Yesterday's Shadow: A Lacey Summers Mystery Read online

  Yesterday’s Shadow

  By Edna Curry

  Book one of the Lacey Summers, PI, Mystery Series

  Yesterday’s Shadow

  By Edna Curry

  Copyright 1999 Edna Curry

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters. incidents and events in this story are fictitious and the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without written permission of the author, except for short excerpts for reviews.

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  Credits:

  Cover by Bev Haynes

  Dedication:

  This book is Dedicated to my best friend and loving husband, Orval, whose collection of ‘Lone Wolf’ Lithograph prints inspired this novel.

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  Smashwords Edition.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Yesterday’s Shadow

  By Edna Curry

  Chapter 1

  May 1, Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Something was definitely wrong.

  The city bus sped through the busy Minneapolis streets. Lacey Summers frowned as she read the letter for the third time, trying to make her Uncle Henry’s few handwritten words on cheap notebook paper tell her more than they did.

  Henry Schmidt was a cool, collected, antique dealer. A stubborn, self-reliant old man who lived alone and refused to come to the city. Though people considered him eccentric because of some of his unusual ways, she couldn’t ever recall him panicking before. In fact, she had never heard him describe anything as ‘urgent’. So something strange was going on in her little hometown of Landers. Something serious enough to upset staid, sure Uncle Henry, and make him ask for her help.

  Lacey turned to stare unseeingly out the bus window, mulling over the few words her uncle had written. The driver’s voice announcing her stop startled her out of her reverie. She rose, quickly excused herself to the passenger beside her and hurried to the door.

  She swung lightly off the bus onto the crowded sidewalk, brushing her short hair out of her eyes as the cold wind whipped it about. She hugged her red wool coat closely around her. Although the first of May in Minneapolis was still cool, her action was more an instinctive reaction to the varied mixture of shabbily dressed people loitering on the street around her than because of the cold. Brightly dyed punk rock hairstyles seemed to be the norm here. Even after four years of seeing some of them in college, Lacey was still wary of the people who wore them.

  She was certain that several very young girls in too-high heels, ultra short skirts, and heavy make-up were looking for tricks. Why weren’t they home doing their homework? Perhaps they had no home. Everyone doesn’t have a loving uncle like you did, to take them in when her own home falls apart, she reminded herself and laughed at her thoughts. Only a couple of years ago, she wouldn’t have known what those girls were doing, let alone what they called it.

  She hurried toward the well-lighted entrance of the large public library, trying to quell the unfamiliar knot of fear which roiled in her empty stomach. Fear not only for herself in this crowded, unfamiliar neighborhood, but also for Uncle Henry, whose urgent request had brought her here.

  Except for an indifferent mother, Henry was the only real family she had. After the loving support he’d shown her through her painful divorce, she would do anything for him. But sometimes he didn’t know what he was asking of her, she told herself, swallowing hard and quickening her steps as much as her high heels and narrow skirt would allow. Yet she owed him so much already that she felt obligated to do as he asked.

  His letter had made it sound so easy. “Something has come up. I have a buyer waiting for my copy of The Lone Wolf but I urgently need more information on it. Would you stop at the main library and find out all you can about the history of this painting or the artists who did either the original or the copies, Alfred von Kowalski and Charles Schenck? Very important that you bring it with you when you come Friday night. I’ll explain then,” he’d written.

  Not even with a please. How typical of him. He obviously considered it a small, simple request. She smiled wryly. He had no idea of her already hectic schedule. Last night she’d had a business dinner she couldn’t get out of, so tonight was her last opportunity to come here before the weekend. She would have given a lot to have been able to come here in the daytime instead.

  But then, Uncle Henry had never been to this library. He had no idea what he was asking. In fact, she thought, stifling a wry grin, he would have a fit if he saw these street people, and certainly would never believe her if she’d explained them to him. Uncle Henry tended to live in the past. But she loved him dearly, she reminded herself, determinedly. Enough to brave this place at night for him.

  A bleary-eyed older man sitting on the bench inside the glass walled entrance eyed her boldly. A stale unwashed odor drifted up from his brown, too-large suit as he half-rose from his bench as though to approach her. She hurried on toward the escalators, trying to suppress the shudder of revulsion which slid down her back like a cold snake.

  Her breathing eased as she gripped the smooth black rail of the escalator and rode to the upper floor. Forcing herself to slow her steps, she moved to the main desk and asked directions to the art department.

  A bored young woman looked up from the paperback she was reading to point her in the right direction, then a wide smile lit her face. “Well, for heaven’s sake! Hi, Lacey.”

  “Carol Jennings.” Lacey began to relax as she recognized Carol as one of her former classmates. “It’s been ages. How nice to see you.”

  She chatted with Carol for a moment, feeling like she’d stepped into another world. Here inside the new, brightly lit library, everyone was conservatively dressed in office or college-style clothes.

  Scolding herself for overreacting to the street people outside, she promised herself to splurge and call a taxi for the ride home.

  She took a deep breath and walked down the book lined room to the art department, and began her search in the island of gray steel filing cabinets of copies of paintings and prints.

  A half hour later Lacey had found nothing, and moved to the section containing the books on paintings and began methodically going through the indexes. She found several small references to the artists, but little information on the painting itself. She made careful notes of the references in her small notebook, sighed tiredly and went back to the shelves.

  Finally, in an obscure set of old books which she doubted had been opened in ages, she found a short article. After she had made a copy, she found a few more small references, all on von Kowalski. Originally from Poland, he was evidently famous for painting Russian landscapes. Later he had taught at the University of Munich, in Germany.

  A line at the copy machine led her to copy it down by hand, sighing. Uncle Henry was not going to be pleased with these crumbs. He would expect no less than an interesting life history from her. He’d
always thought she could do anything, just because indulgent small-town teachers, whom she’d tried too hard to please, had always rewarded her with A’s at Landers High School back home.

  She grinned ruefully at the thought and stretched her tired muscles.

  “Interesting display of curves. But I’m immune,” an amused male voice spoke beside her, bringing her abruptly upright.

  Embarrassed, she swung around to face the speaker. A lean, muscular man lounged against the next table, his arms folded in front of him, watching her. About thirty-five, he gave off a scholarly air in spite of being casually dressed in navy slacks and blue and white sweater. She immediately assumed he was a teacher. She stared into an amused pair of attractive blue eyes, then let her gaze travel over a straight nose and a sensuous pair of lips above a firm chin. In fact, his whole being oozed virility.

  Wow! Involuntarily she wondered how kissing those lips would feel. A shiver of premonition that she might soon find out slid slowly through her.

  A definite gleam of interest in his eyes belied his words, and immediately brought back the cold wall of indifference she’d surrounded herself with since her divorce. She refused to answer his remark, and made her expression carefully blank once more.

  Her cold glare did not have the effect it usually had on males, however. Lacey knew that she wasn’t bad-looking. She regularly drew her share of male attention, as she had since she was a teenager. But usually her cool, detached, all-business manner protected her from unwanted advances.

  Self-consciously she bent back over her notebook. But the warning prickle along the back of her neck assured her he was still there, ruining her concentration. She turned to face him again. Now he was fingering a pipe longingly, as though wondering whether he could get away with lighting it.

  “Would you please find some other scenery to waste your time admiring?” she asked, glancing at the librarian at the other end of the room. “I’m trying to finish this before closing time.”

  “Did I say I was admiring you?”

  “Oooh.” What an awful man. Not only staring and making her feel uncomfortable, but insulting as well.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that as it sounded.” He sounded genuinely contrite. “I was staring because I was trying to remember where we’d met before. You look very familiar.”

  “That has to be the oldest line in the book. I’m positive we’ve never met.”

  “My, my. Such fire. I am merely waiting my turn for the book you’re using.” He grinned, nodding at the yellowed old reference on the table in front of her.

  “This book?” A likely story. It had been covered with dust and obviously hadn’t been opened in ages. He had to be pretending to need it just because she had it.

  “That’s the one I need.”

  “I’ve heard better lines from freshman,” she said. “Shouldn’t you have learned some better ones by your age?”

  His blue eyes glittered like cold steel, and she felt a moment of satisfied glee, then a flicker of fear that she was pushing an unknown. After all, he could be anybody; she was just guessing that he was a teacher.

  “I’ll ask my students at the University for some more original ones,” he said. “Until then, the truth will have to do. Are you about finished with it?”

  Her heart flipped nervously. So she’d guessed right about his occupation anyway. Well, professors were usually reputable, weren’t they?

  “Just about. I’ll just finish copying this paragraph and it’s all yours.” She bent back to her task, her fingers tightening around the ballpoint pen as she felt rather than saw him move behind her. Her usually neat small script faltered and she swung round on him. He picked up the photocopies she had made and read them. The nerve of the man.

  “Do you mind? I can’t work with someone hanging over my shoulder.”

  “Do I distract you? My. My. I thought all pretty girls enjoyed being watched. Aren’t you used to it by now?”

  “Touché. Now that we’ve both stated that we’re no longer children, would you please give me one minute to finish this in peace?”

  “If you’ll tell me why you’re looking up some obscure artist from the 1800’s. You don’t look the type at all.”

  He let his gaze slide boldly and speculatively over her slim figure, noting the fresh young skin, only slightly touched with make-up, the short curly brown hair brushed in a soft hairstyle, modern red office suit, and frilly white blouse. Certainly not the type for musty old art books, he concluded. But definitely familiar. Something about the shape of that pert nose, the stubborn set of the chin—where had he seen her before? He usually remembered details very well, since research was his business, so it irritated him that he couldn’t place her now.

  He fingered his pipe again, then slipped it back into his pocket.

  She watched him run his fingers through his black hair, fascinated by the silver streaks along his temples, while the rest of his body vibrated with youth and controlled strength. Like a panther about to pounce, she thought, a tremor running through her at the thought.

  “I’m merely doing a favor for my uncle. He doesn’t like to come into the Twin Cities. He’s an antique nut,” she added as his eyes narrowed speculatively.

  “Why does he want to know about von Kowalski?” His voice had grown hard and suspicious.

  She stared at him. What was it to him who or what she looked up? This was a public library. “Henry buys and sells old paintings and lithographs.” A smile brightened his face, as though he’d just solved a puzzle.

  “Of course. Henry Schmidt.” He remembered the photo on the china buffet in the dining room in Henry’s cabin at the lake. He played cards there on weekends with a group of older men who were helping him do research for his book by reliving the past for him.

  Only the girl in that photo wasn’t in a sophisticated business suit like this one. Wearing just a sun-top and shorts, she was laughingly posed on a bicycle. Her long graceful legs and impish smile had drawn his eye repeatedly. In fact, he’d found himself always choosing the chair facing the buffet, so he could glance at that happy smile occasionally as they talked.

  The name jumped into his memory. “You’re Henry’s niece, Lacey, aren’t you? He showed us your picture at his cabin.” He recalled some of the other men, saying things like, “Too bad Lacey isn’t here to bake cookies for us.” “Huh, look who’s bragging, she wouldn’t give you the time of day, let alone her ginger snaps, Jake.” “Go to hell, Buster. Just why are you her favorite, anyway?”

  Lacey stared at him, trying to place him by adding the information that he knew Henry to her memory, but it remained blank. “Why...yes. Who are you, anyway?” She was certain she wouldn’t have forgotten any man who could arouse these feelings in her just by looking at her. But that meant he’d been honest when he’d said she looked familiar. Of course, Uncle Henry showed her photo to everyone he knew.

  “Come on, cut the games. You know very well who I am.” Now that he’d recognized her, Henry’s odd request suddenly made sense. The ornery old rascal was matchmaking. Those old guys always thought they knew what was best for other people. This cool cucumber was in on it, playing games, like his ex-wife always did, with her society friends. How he hated that. To think that he’d canceled a tutoring session this evening for this. Damn Henry anyway!

  Lacey wondered why his voice had grown hard again. An angry frown now knit those attractive brows. Answering anger surged through her at his brashness, but she held it in check. No point in making a scene when she was almost finished and could simply walk away from him in a minute. Who cared what was eating the man?

  She glared at him, hoping he got the message that she neither knew nor cared who he was, and bent her head over her book.

  She finished taking notes, pushed the book towards him and held out her hand for her papers, her face hot as she met his gaze with as much poise as she could muster.

  His eyes focused on hers steadily, but they were now a bit quizzical as he noted her
intention to leave, as though he had expected her to do something else. But what? she wondered, more confused than ever.

  “Don’t let me rush you.” He relinquished the Photocopies. “Actually, you found quite a bit, considering.”

  “Not really. But all Uncle Henry is going to get. For this weekend, at least,” she said with a sigh, knowing he would think it inadequate at best and coax her into doing more research for him.

  She forced a stiff smile as she put the papers in her briefcase. “Goodnight,” she added, a lifetime habit of politeness refusing to allow her to part company on a sour note, however she felt. She walked out, feeling his eyes follow her though he barely murmured a polite response.

  Her stomach gave an audible growl. She’d skipped dinner to save time, not wanting to come to this area in darkness. True to Murphy’s Law of perversity, she’d had to work late when she needed to get away from the office early. A problem had come up at the last minute. Although it hadn’t proven serious, as department head at Armstrong Investigations, she’d been forced to stay to take care of it after the other employees went home on the dot of five o’clock.

  Her steps slowed a bit as she neared the down escalator, as the reality of her situation returned. She rode it down, then dug in her purse for coins to use the phone near the entrance to call a cab. With horror, she remembered that she’d used her last bills at lunch, and had forgotten to cash a check at work. Or rather, she hadn’t cashed one because she’d forgotten to put in a new pad of check blanks. She had no money for a cab.

  Silently berating herself, she picked up the phone to call one anyway. She would have to stop at an ATM on the way home.

  She waited near the entrance for the cab to arrive. Out of habit and to fill the waiting time, she took out her purse mirror and brush and checked her appearance.