by Crider, Bill
He put the books back and wandered over to another showcase that had old periodicals stacked on top. There was a pile of Life magazines from the 1950s, and Burns thumbed through them, finding the advertisements at least as interesting as the photographs that accompanied the sparse text of the articles. There were some comic books as well, but they were locked inside the showcase. Burns saw that on the top shelf there were several 3-D comics, including one with the Three Stooges on the cover. A note beside it said “Glasses still inside.“
By now about fifteen minutes had passed since Burns had entered the store, but he continued to hear the low voices from the back room. He wondered if Stilwell was having difficulty closing the sale, or if he was just engaged in friendly conversation. Burns drifted in the direction of the voices, looking idly at the things he passed: stacks of old baskets and baking tins, metal advertising signs, racks of what a small paper sign referred to as “Retro Clothing,“ wooden toys, old plastic radios, cases of glasses, bowls, pitchers, and plates.
Some plates were probably pressed glass, Burns thought, and some Depression glass, but he hadn’t attended Stilwell’s lecture on how to distinguish between them.
One corner of the big store was given over to antique furniture, and Burns looked at a canopy bed and several chairs that appeared even more uncomfortable than those in Dean Partridge’s office.
So far, Burns was not impressed. He’d been in the store before, and he’d never seen anything that he thought he couldn’t live without. He supposed that he didn’t understand the collector mentality, and he certainly didn’t see why people would drive from Dallas or Houston to shop among Stilwell’s admittedly abundant accumulation of seemingly worthless items.
Burns was wondering about it when he heard a short burst of maniacal laughter from the back room. It was loud and frightening, and Burns turned in the direction it had come from. It wasn’t repeated, but Burns decided it was time for him to have a look in the office. He threaded his way past more of Stilwell’s hoard, and when he came to the office, he saw that the door was half open. He knocked on the facing.
“Come on in,“ a voice called, and Burns went inside.
Steven Stilwell was sitting at a roll-top desk in an old wooden swivel chair on rollers. He was reading a tabloid that Burns could see was called The Antique Trader. There was no one else in the office, but sitting on a small table near the desk there was a nearly new compact stereo unit, from which had come the voices that Burns had been hearing. At the moment an organ was playing some very odd-sounding music. Stilwell laid down the paper and turned off the stereo.
“I was listening to an episode of The Shadow,“ he said. “One of the episodes that Orson Welles starred in. He was the best Shadow, don’t you think? And the shows he was in are more like the magazine stories.“
Burns had to admit that he didn’t really know much about the Shadow. He’d read about the program and about the pulp magazine stories, of course, but he was far from an expert.
“Well, you should know more,“ Stilwell said. “Great show. And that laugh of his is priceless.“ Stilwell did a lame imitation of the spooky laugh Burns had heard earlier. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?“
“Boss Napier,“ Burns said.
Stilwell leaned forward a bit in his chair and gave a more genuine laugh. He was thin, with a scraggly beard and long hair. Napier would have called him a hippie. He wore glasses with very small lenses, and his hair was black with a good bit of gray mixed in. Mal had been wrong about the dye job.
“Napier couldn’t find his fanny with a flashlight,“ Stilwell said. “And if you think he knows anything about human psychology, he really has you fooled.“
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,“ Burns said. “He might surprise you.“
“I doubt it. He wouldn’t know a Marx character figure from a cheap Hong Kong knockoff.“
Burns knew that Stilwell was wrong, but he didn’t think it was worth arguing about.
“What brings you to my humble establishment, anyway, Dr. Burns? You didn’t come to talk about Boss Napier and Old Time Radio, I’m sure.“
“I was just looking around. You have an amazing assortment of odds and ends out there.“
“You aren’t interested in buying anything, though, are you.“
“How would you know that?“
“Because you hardly ever come around to look. People who collect antiques like to come in every week or so just to see what’s new. They never know when I might have located something they need.“
“Need?“ Burns said.
“That’s right. They need the things I sell just the way a drug addict needs his dope. Don’t ask me to explain it. That’s just the way it is. And I’m glad. It’s how I make my living, after all.“
Burns had talked to Stilwell on the campus a few times, but he’d never thought of him as a cynic. He said, “Some of that stuff out there looks as if it might be hard to sell to nearly anybody.“
“It’s that nearly that makes the difference,“ Stilwell said. “I believe in what I call the ’one sucker theory’ of selling antiques.“
“I don’t think I know that theory.“
“It’s simple. If you’re selling something, you just have to find the one sucker who wants what you have. You take that wooden Indian out there, for example.“
Burns didn’t want to take it and said as much.
“I know you don’t want it,“ Stilwell said. “Hardly anyone would. It’s not even an antique. But somewhere there’s one sucker who wants it. Sooner or later, that one sucker will come into my store, and I’ll make the sale. That’s all it takes.“
“What if that one sucker never shows up?“
“I wouldn’t know. He always does. Eventually.“
“You don’t seem too busy right at the moment.“
“Noon is always a slow time during the week. I come back here to the office and eat a sandwich while I read a magazine and listen to an old radio show.“
Burns saw a sandwich bag, empty except for a few crumbs, on the desk beside a plastic Vanilla Coke bottle.
“What about toy soldiers?“ Burns asked. “Ever get any calls for something like that?“
Stilwell leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He crossed his arms and said, “So that’s what this is all about.“
Burns said he didn’t get it.
“Oh, yes you do. I know all about those soldiers that are missing from Gwen Partridge’s place, and since I’m the antique dealer, naturally I’m the suspect. Well, I didn’t take them. They’re nice items, and I could probably sell them.“
“To someone like Neal Bruce, maybe.“
“Maybe. He likes soldiers, and I’ve found a few for him here and there. He doesn’t collect Britains, though. He goes for Staddens, which is another thing entirely. Maybe not to you and me, but to him.“
“So you were definitely interested in Dr. Partridge’s soldiers.“
“You could say that. I even tried to buy them once. But I didn’t take them. Be logical, Burns. Stealing them wouldn’t be worth the risk. Why ruin my reputation for a few thousand bucks?“
“Mary Mason seems to think you were pretty fond of them.“
“A-ha,“ Stilwell said.
Burns didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone say that before. Maybe it was something Stilwell had picked up by listening to Old Time Radio.
“You know what they say about women scorned?“ Stilwell asked. “Hell and fury and all that?“
“I’ve heard about it,“ Burns said, thinking about the way Elaine had acted after she’d seen him and Mason on the elevator. And he hadn’t even spurned her.
“Mary Mason and I dated for a while. That was some time ago, and we didn’t hit it off. I was the one who decided to call it quits. That’s probably the first time that’s ever happened to her. She’s usually the dumper, not the dumpee. So she’s never forgiven me.“
“She called you Stevie.“
> Stilwell’s mouth twisted in his beard.
“I thought it was sweet,“ Burns said.
“I don’t, but it’s typical. That woman is capable of anything.“
Stilwell didn’t seem to like Mason as much as other men did, Burns thought, but then maybe that was because he knew her better than they did.
“She was probably just covering up, anyway,“ Stilwell continued. “She may have taken them herself. She had an affair with Matthew Hart years ago, and she might even be the one who killed him.“
“What does Matthew Hart have to do with this?“
“Nothing. I was just talking out of turn.“
He knows about the soldier, Burns thought. But then so did Mason. Probably everybody in town knew.
“Why would she have killed him?“ Burns asked. “An affair she had with him years ago doesn’t seem like much of a reason.“
Stilwell nodded. “You’re right. I was just being vindictive. Forget it.“
“All right. But what about the soldiers? Was she really looking at them?“
“Hell, no. I was. I always like to look at them. They’re valuable, and they’re well made. I admire good workmanship. But I’d never take them.“
“Were you alone in the room for a while?“
Stilwell thought it over. “I might have been. I don’t remember.“
He could have taken the soldiers, Burns thought. There was no one else in the room, and he could simply have stuck them in his pockets. They were small, and no one would have noticed.
“How well did you know Matthew Hart?“ Burns asked.
“What does he have to do with this?“
“You’re the one who mentioned him.“
“Oh. Yeah.“ Stilwell paused. “Well, I have my insurance with him. Or I had it with him. I guess I have it with his wife now. She’s going to take over the business, or so I hear.“
Burns hadn’t heard, but then he was always the last to find out anything like that. He wasn’t plugged into the community the way someone like Stilwell was.
There was one other thing that Burns wanted to ask about. He said, “I didn’t know that just anyone could sell firearms, but you have quite a few of them out there.“
Stilwell tilted his chair forward and stood up. His eyes flashed with anger.
“That’s right, I sell guns. And I have an FFL, too, in case you were wondering.“
Burns didn’t know what an FFL was, and Stilwell must have realized it.
“An FFL is a Federal Firearms License. As I said, I have one, and I don’t sell to anyone who doesn’t have the special ’Curios and Relics’ FFL, either. I operate strictly within the law. And I don’t steal.“
“I was just interested,“ Burns said. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.“
“It sounded to me as if you were.“
Burns decided that it was time to leave, but he didn’t apologize again. As he turned to leave, he saw a photo of a woman on the desk near the empty plastic bottle.
“Is that your wife?“ he asked.
“I don’t have a wife,“ Stilwell said. “That’s Penelope Ann Miller.“
Burns had heard the name, and the woman looked familiar, but Burns couldn’t quite place her.
“She played Margo Lane in the movie version of The Shadow,“ Stilwell said as if stating a fact that should have been common knowledge among all thinking beings.
“I don’t think I’ve seen the movie,“ Burns told him.
“It’s all right, but it’s not as good as the radio show.“ Stilwell seemed to have calmed down a bit. He reached over to the little stereo set and popped out the cassette. “Take this with you and give it a listen. You might even enjoy it. No charge.“
“First one’s free, kid,“ Burns said. “Is that it?“
“I don’t sell radio shows,“ Stilwell said, “but it’s not a bad idea. In fact, I think I’ll order some and put them out by one of the old radios. It will make a nice display, and there might even be a market for them. Thanks for the idea.
Burns thanked Stilwell and stuck the tape in his pocket, but he didn’t think he’d ever listen to it.
Chapter Twenty
Burns walked back to the campus, entered Main, and walked up the stairs to his office. Bunni was working at the computer, and she greeted him cheerfully when he entered.
He went to his desk and organized some of his notes for the next day’s class. Then he asked Bunni if she knew Steven Stilwell.
“I’ve been to some of his lectures on antiques,“ she said. “Someday I’m going to have a house full of antique furniture.“
Burns was tempted to ask what George Kaspar thought about that, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to get George in trouble.
“So you remember that he came to that party at the dean’s house?“
Bunni thought it over a while before saying yes.
“How about Mary Mason?“
“Oh, I know her. She’s a real success story, a truly independent woman. She’s made so much money selling cosmetics that she’s practically a legend in Dora Hall.“
Dora Hall was the name of one of the women’s dorms on the HGC campus. Actually the full name of the dormitory was Dora Hall Hall, since it was named for Mrs. Dora Watkins Hall, a woman that a former college president had once hoped would give a generous donation to the school. Unfortunately, Mr. Hall had out-lived his wife, remarried, and moved to Maine, where he forgot all about any connection he might have had to Texas and Hartley Gorman College. The name of the dorm had never been changed, mainly because no other likely benefactors had come along.
“So the students here look up to Mary Mason?“ Burns said.
“Not all of them,“ Bunni said.
Burns didn’t ask why. He could tell from Bunni’s tone that there were some things about Mmmmm of which even Bunni didn’t approve. Even an independent woman could get away with only so much.
“I think I’ll give her a call,“ Burns said.
Bunni gave him a startled look. “Dr. Burns!“ she said.
“It’s business,“ Burns said, smiling, glad he was still able to shock Bunni. He’d thought he was probably far too old for that.
He looked up Mason’s number in the thin Pecan City phone book that he kept in a desk drawer and called.
“This is Mary Mason, and I sell Merry Mary. How may I help you?“
Now there’s a woman who knows how to answer a telephone, Burns thought. Dr. Partridge could have hired her to give us instruction.
“This is Carl Burns,“ he said.
“Why hello, Carl. I’m so glad to hear from you. Is there something I can help you with?“
“There might be. I paid a little visit to Steven Stilwell this afternoon, and he tells me he didn’t take those soldiers. He says you accused him because you don’t like him.“
“Why, that sorry— I beg your pardon, Carl. I almost let my feelings get the better of me. I don’t think Mr. Stilwell is very gallant.“
So it wasn’t Stevie anymore.
“He didn’t like being falsely accused,“ Burns said.
“You’re taking his word? Everyone knows that he’s a notorious liar.“
They’d come a long way from Stevie, all right.
“He says you had an affair with Matthew Hart.“
“Why, that no-good— I beg your pardon again, Carl. But I’m beginning to think you might not be nearly as nice as you seemed this morning.“
“My students could have told you that,“ Burns said. “And while I’m disappointing you, I might as well ask why you and Stilwell broke up.“
“That’s none of your business, Dr. Burns,“ Mason said and hung up her phone.
Burns hung up as well, more politely than Mason had, he thought, and glanced over at Bunni, who was giving him a wide-eyed look.
“That wasn’t like you at all, Dr. Burns,“ she said.
“You weren’t listening in, were you?“
“No. Yes. I was. I know it was wrong, but you didn’t
ask me to leave the office, and I couldn’t help what I heard. I never heard you talk like that before.“
“Some people bring out the worst in me,“ Burns said. He had a feeling Mason wouldn’t be attending the softball game on Saturday. “I’m going over to the library, and I won’t be back this afternoon.“
“All right,“ Bunni said.
Burns was determined to set Elaine straight about what she’d seen on the elevator, but she wasn’t in her office. Burns didn’t try to find her. He just went home, where he fixed himself a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. It was so good that he had another one. He told himself that walking up those stairs to his office every day would take the calories off in no time.
After he ate the sandwiches, Burns thought he might as well listen to the tape Stilwell had given him. He put it in his tape player and was treated to the maniacal laughter again. The episode was called “Caverns of Death,“ and Welles informed him that the weed of crime bore bitter fruit. Burns hoped that was true for the person who had killed Matthew Hart and shot at Mal Tomlin.
Burns found that he enjoyed the show in spite of its melodramatic excesses. When it was over, he got ready for softball practice. Or as ready as he could get. He didn’t think he’d ever be really ready, not in the way Mal Tomlin and some of the others were.
As he pulled on his old running shoes, Burns thought again that he really should do something to get in shape, but he knew he wouldn’t.
He drove to the softball field in his Camry and parked behind the backstop. The field was located in what the local newspaper often referred to as Pecan City’s “industrial park,“ but the fact of the matter was that not a lot of industry was located in Pecan City. There were a few large buildings scattered around it, but one of them was vacant, and the others were home to industries that Burns didn’t really think produced big money for the town. One of them manufactured wire of some kind, and the other produced plastic flowerpots and similar items. Probably plastic lawn gnomes. Well, there was no law against that. There was a furniture-making plant that employed more people than the other two places combined, but even that one didn’t have a large economic impact on Pecan City. Taken all together, however, the three of them did provide jobs the town needed, and there were a few smaller plants as well. Most of them could be seen from the softball field, thanks to the hilly terrain.