Murder on Consignment (4 page)

Chapter 7

I peeled out of the lot, tires squealing, and junk rattling from every corner of the Volvo. I could hear the sound of glass breaking as I screeched around the corner. Probably the cross-stitch sampler, but I didn’t care.

I drove straight to the nearest fast food drive-through. Thank goodness, they had switched over from the breakfast menu; I don’t know what I would have done without a double layered hamburger to calm my slap-happy soul. I went to retrieve a couple of bills from my wallet and found them wrapped in a tidy little note reminding me to check my emotions. Well, to heck with my emotions; I was beyond that. I needed a good, old fashioned, high calorie binge. So, just for good measure, I coughed up a couple of more bills and added a chocolate shake and small fries.

Sufficiently carb-loaded and stuffed with saturated fat, I was feeling better by the time I reached the post office. After shipping my packages, I made my way back to my apartment to unload my car. 

Exhausted after hauling all my new acquisitions up the steps, I went straight to the kitchen, tore down yet another one of those bothersome “check your emotions” signs, and pulled a soda out of the fridge. I settled in front of my computer, twisted the cap, and let the cool fluid clear my mind. What was going on with Shep? Was he on the run because he’d witnessed a brutal murder? I couldn’t just wait around for Sean to figure it out, I needed to find a few of my own answers.

I hesitated for a second, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Where to start? The only thing that I’d garnered from the cri
me scene was that Jane had recently purchased a large lot of items from an estate sale. The books I found in the garbage were obviously part of that sale, discarded by Jane as she sorted through items. Remembering the marking on the outside of the box I saw in the dumpster, I typed Sokolov into the search engine. Sitting back, I took another sip from my soda as I studied the options on the screen: Sokolov the famous Russian pianist; some law firm in Philly; a Wiki reference to popular Russian surnames… I refined my search by cross-referencing Sokolov and Chicago. All I got was a listing of names. Lots of Sokolovs in the area.

I went to the
Tribune
online and accessed the obituary listings. I typed in the name Sokolov and found two references. One was archived May 8th, three years ago. The other was a more recent entry—three weeks ago on the 24th of September. I clicked on it and read the blurb.

Calina
A. Sokolov, age 47, of Ukrainian Village, died at home on September 23th after a long battle with illness. She is survived by one son, Alex Sokolov, of Kirillov, Russia. Funeral arrangements are pending.

Not much of a death notice. I scanned the obituaries for the following
week, but found nothing more on Ms. Sokolov. Then I searched white pages on-line for her residence and found she’d lived just off West Superior Avenue, downtown near the Ukrainian Village. I jotted down the address, crossed referenced a telephone number, and started formulating my strategy. I was half way through my second soda when I finalized my plan. All I needed was a little luck and a great outfit.

I dialed the number.

“Hello,” a deep, slightly accented, male voice responded.

“Good afternoon,” I replied, in my haughtiest tone. “This is Prudence Overton from
Tolmey’s Auction Gallery. May I speak to Calina, please?”

There was a slight hesitation from the other end. “May I ask what you want to speak to her about?”

Smart guy.
“I’m sorry, it’s confidential.”

Another hesitation. I held firm on my end, not offering any more information.

“I’m her son. I’m sorry to tell you this, but my mother has passed away. Is there something I could help you with?” 

“Passed away! Oh, no…I’m so sorry.” I began really pouring it on. I could tell this guy was sharp, I needed to be convincing. “I knew she was ill, but I thought ... I’m sorry. You must be Alex. She told me about you.”

“She did?”

“Yes. Well, she mentioned you a few times. She seemed proud of you.” I hesitated a minute before adding, “Would it be possible to meet with you in person, Mr. Sokolov
? There’s something of great importance that we need to discuss…much too important for over the phone.”

“Uh…I’m not…”

“I can come to your mother’s place first thing in the morning, if that’ll be convenient. Let’s say nine o’clock?”

“Well, I guess that would be alright.”

“Fine. I’ll see you at nine.” I disconnected before he could change his mind. Then, I quickly dialed Shep’s number again, but there was still no answer.

I spent another hour or
more searching for information on-line before hitting my resale clothing stockpile in search of the perfect get-up. It wasn’t easy, but by bed-time, I felt confident I’d pieced together something that made me look like an antiquarian book dealer …something understated, modest and business-like.

*

Eager to execute my plan, I awoke early the next morning, grabbed a quick bowl of cereal and went right to work transforming myself into Prudence Overton.

The night before, I
assembled the most bookish outfit I could dig out of my storage bins: a long brown, wool blend skirt; a high-collar, button-down blouse with a ruffle; and the same navy blazer I wore to the crime scene a couple days earlier.  There was still a tiny rip in the armpit of the blazer, but surely, no one would notice that.

Everything worked great except the skirt;
it was way too long. No problem. Having always been on the short side, I was an expert at length adjustments. I grabbed a roll of packing tape from my coffee table and went to work. A few minutes later, the skirt looked like it was tailored for my body.

With my outfit perfected, I turned my focus
to the rest of me. I studied my reflection in the mirror for a few minutes before deciding on a conservative French twist and minimal makeup. Taming my red curls into a twist took a half-bottle of goop and some major stamina, but the efforts were worth it; the new-do transformed me from frizz queen to sleek professional. A pair of round, silver Windsor-framed glasses that I used once when I attended a costume party, completed the look.

I stepped back and gave my reflection a thumbs up. I looked just like someone named Prudence Overton should look.

After several trips around the block, I found a parking space on West Erie and started hoofing it north towards Calina’s address. No easy feat, since Prudence had chosen three-inch heels to wear with her wool-blend skirt.

Downtown, with the breezes off the lake, was always slightly cooler than the burbs, but today it felt particularly chilly. I cursed my wardrobe choice. My feet were killing me and a cold wind was blowing up my skirt—my butt cheeks were actually shivering.

Nonetheless, I persevered on my quest. Crossing over Hoyne Avenue, I made my way around some city workers who were working on the water main. As I passed, they stopped and gave me their full attention. One even broke loose with a high-pitched whistle.

I was a
taken aback; I never drew that type of attention from construction workers. Actually, I couldn’t help but notice a lot of men were turning to give me a second glance. Geez, guys must really go for the smart, nerdy type. Who knew? Smiling inwardly, I gave them a little extra wiggle as I continued down the walk. Being Prudence was turning out to be fun.

I reached
Calina’s address just as the bells of St. Volodymyre began to chime. I eyed her place, quite surprised by what I saw. Nestled on a tree-lined street, her classically designed, red brick three-story home boasted a large front porch and an oh-so-beautiful garden tucked behind a black iron fence. In a neighborhood where multi-family housing and small cottages reflected its proud working-class roots, a red brick beauty like hers would be worth a fortune. Of course, it was humble in comparison to the million dollar mansions down the street in the Wicker Park neighborhood; but still I couldn’t help but wonder how she could afford such a place. I shrugged. Maybe she’d had a great job.

I pushed my glasses back on the bridge of my nose and ascended the front steps. The door swung open before I knocked.

“Ms. Overton?” 

The first thing I thought when I saw Alex Sokolov was Sasquatch on steroids. The man was huge and very, very furry. Dark shocks of hair sprung out from every angle of his head, outdone only by the black, bristly
uni-brow that seemed to spring to life as he spoke.

He held the door open and invited me in. I smiled politely and inched past him unable to avoid noticing the la
rge tuft of hair that peeked through the top of his button-down shirt. Thankfully, he was wearing loafers; hairy toes grossed me out.

Once inside, he motioned me to one of the only t
wo chairs left in the place. I got right down to business. “Thank you for agreeing to see me today, Mr. Sokolov. Again, I’m sorry about your mother.”

Despite all the fur, his smile was warm and genuine. His age was difficult to determine, but I guessed him to be in his late twenties. “Thank you. However, I’m sorry to say that my mother and I weren’t all that close. I was raised in R
ussia by my grandparents. When they died, she brought me to the states, but well…it was a difficult transition for me as a young teen and I was quite hard to handle. So, she sent me to a boarding school on the East Coast where I finished my schooling before returning to Russia. We really only bothered to keep in contact on the holidays and such. So you see, her passing seems almost like the death of a stranger.”

How sad, I thought. While my mom drove me nuts sometimes, if anything ever happened to her, I would be devastated.

An awkward silence fell over us. Alex cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject as if embarrassed that he revealed so much personal history. “So, you’re from Tolmey’s Auction Gallery?” he asked.

“Yes,” I perked up, ready to relay my pre-planned spiel. “I’m actually associated with the antiquarian book divisi
on of Tolmey’s. Your mother contacted us a while back in hopes of auctioning a valuable book. I was assigned to assist in the assessment of the volume. When I called yesterday, I was hoping to let her know that I had ascertained a number for her…and it’s quite extraordinary.” 

Thank goodness I had taken the time to memorize a few of the terms on the
Glossary for Book Collector’s
website; I sounded quite official.

“I don’t understand what you mean. What type of number?”

“The value of the book,” I answered, as if he had just asked the dumbest question in the world. I paused, letting the tension build. “Of course, your mother was very protective of the volume and I was only allowed to see it for a few moments, but if upon further inspection and authentication, it proves to be in the same condition as when I first assessed it, she…or you as her heir, should be able to procure around two thousand at auction.” I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, letting the dollar amount hang in the air. “Would you like for Tolmey’s to continue to handle the auctioning of the book, Mr. Sokolov?”

“I don’t…what was the title of the book?” he asked, his accent becoming more distinguished as his frustration grew.

“It was a Tolstoy’s preprint edition of Anna Karenina. There were hand-made notes on the pages,” I answered, matter-of-factly, even though I had made it up in the wee hours the night before. I held my breath. What I knew about Russian literature would fit on the end of Mikhail Baryshnikov’s pinky.

“I’m sorr
y, Ms. Overton. I’m afraid I don’t have that book or any volumes anymore. You see, I’ve had all but a few things of my mother’s estate liquidated. All that’s left is what you see here—just a few things I need for the duration of my stay, which won’t be long. So, all the books are gone. I would have no idea of where to even start looking for this valuable volume.”

“Well, that’s easy. Who handled the estate auction?”

“Uh…A to Z Estate Sales.”

“You could call them and request a record of sales. Maybe they have a listing of who purchased the books. If you could track down the purchaser, you might be able to get the books back.”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but that seems like a lot of trouble for two thousand dollars; and besides, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be in town.”

Did I hear him right? A lot of trouble? Was two thousand dollars chump change to this guy? “Did I say two thousand? It could be more. Much, much more.”

He shrugged. I started feeling like my visit with Mr. Sokolov was wearing thin. He reinforced this by glancing at his wrist, which sported an expensive gold watch. “I’m curious, Mr. Sokolov. Your mother seemed to have such a fine collection of books. What was it that she did for a living? Was she a writer, perhaps?”

He gave me a lo
ok that screamed mind your own business lady
.
“No, she wasn’t a writer. She just appreciated the finer things in life.” He stood, silently announcing the end of our visit.

We excha
nged a couple of pleasantries while he showed me to the door. As I stepped out onto the porch, I glanced over my shoulder and caught him staring at my backside. When he looked up and saw that I had noticed his little indiscretion, his face broke into a mischievous grin—he didn’t even bother to look embarrassed. I shot him a murderous look and descended the porch steps with my chin held high. That guy was nothing but a spoiled, perverted, hairy brat. No wonder his own mother didn’t want to be around him.