Midsummer Night's Mischief by Jennifer D. Hesse Page B

my pretty little head over such a non-issue. I guess he didn’t speak to his mother often. Well, far be it for me to set him straight.
    I was stepping onto his front stoop when I turned back for one last question. “By the way, do you know where your brother’s staying?”
    Rob scoffed in reply. “Sorry,” he said. “What’s that saying? I’m not my brother’s keeper. Is that Shakespeare, too?”
    I allowed a rueful smile as I shook my head. “No,” I said. “That one, I do believe, is from the Bible.”

CHAPTER 9
    It was super early when I left for work Wednesday morning—like “sun barely up, dark reception area” early. Still, Crenshaw’s office light was on, and the door was slightly ajar. I also heard someone else’s voice down the hall, possibly on the phone or maybe dictating into a recorder. I slipped into my office, flipped on the light, and shut the door. I wanted to work in peace for a while.
    After turning on my computer and pulling out the thermos of hot orange pekoe I had brought from home, I listened to my voice mail. I had four new messages: an old client calling to make an appointment to update her will, a potential new client about to buy a house, a colleague asking if I’d had a chance to review the contract he sent me . . . and a surprise phone call from a familiar voice.
    â€œHello, Ms. Keli Milanni! T.C. Satterly here. Satterly’s Rare Books. Listen, I cannot stop thinking about the Folio. The police never did pay me a visit, and, well, time is precious. Now, you asked me where somebody might try to locate a buyer for the Folio. I’ve already called all my book-dealer peers all over the area, telling them to keep a lookout. But that’s about all I can do. I’m no Perry Mason, you know. Heh-heh. But if I did want to poke around some—or if Perry Mason were here, ha-ha—I’d tell him he might want to pay a visit to the university. The university English program, I’m pretty sure, has a course on Shakespeare, and one of the professors there is a Shakespeare expert. Max Eisenberry’s the name. An expert like that would know all about the Folio and might have some ideas on the market for such works. Anyhoo, just wanted to pass along that suggestion. Bye now.”
    I sat there, looking at my phone, for a full minute after hearing T.C.’s message. Then I shook my head and grabbed a file folder from the top of a nearby cabinet. I had a contract to review and phone calls to return. Shakespeare was going to have to wait.
    No sooner had I taken out my red pen than the phone rang. Caller ID told me it was Beverly. I swallowed hard and picked up.
    â€œGood morning, Beverly.”
    â€œKeli, could you please come to my office?”
    â€œUh.” I looked at the contract on my desk, and the words blurred together.
    â€œNow please.” Click.
    â€œShit.” I muttered under my breath, closed the file, and walked reluctantly to Beverly’s office. When I got there, I found Beverly, Randall, and Kris in the lounge, having coffee and talking quietly, like they were in some secret meeting for senior partners only. Except that Crenshaw was there, too.
    Beverly looked up when I entered and set down her coffee cup. “Keli, I need to ask you something.”
    I sat on the edge of the couch and didn’t say anything. The room was hushed, except for the sound of light raindrops that began to patter against the window behind Beverly.
    â€œDid you have a retainer agreement with Eleanor Mostriak?”
    â€œNo,” I said, meeting Beverly’s stern gaze. “I was charging her the standard flat fee for preparing a will. She paid it the first day.”
    â€œAnd the book?”
    â€œShe said she’d like me to assist her with the sale, but we didn’t discuss details. She was eager to complete the will. I planned to define my scope later. . . .” My voice