He gives me a puzzled look, but then shakes his head.
“Are you sure?”
He sits up a bit and turns sideways to look at a bookcase with glass doors. Then he faces me again and says, “I’m … sure.”
I go racing over to the bookcase and, sure enough, it’s packed. I open the doors and after a minute I say, “Chauncy! Come here.” And while he’s walking over I read out, “Secrets of Southern Cooking, Revisiting Vietnam, The Candy Cane Chronicles.… These may look old, but they sure don’t look too valuable!”
Chauncy LeBard doesn’t have much color in his cheeks to begin with, so when I turn to look at him staring at his bookcase, what I see is a ghost. He says “No!” and before you know it he’s pawing through the books, pulling out the ones I found plus two more. When he’s done he stands there shaking. “They’re … gone!”
I sit him down because he looks like he’s about to faint. “Who knew you had them, and how much were they worth?”
He sits there a minute and then gets his buzz box. “I don’t know who knew. They’ve been in the family for years. They were my mother’s pride and joy! I never even thought—” All of a sudden he starts crying, and I can barely understand him when he says, “I should’ve put them in a safe-deposit box.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I kind of stood there like an idiot watching him cry. Finally I put my hand on his shoulder and ask, “Were they worth a lot?”
He wipes his eyes and nods.
“A thousand? Five thousand?”
He kind of shudders. “Closer to a hundred. Maybe one fifty.”
“Thousand?”
Sure enough, he nods.
Then I remember that Douglas LeBard cut off his wife when she mentioned an appraiser. “Were they appraised after your mother died?”
“Right before.”
“Do you know the names of the books?”
He closes his eyes and puts a hand on his forehead. “There was a Tales by Poe …”
I jump up and get a pen and some paper. “Wait, wait, wait … Okay, Tales by Poe?”
“Yes, there were two by Edgar Allan Poe. Tales and Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems.”
I write this down as best I can. “What did they look like?”
“Tales had buff wraps, and the other had blue boards.”
“Wait a minute. Wraps? Boards? What are those?”
“Wraps are dust jackets; boards are the hard cover of a book.”
I let this sink in and then say, “So one had a kind of skin-colored cover, and the other was a blue book?”
He shrugs and nods as if to say, Close enough.
I write this all down and ask, “Okay, what else?”
“There was a Darwin—On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection …”
I sit up and say, “Charles Darwin?” because that’s all we’ve heard about for weeks in science.
He gives me a twitch of a smile. “Yes. It’s green cloth and a first London edition. There was also a copy of Hemingway’s first book, Three Stories and Ten Poems, and The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County and Other Sketches by Mark Twain. That one’s plum-colored, with a frog in the left corner of the cover.”
I don’t need to ask him “Ernest Hemingway?” because Miss Pilson’s dissected his stories for us in class and found hidden meanings where you know Ernest had never meant to hide anything. And since everyone’s heard of Mark Twain, all I said was, “Anything else?”
He thinks a minute and then shakes his head. “How did you know?”
So I tell him about the lady in red high heels who bought two big boxes of old-looking books from Bargain Books and what Mr. Bell had said about one old book looking like another.
“I could ask Mr. Bell if anyone has come in trying to sell some rare books.”
Chauncy shakes his head. “They wouldn’t go through Tommy. They’re too valuable.”
We stand around a minute, and then I say, “I think I ought to get the police to come over, don’t you?”
He sighs and nods.
“It’s on my way home. I’ll give them this list and tell them to come over, okay?”
So off I go, and I’m thinking that the first thing I’m going to do is call Grams from the station and let her know that I’m all right. Trouble is, I never got that far.
Where I got to was the end of Orange Street. Orange Street tees into Miller, and you can either walk a mile down Miller Street to a crosswalk, or half a block up Miller Street to the crosswalk at Cook. Of course, if you’re in a car you can also go straight, which will take you right up the driveway of the courthouse. But if you’re a pedestrian, that choice is illegal—it’s called jaywalking.
I jaywalked all right, only it was more like jayrunning, because Miller’s a pretty busy street. And I had just about made it over to the other side when a police car comes squealing out of the courthouse parking lot with its siren going and its lights flashing. It does a U-turn right in the middle of all this traffic on Miller, then comes bouncing up the handicapped ramp across the sidewalk and nosedives to a stop right in front of me.
Well, you’d better believe I thought something serious was going down. Until I saw that the driver was my hero Officer Borsch. That’s right, Santa Martina’s finest was wailing and flashing and tearing up the courthouse lawn so he could write the town’s most renowned jaywalker a ticket.
He gets out of his car with his pad and his pen ready, looking like a pit bull that’s just chewed through its leash, but before he can say anything, I go up to the passenger window and knock on it until Muscles rolls it down. Now you can tell that Muscles is not too happy about being parked on the courthouse lawn, but he shakes his head and says, “You need to work this out with him.”
I say, “I jaywalked because I was in a hurry to tell you what I discovered at Chauncy LeBard’s. Look at this. It’s a list of books that were stolen from him on Halloween. They’re what the Skeleton Man was after.”
“Some books?”
“They’re worth a hundred thousand dollars!”
Officer Borsch snaps, “What the devil are you doing, Keith? I’ve got a citation to write!”
Muscles flexes himself out of the car. “Hang on a minute, Gil. She’s discovered some important evidence in that Bush House break-in. There are some books missing. She says they’re—”
Officer Borsch rolls his eyes. “Oh, give me a break! It’s books now? I’ve got more important things to do than listen to this.”
I couldn’t quite believe my ears when Muscles mumbles, “Yeah, like writing jaywalking citations.”
I guess Officer Borsch couldn’t quite believe his ears either, because he takes a step closer to Muscles, sticks his stomach out even farther than it already is, and says, “What?”
Muscles throws his hands up in the air. “What’s with you, Gil? You act like this girl’s been spraying graffiti instead of trying to help us with this Bush House thing. You said yourself our Q and A with the brother was enlightening. She’s the one that gave us the idea, remember?”
Blood’s rising like a tide in Officer Borsch’s face. He takes a step closer and gives Muscles a quick two-handed shove on the chest. “You listen here, you overpumped pipsqueak—”
Muscles shoves him right back. “No, you listen, you bloated dinosaur. The books that got ripped off are worth over a hundred thousand dollars …” He looks at me like, Is that right? so I nod up and down real fast. He turns back to Borsch and yells, “You hear me? A hundred thousand dollars! You were looking for a motive. There’s your motive, bucko!”
The whole time Muscles is yelling at him Officer Borsch is getting redder and redder, and sweat’s starting to bead up on his forehead. He yells back, “You’ve got a lot to learn about being a cop, buddy! I don’t know how a guy like you even got on the force!” While he’s yelling, he’s poking Muscles in the chest with his pudgy finger, and Muscles is standing there taking it, but you can tell that it won’t be long before Muscles
decks him.
I jump in between them and say, “Hey! Hey, look what you guys are doing. You’re gonna cause an accident!” because traffic is stopped in both directions on both streets.
Muscles and Officer Borsch stare each other down for a minute, and then Officer Borsch gets back in the squad car. And after he’s backed out into traffic, Muscles sighs and says, “I’d like to hear the rest of the story, if you don’t mind.” He leads me into the courtyard of the courthouse, and I sit on a bench and tell him all about how someone had replaced Chauncy’s most valuable books with some random old books so that no one would know at a glance that anything was missing. Then, when I tell him how Douglas LeBard had interrupted his wife when she had said something about an appraiser, and that the books had been in the family for a long, long time, Muscles says, “Sounds like something the brother might want to get his hands on for more than one reason.”
“Exactly.”
He stands up and says, “I’m going to head over to LeBard’s and get a report, then I’ll see if I can’t get a search warrant issued for the brother’s residence tonight.” He shakes my hand and says, “I’m sorry you had to witness that … that scene. It’s been building up since they teamed us together.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know what it is—Gil took a dislike to me the first time he laid eyes on me.”
I laugh and say, “I know the feeling!”
We say good-bye, and he jaywalks across Orange, and I head off to jaywalk across Cook.
For a while I’m caught up thinking about Officer Borsch ignoring so many traffic laws so he could write me up for jaywalking. But by the time I reach Maynard’s Market, this new little twitch in the back of my brain is snapping around louder and louder, until finally I have to admit that this whole Skeleton Man business still doesn’t make any sense. I mean, if it is Chauncy’s brother, why did he get rid of the candlesticks? They had sentimental value, too. And why would he rob his brother if he was trying to kill him? If he killed him he would get the inheritance, and he wouldn’t have to rob him. And if he robbed him, he’d have what he wanted and he wouldn’t have to kill him.
And the more I think about it, the more I understand that I’m going down the right river.
I’m just on the wrong boat.
SIXTEEN
It was already too late not to be in trouble, but I was hurrying anyway. Instead of going clear around back to the fire escape, I decided to risk it and go in the front lobby and use the elevator. And I might have been able to sneak by Mr. Garnucci, but as I’m coming in, the elevator doors open, and guess who’s coming out? Mrs. Graybill. And under this fuzzy white sweater she’s wearing her honeysuckle hurricane, and on top of her head she’s got neat little curls, like she’s spent all day at the hairdresser. I duck behind this plastic tree that’s collecting dust in the corner, and watch as a man follows her off the elevator. He’s not anybody I’ve seen around the building before. He’s old all right, but he looks more like he’s spent his life on the putting green than in a highrise apartment. He’s wearing white shoes, white pants, and a white polo shirt, and everything else about him is tan.
Mr. Garnucci calls over from an easy chair, “Don’t you two look splendid! Have a nice evening, Daisy.” He winks and adds, “You take good care of her, Mr. Belmont!”
Mr. Belmont clicks his dentures into place. “You can count on that, sir.”
Mrs. Graybill waves and calls, “Good night, Vince,” and off they go.
So I’m standing there behind this dusty plastic tree, and the coast is clear for me to zip up the elevator and explain everything to Grams. But I can’t move. My brain is working so hard that my legs can’t work at all. And the longer I stand there thinking, the more covered I get with goose bumps, until finally I just slide down the wall and sit in the corner and stare.
Who knows how long I was there. All I know is that when my legs started working again, they didn’t take me up the elevator. They took me straight out the front door and across the street to Bargain Books.
I didn’t know what I was going to do if I was right. I didn’t think that far ahead. It was a crazy idea, but it made sense. And if I was right, there probably wasn’t much time left to get proof.
When I got to Bargain Books, I squatted against the wall outside the door and closed my eyes. Tight. And I left them closed for what felt like an hour. Then I took a deep breath, stumbled to the door, and squeezed in. Once I was inside, I didn’t have to stand around waiting for my eyes to adjust, because right away I could see.
Mr. Bell’s up in the loft helping a customer, so I tiptoe over to his platform, swing open the gate, and sneak behind the register to his desk. There are stacks of books and mountains of papers and all kinds of boxes—on his desk, around his desk, everywhere.
Part of me’s panicking because it can’t come up with a good excuse for being where I definitely don’t belong, but the other part keeps one eye on the loft and starts poking around. I check inside boxes and behind boxes and all around his desk but I don’t find anything. Then I think to go through the desk. So I tug on the bottom drawer, but it’s locked.
This is a pretty old desk—really deep and sturdy-looking—but the keyhole of the center drawer is loose and looks like you could just snap it off. So I’m looking around for something to pry down the lock, but just as I’m reaching over to snag the butter knife that’s lying across a jar of raspberry jam, I hear the steps of the loft squeaking and creaking. Mr. Bell says to the customer, “… that’s the only other author that I can think of. You might want to give Higuera Books in Santa Luisa a call. They may have a few titles by him.”
I take a quick look around, but it’s too late to make it off the riser before I get noticed. So I squeeze in between all this junk that’s under the desk, pull in the chair, and scrunch back as far as I can.
A few seconds later Tommy Bell comes through the gate. And while he’s ringing up his customer I’m holding my breath, trying to scan through the junk under the desk for something to cover me up. There’s a roll of paper towels on top of an old pair of shoes. There’s a box of printer paper with the lid half off, and behind it I see what looks like the corner of a sheet. So very slowly I reach over and pull the sheet from behind the box, but what I wind up holding is a pillowcase.
A green-and-white striped pillowcase.
All of a sudden I can’t seem to breathe right, and my whole body’s got the shivers. And I’m wondering, what was I thinking, coming here by myself?
After the customer leaves, I can hear Mr. Bell shuffling some papers, and then here come his feet, right by the chair. He goes over to the table against the wall and pops an English muffin in his toaster. His shiny, brand-new toaster.
As his muffins are heating up, he mixes himself a cup of coffee, and I’m thinking I’m toast! I mean, there’s no way a man who’d knock someone out for some old books would find me under his desk and tell me to just run along. No way.
As I’m sitting there shivering under the Skeleton Man’s desk, it hits me that what’s between me and Chauncy’s books is probably only an inch of wood. An inch of really hard, old wood. Just then I hear Mr. Bell say, “May I help you?” and there go his shoes across the platform.
So I’m all by myself again. But I know it won’t be for long, because on the table are two English muffins covered with raspberry jam.
I thought about staying there, scrunched up under the desk all night. But even as I was thinking that would be the smart thing to do, my hand was out, snagging that butter knife. And the next thing you know, I’ve got one eye on the lookout for Mr. Bell, and the other watching my hands wiggle and pry and mangle the lock. And just when I thought the lock was never going to give, snap! it broke.
The snap sounded like a shot to me, but I figured it was now or never, so very carefully I tugged open the first drawer.
And what’s in it? Nothing. Just a bunch of folders and papers and stuff. I close it and open the next drawer, and what’s in that on
e? Calculators and marking pens and printer ribbons—not one book. By now I’m sweating, and my heart’s about pounding out of my body, but when I open the bottom drawer, there waiting to hop in my lap is a frog. A frog on a plum-colored book. And underneath The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County is Three Stories and Ten Poems, and underneath that are the other three books.
I get them out of the drawer as fast as I can, and when I look around for something to put them in, there’s that pillowcase just waiting for me. So I hurry to stuff the books in, but I’m not fast enough. One minute I’m by myself; the next minute Mr. Bell is stepping onto the riser.
He knows right off that I’m not there to snag his muffins. He comes charging at me saying, “Why, you little …”
Running through my mind is a picture of Chauncy all slumped over and dripping blood. And there’s no way I want to wind up like that, but I’m stuck on the platform and I don’t see how I’m going to get away.
Then I realize that in my hand is a pillowcase full of books—your basic hundred-thousand-dollar weapon. And when Bones gets near me I wind it around my hand and swing with all my might.
I connect, but barely. And it doesn’t really slow him down. He comes at me again, his shirt cuffs dangling and his wild hair sticking out, and in his eyes I see panic. Sheer panic—like a man grabbing on to weeds as he’s falling off a cliff. And I realize that this man will do anything for these books—anything.
And I’m backing up, running out of room, scrambling around for some way out, when I decide that I have to try again. I wind up the pillowcase and this time I swing it clear around, and wham! I hit him right in the temple.
I wasn’t expecting him to go down, but down he went. And as he’s lying there looking pretty knocked out, I reach for the phone to call 911. But just as I get to the phone, he starts getting up.
I punch in 911, but I don’t have a chance to say a word. Mr. Bell grabs me by the leg, and the phone goes flying, and all of a sudden I’m down on the floor right next to him.
The pillowcase is still wrapped around my hand, but I’m not in a position to use it. He’s got one hand clamped around my leg and the other yanking on the books, and the look in his eye is telling me that any minute he’s going to drop both so he can bash my head against the wall.
Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man Page 12
