidential. This part of Burton was like a Norman Rockwell vision of small-town America. Golden oaks and bright maples punctuated wide lawns. There wasn’t a house that had been built after the thirties. The place screamed “family.” A number of families were getting an early start on Halloween with inflatable headstones on the grass and small ghosts floating in the trees. Old oak trees and wonderful gardens lined the streets. Even though I enjoyed my life at Van Alst House, I would have loved to reside here.

Daydreaming of a future in which I could spend
my
days tending roses, I looked forward to visiting our collector, maybe more than once. After all, I did a bit of work scouting for books on the side and I could always use a new buyer for anything that Vera didn’t want. I reminded myself to stop dreaming and find the right house.

I thought I could dismiss 22 Madison Street because of the collection of Fisher Price toys, Tonka trucks and headless Barbie dolls dotting the front lawn. Just in case, I took a picture to show Karen. I also used my phone to take shots of 4 Washington Avenue. The property was a bit run-down, but still mouthwatering. My dream is to settle down in such a house and restore, restore, restore.

When we pulled up in front of 87 Lincoln Way, an older man was puttering around the property next door. He checked us out, radiating suspicion. I figured him for a widower, because no one with a wife would be allowed in front of the house in black socks, sandals, baggy shorts and a tartan cap. Even if he was dutifully raking the lawn. He probably thought we were casing the joint, which we were, sort of.

I waved. The last thing we needed was to attract a lot of attention, and it was important to put him at ease. And I didn’t want to give the occupants any advance notice before returning with Karen. Or cause some neighborhood busybody to notify the police about a suspicious car. Who knew what kind of provenance the Kia had?

“Stop the car,” I said and hopped out. I approached the neighbor, smiling, my fabulous fake auburn hair blowing in the autumn breeze. I thought I was a good match for the red and gold leaves swirling around. I sniffed. Someone nearby was baking, apple pie if my nose was to be believed. The aroma made me smile, as did the neighbor’s tartan cap, Royal Stewart, my favorite, maybe because the Queen of England leans toward it.

“Hello,” I said, extending my hand and continuing to smile brightly at the cap. “We were just looking for an American Craftsman house in this area and we spotted this little beauty. I can’t tell you how exciting this is. A thrill.” I gestured grandly toward Number 87 with its gabled roof and tapered columns supporting the roof over the wide veranda, with the deliciously exposed rafter beams. Trust me, I had done my homework. This one had it all: it was what they called a foursquare and had what looked like the original multipaned windows and the partially paned door that all real examples sport. I loved the earthy color of the house and the contrasting brick-red trim. The red door picked up the colors of the surrounding sugar maple trees. I wasn’t exaggerating about the thrill. In my childhood dreams of having a real home with a real mother and father—instead of the ever-changing parade of lovable uncles—I always imagined us being happy in a house like this. Other kids collected My Little Ponies. I collected photos of Craftsman houses and kept them in an album. I realized that the dream of the mother and father was lost, but someday, I told myself, I’d have a house like this. Somewhere safe and legal, a place to love and be loved. I did hope no one would ever be casing my house in a Kia and a red wig.

Maybe I’d add a secret passage or two.

The neighbor’s suspicious look persisted. He held on to his rake and ignored my outstretched hand. “You’re just driving around looking for a certain house? Why would you do that?”

I let my hand drop but kept the smile plastered to my face. I realized I must have seemed slightly deranged, but it was too late to conjure up another faux personality. “I have a client who is very interested in a Craftsman house in Burton. And as I said, this is such a lovely example. We’d love to get inside, but the owners don’t seem to be around.” I pointed to the red front door and tried for a fetching little pout. This wig was starting to mess with my personality.

Never mind. It seemed to do the trick. I suppose it was the not-too-subtle suggestion that I was a real estate agent—without coming right out and saying it—but surely the pout counted for something too.

“They keep to themselves,” he said. I thought I noted a wistful tone.

“Do they?”

“Very standoffish. Never have a word to say. They certainly don’t add anything to the neighborhood.”

“Hmm.”

“And as you can see, they have let the property go. The foundation plantings have been chopped down and there’s nothing left of the garden at all.”

“Oh. What a shame.”

“Scandalous. It was pristine when they bought it.”

“When was that?”

“Just less than three years now.”

I glanced back at the car, where Uncle Kevin was watching with interest. I hoped he wasn’t getting any fashion ideas from this gentleman. Uncle Kevin is far too easily influenced. I would have liked to take a picture of the house, but I debated whether that seemed too suspicious. On the other hand, this neighbor didn’t look all that tech savvy. If I used my phone to snap a photo of the house to show Karen, would he even know what I was doing? I decided to assume that you can’t assume much about people and appearances can be deceiving. Certainly I was proof of that. The neighbor seemed to find this new redheaded me quite fascinating, a nuisance for sure.

Why is it that there is not a single person to be seen in the middle of the day on the average street in our area, yet whenever I need to snoop, there’s practically a neighborhood committee meeting?

“Are the owners out now?” I asked. There was no car in the driveway and no sign of lights on inside on this gloomy day, so it was a good bet.

“You just missed them. They drove off in their fancy car, not ten minutes ago.”

“Darn. That’s inconvenient. Not my lucky day, I guess.”

“Guess not,” he commiserated. I felt his attitude begin to thaw.

“Fancy car, you say?”

He nodded, disapprovingly. He was sort of a cute old geezer with that tartan cap. Just needed a wife to establish a few guidelines about pants.

“Hmm,” I said producing the smile yet again. “I suppose I should just leave a note. Do you know their names? I like to personalize these things.” The neighbor looked very interested at that.

“Adams,” he said. “I don’t know their first names. As I said, they’re not that friendly. They’ve never introduced themselves to me.”

I resisted the urge to blame that on his cap.

I was disappointed to hear the confirmation that they weren’t friendly. If this was the place, I was hoping for warmhearted souls who could be convinced to swap the Sayers collection for something else, thus saving my job, apartment and financial neck plus freeing Karen from her burden of guilt.

“That’s fine. I’ll leave a note for Mr. and Mrs. Adams then. Thank you ever so much.”

Ever so much? Wow, I was really getting into this role-playing thing.

“Don’t you have a card?” he asked. “Usually real estate agents just leave their cards in the mailbox. Brochures too. And information sheets with photos of properties that they have sold in the area. When I think of real estate agents, I think of lots and lots of teeth.”

“Of course, I do have all that kind of promotion,” I said, showing my teeth and pretending to reach into my shoulder bag for my nonexistent cards, brochures and information sheets.

He frowned thoughtfully. “But, of course I always throw that bumpf straight into the recycling bin. Waste of good trees. If I want an agent, I’ll just call one.”

“Exactly, and
I’m
eco-friendly. Plus I think a note would be better. More personal, as this is a very personal quest for my client.”

“On the other hand, a card might be good. I wouldn’t mind getting one in case I decide to sell. Maybe your client would be interested in my house.”

“Indeed,” I said, a bright smile glued to my face. Was he trying to jerk my chain? Whatever, I hoped a steady stream of information would distract him. “The client is obsessed with American Craftsman style. I could never deflect her from that. She has money, the kind of money that nobody says no to, if you get my point.” I could see that his interest was waning. “I think I might not have too much trouble finding someone interested in a unique Victorian like yours.” By unique, I meant marred by a couple of really bad remodels. I wondered who had stripped the gingerbread from the house and what he or she had been thinking. Some folks have no appreciation for history.

He said, “Maybe I should sign you up right now.”

This definitely called for a diversion. No point in going any further down the faux Realtor road. I pointed to the low, neatly manicured boxwood hedge that separated the two properties. “By the way, I am very interested in this greenery. Mine never seems to do well. My, um, husband does all our gardening. Would you mind telling him your secret? It seems so . . . luxurious, yet controlled.”

Kevin was probably at the point of death by boredom by this time, and he perked up immediately and leapt from the car. He managed to insert himself between the nosy neighbor and me and bent over to examine the hedge.

“Remarkable. What’s your secret?” he asked. “Bonemeal?”

Bonemeal? Really? I almost fell off my stiletto heels. Who knew that Kevin had any idea at all about gardening? Where in the world would he have picked up that skill? Was it some special parole program that he’d never mentioned to us? Of course, Uncle Kev was nothing if not mysterious.

Panicking that he wasn’t going to wander down the “garden path” with Kev, I continued my weird flirting offensive and reached out to touch the man’s forearm, a move that Lance and Tiff could pull off, but it just felt wrong to me. No more of that, I told myself.

He said, “I don’t think I have a secret. It’s just a row of boxwood.” But the look in his eyes added, “Why is this weird woman touching me?”

Kev was beaming. “It’s glorious! Do you feed it?”

“Feed it? No, I just trim it.” The neighbor turned to his boxwood with new interest and respect.

Kev leaned toward him. “I bet you talk to it. Makes all the difference.”

Kevin actually seemed to be taking care of the problem, for once. That’s what it took to really thaw this neighbor. He leaned the rake against the bushes and stuck out his hand. “Harry Yerxa.”

“Billy Bishop,” Kevin said. “Glad to meet you.” The World War One flying ace was a hero of his, but I worried that it was just a matter of time until someone recognized the name.

“The flying ace!” Harry Yerxa said.

“Yup. Named for him. My father was a big admirer.” Kev knew well enough, as we all did, not to elaborate too much. It’s the details that can trap us. I hoped he wasn’t going to blow our cover.

Still, I was impressed despite myself. Although he was probably one of the world’s best improvisers, he sounded like he knew a thing or two. He may have had the neighbor fooled, but I’d kind of fallen for it too.

While he was being his distracting best, I used my iPhone to take a couple of good shots of the Adams house from the sidewalk. It was not only heartbreakingly beautiful, it was also very photogenic. Then, leaving Harry Yerxa to fend for himself, I dashed up the path to the front door and pretended to leave a note. Actually, I was checking out the place in case I needed to have an “informal” and unauthorized visit at a later date. I was surprised to spot two separate dead bolts on the door. What a shame to see them marring that wonderful red front door. I rang the doorbell, just in case. I heard the bell echoing from the inside. I waited and then glanced around surreptitiously before peering through the small panes in the top third of the door. I couldn’t see a thing. Next I knocked loudly and long. Finally I tried peeking in the windows. I noticed that the windows were alarmed as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed a wall-mounted camera and then another tucked behind the exterior light. That’s a good trick. Amateurs disable the first camera and don’t realize that there are more. I wasn’t likely to fall for that, but I would be clearly visible on both of them. I was very glad I had the wig and hoped that my features wouldn’t be identifiable on the recording of my visit. I pulled a piece of paper and a pen from my bag and pretended to attempt to write a note. I thought I simulated the frustration of having my pen run out of ink. “Darn,” I said loudly. “My pen’s not working. Honeee!”