Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave Page 8

  Perfect.

  Mull Letterford cleared his throat.

  Case opened his eyes and looked at his father, who now stood between him and the TV.

  “OK, before I lose you completely to the TV and your meal, let’s discuss tomorrow. Here’s the plan. My meeting is at eleven-thirty, about three blocks from the Natural History Museum. I’ll be having lunch at a restaurant with Mr. O’Dally. I’ll drop you off at the museum around nine a.m. and then head over to my meeting. I’ll be back to pick you up at one-thirty outside the museum.”

  Case wiped ketchup from his face. “If it’s only three blocks away, then why are you dropping me off so early? The museum may not even open until ten.”

  “I’m sorry, but O’Dally is an absolute stickler for punctuality. I don’t intend to be late.”

  “But two hours early? C’mon Dad, what would he do if you were five minutes late? Is he going to refuse to speak with you?”

  “Actually, yes—he would refuse to speak with me. Writers are . . . peculiar. You’d better learn that now. They live in their own unique universes. With O’Dally, a second late may as well be a day late. He is a neat freak, a punctuality freak, and he demands the same of everyone in his life. He has his breakfast served at exactly the same time each day—7:57 a.m. Not 7:58. Not 7:56. It must be 7:57 a.m. exactly—at the exact same diner, sitting at the exact same table every single day. Lunch and dinner are served in equally precise fashion. His life is regimented down to the minute. And so yes, he would refuse to speak with me.”

  Case started to press the issue when two knocks on their door interrupted the discussion.

  Mull opened the door. “Yes, may I help you?”

  A short stocky man in a hotel uniform stood outside the door. “Good evening Mr. Letterford. I’m Rupert, the floor valet. I’m here to pick up your shoes.”

  “Wonderful—hold on just a second.” Mull walked over to the bathroom and retrieved the shoes, which he had placed in a plastic bag.

  “Are you sure that they’ll be ready by the morning?”

  “Oh yes,” replied Rupert the valet. “In fact, I’ll see to it personally and have them back to your room within an hour.”

  Mull handed the valet a five-dollar tip. “Thank you so much. You’re a real lifesaver.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” replied Rupert.

  ***

  The door to the room shut.

  Five dollars? Rupert crammed the five-dollar bill in his pocket. Give me a break.

  He started down the hallway. When he reached the elevators, he turned and looked back to ensure that no one else was in the corridor. Then, instead of heading downstairs in the elevator to polish the shoes, he walked down the corridor and took the stairs up to the next floor. Exiting onto the eighth floor, he looked around and, seeing no one, quickly knocked on the door of the room directly opposite the entrance to the stairs. The door cracked open ever so slightly.

  “Here are the shoes,” said the valet.

  A hand reached out and grabbed the shoes. A second later a hundred-dollar bill appeared in the crack of the door.

  The valet grabbed the bill.

  “Hey,” said the valet, “you promised me five hundred dollars to deliver the shoes.”

  A deep voice from behind the door replied: “And when you deliver the shoes back to Mr. Letterford, you will get the remainder. I don’t want you to back out on me.”

  “I wouldn’t chicken out.”

  “Yes,” the voice replied, “you would. Be back here in thirty minutes. The shoes will be waiting on you.”

  The door shut. The valet crammed the hundred-dollar bill into his pocket, checked his watch, and then proceeded back down the hall to the elevator.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Insolent Foe

  Palace Hotel, room 812

  Tuesday, December 16

  “How did you know my cousin would get a shoe shine?” asked Treemont.

  “It’s my job to know,” replied Trigue James. He did not offer any further explanation.

  Best to let him wonder, James thought.

  But, James knew, it was not that impressive at all—just some basic detective work and an understanding of human nature. Treemont had already told him that Mull Letterford always stayed at the Palace Hotel. All it took was a couple hundred dollars in the hand of the concierge to find out that Letterford always requested a shoe shine. People are creatures of habit. James counted on that.

  “Now,” James said, “I have to get to work. We don’t have much time.”

  James was of medium height and medium build, dressed neatly—but not overly dressed—and in every conceivable way absolutely average in appearance. He was a decent-looking man but could not be described as handsome. His hair was light brown, and his haircut conservative, but not overly so. He had no facial hair, wore no glasses, and his eyes were some indeterminate mix of brown and light green. He had no tattoos, scars, or distinguishing marks of any kind. He was normal-looking—the type of man who could easily fade into the background at a state fair or state dinner—and it suited his unique profession to be so.

  James removed the shoes from the bag and carefully placed them on a towel on the bathroom counter. He then proceeded to clean, buff, and polish them to a high gloss.

  He held the shoes up for Treemont to see. “Just like new,” he said.

  Treemont nodded. It was a professional shine job. He was impressed.

  James then took the shoes and placed them on a small desk. He loosened the laces to expose the insole of each shoe. Using a scalpel, he carefully peeled back the insoles and then, with a small plastic bottle, squeezed several lines of a clear gluelike substance on the inside of each shoe. He then made several small holes in the back of each insole with the point of the scalpel and rolled the insoles back down over the gluelike material.

  “What is that stuff?” Treemont asked.

  James held up the bottle. “This, my friend, is (E)-2-butene-1-thiol and (E)-S-2-butenyl thioacetate. The particles are embedded in an acrylic matrix and then suspended in a gel that hardens into a clear, undetectable substance.”

  “What does it do? Is it a poison? I told you, I’m not trying to kill him.”

  “No,” replied James, “it’s not a poison. That would cost extra.”

  He paused briefly, as if waiting for Treemont to reply to his not-so-subtle inquiry. Treemont gave no indication that he intended to pursue this more drastic approach.

  James continued: “I understand that another approach is required in this particular instance. No, this is not a poison, although I suspect that tomorrow your dear cousin will wish it was. Rather, the chemicals in this small bottle represent a synthesized version of the active ingredients excreted by the Mephitis mephitis.”

  “A what?” asked Treemont.

  James laughed. “A Mephitis mephitis—the common striped skunk. It is, in fact, a very refined—and very potent—form of that spray.”

  “Skunk spray? What are you talking about? I can’t smell a thing.”

  “And you won’t, so long as you don’t wear the shoes. However, once the shoes are put on, the heat from his feet will slowly activate other substances that will dissolve the acrylic matrix and release the chemicals.”

  Treemont was unimpressed. “So his shoes will stink. So what? He’ll find another pair.”

  “Hardly. I once forced the evacuation of the entire United Nations with this simple concoction. These chemicals don’t wash off. They can’t be scrubbed off. They bond to everything they come in contact with—everything. A skunk’s spray is bad enough. This formulation is ten times as potent. Once it activates, there is nothing Mull Letterford will be able to do to get rid of the smell.”

  “I still don’t see how this is going to stop him from getting to the meeting.”

  James looked at Treemont, smiled, and handed him the shoes. “Patience, good sir. You will see.”

  Rupert knocked on the door. Truth be told, he had given ser
ious consideration to simply walking away and not returning to pick up the shoes. He had no idea what was happening to the shoes he had delivered to this same room.

  But honestly, Rupert argued to himself, exactly what can they do to a pair of shoes? It can’t be that bad, can it?

  And besides, money was money, and he needed money.

  The door cracked open just wide enough for a bag and four one-hundred-dollar bills to pass through. Rupert tried to catch a quick glance at the face of his unnamed coconspirator, but the door shut quickly.

  He held up the bag and looked at the shoes. Nice shine job, he thought as he headed back downstairs to return the shoes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Heirs of Fixed Destiny

  England

  Wednesday, December 17

  Colophon convinced her mother that a day trip to Stratford-upon-Avon would be an exciting educational experience, and as Julian was willing and available to accompany her, Meg readily agreed. Julian picked her up before sunrise, and they headed north on the M40 motorway.

  For most of the journey, Julian and Colophon speculated on what they might find in Stratford-upon-Avon and where the next clue might lead. The conversation was lighthearted and optimistic. A few kilometers from the town, however, Julian abruptly changed the tone of the conversation. “Tell me,” he said, “why the interest in the family treasure?”

  Colophon stared out the window. “Nothing really, I suppose. Just seems interesting.” She saw no need for Julian to know about the ultimatum facing her father.

  “Twelve-year-old girls do not get up early in the morning to accompany their scruffy cousin on a trip to an old church for fun. There must be more. As the Bard said, perhaps a secret to confer about?”

  “The Bard?”

  “William Shakespeare!” replied Julian. “The Bard of Avon! The man we now seek. Honestly—what do they teach you in school?”

  Colophon continued to stare out the window. “No secrets. No mystery. The treasure just seems interesting.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Julian said, “that it has anything to do with the meeting that will take place on Christmas Eve?”

  Colophon whirled in her seat and stared at Julian. “How do you know about that?”

  “You forget that I am your father’s first cousin. I am a Letterford. I have the right to know.” He paused. “You think this will help your father, don’t you?”

  Colophon turned and stared back out the window. “I just wanted to do something to help. I thought he might be able to use the treasure to purchase the company outright. You probably think that’s silly.”

  “No, I do not. No more silly than a man in his early forties chasing an unknown treasure across the English countryside with a twelve-year-old girl as his guide.”

  “OK then,” said Colophon. “Fair is fair. Why are you chasing the treasure? What secrets do you hold?”

  “Ah, I set myself up for that one, didn’t I? Very well. You may not realize it, but your father and I are the same age. We actually attended school together for much of our lives.”

  “Then how come I hadn’t heard of you until just a few days ago?”

  “That’s part of the story. I don’t think your father thinks that I uphold the Letterford name in proper fashion.”

  “It’s very important to him,” noted Colophon.

  “As well it should be,” replied Julian. “He has the responsibility of running the entire business. I don’t mean to diminish what he does or the value he attaches to our family name. I just couldn’t bring myself to continue in the family business.”

  “But why?”

  “It was my senior year in college. There I was, ready to graduate. After graduation I was supposed to go to work for the family business, just like every other Letterford. No one ever asked what I was going to do after college—they already knew. I would have started out in a low-paying job in marketing or promotion, and I would eventually work my way up to a position as a senior editor.”

  Julian paused.

  “I simply realized that my whole life was mapped out for me.”

  “Is that so bad?” asked Colophon.

  He looked at her. “It’s horrible. Life shouldn’t follow a script—particularly a script written by someone else.”

  “So,” replied Colophon, “am I some sort of mindless robot for wanting to be part of the family business?”

  “No, as long as that is your decision.”

  “It is.”

  “Then,” said Julian, “pursue it with all the passion in the world.”

  Colophon sat back in her seat. The countryside rolled past her window.

  “My brother doesn’t want to follow the script. He says he has no interest in the family business.”

  “Good for him! Let him set his own course.”

  “But he’s such a jerk. You just don’t understand. He always has to make some comment about the way I dress, my glasses, my name—everything.”

  “Have you ever considered,” asked Julian, “whether the script he has been handed is one that he truly wants? You may want to be part of the family business, but does he?”

  “Are you saying he’s a jerk because he feels like he’s being forced into the family business?”

  “Perhaps. Or he might just be a jerk. Just something to think about.”

  “Trust me—he’s a jerk.”

  “He might be,” said Julian. “But he should have the right to decide which path his life will take, don’t you agree?”

  Colophon didn’t answer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Oh Villaniny!

  Palace Hotel, room 723

  Wednesday, December 17

  9:00 a.m.

  Mull Letterford stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his tie, for the fifth or sixth time.

  “What do you think? Do I go with the red tie or the blue tie? Red is supposed to be a power color. Blue seems calming. What about something completely different?”

  “Dad, you look great—very professional,” replied Case. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

  Mull Letterford took a deep breath and exhaled. “OK, you’re right. The tie is fine. The suit is fine. And the shoes look like a million dollars. I think I’m ready.”

  Mull had been particularly impressed by the promptness with which his shoes had been cleaned the previous evening and by the quality of the shoe shine. The shoes looked practically brand new. He had rewarded the valet with a twenty-dollar tip, although, for some strange reason, the valet seemed reluctant, almost embarrassed, to accept it.

  “Grab your bag, and let’s hit the road,” Mull said to Case as he headed for the door. “I feel good about this day.”

  Case grabbed his backpack. “I’m right behind you.”

  While his father was in the shower, Case had located the address for the restaurant where his father’s meeting with O’Dally would take place. After he was dropped off at the museum, his plan was to wait about an hour and then make his way over to the restaurant. Not surprisingly, the Find Coffee app on his iPhone showed that there was a Starbucks just across the street from the restaurant. He could keep an eye out for anything suspicious from there.

  Mull and Case walked down the hallway to the elevators. As they waited for the elevator to arrive, Mull asked his son whether he need a few extra dollars for lunch and whether his cell phone was fully charged in case there was an emergency.

  “I’m fine, Dad, really,” replied Case, “but I can always use a few extra bucks.”

  Mull chuckled and handed his son a twenty-dollar bill just as the elevator arrived. They stepped into the elevator, and Case pushed the button to take them to the lobby.

  As they started to descend, Case noticed that a foul odor had started to creep into and fill the elevator.

  Case looked over at his father. “Dad, do you . . .”

  “Yes,” Mull replied. “What is that smell?”

  It grew worse as the elevator continued down to the lobby
. It consumed every square inch of the elevator. Case found it difficult to breathe. He looked over and noticed that his father was red-faced from holding his breath.

  Mercifully, the elevator finally reached the ground floor. As the doors opened, the pungent smell that had collected in the elevator burst forth into the small elevator lobby. There were four guests and a bellboy waiting for elevators. They instantly reacted to the smell.

  “I’m going to throw up!” one man exclaimed.

  The other man standing in the lobby did just that.

  A lady screamed in horror.

  The bellboy abandoned his luggage cart and ran off.

  Another lady fainted.

  In short, pandemonium ensued among the small group unfortunate enough to be in the elevator lobby at that time. Case and Mull quickly stepped out into the main lobby, the smell trailing behind them.

  “Case, is that you?” Mull asked.

  Case smelled himself. Some of the odor lingered on him, but he clearly wasn’t the source of the smell. He looked at his father, and his heart sank.

  “Dad, I think it’s—”

  “Me,” Mull Letterford said. “It’s me.”

  Case sniffed his father, which made for an exceedingly odd image in the middle of the grand hotel’s lobby. Guests—at least those far enough away—stared and pointed. Those unfortunate souls who were closer, however, reacted by gagging and holding their noses.

  “It’s your feet,” said Case, who could barely breathe due to the stench. It was overpowering. “Take off your shoes.”

  Mull Letterford quickly removed his shoes.

  Case smelled them. Had he already eaten breakfast, he would have lost it at that point. Dry heaves were his substitute.

  By this point a number of hotel staff had come within a general circumference of Mull Letterford but would venture no closer than fifteen feet or so.

  “Sir,” said someone who appeared to be a manager, “you must leave the lobby immediately! The smell—it is overpowering.”