“So how did you end up selling the stuff on eBay?” Joe asked.
She explained that Rachel’s father, Aaron Lear of the huge Lear Transport Industries, had recently cut her off, which came as something of a surprise to Flynn. “He thought she’d been in school too long and was running around with the wrong people. Which,” she said, stabbing the air to point at herself, “she was, hello!”
Another loud sob, a comforting pat on the back from Flynn, and she continued.
“So anyway, she was having a hard time finding a job and paying her bills, and I thought I’d help her out! That’s all! She didn’t like the stuff Myron brought her anyway, and she’d put it in the dining room or in the guest room and say she was going to decide what to do with it later, but she didn’t want to throw it out because she was afraid of hurting his feelings or something . . . she’s just really nice like that. So I started taking things. One at a time, you know, so she or Myron wouldn’t notice. And I . . . I sold them on eBay!” she cried out in a flood of tears. “But I gave all the money to Rachel!”
“How many items?” Flynn asked.
“Am I going to jail?” she sobbed into her hands.
“Not right this minute,” Joe said, casually leaning back, his feet propped on an empty chair as he watched her.
“Perhaps not at all if you can help us,” Flynn said.
“How many items did you auction?”
“I don’t know,” she said, lifting a very red, tear-streaked face. “Maybe six or seven things. Enough to pay the utility bill. Except she used the money to have that stupid Thanksgiving party for her weaving class because she’d already promised them. God, sometimes I just want to slap her!”
Joe rolled his eyes, drummed his fingers impatiently against the tabletop. Dagne reached for a paper towel and blew her nose, sounding a bit like an old bleating sheep.
“And how many items do you think the professor brought her?” Flynn continued.
“Oh hell, I don’t know. There was something all the time.”
“Were you ever present when he gave something to Rachel and claimed it was a replica?”
“Yes. The torch thingies. I remember because I thought it was weird they’d have those in a gift shop. I mean, who would buy them, right? And then I thought, well duh, Myron the idiot, who else?”
Joe looked at Flynn. “Let’s go pay a visit to Professor Tidwell.”
“Righto,” Flynn said. “Have you any more items here, Dagne?” he asked. She shook her head.
Joe stood and looked down at Dagne, then suddenly bent down, so that his face was just inches from hers. “You leave this apartment without calling me,” he said, flicking a card at her, “you’re definitely going to jail for a long, long time.”
Dagne wailed, motioned for him to go away.
“Look at me,” Joe said sternly, and when she looked up, he said, “Do you think I’m kidding?”
“No,” she said, sniffing. “I think you’re a jerk.”
Joe smiled, came to his feet. She buried her face in her hands again. Flynn patted her on the back, followed Joe out.
Myron was not in his apartment. Nor was he at the RIHPS offices, or the bar he frequented. Their last stop was Rachel’s; it was almost eleven o’clock, but there were several lights on in the house, and her car was in the drive. There was no sign of the professor.
Joe and Flynn jogged up the steps to Rachel’s house, knocked loudly, then stood there, waiting for her to open. Several seconds passed; Joe walked down the steps, looked at the upstairs lights. “I’ll check around back,” Flynn said, and withdrawing a small pocket flashlight, walked around the porch, down the steps to the drive, and along the bank of windows that framed the dining room. The garage was closed and locked, but the kitchen light was on and the back screen door was slightly ajar. Flynn tried it, but the door was locked. He knocked, waited for a time, but heard nothing from within.
After checking the back of the house, Flynn walked up the east side and around to the front, where Joe was still banging on the door, and was about to speak when someone behind him asked, “Who are you?”
Startled, both Flynn and Joe turned toward the male voice. A short man with a knitted cap that stuck up on his head like Cat in the Hat was standing there with a rake in his hands, despite it being quite dark out.
“One might ask the same of you, mate,” Flynn said, turning around fully and shining his light in the man’s face. “We’re looking for Miss Lear.”
“Well, you’re frightening my wife with all this noise!”
There was no noise, and the man’s attitude did not set well with Flynn. He took several steps forward, until the man had to bend his neck back to look at him. “Sorry if we’ve been a nuisance, but it’s very imperative that we find Miss Lear. Have you seen her?”