Mark disappeared inside.
I just
had
to get into the pod.
But it would have to wait until after dark, when Mark was off at a show. With any luck, he’d take Eloise with him. By my calculations, 9:30 p.m. would be the ideal time for a return visit: after Full of Crêpe closed and before the theater let out.
How can I wait?
*
By 9 p.m. I was in range. I was back in my ninja homey outfit, the hood tightened around my face, some kohl from my theater days smeared over my cheeks. Even my shoelaces were black. I was a suburban commando—and my mission? Figure out what Mark was up to. If I could also rescue the ruff of Ruffo, so much the better. I parked in a dark stretch of DeWitt Street, two blocks off Market Square, one street north of Callowhill. I shut the car door as quietly as possible behind me, but a dog started barking in what I hoped was a fenced-in backyard. Some kindly homeowner yelled “Shut up!” which the dog seemed to take as encouragement.
I scrolled down the contact list on my phone and hit the button for Joe Beck. The Big Plan was fully formed, but I knew I’d need a smidge of assistance.
“Hello? Eve, is that you?”
“It is,” I said in a low voice, hoping no neighbor would choose that particular moment to wheel his trash can to the curb. Darting into the protective cover of a box hedge, I went on. “I’m parked on the street behind Le Chien Rouge and I’m going to break into the pod in their driveway—”
“You’re
what
?” he hollered.
Just then, the front door of a little Cape Cod bungalow next to my hedge opened. “Hang on,” I hissed into the phone.
An old lady in a floral housecoat stepped outside, her hair looking like a puffball of cotton candy under the porch light. “Bootsie!” She made those hissy-kissy noises cat owners think entice kitties. “Bootsie!” When the prowling Bootsie did not appear, the old lady clucked her tongue and went back inside.
“Eve! Eve!”
I put the phone right up to my ear. “So here’s how I see it,” I said, squinting past the backyards on Callowhill Street, zeroing in on the crêperie. Happily, it looked dark except for a security light somewhere on the first floor. “Either you can come and help me out, which I figure increases my chance of success, or you can just show up at the police station when I fail miserably and explain to them how you knew about it beforehand and did nothing to stop it.”
Dead silence.
I tiptoed along the side of the old lady’s house.
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Mark Metcalf was the one who attacked me and stole my stuff,” I informed him, just wanting to get on with it.
“Metcalf? Wait. Where have I heard that name?”
Oops, dangerous waters. “Oh, just a—”
But Joe was too fast. “Don’t tell me he’s the day trader you had your eye on.”
“That’s not the point,” I said with dignity.
I had to listen to Joe laugh out loud.
“Do you want to hear how I know, or not?” said I, bristling.
Joe could hardly keep it together. “So this paragon of manly virtue—”
“All right, all right, so I made a—”
“—bagged you,” he blared into the phone. “Literally. Probably not quite what you had in mind—you in your pretty red dress. Talk about a hot date gone bad.” When he stopped laughing, he asked, “Don’t tell me you had your eye on the office couch?”
“It was good enough for the likes of you,” I snapped.
“And you, apparently.” Then he got mock-pensive. “I’m wondering what Freud would say about your needing to use the same place that Kayla and I—”
I topped him. “Freud would say
you
have intimacy issues.”
“Unlike you, I at least have intimacies before I have issues!”
I snorted. “If that’s what you want to call—”
But he overrode me. “You could have taken your favorite felon back to your teeny tiny little house.”
I gasped. “How do you know where I live?”
“I’ve driven by,” he said casually.
I was furious. “Are you stalking me?”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re my client. I was bored, so I drove by just to get the big picture.”
I haven’t put up with Maria Pia for thirty-two years without having a state-of-the-art Crap Detector. “Oh, right. Tell me another one, Beck. You’re just sad and blue that you ended up with the wrong Angelotta on the office couch.” Yikes, where did that come from?
It was his turn to gasp. “And you’re just mad you ended up with someone who was more interested in what was on your walls than in what was on your couch.”
I was so angry, I could barely see the fence I was going to have to climb to get into Le Chien Rouge’s backyard. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, Beck. And,” I added in a fake-nice voice, “if you’re coming, I suggest pocket flashlights. And a set of lockpicks.” Then I hung up, turned off the phone, and jammed it into the pocket of my black hoodie.
17
With a grunt, I scrambled up and over the basket-weave fence separating the properties, then dropped six feet to the ground. I wish I could say noiselessly, but I discovered Bootsie the hard way. After the cat and I sorted out our respective panics, we split, and I skulked quickly to the back of the crêperie. If I jumped up and down, I could just see into the wall of kitchen windows. Empty.
To be sure, I spent the next ten minutes circling the building, peering in any windows I could reach. No easy chairs holding a snoozing Eloise. No signs of spontaneous floor passion featuring Mark and Eloise. From what I could tell, it was empty.
I moved to the pod and was examining the metal sliding door when a hand clamped across my mouth and an arm tightly encircled my waist.
“Hi, Joe,” I said through his fingers as he pulled me out of the wash of the streetlight. I managed to press the Indiglo button on my watch. Very good; he had arrived in thirteen minutes.
“Let’s talk this over, shall we?” he whispered, grunting as he tried to wrestle me over to the grass.
“Look,” I said reasonably as I tried to elbow him, “I haven’t had a lot of experience with lawyers, but are they all so passive?”
“Passive?” he choked out as I struggled. His grip tightened. He was not helping the mission. “I haven’t had a lot of experience with tap-dancing chefs,” he hissed, pulling me off my feet, “but already I don’t like them.” As he stepped backward, he stumbled and we fell into a low azalea bush, cracking through branches as we went down.
“Now see what you’ve done,” I said, wincing.
“What
I’ve
done!” In the dark, his eyes were flashing.
I pushed him away. “You haven’t even heard my case.” Since he seemed inclined to shut up and sprawl in the bushes, I laid it all out for him.
When I got to the part about how Mark Metcalf’s theft of my opera stuff made me wonder about a connection to the murder of Arlen/Max, who was an opera memorabilia fan and found dead on my Caruso 78, Joe sat up, resting his arms over his knees. He appeared to be thinking things over.
“So I want to know what Mark’s up to. I want to know why he took all my stuff, and where it is, and whether”—I gulped, because to tell the truth, I scared myself—“he had something to do with Arlen Mather’s death.” Even though the night air was warm, I shivered.
Joe was quiet for a minute. “How do you know it’s safe to look around now?”
“He said he was going to a show tonight. I called the two playhouses in town, and their shows let out around eleven.”
Joe finally reached into his back pocket and pulled out two mini flashlights, handing me one. “Keep the light off until we’re inside the pod,” he said softly, glancing quickly around at the neighboring houses. “And whatever we find inside, we leave it all there. We get the hell out and call the cops.”
“But what about my—”
Joe grabbed my shoulders. “We get the hell out of there and call the cops. Anonymously.” He heaved a sigh. “This has to be no-trace camping, Eve, otherwise I’ll be washing dishes at Miracolo. If I’m lucky.”
“Who needs lights when we’ve got you in a white shirt?” Though it looked slightly the worse for tumbling through the bushes and hitting the ground.
He shot me a look as he got up, digging around in his other back pocket. “Most of my breaking and entering experience”—he said through gritted teeth, pulling out a couple of small objects—“has been during daylight hours, so forgive me if I fail the dress code.”
I stood and readjusted my ninja wear, tightening down the hoodie and smearing the kohl farther across my cheeks, and followed him over to the pod.
At that moment, two things happened. A patrol car started to come down Callowhill Street. Joe and I gave each other a look of horror and flattened ourselves against the metal door. And coming down the sidewalk from the other direction was a middle-aged couple. Ordinarily not a big deal, until we heard their conversation.
“Do you think they’re open, Don?”
“I sure hope so. I’m really in the mood for her chocolate chip crêpes.”
From what I could make out, the two of them were cutting across the yard toward the front door. And then we saw them. Any second now they’d give up on the crêpes, turn around, and catch Joe and me slammed against the metal door. And no part of that looked innocent.
I felt so panicked I could hardly breathe. If we slipped around the far side of the pod, we’d fall right into the high beams of the patrol car.
“Looks closed, hon,” said the woman.
The guy swore. “Okay, let’s go.”
As they started to turn our way, Joe grabbed me, pushed the hood off my head and pulled me into a clinch, then kissed me hard, up against the metal door. One of his arms was wrapped around my hair, and the other held me so tight around my waist that I couldn’t catch a breath—at least I think that’s why I couldn’t catch a breath—and I thought we’d sink right into the pod without even having to pick the lock.
“Oh!” said the woman, getting a load of us.
Although my eyes were flickering shut in the heat of the kiss, Joe’s were steely, figuring out the next move. While the disappointed crêpe eaters muttered to each other about public displays of affection and started to move off, Joe’s hand lingered at the small of my back, and I found myself thinking just how nice bruised lips can be, not to mention a nice bottle of Barbaresco and the sand on Key West.
The voices disappeared and Joe pulled slightly away, resting his fists on the metal door on either side of my head. The couple was gone, and the patrol car had passed the crêperie and continued on its way down Callowhill Street.
“Wow,” I said, then, needing to explain further, added, “quick thinking.”
“Sorry,” he whispered, then turned toward the lock.
Should I tell him he now had kohl smeared on his cheeks?
But then I got interested in what he was doing with a ballpoint pen. He broke off the metal clip from the cap and bent the tip slightly. Then he handed it to me and set to work on a paper clip, which he straightened out, and then angled the tip.
“Hold the lock for me, Eve,” he whispered.
When I cradled it in my hand, he turned it so that the large end of the key insert was on top.
While Joe slipped the bent tip of the pen cap into the key insert, I felt his breath on my hand. The thumb of his left hand lifted it up a little. Then he inserted the bent end of the paper clip just under the pen cap, as far as it would go.
“Here goes nothing,” Joe mumbled, applying pressure to the pen cap as he wiggled the paper clip up and down.
The padlock fell open in my hand.
My eyes went wide.
With a quick look at the silent neighborhood, I slipped the lock into my pocket as Joe slowly raised the door just high enough to half crawl inside. We ducked into the mobile storage unit, and my heart started to flutter when Joe very slowly drew the metal door back down, plunging us into total darkness. When I was sure no one outside could see it, I flicked on the minilight Joe had given me.
Joe flicked on his own light and flashed it around, then whistled. The pod didn’t hold leftover junk. He pushed past a couple of stacked crates marked Cherry Hill, and shined his light on two medium-sized rolled Oriental rugs leaning against the wall. If these were Eloise’s, why hadn’t they moved them into wherever she was living?
Joe’s fingers cupped a tag fastened to one of the rugs, which he read and then glanced at me. “These are from the rug store two blocks away.” He looked grim.
I swung my little light around, settling on a plastic bin holding a couple of Madame Alexander dolls, silver candlesticks, and Victorian jewelry. “This is Fran Beller’s stuff that was stolen!” Looking into another small bin, I opened some newspaper wrapping and held up what I was pretty sure was the Baccarat vase from Frantiques.
“Look at this,” Joe whispered from behind an armoire at the back. Dodging bins and crates, I made my way over. Crouched over a box, he held up what looked like some vintage clothing. Then I saw that it was Rosa Ponselle’s corset, and Titta Ruffo’s ruff! I bit off a cry.
“Is the demo record there?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.” He made a sweep with his arm. “This holds all the stolen property from Quaker Hills for the last three months. Your boyfriend’s a one-man crime spree.”
“Unless Eloise is in on it. And he’s not my boyfriend.”
Joe touched my arm. “Let’s get the hell out of here and call the cops.”
Then we both heard voices. Outside.
We flicked off our minilights.
“It’s them!” I whispered. I had never felt so terrified.
He tensely whispered, “I thought the show didn’t let out until eleven!”
What had Mark said? What had he
said
?
Going to a show
. “What if … he meant a movie, not a stage play. An early movie?” I felt myself sag.
The voices came closer. They were standing right on the other side of the door, and the two of them, Mark and Eloise, were arguing about the pod.
Where is the lock? Did you forget to put it on? Why do you always assume—
“Go hide behind the armoire at the back,” Joe whispered.
I sandwiched myself between the armoire and boxes stacked four rows high. In the total darkness I couldn’t find Joe, and had never felt so alone and exposed. My skin crawled with the thought of what Mark might do to us if he found us.