Being The Steel Drummer Part 17

"This was the person you got the Victoria Snow sculptures from?"

"He had a great deal of good merchandise," Kathryn nodded.

I sat down. "OK, so this means..." I considered for a minute, "I guess it means this Frankie somehow had a pipeline to some really good merch, and he had no idea how valuable it was."

"And he told me he'd have more merch for sale at Pesky!" said Farrel.

"When is that? Do you think somebody will take over with the sales? Perhaps the red-headed man in the hooded sweats.h.i.+rt?" asked Kathryn.

"Peskeetotemburg Antique & Flea Market is every Wednesday morning," said Farrel. "That's tomorrow, and I was planning on going anyway. I suppose you two will be coming along? We leave at 5:30 a.m."

Chapter 13.

At 11:30 p.m. all the sheetrock was in place and ready for taping, and the younger crew members had gone home.

"OK, I'll pick you up tomorrow at six." Farrel yawned. "Dress warm."

Jessie hugged us both, and she and Farrel gathered up her iced tea pitchers and left. The crew would be back Friday to do the drywall taping. Farrel had cla.s.ses and other commitments until then.

Kathryn stretched with her arms over her head like a sleek young cat. My carnal smile caught her eye and she came toward me with an equally ardor-tinged expression.

She put her arms around my waist and said, "How early do we have to get up?"

"I'm thinking about now," I whispered.

"We should take a nice long shower to get all this dust out of our hair."

My phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket.

"Yeah?" I tried not to groan.

"Maggie?"

"Yeah?"

"This is Samson. Look, this is important." The connection crackled and the signal was almost lost but then gained a little clarity. "Can you hear me?"

"What is it?" I asked.

"I heard her cell phone! Suzanne's. I heard it! She's here!"

"What? What do you mean? Where are you?"

"I'm on Hazel Street, behind 10th."

"s.h.i.+t, Samson, you're stalking Suzanne's house again?"

"Well, you said it wasn't a good view from the front, and I just wanted to take one last look. But listen, I saw someone go in the back door. I couldn't see her very well. I was afraid to call out, so, so... I called her cell. And it rang! I could hear it as she went into the house!"

"Samson, that could have just been a coincidence. People's phones ring all the time..."

"No, no, it was my ring. The one Suzanne programed in for me. She did that for everyone. Mine was If I Had a Hammer. So it has to be her, right?"

"Well, Samson, if it is her, and I'm not saying that it is, she didn't answer, so, maybe she'd rather not talk to you right now."

"Maggie, come over here. Please? I'll wait here. Oh wait. There..." Crackle, buzz... nothing.

"h.e.l.lo? Samson? h.e.l.lo?" I looked at the phone. "s.h.i.+t."

"What?"

"Well, that was Samson Henshaw and he thinks he just saw Suzanne Carbondale behind her house, and now I think he's going to do something stupid."

"Should you be telling me this? Is it confidential?"

"Huh? Well, no, I'm not working for him. But I was talking to him today. Oh c.r.a.p." I looked toward the Mews through the dark windows.

"You want to go over there," said Kathryn simply.

I looked back at her.

"Go. It might be important. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, no, you take a shower and I'll just run over there and then be back as soon as I can. OK?" I said.

"Yes, OK," Kathryn nodded.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, go. I doubt you'll be as late as I was last night. We'll be even." She smiled.

I kissed her and picked up my bag. I got my Beretta from the safe and grabbed the minivan keys. I drove over because it seemed like I should. I figured there would be parking nearby on Was.h.i.+ngton because street sweeping on the north side would be early Wednesday morning, so there'd be few cars there.

I zipped over to Liberty, then down to Hazel, the alley street behind 10th. I didn't see Samson near the back of the Carbondale house, so I went all the way through to Was.h.i.+ngton. Along the way there had been no free parking s.p.a.ces at all but I got an easy spot on the north side of Was.h.i.+ngton, which was completely car free other than a tiny Smart Car and one large white van.

I took handcuffs, pepper spray, and my gun out of my bag and stowed the bag under the front seat. I pulled off my jacket. It was still freezing cold in the van, because it hadn't had time to warm up in the three blocks I'd driven. I rigged my holster over my shoulder and stowed the gun in it with all the safeties on.

This was a lot of police gear for what would probably be nothing more than a minor mistake. There was no reason to think I'd need it, except that this whole thing could end up being a domestic dispute. A lot of cops will tell you those can be the most dangerous of all. Love or money are the prime motivators for murder. Domestic crime is often about both.

"Samson?" I called quietly from the narrow street behind 311 N. 10th.

There was a tall stockade fence across the back of the yard that stretched from the side of the garage at 309 to the garage wall of 313. Gabe didn't have a garage, which meant he always parked on the street.

In the middle of the stockade fence was a wooden door with a sign on it that said, BEWARE OF LARGE DOG, with a picture of a snarling bulldog in one of those spike collars.

I reached over the top of the door, unlatched it, and slid through. Buster, the behemoth Great Dane, crashed through his dog door and ran toward me at full cantor. One foot from me he skidded to a stop, bent his head, and s...o...b..red my hand. If burglars were easily grossed out, they'd be no match for Buster.

"Wipe," I whispered.

I petted him lavishly with my other hand as I tried to shake off the slime, finally wiping it on my pants and making a mental note to put these jeans in the dirty clothes when I got home. Buster turned and headed back to his dog door, then stopped short of it, and turned back to invite me in.

I didn't need to go in. The house was dark. It was after midnight. Gabe was no doubt asleep and Samson had clearly gone home. Probably the whole thing had been a mistake. Maybe Samson's battery had just run down. Whatever.

I whispered goodbye to Buster and walked back down the alley toward my van. I took out my cell and rang Samson but the call went to voice mail. "Samson, this is Maggie. Where the h.e.l.l are you? It's freezing and I can see why you left, but I'm not pleased that you didn't bother to tell me you'd gone. Gabe's is dark, so I figure this was a misunderstanding. Unless something earth-shattering happens, don't call to explain until tomorrow because I'm going to bed."

Back in the loft, I was happy to see that the lights were still on in the bedroom.

"Maggie?" called Kathryn. "You look annoyed. What happened?"

Kathryn was sitting up in bed waiting for me in a sheer nightgown that made me stop in my tracks. A smile flickered across my face. It wasn't simply l.u.s.t, though that was certainly part of it; it was the pleasure of having her there. Here was a very beautiful woman and not only was she waiting for me in my bed, she wanted me to talk to her about things that had happened to me. And she was smart, so the comments she was about to make were going to be edifying. What fun. I felt very lucky.

"Maggie, you still have plaster dust all over you, and what's that gunk on your pants? Take a shower and I'll get you a gla.s.s of wine. Then lie down and tell me, and I'll rub your back a little. OK?

"I can't imagine anything nicer, but Kathryn, if I lie there and you rub my back, I might fall asleep. In fact, I'll probably fall asleep. I wouldn't be able to..." But she just waved me toward the bathroom.

The hot water was relaxing. It was a relief to rinse the white pasty stiffness out of my hair. I toweled off, used the blow dryer a little, and slipped on a long t-s.h.i.+rt.

"He wasn't there," I said when I came back to bed. "That's the entire story."

"Did you call him?"

"No answer. I left a message."

"A stern message I hope?" Kathryn was far more indignant than I was about my being stood up by Samson Henshaw on a cold February night.

"I don't think I carry off stern very well. You're good at stern. I managed vexed. He probably figured out that it was all a stupid mistake and realized how freezing he was and went home to Lois."

"But why not call?"

"He's kind of off kilter."

"Because he... um. You probably can't tell me this so let me guess. Let's see, his wife has seemed very depressed lately. He is preoccupied all the time. He's been like that for awhile. He was stalking around Hazel St. behind the east end of the Mews." She paused to consider. "Well no one has really left that part of the Mews except Suzanne Carbondale. So I'm guessing he was in love with her, she left without warning, and he's been casing her house to see her again."

I smiled.

"Did he hire you to find her or something?"

"He didn't hire me. He's tangential to a case that someone did hire me for, one that's ongoing but almost over. I can't really talk about it. "

"If I was part of your company, would you be able to talk to me about it?"

"Well, yes, I think my company investigator license would cover you. It covers support people-secretaries, a.s.sistants, interns, that kind of thing."

"So maybe you should hire me. As your a.s.sistant or intern?"

"Are you serious?"

"I am, yes," she said earnestly. Then she smiled. "So I could be a shamus? A gumshoe? A PI? A... um..."

"A Sherlock, an operative, a sleuth, a bloodhound. But if you were my a.s.sistant, then you would be more like Della Street or Dr. Watson. That would work; you already have the doctorate."

"So we could work together? A crime fighting team?"

"A team with benefits, like Nick and Nora Charles, or Spenser and Susan."

"Or Jonathan and Jennifer Hart, or Troy and Roderick Alleyn."

"Or Tommy and Tuppence, or... Batman and Robin."

She snorted. "So my stalking skills might come in handy rather than just seeming pathetic?" She lay back on pillows propped against the headboard then turned toward me. We looked into each others's eyes and something strong pa.s.sed between us. After a moment, we both exhaled.

"I could get a dragon tattoo," she said in a low voice.

"OK, I'll check with my legal advisors to be sure it's all kosher."

She nodded, then she said softly, "It's very late, and I think we should go to sleep now because I'm going with you tomorrow morning, and I want to be sharp for my first day of work. OK?"

"OK," I smiled.

Farrel edged her van into the boggy parking area under the Peskeetotemburg Outdoor Antique & Flea Market sign.

"People have been coming here to buy, sell, and trade every Wednesday morning since 1837," said Farrel to Kathryn, as she stuffed five empty canvas carrying bags into a larger one and slung it over her shoulder.

It was just getting light and it was freezing. The people who were still setting up their wares were sweeping a coating of light powdery frost from the crude tables that came with each fifteen dollar spot. Dealers and savvy collectors know the best buying at outdoor antique markets happens before dawn. Farrel was off and... well, not exactly running, but moving fast. In the antiques biz, you have to be quick and discerning to find a prize.

Kathryn and I were slower.

"1837," repeated Kathryn. "Do you suppose Evangeline or Victoria shopped here?"

I looked over the rows of tables that striated the gentle slope in front of us. At the bottom of the hill were two pavilions. They were really nothing more than roofs over concrete slabs, like giant carports. There were rows and rows of cardboard boxes on the concrete. Beyond was a large block building with a short order snack bar in the front that was open for business. I could smell the aroma of coffee and lard-fried Pennsylvania Dutch breakfast food wafting up the incline.

I tried to imagine Evangeline or Victoria, in warm furs and long skirts, hunting for bargains among the carts and boxes of produce, gimcrackery, and occasional treasure.

"I can't see Evangeline being here in the 1870s. After all, it's nearly twenty miles from Fenchester. Unless there was some kind of train, it took a day or two to travel this far in those days. If she shopped such places, she would have stayed closer to home. Victoria might have made it here. She had a driver's license in the 1920s. But even in a car, in those days it took a long time to travel forty miles round trip.

Several rows ahead I could see Farrel haggling with a dealer. A minute later cash changed hands. Farrel grabbed a clean blue underpad from her bag, wrapped the item, and moved swiftly along.

Kathryn was looking at some good quality costume jewelry. She pulled off her gloves to hold up a stick pin in the faint pre-dawn light. It was a gold toned oval with the embossed shape of a nude woman standing in a stream.