The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery) (2 page)

Strangely, my buddy Lance—arguably the world’s sexiest librarian—wasn’t answering his phone or texts either. Lost in a good book, perhaps.

Ordinarily, I would have called the would-be man in my life, Officer Tyler “Smiley” Dekker. He was an excellent listener, but I knew he was out of town on police training and not due back until the morning. He’d been mysterious about the “training assignment,” but apparently outside communication with cell phones or other devices was discouraged.

My uncle Mick was tied up with a “project” that involved being out late every night. He’d also been busy acquiring a few new properties near the shop including the building across the street, through a discreet third party, I understood. I couldn’t imagine what he’d do with a vacant dress shop and the apartment overhead. Better that way.

As I am the first person in my family to go straight, the less I knew about any of Mick’s activities the better. My uncle Lucky was still lost in the newlywed world with his bride, my good friend, Karen Smith. Their current activities were probably legal. The newlyweds were off on yet another little mini-moon, as Karen called their frequent trips. Still, after a month, you’d think they’d let their four feet touch the ground, I thought sulkily.

Speaking of four feet, I did have two sets of those. Walter, Karen’s pug, was spending the weekend with me, as was Cobain, Tyler Dekker’s large, shaggy dog of no known breed. I was in charge of him until Smiley’s return whenever from wherever. I loved the dogs and that was fine. Not that I was complaining. Not in the least; I was merely thinking that someone in my life might have answered their phone or texts.

As conversationalists went, the dogs were light on dialogue—if you didn’t count snorting and snuffling and passing gas—but on the other hand, they didn’t hog the conversation and weren’t prone to melodrama. They were curled up on my bed with the flowered comforter in the attic accommodations that I adored. Next to the books, my little garret was the best part of my job with Vera. It was relaxing to cuddle up with the dogs and stroke their fur, but it wasn’t enough to take my mind off the sense of doom that Muriel Delgado had brought with her. I felt a little shiver thinking about it. I had a feeling this visit was about money, as most things are. I spent a lot of time worrying about Vera’s money, her champagne tastes and what I knew was a beer budget. The Van Alst fortune isn’t what it once was. These days, there was hardly enough money to cover the basics around this vast estate, let alone take a hit from some con man—or woman, in this case.

At two in the morning, I was still awake worrying about Vera’s visitor and listening to the wind howl. The midnight walk in the snow with the two dogs hadn’t helped me get to sleep. All around me were signs that the Van Alst fortune was in decline. In the harsh floodlights and frosty air, every crack was clearly visible. The lifting tiles on the vast roof resembled an old reptile, lying down for the last time. I itemized the immense expenses Vera and her estate must have. The house needed a combination cook and housekeeper. It required someone to keep the extensive grounds and maintain the building. The signora was devoted to Vera. I wasn’t even sure if Vera paid her. The signora had her quarters and her food. What else would she want except to have Vera finish a meal for once? Kev was about the same. Mostly he needed a place to lie low where nobody would think to search for him, as a consequence of a small disagreement about a large amount of money with some impatient “colleagues” down in Albany. Kev had a “suite” of rooms above the garage. This suited him. The three monster-sized meals (minimum) a day suited him even more.

I had my dream attic, the run of the house, a job I loved and food to die for. Vera paid me a reasonable rate, but as I had no real expenses, that allowed me to save to get back to graduate school. In turn, while I did research, I also managed to find good books at good prices and sell many of these finds, which gave Vera a good return.

Although I believed she was getting some perks from having me on staff—such as keeping her and her collection from harm’s way—for the most part. In fact, I figured I was a bargain.

Vera’s growing collection was a big money drain. The estate was hemorrhaging cash. Her better artwork had been disappearing and there was a lot less sterling silver than when I’d first come on the scene. No one in their right mind would buy any of these portraits of the Van Alst ancestors, no matter who painted them. I thought I’d better try finding out about this Muriel Delgado woman in case we were about to say adios to our Francis I forks. Or worse, maybe she was making an offer on the book collection. I sat upright, sweating. Maybe Delgado was a real estate agent and Vera was thinking of liquidating the contents and selling the house. What would happen to us then?

How to dig up some dirt?

By now it was past two, so maybe Uncle Mick was back. I gave it a try.

I picked up the phone and called.

“What is it? Bail money?” he said.

I could imagine him sitting there, big Irish grin, ginger eyebrows and matching chest hair, an older, saner version of Uncle Kev, without a bounty on his head.

“Very funny. Just need a bit of information.”

“Anything for you, my girl. You know that. And while we’re talking, how’s our Kevin getting on?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Always have a backup plan, Jordan.”

My family are masters of the backup plan, which is why they live free and happy days instead of breaking rocks somewhere without antiques and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

“I do, but I hope I don’t need it. Do you know anyone called Muriel Delgado?”

“It might ring a bell but I can’t say right off.”

“Any chance you can ask around? See what you can dig up?”

“For my favorite niece, the sky’s the limit.”

“Your only niece.”

“Even more so. I’ll inquire. But I should mention that your uncle Lucky’s kind of mopey since you don’t live here anymore. Don’t suppose you could drop in more often?”

“Uncle Lucky’s in Manhattan with Karen.”

“Still.”

I grinned. “I’ll come by tomorrow. I miss you too.”

*   *   *

“I SEE YOU
have another Archie Goodwin book on the go, Vera,” I said cheerfully as I arrived in the conservatory the next morning. We breakfasted at eight every day. We were not late if we knew what was good for us. Vera had a passion for Nero Wolfe, because her father had introduced her to the Rex Stout books when she was a child. It seemed to have been the only interest they’d shared. Now as a collector, she had a thing for a lot of classic mysteries, but Wolfe held a special place in her icy heart. Today the book was
Black Orchids
. She wouldn’t read it, of course. It was for fondling only, being a deliciously fine first edition. Her father’s well-thumbed paperbacks were stashed between her bedroom and her office, where I’d found her reading and rereading them. The fact that she had this edition of
Black Orchids
with her in the conservatory, away from its normal, safe habitat in the temperature-controlled library, told me she was in her Wolfe-ish mode. Not that it mattered to me. Archie Goodwin was my man. The only one who counted.

Mind you, I’d had quite a literary crush on Lord Peter Wimsey not that long ago. It seemed that the minute I got my bearings again I had fallen hard for the suave, smooth, wise-cracking and well-dressed right-hand man to the eccentric Nero Wolfe. I was trying to keep up with Vera and while she was rereading Rex Stout’s works for the umpteenth time, I was just discovering these treasures. I’d now been luxuriating in the world and characters he’d created long enough to know that if I couldn’t have Archie Goodwin, I wanted to be him. I’d even considered a fedora. Maybe two-toned shoes.

I took a glance out the splendid windows of the conservatory at the snow-dusted Van Alst property. Picture perfect.

“Nero Wolfe book, you mean,” Vera sputtered. “Archie Goodwin is merely an adjunct, a sidekick, an also-ran.”

I raised an eyebrow provocatively and took my place at the table.

“The hired help,” she added with a hint of a sneer.

I grinned, the same way that Archie used to when he teased Wolfe. “Where would Wolfe be without Archie? Who would keep the cops from the door, drive the Cadillac or escort the suspects, strong-arm difficult clients and pull a gun on the villain? The great detective wouldn’t be able to function without him. All Wolfe does really is obsess over those flowers.”

Vera scowled. “Orchids. Hardly just flowers.”

Vera reminded me a lot of Nero Wolfe, without the charm. I did have the brains not to mention this. People can admire and even venerate the man, but did any of them want to be him? Of course, with Vera you never knew.

I said, “Right. Thousands of orchids. But without Archie that detective business would go down the tubes. Archie is absolutely necessary.”

“He’s absolutely replaceable,” she snapped. “Men like him were a dime a dozen in New York in the thirties and forties.”

“Unlike me,” I said with a straight face.

You could feel the temperature drop a good ten degrees. The signora’s eyes widened. Uncle Kev’s fork paused in midair. I smiled and accepted a Dutch baby pancake from the signora. It was puffy and delicious and loaded with pancetta, mozzarella and Parmesan cheese.

“Even you, Miss Bingham, can be replaced.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, as if I didn’t believe a word of it. To tell the truth, I don’t know what had gotten into me. Maybe I was channeling Archie, picking up his glib speech patterns and cocky attitude. Come to think of it, I did have trouble leaving the garret without a fedora that morning. Whatever it was, poking this particular Nero Wolfe in a wheelchair was a death sport and I needed my job.

“Yes. You, whether you have enough wit to realize it or not,” she said, waving the signora and the Dutch baby away.

“I suppose,” I said, digging in. Again, I put my reaction down to the Archie factor. He probably needed his job too. Come to think of it, Archie also had his comfortable live-in digs and at least three of Fritz’s fabulous meals a day in the brownstone as part of his compensation. But he didn’t let Wolfe bully him. He stood his ground. He made his points. He wasn’t afraid to argue. Sometimes he had a little hissy fit, but in a manly way. Archie was definitely a good influence on me. And Wolfe was definitely a bad influence on Vera. Not that she needed any bad influences. She was already too much like the eccentric detective: wealthy, irascible, difficult, demanding, obsessive. I could go on, but I believe the point has been made.

In fairness, she wasn’t much like Nero Wolfe in appearance; she was bony and angular, as opposed to Wolfe’s bulky person. Of course, she used a wheelchair and he was mobile. But there the difference ended. Neither one of them ever left the house if they could help it. The homes they lived in were large and imposing, although Vera’s was in a small town in upstate New York. They both had cooks, although a bird feeder would probably have done for Vera. Wolfe had fine clothing. I grinned thinking about those vast yellow silk pajamas that Archie described in almost every book. Conversely, no one knew where Vera got her drab moth-eaten sweaters. Today’s was the color of old vomit, with fraying cuffs and a missing button.

Despite their having intelligence, self-focus, conceit and snobbery in common, I think even Wolfe would have trouble communicating with Vera. Wolfe had his ten (or was it twenty?) thousand orchids, Vera had her thousands of fine first editions, but she wasn’t so good with living things. Nero Wolfe might give Vera pointers on being more of a people person.

I wasn’t sure what Wolfe’s voice was like. Vera’s sounded like the crunch of gravel.

The gravel crunched. “Archie Goodwin. An errand boy, nothing more.”

“Agree to disagree,” I shot back merrily.

Signora Panetone swooped down with a refill of the Dutch baby. I wouldn’t say no to that.

Really, I should have been more sensitive to Uncle Kev. He actually needed his job even more than I needed mine. After all, no one with mob connections was actively hunting for me to my knowledge. Kev had landed on his feet here at Van Alst House. Even though he could turn practically any everyday situation into chaos or disaster, here everyone thought the sun shone out of his tight knockoff Levi’s.

“More snow coming,” Kev said. I think that was what he said. He had a pretty big mouthful of breakfast.

Vera didn’t like snow but she didn’t need to care if it snowed. She never went anywhere except to the bank and her quarterly meetings of the hospital board, driven by Kev in her ancient Cadillac. The signora didn’t care either. Between her two freezers and her pantry she had enough food stocked up to feed Harrison Falls through the coming winter. Kev was probably thrilled. He’d get to ride the tractor plow along the driveway and back once the serious snow arrived. And he’d be able to play with the snowblower in all the smaller, hard-to-reach areas. Toys for boys. Kev was in heaven. I could imagine him carving figure eights in the snow.

I said, “I sure hope the mail can get through.”

That got her. The mail and courier pickups were her lifeline. How else could she keep up her collection?

I went back to my breakfast. Life was good.

I knew darn well Vera would put me in my place one way or another before too long, but I wanted to savor the moment. It was just over a month to Christmas. The snow made me think of it. I pondered the idea of yellow silk pajamas for Vera. Despite her persnickety nature, I had actually become fond of her. So, that morning I was anticipating my first Thanksgiving at Van Alst House and then Christmas. Yes. Yellow silk pajamas for sure. I could manage that.

What for the signora? Thirty pounds of cheese? Bail money for Kev. Bound to come in handy sooner or later.

I shot a playful glance at Vera. “With luck
Fer-de-Lance
will make it safely through the blizzard conditions and past the coyotes.”

Vera quivered. She’d been waiting for this one: a first edition of Rex Stout’s initial Nero Wolfe mystery, published in nineteen thirty-four. It was what they called a near fine first, and an upgrade to her previous copy. This
Fer-de-Lance
would roll in at twenty-four hundred dollars, plus shipping. It was in lovely, but not perfect condition. I had tracked it down. Mind you, the copy she really wanted was going for twenty-three thousand dollars, but we’d have to wait for that. In the meantime, we’d settled for near fine. Both editions had the same pink orchid against a black background on the cover. The previous copy had netted us seven hundred in a private sale that pleased me and the buyer that snagged it. That had been one of my early finds for Vera and I felt proud that we’d turned a nice profit on it. I’m pretty sure that Vera had wanted to keep that copy too. But at the rate antiques were disappearing from Van Alst House, she would have to make some compromises. I’d felt lucky that I’d persuaded her not to sell the Georgian silver candlesticks that graced the table. In fact, I’d barely talked her out of it, citing family history.