The Gun Also Rises

by Sherry Harris

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned to the woman who spoke to me. “I’ll take this mirror.” I pointed to the cheap full-length one.

  “Ten dollars.”

  “Five.” I stuffed a five in her hand and picked up the lightweight mirror as soon as she nodded her consent. I worked my way to the edge of the crowd, holding up the mirror like a shield as I sidled along. While I wasn’t moving as fast as before, anyone glancing at me would only see a reflection of themselves and the crowd.

  I hurried by booths of Depression glass, cookware, and books. Books! I needed to find that darn copy of The Sun Also Rises and the manuscripts. Doing that would put an end to all this nonsense. The west-end exit was fifteen feet in front of me. I could see a huge monster truck idling outside. An equally large man stood beside it. I hoped to heck that was my ride.

  I passed a vendor with bentwood chairs. I spotted a ball-and-stick rocker; at any other time I’d be pausing to see how much it cost.

  “Hey. Stop.”

  I knew without turning around it was Bull. I thrust the mirror into the unsuspecting arms of a passerby and took off running, dodging around people like a pinball bouncing around a game. I could hear Bull behind me saying, “Excuse me, coming through, excuse me.” He was getting closer. The man by the monster truck saw me coming. He threw open the passenger door and dove across the seat to the driver’s side.

  “Wait,” Bull yelled.

  If frustration could be rated on a scale from one to ten, Bull’s voice was near infinity. But waiting was something I didn’t plan to do. I leaped up on to the running board of the truck. The driver grabbed my outstretched arm, hauling me in the rest of the way. He took off as I slammed the door closed. Bull came running out of the flea market as we tore off. I glimpsed him standing slumped shouldered in the side-view mirror.

  * * *

  I sent a quick text to Luke, telling him I didn’t have anything new to report. If I told him about Bull, he’d probably lock me in a closet or barricade me in Seth’s basement. As we got close to Belle’s house, I bent down, pretending to go through my purse so no one could see me in the truck. My driver made no comment.

  Frieda let me into the house at ten thirty. She had a dour look on her face. “We’ve got company.” She tipped her head toward the living room. I could hear voices. “Again,” she said.

  I followed her to the living room. Miss Belle had a polite smile plastered on her face. Her mother-in-law and Ruth, maid/companion/nurse, whatever she was, sat there too.

  “Miss Sarah Winston,” Frieda announced in a grand tone, as if the queen were in attendance. “Of the Pacific Grove Winstons.”

  I glanced over at Frieda, my mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. She winked at me.

  “Sarah, dear. How has your day been?” Miss Belle asked.

  I didn’t get a chance to answer.

  “I’m afraid that woman”—Mrs. Granville Winthrop tilted her head toward Frieda as she left with a bow and a flourish—“isn’t a suitable maid.”

  Miss Belle’s hand tightened on the arm of her chair. It was the only discernible sign she was irritated. “Why not, Mother?”

  “Well, look at how she’s dressed.” Mrs. Winthrop Granville moved a Murano glass paperweight from one position on the end table near her to another.

  Frieda had been wearing a pair of clean black slacks and a spotless polo shirt. It was the most dressed up I’d ever seen her.

  “And who bows like that? I think she’s mocking us.”

  At least Mrs. Winthrop Granville had her wits about her this morning.

  “It’s fine, Mother. She’s a hard worker.”

  Miss Winthrop Granville sniffed.

  Ruth stood up. “Excuse me.”

  “Where are you off to?” Mrs. Winthrop Granville asked her in a grumpy voice. She picked up the paperweight and held it in her hand. She set it back down, aligning it with the edge of the end table.

  “Just to powder my nose,” Ruth said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Really, the woman had to have the patience of all the saints combined. She said it without resentment, in a light tone. On the other hand, Rena had said she thought something was off about the woman.

  I waited a few minutes and excused myself. Mrs. Winthrop Granville was droning on about a party she’d attended in 1955. I don’t think she even noticed I’d left. I wanted a chance to talk to Ruth about the Blackmore Agency.

  There was a powder room down the hall beyond the two studies. I hoped that was the one Ruth used. It was a big house, and if she went upstairs, I’d miss her completely. Fortunately, Ruth came out as I neared the powder room door. She smiled at me, looking more relaxed away from Mrs. Winthrop Granville. But the job had to be stressful.

  “You’re really wonderful with Mrs. Winthrop Granville,” I said.

  “Winnie’s a dear.”

  “How did she come to be called Winnie?” I asked.

  “It’s some nickname from boarding school.”

  I tried to puzzle that out. She wouldn’t have been a Winthrop until after she was married. But I didn’t know her first name.

  “How long have you been with her?”

  “Twenty years. I’m fortunate in this economy. So many of my friends who are staff have been let go.”

  “Did you know Kay well?”

  “Hardly at all. Why would you ask?”

  “Miss Belle said her mother-in-law recommended the agency Kay worked for.” I managed not to say supposedly worked for.

  “She recommended the agency. Not Kay specifically.” Ruth clasped her hands together. “I feel terrible that my recommendation might have caused this distress to Mrs. Winthrop Granville.”

  “Miss Belle?” I asked.

  “No, Winnie. This has all been very upsetting for her.”

  “How long has she been having memory problems?”

  Ruth looked down at the floor so long, I didn’t think she was going to answer.

  “It’s been getting worse over the past year. The past six months.” Ruth sighed. “I try to protect her. I don’t want her to become fodder for gossip. I’ve insisted her social engagements be during the day because she’s worse at night. And now, because of the robbery and murder.”

  I nodded. “I had a great-aunt who had a similar memory problem. It’s difficult.”

  We turned to head back down the hall.

  “Didn’t you need to use the powder room?” Ruth asked with a sharp tone. “Or were you just trying to get information out of me?”

  She bustled past me. I stared back at her, mouth agape. Maybe Rena was right and there was something off about Ruth.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As I returned to the living room, I heard Mrs. Winthrop Granville’s raised voice. “And what kind of name is Belle? Belle of the ball? ‘Ding-Dong! The witch is dead.’ Southern Belle. Some character out of a Disney movie? Which are you? I demand to know.”

  “Mother,” Belle said.

  “Don’t you mother me. You took my beloved Sebastian away from me. Made him move all the way out here. How dare you. How dare you.”

  As I came around the corner, Mrs. Winthrop Granville started crying. Miss Belle’s face was very white, as was Ruth.

  “Could you please have our car pulled round?” Ruth asked Miss Belle. “I think Mrs. Winthrop Granville has had enough visiting for today.”

  “It’s a ridiculous name. There are no Belles in Boston society,” Mrs. Winthrop Granville said to Miss Belle’s retreating back. “And what’s your name?” She focused on me.

  I looked at Ruth for guidance. If this was how Mrs. Winthrop Granville was during the day, Ruth must really be busy at night. She gave a small nod. “Sarah Winston, ma’am.”

  “That’s a proper English name.” She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.

  After a minute, Miss Belle returned. “The car has been pulled up.” She darted a nervous glance at her mother-in-law.

  “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Winthrop
Granville said, as if nothing had happened. She reached over and picked up the Murano crystal paperweight again. She weighed it in her hand as she stood up, then slipped it into her purse.

  I looked over at Miss Belle, who shrugged. Ruth didn’t seem to notice.

  Ruth helped her out to the car with a small nod to us as they left. We stood on the porch watching them pull away.

  “It’s so sad to see her like this,” Miss Belle said as we went back into the house. “Even though there wasn’t a lot of love lost between us, she was a grand woman. Smart, well-educated. Wellesley, of course. I’m glad Sebastian isn’t around to see this.”

  Miss Belle looked so sad, I wanted to hug her.

  “I realized a few months ago that her being in her own house isn’t feasible anymore, so we’ve quietly been moving things over here and having her furnishings appraised.”

  Moving her things here? I thought back to the day I found the manuscripts and Miss Belle’s reaction to the overnight case. I’d assumed it was because she’d never seen it before.

  “I’m afraid I lied to you, Sarah.”

  “You did. You told me you had no idea where the overnight case came from.”

  “I was scared. Worried about the legal implications for my mother-in-law.”

  “Did you lie about anything else?” Now I was wondering if I’d thrown my trust to the wrong people, helping someone guilty of murder. I looked out the door. Maybe I needed to get the heck out of here.

  Miss Belle shook her head. “Nothing else. I promise. I hope you’ll believe me.”

  I pondered everything I knew about Belle. She fidgeted while I thought. Something I’d never seen her do. “I understand why you didn’t tell me right away. We barely knew each other.”

  “Thank you. I don’t want my mother-in-law to go to a home. And while she won’t be happy about moving here, it will be better, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It will be for her.” I wasn’t sure it would be for Miss Belle, but I admired her decision.

  “Ruth will return the paperweight you saw her take,” Miss Belle said. “Shall we get back to work? With all that’s been going on, we still have the book sale to get ready for.”

  “There’s still no sign of the missing book?”

  “None. I just can’t worry about it. Except for those crazy literary treasure hunters, things have been calm around here. Roger is even supposed to show up to work today.”

  “Great. I’ll get to work, then.” I climbed up to the attic but stopped in Kay’s room. The telescope beckoned me, so I peered through it, scanning the woods. From what I could see, all seemed quiet.

  I walked into the attic space and tackled a box containing books by Dorothy L. Sayers. Miss Belle had various volumes, plus collections of short stories. I took a quick peek inside Whose Body? the very first book Sayers published. It introduced the iconic character Lord Peter Wimsey. While the writing style was very different from today’s standards, Lord Wimsey and his mother leaped off the pages. I had to remind myself on page five that I was here to work, not read.

  Belle’s books were all in excellent condition. They didn’t smell and there wasn’t any water damage. The covers were all pristine. The books should bring a good price even if they weren’t first editions. It was slow going, because I had to check prices as I went. I’d checked sites like eBay but also book resellers. It gave me a better idea of how to settle on a price. Truth be told, I would have loved to curl up with one of them and escape my problems for a couple of hours. But I put that desire aside and pushed on.

  At noon, I stood and stretched, leaning my neck first to one side and then the other. Unfortunately, I wasn’t any closer to figuring out anything about Kay’s death, the missing manuscripts, The Sun Also Rises, or the Blackmore Agency than I’d been an hour before. I looked around the room and spotted the trunk that held the scrapbooks I’d seen the other day. It would be fun to take a closer look at them and would clear my head from all the pricing.

  I picked up the first scrapbook. It had a red leather cover with the word scrapbook stenciled in gold. The photos were all in black and white with scalloped edges. There were pictures of people drinking martinis at parties, sailing outings, and balls. The clothes screamed the fifties to me. It all looked very glamorous. A boy was in some of the photos, possibly Sebastian.

  The next volume was from the forties. It had pictures of men dressed in uniforms and women in gowns. There were champagne toasts and sabers. The photos belied the horrors of World War II. After studying some of the photos, I realized I was looking at pictures of a younger Winnie. I flipped back through the other scrapbooks and watched her age. She must have put these together. The thirties scrapbook was slimmer but again filled with beautiful people in beautiful clothing. It reminded me how little reality any of us ever really showed the world, and made me wonder how Tracy was doing.

  The twenties album was full of women in flapper dresses, beaded and beautiful. There were tickets for ships sailing to and from Europe. Photos in front of famous landmarks like the Coliseum, the Eiffel Tower, Windsor Castle, the Alps. Pictures of people skiing. One of the women looked a bit like Winnie, but it must have been her mother or grandmother. The wealth of the times was evident. I imagined their steamer trunks being packed and whisked from spot to spot in luxury cars driven by chauffeurs. Living as if they were in an episode of a BBC production.

  The war was behind them, the stock market crash ahead, and the next world war off in an unsuspecting future. No wonder the twenties were roaring for the rich. I flipped to a page filled with train tickets. One was from Gare de Lyon to Lausanne, Switzerland. Another from Paris to Constantinople, which must have been a ride on the famed Orient Express. A third was from Vienna to Paris. Train travel all sounded so glamorous.

  I started to turn the page when a bit of history tugged at my brain. The Gare de Lyon to Lausanne. I stared down at the ticket dated the first week of December in 1922. That was the route Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley, took when she lost Hemingway’s manuscripts.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I snapped a photo of the ticket with a shaking hand. Could that be how the manuscripts ended up here? Some relative of Sebastian’s had stolen them and hung on to them all these years? I thought about Mrs. Winthrop Granville taking the Murano paperweight. I typed in kleptomania into the search engine of my phone. I quickly read a couple of articles, and there was a lot of debate about whether it was inherited. People took things on impulse, and it was usually something they could afford.

  Whoever the people were in the scrapbook, they could obviously buy their own luggage. An overnight case wouldn’t have meant that much to them, and certainly the contents at the time wouldn’t have been important. Back in 1922, Hemingway was a war hero and journalist. The Sun Also Rises wasn’t published until 1926, so he wasn’t the famous author that he is today.

  I did another search on my phone. I read that after Hadley discovered the overnight case was missing, she and the conductor had searched the train high and low to no avail. But rich people would have private cars that probably wouldn’t be searched. Now what to do? I needed to talk this out with someone, but it had to be someone I trusted completely. As much as I loved Luke, this information might be too tempting for a reporter not to spill. Besides, this was all just speculation on my part right now.

  Other thoughts started clicking into place. I thought about Mrs. Winthrop Granville’s wild ramblings. I could imagine her babbling to the wrong person, telling them about her treasure. She’d talked to me about her love of Cracker Jacks, but it just as easily could have been the manuscripts.

  The most logical person seemed to be Ruth because she was with her the most. Ruth could have known Kay and lied about it. But there were still other people involved. The person who’d threatened and chased Roger, another person who picked up the manuscripts in the woods and killed Kay, and who knew who else. If Ruth and Kay were in cahoots, they would have had to contact some kind of middleman to
make the actual sale. The two of them wouldn’t likely have those kinds of resources.

  I decided to hide the scrapbook just in case someone else knew about it. I thought about hiding it in Kay’s room, but it might be searched again by the police. Or some relative might show up wanting her things. I couldn’t risk putting it there. I ended up emptying a box of the books I’d already priced. I put the scrapbook in the bottom of it and covered it with books. Then I set a couple more boxes on top. Hopefully, no one would come up here anyway, and if they did would think this was all books.

  As a precaution, I found a notebook in my purse and wrote a note that said, “already priced.” I tore it out and set it on top of the pile. What I wanted to write was nothing to see here, folks, just keep moving on. I sent Carol a text asking her to meet me for lunch. She said yes, if we ate at her shop. After trotting down the stairs to the first level, I found Miss Belle in her study. Roger was with her.

  “I have a couple of errands to run,” I said. Going to talk to Carol constituted an errand, didn’t it? “I’ll be back around two. Any luck on your end?” I asked.

  Miss Belle shook her head. “We’ve searched high and low through this office. If that limited-edition book is in this house, it isn’t in here.”

  “We can rule out the section of the attic I’ve been working in too.”

  “This house is a monstrosity,” Roger said. He thrust a hand through his normally neatly coiffed white hair. “We may never find it, even if it is here.”

  “Are you doing okay, Roger? No more people chasing you?”

  “I’m doing all right if you think not being able to go to my home or place of business is okay.”

  “So, not okay.”

  “I’m so sorry to have dragged you two into this mess,” Miss Belle said.