A man should control his life. Mine is controlling me.
—Rudolph Valentino
I BID A hasty good-bye to the Reverend and Mrs. Waterman, promising I would keep them informed of any new developments. Once outside, I raced along the block until I caught up to Seymour, who was still delivering mail.
“Do you think you can find a copy of that circular you were talking about?”
“Sure,” Seymour replied. “I pile them up in a drawer at home. That way I know exactly which bureaucrat to complain to when things go south.”
“Could you bring it to me at the bookstore when you get off duty? I’d like to read about the reclamation of the creek and Michaelmas Pond.”
Seymour made a face. “Sure, but why? It’s surely not because of your passion for freshwater fishing.”
“I’ll tell you later. Just bring me that circular.”
I didn’t want to explain anything to Seymour quite yet because I couldn’t put into words the jumble of facts that were coming together in my mind. I turned and began walking on automatic pilot while I tried to untangle the many threads in this twisted tale.
Those New England asters that Norma brought to the Watermans proved there was a real connection between her and Dorothy Willard. I had no clue what that connection could be, but I was now certain that “Dorothy Willard” wasn’t a random name Norma simply jotted down on a job application.
I recalled the statement made by one of Dottie’s neighbors to Eddie Franzetti about running into Dottie gathering flowers in the woods—while he was fishing! Was that neighbor fishing at the newly reclaimed Michaelmas Pond? My bet, he was, because there was not much freshwater fishing around Quindicott, not this close to the Atlantic!
And wouldn’t a remote area like the forest along Millstone Creek, or the woods surrounding Michaelmas Pond, make a perfect camping ground? And where was Norma’s familiar trailer, anyway? She’d come into town without it this year, which meant she’d stashed it somewhere.
Why not along Millstone Creek or Michaelmas Pond? Norma could easily winter there—she had years of experience “roughing it” and living off the grid. And then, of course, there were those books she ordered on local bird watching and Forest Bathing . . .
As this theory coalesced in my head, I headed home. It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk from First Presbyterian to Buy the Book in the center of the town’s small but thriving shopping district. But as I walked I noticed a sleek, black, late-model Cadillac pacing me. When I turned my head in the car’s direction, the Caddy rolled to a stop beside me, and the passenger-side window slowly descended.
“Please excuse my boldness, Mrs. McClure,” said a smooth, cultured voice with a slight unidentifiable accent. “I’d like to talk to you about the Tears of Valentino.”
“Let me guess. You work for the insurance investigator, Max Braydon?”
“In fact, I just spoke with Mr. Braydon.”
“About my car? Am I going to get it back?”
The mellow-voiced driver climbed out of the Caddy to greet me face-to-face. He was over six feet tall, with large hands and a hawklike nose. He stood ramrod straight, and his salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his thin mustache upturned in a tense smile that made me feel slightly uneasy.
The man opened the passenger-side door. “My name is Enzo Santoro, and it would be my pleasure to give you a ride to your destination. It’s important that we talk.”
I was beginning to think this guy might not work in insurance. But late afternoon on Cranberry Street meant there were plenty of people around, so I didn’t see much risk.
When I was comfortably seated, he started the powerful engine and quickly pulled into the roadway.
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Ah, but I do, Mrs. McClure. We are going to your lovely bookshop. But please bear with me—a short detour first.”
A moment later, Mr. Santoro pulled into a parking spot near the town gazebo. Though the sun was ready to set, mothers with children, and even a few couples, were all around us, so I still felt safe.
“Now,” he said. “I wish to speak with you privately, if I may.”
“About the Tears of Valentino? You did mention them already.”
“Ah, you are as intelligent as you are attractive, Mrs. McClure.”
Oh brother . . .
Wait, was that me, or Jack?
“Please, let me explain,” Santoro continued. “I am from Castellaneta in Puglia, the place where Rudolph Valentino was born.”
“And Valentino is your hometown hero.”
“Rudolph Valentino is Castellaneta’s gift to the world. A dancer. A poet. The first Hollywood sex symbol. Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart, Tom Cruise, these men are mere peons. Pale shadows of the glorious Valentino.”
Enzo spoke as much with his hands as his lips. Gesturing wildly, he banged the steering wheel more than once. “And of course, Valentino was the greatest of lovers. He taught America the language of love—”
“In silent movies?”
“Valentino once said ‘an American may speak love with his lips; but the Italian must say it with his eyes.’ ” Enzo sighed. “Despite all of his success, Valentino’s life was filled with tragedy. He once told Hollywood columnist Louella Parsons that the women he loved never loved him and all the others didn’t matter.”
I flashed back on my meeting with Syble Zane in Jack’s time and the sad origin of those Valentino Tears.
“I do know his first wife rejected him on their wedding night,” I said.
“And his second wife nearly ruined his career,” Enzo noted. “ ‘Women are not in love with me,’ he once said, ‘I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.’ ”
Enzo paused. “Valentino died at the height of his fame. He was only thirty-one years old. One hundred thousand people attended his funeral in New York City. Many women—and a few men, too—committed suicide rather than face a world without the Great Valentino.”
I thought the man might break out in his own tears at any moment.
“I take it you are a fan,” was the only comment I could muster.
“I am from Castellaneta,” he replied, as if that explained everything. “Even the fine citizens of my fair city have begun to forget the legacy of their great gift. That cannot stand. The memory of Rudolph Valentino must never be forgotten.”
“I understand your admiration for the late actor, but why are you telling me all this, Mr. Santoro?”
“Oh mio Dio! In my excitement I forgot the reason for our little chat. I am here in America to represent a former citizen of Castellaneta, now a prominent member of Sicilian high society. I am talking about a very wealthy member of a powerful family who would like nothing better than to bring that legendary necklace to Valentino’s home.”
“Who is this prominent citizen?”
“I am sorry, Mrs. McClure, but I am not at liberty to disclose that information. The party I represent wishes to remain anonymous. But understand that this person is willing to pay a high price for the Tears. Also understand that this offer comes with no questions. How you or another party may have come by the jewels is not our concern. We merely want to procure the Tears of Valentino.”
“Look, Mr. Santoro, I can see you believe I know the whereabouts of the Tears? I assure you I do not.”
“I have a strong . . . let us call it a feeling . . . that you are on the trail of the Tears, the same as I.”
There was no need to reply. Enzo already knew I was on the case.
After that, he started the car and backed into the traffic. A few moments later we were driving up Cranberry Street. Because of the many cars parked around my store, he pulled into a spot half a block away.
“One more thing before you go, Mrs. McClure. Any transfer of funds would be a private affair; no one need know about the exchange—”
“Especially not the police?”
“Or the . . . how do you say it? The IRA?”
“The Irish Republican Army?”
“No, no, the American taxman. The party I represent will pay in dollars, in euros, or in cybercurrency. The money will be instantly wired to any account, here in America, in Switzerland, or a country of your choice.”
“One question,” I replied. “If I were to come across the Tears, how would I contact you?”
“I shall find you.”
“I’ll show myself out,” I said, reaching for the handle.
“It has been a pleasure, Mrs. McClure. I hope we meet again.”
I climbed out of the car and closed the door. Without another word, Enzo Santoro sped off—but not before I spied a pair of mud-caked size-twelve boots dirtying up the back seat’s elegant leather upholstery!
For a minute I was reeling from the realization that I might have just taken a ride with a killer, but I didn’t have time to chide myself. Jack Shepard did it for me.
Toots, didn’t your mama ever warn you not to get into a car with a stranger? That’s a real knucklehead move you pulled.
“And by sheer dumb luck, I may have found Dottie Willard’s killer.”
Whoa! Slow down there, Seabiscuit. A pair of muddy boots are pretty slim evidence to pin a murder rap on a joe. The johnny law needs a little thing we in the investigative business like to call “evidence.”
“They might already have the evidence,” I countered. “I’m pretty sure the police took molds of those boot prints in the woods. I’m going to call Eddie.”
I used Eddie’s personal phone number. He picked up right away, and I told him about Santoro, his off-the-books financial offer, and the muddy boots.
“A black Caddy, you said. Did you catch his license number?”
“I did,” I replied, rattling it off.
“Sounds like a rental,” Eddie said.
“What should we do?”
“We aren’t doing anything.” Eddie’s reply was swift, and ominous. “I am going to turn this information over to the state police right now. You are going to stay as far away from this man as possible. It’s conceivable that this is the guy who killed Dottie Willard, took a shot at you, and is out to kill Norma, too, if you or the state police don’t find her first.”
My hands were shaky as I put away the phone
Sorry to flatten your tire, doll, but I warned you. Death clings to the Tears of Valentino like rust on a Model T.