by Sue Grafton
“How much was the Parker worth?”
He hesitated, weighing his words. “I offered him six thousand.”
“But what’s its value out in the marketplace?”
“Depends on what people are willing to pay.”
I tried to control the little surge of impatience he had sparked. I could tell he’d jumped into his crafty negotiator’s mode, unwilling to tip his hand in case the gun showed up and he could nick it off cheap. “Look,” I said, “I’m asking you in confidence. This won’t go any further unless it becomes a police matter, and then neither one of us will have a choice. Right now, the gun’s missing anyway, so what difference does it make?”
He didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he got my point. He cleared his throat with obvious embarrassment. “Ninety-six.”
I stared at him. “Thousand dollars?”
He nodded.
“Jesus. That’s a lot for a gun, isn’t it?”
His voice dropped. “Ms. Millhone, that gun is priceless. It’s an A-1 Special 28-gauge with a two-barrel set. There were only two of them made.”
“But why so much?”
“For one thing, the Parker’s a beautifully crafted shotgun. There are different grades, of course, but this one was exceptional. Fine wood. Some of the most incredible scrollwork you’ll ever see. Parker had an Italian working for him back then who’d spend sometimes five thousand hours on the engraving alone. The company went out of business around 1942, so there aren’t any more to be had.”
“You said there were two. Where’s the other one, or would you know?”
“Only what I’ve heard. A dealer in Ohio bought the one at auction a couple years back for ninety-six. I understand some fella down in Texas has it now, part of a collection of Parkers. The gun Rudd Osterling brought in has been missing for years. I don’t think he knew what he had on his hands.”
“And you didn’t tell him.”
Lamb shifted his gaze. “I told him enough,” he said carefully. “I can’t help it if the man didn’t do his homework.”
“How’d you know it was the missing Parker?”
“The serial number matched, and so did everything else. It wasn’t a fake, either. I examined the gun under heavy magnification, checking for fill-in welds and traces of markings that might have been overstamped. After I checked it out, I showed it to a buddy of mine, a big gun buff, and he recognized it, too.”
“Who else knew about it besides you and this friend?”
“Whoever Rudd Osterling got it from, I guess.”
“I’ll want the woman’s name and address if you’ve still got it. Maybe she knows how the gun fell into Rudd’s hands.”
Again he hesitated for a moment, and then he shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He made a note on a piece of scratch paper and pushed it across the counter to me. “I’d like to know if the gun shows up,” he said.
“Sure, as long as Mrs. Osterling doesn’t object.”
I didn’t have any other questions for the moment. I moved toward the door, then glanced back at him. “How could Rudd have sold the gun if it was stolen property? Wouldn’t he have needed a bill of sale for it? Some proof of ownership?”
Avery Lamb’s face was devoid of expression. “Not necessarily. If an avid collector got hold of that gun, it would sink out of sight, and that’s the last you’d ever see of it. He’d keep it in his basement and never show it to a soul. It’d be enough if he knew he had it. You don’t need a bill of sale for that.”
I SAT OUT IN my car and made some notes while the information was fresh. Then I checked the address Lamb had given me, and I could feel the adrenaline stir. It was right back in Rudd’s neighborhood.
The woman’s name was Jackie Barnett. The address was two streets over from the Osterling house and just about parallel—a big corner lot planted with avocado trees and bracketed with palms. The house itself was yellow stucco with flaking brown shutters and a yard that needed mowing. The mailbox read SQUIRES, but the house number seemed to match. There was a basketball hoop nailed up above the two-car garage and a dismantled motorcycle in the driveway.
I parked my car and got out. As I approached the house, I saw an old man in a wheelchair planted in the side yard like a lawn ornament. He was parchment pale, with baby-fine white hair and rheumy eyes. The left half of his face had been disconnected by a stroke, and his left arm and hand rested uselessly in his lap. I caught sight of a woman peering through the window, apparently drawn by the sound of my car door slamming shut. I crossed the yard, moving toward the front porch. She opened the door before I had a chance to knock.
“You must be Kinsey Millhone. I just got off the phone with Avery. He said you’d be stopping by.”
“That was quick. I didn’t realize he’d be calling ahead. Saves me an explanation. I take it you’re Jackie Barnett.”
“That’s right. Come in if you like. I just have to check on him,” she said, indicating the man in the yard.
“Your father?”
She shot me a look. “Husband,” she said. I watched her cross the grass toward the old man, grateful for a chance to recover from my gaffe. I could see now that she was older than she’d first appeared. She must have been in her fifties—at that stage where women wear too much makeup and dye their hair too bold a shade of blond. She was buxom, clearly overweight, but lush. In a seventeenth-century painting, she’d have been depicted supine, her plump naked body draped in sheer white. Standing over her, something with a goat’s rear end would be poised for assault. Both would look coy but excited at the prospects. The old man was beyond the pleasures of the flesh, yet the noises he made—garbled and indistinguishable because of the stroke—had the same intimate quality as sounds uttered in the throes of passion, a disquieting effect.
I looked away from him, thinking of Avery Lamb instead. He hadn’t actually told me the woman was a stranger to him, but he’d certainly implied as much. I wondered now what their relationship consisted of.
Jackie spoke to the old man briefly, adjusting his lap robe. Then she came back and we went inside.
“Is your name Barnett or Squires?” I asked.
“Technically it’s Squires, but I still use Barnett for the most part,” she said. She seemed angry, and I thought at first the rage was directed at me. She caught my look. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve about had it with him. Have you ever dealt with a stroke victim?”
“I understand it’s difficult.”
“It’s impossible! I know I sound hard-hearted, but he was always short-tempered and now he’s frustrated on top of that. Self-centered, demanding. Nothing suits him. Nothing. I put him out in the yard sometimes just so I won’t have to fool with him. Have a seat, hon.”
I sat. “How long has he been sick?”
“He had the first stroke in June. He’s been in and out of the hospital ever since.”
“What’s the story on the gun you took out to Avery’s shop?”
“Oh, that’s right. He said you were looking into some fellow’s death. He lived right here on the Bluffs, too, didn’t he?”
“Over on Whitmore.”
“That was terrible. I read about it in the papers, but I never did hear the end of it. What went on?”
“I wasn’t given the details,” I said briefly. “Actually, I’m trying to track down a shotgun that belonged to him. Avery Lamb says it was the same gun you brought in.”
She had automatically proceeded to get out two cups and saucers, so her answer was delayed until she’d poured coffee for us both. She passed a cup over to me, and then she sat down, stirring milk into hers. She glanced at me self-consciously. “I just took that gun to spite him,” she said with a nod toward the yard. “I’ve been married to Bill for six years and miserable for every one of them. It was my own damn fault. I’d been divorced for ages and I was doing fine, but somehow when I hit fifty, I got in a panic. Afraid of growing old alone, I guess. I ran into Bill, and he looked like a catch. He was retired, but
he had loads of money, or so he said. He promised me the moon. Said we’d travel. Said he’d buy me clothes and a car and I don’t know what all. Turns out he’s a penny-pinching miser with a mean mouth and a quick fist. At least he can’t do that anymore.” She paused to shake her head, staring down at her coffee cup.
“The gun was his?”
“Well, yes, it was. He has a collection of shotguns. I swear he took better care of them than he did of me. I just despise guns. I was always after him to get rid of them. Makes me nervous to have them in the house. Anyway, when he got sick, it turned out he had insurance, but it only paid eighty percent. I was afraid his whole life savings would go up in smoke. I figured he’d go on for years, using up all the money, and then I’d be stuck with his debts when he died. So I just picked up one of the guns and took it out to that gun place to sell. I was going to buy me some clothes.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Well, I didn’t think it’d be worth but eight or nine hundred dollars. Then Avery said he’d give me six thousand for it, so I had to guess it was worth at least twice that. I got nervous and thought I better put it back.”
“How soon after that did the gun disappear?”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know. I didn’t pay much attention until Bill got out of the hospital the second time. He’s the one who noticed it was gone,” she said. “Of course, he raised pluperfect hell. You should have seen him. He had a conniption fit for two days, and then he had another stroke and had to be hospitalized all over again. Served him right if you ask me. At least I had Labor Day weekend to myself. I needed it.”
“Do you have any idea who might have taken the gun?”
She gave me a long, candid look. Her eyes were very blue and couldn’t have appeared more guileless. “Not the faintest.”
I let her practice her wide-eyed stare for a moment, and then I laid out a little bait just to see what she’d do. “God, that’s too bad,” I said. “I’m assuming you reported it to the police.”
I could see her debate briefly before she replied. Yes or no. Check one. “Well, of course,” she said.
She was one of those liars who blush from lack of practice.
I kept my tone of voice mild. “What about the insurance? Did you put in a claim?”
She looked at me blankly, and I had the feeling I’d taken her by surprise on that one. She said, “You know, it never even occurred to me. But of course he probably would have it insured, wouldn’t he?”
“Sure, if the gun’s worth that much. What company is he with?”
“I don’t remember offhand. I’d have to look it up.”
“I’d do that if I were you,” I said. “You can file a claim, and then all you have to do is give the agent the case number.”
“Case number?”
“The police will give you that from their report.”
She stirred restlessly, glancing at her watch. “Oh, lordy, I’m going to have to give him his medicine. Was there anything else you wanted to ask while you were here?” Now that she’d told me a fib or two, she was anxious to get rid of me so she could assess the situation. Avery Lamb had told me she never reported it to the cops. I wondered if she’d call him up now to compare notes.
“Could I take a quick look at his collection?” I said, getting up.
“I suppose that’d be all right. It’s in here,” she said. She moved toward a small paneled den, and I followed, stepping around a suitcase near the door.
A rack of six guns was enclosed in a glass-fronted cabinet. All of them were beautifully engraved, with fine wood stocks, and I wondered how a priceless Parker could really be distinguished. Both the cabinet and the rack were locked, and there were no empty slots. “Did he keep the Parker in here?”
She shook her head. “The Parker had its own case.” She hauled out a handsome wood case from behind the couch and opened it for me, demonstrating its emptiness as though she might be setting up a magic trick. Actually, there was a set of barrels in the box, but nothing else.
I glanced around. There was a shotgun propped in one corner, and I picked it up, checking the manufacturer’s imprint on the frame. L. C. Smith. Too bad. For a moment I’d thought it might be the missing Parker. I’m always hoping for the obvious. I set the Smith back in the corner with regret.
“Well, I guess that’ll do,” I said. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“No trouble. I wish I could be more help.” She started easing me toward the door.
I held out my hand. “Nice meeting you,” I said. “Thanks again for your time.”
She gave my hand a perfunctory shake. “That’s all right. Sorry I’m in such a rush, but you know how it is when you have someone sick.”
Next thing I knew, the door was closing at my back and I was heading toward my car, wondering what she was up to.
I’d just reached the driveway when a white Corvette came roaring down the street and rumbled into the drive. The kid at the wheel flipped the ignition key and cantilevered himself up onto the seat top. “Hi. You know if my mom’s here?”
“Who, Jackie? Sure,” I said, taking a flier. “You must be Doug.”
He looked puzzled. “No, Eric. Do I know you?”
I shook my head. “I’m just a friend passing through.”
He hopped out of the Corvette. I moved on toward my car, keeping an eye on him as he headed toward the house. He looked about seventeen, blond, blue-eyed, with good cheekbones, a moody, sensual mouth, lean surfer’s body. I pictured him in a few years, hanging out in resort hotels, picking up women three times his age. He’d do well. So would they.
Jackie had apparently heard him pull in, and she came out onto the porch, intercepting him with a quick look at me. She put her arm through his, and the two moved into the house. I looked over at the old man. He was making noises again, plucking aimlessly at his bad hand with his good one. I felt a mental jolt, like an interior tremor shifting the ground under me. I was beginning to get it.
I DROVE THE TWO blocks to Lisa Osterling’s. She was in the backyard, stretched out on a chaise in a sunsuit that made her belly look like a watermelon in a laundry bag. Her face and arms were rosy, and her tanned legs glistened with tanning oil. As I crossed the grass, she raised a hand to her eyes, shading her face from the winter sunlight so she could look at me. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”
“I have a question,” I said, “and then I need to use your phone. Did Rudd know a kid named Eric Barnett?”
“I’m not sure. What’s he look like?”
I gave her a quick rundown, including a description of the white Corvette. I could see the recognition in her face as she sat up.
“Oh, him. Sure. He was over here two or three times a week. I just never knew his name. Rudd said he lived around here somewhere and stopped by to borrow tools so he could work on his motorcycle. Is he the one who owed Rudd the money?”
“Well, I don’t know how we’re going to prove it, but I suspect he was.”
“You think he killed him?”
“I can’t answer that yet, but I’m working on it. Is the phone in here?” I was moving toward the kitchen. She struggled to her feet and followed me into the house. There was a wall phone near the back door. I tucked the receiver against my shoulder, pulling the appraisal slip out of my pocket. I dialed Avery Lamb’s gun shop. The phone rang twice.
Somebody picked up on the other end. “Gun shop.”
“Mr. Lamb?”
“This is Orville Lamb. Did you want me or my brother, Avery?”
“Avery, actually. I have a quick question for him.”
“Well, he left a short while ago, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Is it something I can help you with?”
“Maybe so,” I said. “If you had a priceless shotgun—say, an Ithaca or a Parker, one of the classics—would you shoot a gun like that?”
“You could,” he said dubiously, “but it wouldn’t be a good idea, especially if it was in mint condition to
begin with. You wouldn’t want to take a chance on lowering the value. Now, if it’d been in use previously, I don’t guess it would matter much, but still I wouldn’t advise it—just speaking for myself. Is this a gun of yours?”
But I’d hung up. Lisa was right behind me, her expression anxious. “I’ve got to go in a minute,” I said, “but here’s what I think went on. Eric Barnett’s stepfather has a collection of fine shotguns, one of which turns out to be very, very valuable. The old man was hospitalized, and Eric’s mother decided to hock one of the guns in order to do a little something for herself before he’d blown every asset he had on his medical bills. She had no idea the gun she chose was worth so much, but the gun dealer recognized it as the find of a lifetime. I don’t know whether he told her that or not, but when she realized it was more valuable than she thought, she lost her nerve and put it back.”
“Was that the same gun Rudd took in trade?”
“Exactly. My guess is that she mentioned it to her son, who saw a chance to square his drug debt. He offered Rudd the shotgun in trade, and Rudd decided he’d better get the gun appraised, so he took it out to the same place. The gun dealer recognized it when he brought it in.”
She stared at me. “Rudd was killed over the gun itself, wasn’t he?” she said.
“I think so, yes. It might have been an accident. Maybe there was a struggle and the gun went off.”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Oh, wow. That feels better. I can live with that.” Her eyes came open, and she smiled painfully. “Now what?”
“I have one more hunch to check out, and then I think we’ll know what’s what.”
She reached over and squeezed my arm. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not over yet, but we’re getting there.”
WHEN I GOT back to Jackie Barnett’s, the white Corvette was still in the driveway, but the old man in the wheelchair had apparently been moved into the house. I knocked, and after an interval, Eric opened the door, his expression altering only slightly when he saw me.
I said, “Hello again. Can I talk to your mom?”
