"You've lost a book?" I asked.
"It was taken from me," said Mr. Vielstich.
"Stolen," I said.
"Yes."
"Valuable?"
"It has never been appraised," he said, "but it is very old and, to the best of my knowledge, wholly unique." He unfolded a sheet of carefully-creased notepaper before handing it to me. "Three inches thick by fourteen inches tall by nine-and-one-half inches wide," he said, echoing the description he had written for me on the paper in a thin, meticulous hand. "Bound in embossed leather, with a brass clasp. It was printed in Dusseldorf in 1713."
"An antique," I said. "Have you talked to the police?"
"They regretfully were unable to help because I have no documents showing ownership, nor any proof of its worth. It cannot then be considered larceny."
"And what," I asked, "is it worth?"
"It is of great personal worth to me. As you say, it is an antique. It is also an heirloom, with great sentimental value to me."
Which was absolute bullshit, but he lied well and without apparent malice, so I let it slide.
"Did you see it get stolen?"
"You are asking if I saw the person who took it," Vielstich said. "No, but I have reason to believe it was this man."
He handed me a second sheet of paper, this one ripped hastily from a notepad and jotted by a different hand. Above a phone number was a name: "Hans Mueller."
"A fellow German?" I asked.
"An American of German descent," he said. "Mr. Mueller visited me eleven days ago, having discovered that I possessed this book, and offered to buy it from me. When I refused, he was very clear that he intended to possess it. Two days ago, when I returned from a doctor's visit, the book was very visibly absent from its customary location."
I looked from Vielstich's careful notations of the book's vital statistics to the uneven handwriting of Hans Mueller.
"How did you come to find me, Mr. Vielstich?"
"You were recommended by the friend of a friend," he said. "I do not know who. I am not being evasive. An acquaintance of mine knew your name from a friend who had been well served by hiring you, but I don't know that other client personally, and if I was told his name, I have forgotten. I am getting old."
I pictured this book in its timeworn leather cover, page edges greyed by hundreds of years and who knew how many hands.
"I don't know what you know about private investigators," I said, "but it's not like they show on TV. I should easily be able to find Mr. Mueller, but if I attempt to recover your book without some proof that I am actually reclaiming stolen property, I could be seen as committing a felony."
"I would not expect that, of course," he said. "I would be most appreciative, however, if you could at least ascertain for me the whereabouts of the book. I may then be able to negotiate and persuade them to return it into my keeping."
"And this is all for an heirloom."
"Yes."
I had to hand it to him, he lied with a sincerity that most professional conmen can only dream of.
"I see no reason why I can't work for you, Mr. Vielstich," I said.
** ** **
After we had settled the matter of the retainer, Mr. Vielstich excused himself and I got to work by booting up the computer.
Hans Mueller wasn't listed in any phone directory in the state. However, the phone number he had left belonged to one Philip Castler, whose address put him in the heart of a lower middle-class neighborhood on the west side.
The name rang no bells for me, but a search through the online newspaper archives soon educated me. Philip Castler was one of the founding members of StormFront, which one article characterized as "the region's most consistent white supremacy group" and one letter-to-the-editor characterized as "hatred walking undisguised among us." Castler himself wasn't characterized by anyone at all, and was only mentioned twice by name. The first was as an organizer of a pro-white recruiting rally which the city had found some reason to block four years ago. The second identified him as the plaintiff in an assault case in which four young "people of color" had taken exception to the fliers Castler had posted advertising that rally. Castler then withdrew the charges, claiming that it was a lost cause "in a world that bent over backwards to accomodate minorities."
Ah, the wonders of modern technology. In the old days, it would have taken me an entire day of research to find out that I had just agreed to step into a giant dogturd of a case.
** ** **
I spent the afternoon doing busywork on a marital infidelity investigation that had been going on longer than most marriages last, and made it back to the house just before Beth got home from school. Autumn weather hadn't really struck yet, and the Gordell sisters were on the porch swing, taking in the afternoon sunshine.
The Gordell sisters were Mrs. Janice Atlee (widowed) and the former Mrs. Nell Burkett (divorced). When I was pregnant with Beth and just setting up my business, I had bought a fair-sized duplex and had actively sought senior citizen tenants without much family to speak of. The deal I had offered was simple: They could live there rent-free, paying their own utilities, and in return they would be the permanent on-call babysitters when my erratic schedule kept me away from home. Being on a limited income and having no grandchildren of their own, the Gordell sisters had worked out perfectly, becoming Beth's surrogate grandmothers next door.
"You're home early," Nell said as I unlocked my front door. "Are you back to work this evening?"
"Yeah, I need to be somewhere by five," I said. "So I decided to have supper with Beth a little bit early."
Beth came up the sidewalk right then, all pigtails and missing teeth. She waved goodbye to the friends she'd walked home with, trotted over onto the Gordell sisters' side of the porch to give them both a hug, then followed me into the house.
"You have to work again tonight, huh?" she said, hanging her schoolbag on the hook inside the door.
"'Fraid so," I said. "Mind if we have supper a little early?"
"Depends. What are we having?"
"I dunno. Squid, maybe. Something with tentacles."
"Sure," she said. Her tongue showed through the gaps in her smile. She was a perfect child, even-tempered and good-natured, and by daybreak she never remembered that she had screamed and sweated her way through some inarticulate terror in her mother's arms the night before.
We chose spaghetti with pesto sauce. It was the closest thing to tentacles we could find in the house.
