Diesel introduced himself as Daniel Crowley, and Julie’s eyes filled with tears.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. “Dr. Reedy was a wonderful man.”
“I was hoping to see his office,” Diesel said. “I gave him a book several years ago that has sentimental value. I’d like it back, and it wasn’t in his condo.”
“Of course. I can take you to his office. The police have already been here, but they didn’t take anything. They looked around, rolled their eyes, and left. We’ve been waiting for his family to clean things out, but so far you’re the only one who’s come forward.”
We followed her one flight up, down the hall, and stopped at the doorway to Reedy’s office. It was instantly clear why the police rolled their eyes and left. The office was clogged with assorted professorial flotsam. Books overflowed the bookshelves and were stacked everywhere. Artifacts were stuck away in nooks and crannies. Rolled-up maps were scattered on the floor and desktop.
“Wow,” I said. “There’s a lot of stuff here. His condo was so neat. It’s like he was two different people.”
“He slept in his condo, but he lived here,” Julie said. “For that matter, I know there were nights when he worked late and slept here. There’s a couch buried under all those books and tapestries. His area of expertise was Elizabethan literature, but his passion was a forgotten poet of the late 1800s, John Lovey. Dr. Reedy stumbled upon some of Lovey’s sonnets ten years ago and was deeply affected by them. I think at heart Dr. Reedy was a true romantic.”
“Have you read the sonnets?” I asked her.
“Yes, but I have to admit I wasn’t as taken with them as Dr. Reedy.” She went to the desk and shuffled through some papers. “He wrote a scholarly paper on Lovey’s work and life. I know there’s a copy here somewhere. It’s very interesting. It seems that during Lovey’s time he was regarded as a visionary philosopher. Sort of an Ayn Rand. He had a small but dedicated cult following. They were all devoted to the search for true love.” She moved to a different stack of papers and began picking her way through it. “Lovey’s most ardent follower was a man named Abner Goodfellow. He lived in Hanover, New Hampshire, and Abner’s house is still in the Goodfellow family. Dr. Reedy visited Abner’s great-great-great-granddaughter, and she allowed him to prowl through the attic, which was filled to the rafters with all sorts of ancient treasures. At least Dr. Reedy said they were treasures, but I suspect much of it was the usual junk that collects over time in attics and garages.” She pulled some pages out of the pile and waved them in the air. “I found it!”
Diesel took the paper from her. “Can I keep this?”
“Of course.” She looked around the room. “Dr. Reedy was so absorbed in his work for the last couple months I’m afraid this office has gotten even messier than usual. Maybe I can help you find your book. What did it look like?”
“It was a signed copy of The Wind in the Willows,” Diesel said. “Gilbert loved Mr. Toad.”
“I don’t remember ever seeing it,” Julie said, “but I’ll look on this side of the room, and you look through the bookcase.”
I went to his desk and systematically went through the drawers. The top right-side drawer was locked with no key in sight, so I got Diesel to do his magical unlocking thing. He opened the drawer, and we stared at a leather-bound book that I suspected might be similar to the book of sonnets. Hand-tooled cover and a small locking clasp. In this case, the cover design was an elaborate A and G.
“It’s Abner’s diary,” Julie said, looking across the desk. “Dr. Reedy stumbled onto it when he was in Abner’s attic. Among other things, it describes the final days of Lovey’s life and details what Lovey told Abner Goodfellow moments before Lovey’s death. Dr. Reedy took it as gospel, but I thought it sounded like a very sick old man returning to a favorite childhood fairy tale.” Julie did a fast scan of the room. “I’m not sure you’re going to find your book here. Maybe you’d like to take the diary in its place. It was one of Dr. Reedy’s most prized possessions. I believe the little key is in the drawer with the diary.”
“I’d love to have the diary,” Diesel said, taking the diary and the key. “That’s very generous of you. I appreciate all your help.”
“Perhaps you could locate the rest of his family and let them know he has some wonderful things here.”
“For sure,” Diesel said. “Thanks again.”
Deirdre Early lived on Commonwealth Avenue in the Back Bay section of Boston. It was a short distance from Harvard, but it had taken us over an hour in rush-hour traffic that included a car fire on the Harry Houdini bridge. Fortunately, the car had pretty much burned itself out by the time we reached the bridge, and traffic was moving. Diesel circled Early’s block once looking for a parking place. When he returned to her address the second time, there was a car missing, and he pulled in.
“How do you always manage to get a parking place?” I asked him, halfway afraid that some unsuspecting car had gotten beamed up into space by an unknown entity.
“Positive thinking,” Diesel said. “And I’m exceptionally lucky . . . usually.”
“Usually?”
“There’s been the occasional lapse.”
Early’s narrow, three-story row house had a postage-stamp front yard that might have been amazing in the summer, but at present time was a tangle of dead vines and shriveled shrubs. The façade was dark gray stone. The roof was gray slate. There were drapes on the windows with no light shining through. The door and wood trim were black.
“Holy cats,” I said to Diesel, taking the house in.
“Grim,” Diesel said.
We walked to the front door, rang the bell, and a woman answered. She was movie star beautiful, with glossy midnight black hair cut into a short bob. She had long black lashes, and she was wearing bright red lip gloss. She was my height but much more voluptuous in a silky low-cut black shirt, tight black pencil skirt, and four-inch spike-heeled pumps.
“Deirdre Early?” Diesel asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And you?”
“Diesel.”