The Gun Also Rises

by Sherry Harris

  We looked around the library. Some books were pulled off shelves. There was a box on the desk filled with books. All of them had been priced, and many were worth more than I paid for rent in a year.

  “As far as I know, this looks just as it did last night.”

  We trekked back to the kitchen as a car pulled up. Pellner knocked on the kitchen door.

  “Ice tea, Officer?” Miss Belle asked when he came in.

  “Yes, please.”

  I got him a glass and watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he drank.

  “Sarah, you put yourself at risk,” he said.

  “I know, but it was—”

  “Hemingway, I get that,” Pellner said. “Anyone would have done the same.”

  I was astounded. I’d expected a lecture. Maybe he wanted me to help. I felt a bit tingly all over. “Any luck finding the man or the overnight case?”

  Pellner shook his head. “We canvassed the neighborhood. A man who lives near where you last saw the thief reported his old Jeep had been stolen. Someone probably hotwired it. It was found later in Carlisle. The trail is dead.” He looked at Miss Belle. “I’m sorry. Thank you for the tea.” Pellner stood.

  “Thank you for all you’ve done,” Miss Belle replied.

  Pellner looked at me. His dimple was in its deep, unhappy position, which I was all too familiar with. “Stay out of this. If either of you think of anything helpful, contact me.” He walked to the door, but turned back to us. “Don’t let her get you involved in any crazy schemes, Miss Belle.” With that he left.

  “What a mess,” I told Miss Belle. “If you want to look for someone else to run your sale, I’ll understand.” The weight of today’s events settled over me like a steel shroud.

  “Piffle. I was thinking maybe we should go visit Roger at his store because he isn’t answering his phone.”

  I smiled. “Excellent. Let me go home and clean up and then I’ll come back for you.”

  * * *

  Miss Belle insisted that I needn’t drop her off in front of the store. We’d both changed clothes, me into a green sundress and her into beige linen pants and a gold twinset. The Red Sox were playing tonight, so traffic into the city at four had been a nightmare of inching forward, lots of honking, and hand gestures I was embarrassed to have Miss Belle see. Until she made one herself when someone tried to cut us off.

  “I’ve lived up here a long time,” Miss Belle said when she noticed my sideways glance at her. “You become used to the local customs.”

  I laughed. “I guess you do.”

  After driving around the block several times, I found a space about a block from Roger’s store. It was a brick building with a large plate-glass window. His door was painted a deep red. We swept into the store, which was “a clean, well-lighted place,” to borrow the title from a Hemingway short story. Somehow, I always expected rare bookstores to be dim and musty.

  A woman with silver hair in a loose bun on top of her head looked up as we entered. She set some knitting aside.

  “Miss Belle, how delightful to see you.” The woman looked past Belle at me, and then beyond me. “Is Roger with you?”

  “No. We were hoping he was here,” Miss Belle said.

  “He left early this morning and said he’d be at your house all day.”

  Miss Belle and I glanced at each other.

  “Has he called you since?” I asked, keeping my voice light and friendly while my mind went through frantic scenarios about his disappearance.

  “No. Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Miss Belle smiled. “Just a mix-up in communications. Sometimes I can be a doddering old woman.” She grabbed my arm and clung to it, as if to prove her point. We left the store. I didn’t think Roger’s assistant bought our story for one minute. No one would mistake Miss Belle for some doddering old woman. The assistant was probably speed-dialing Roger right this minute.

  Chapter Ten

  As soon as we were several steps away from the store, Miss Belle quit the weak-old-woman act.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked her. I knew what I was thinking. Roger had been in the house, heard Miss Belle and me talking, and somehow had convinced Kay to make off with the overnight case.

  “I’m thinking I need some tea. There’s a place just beyond where you parked.”

  Minutes later, we sat at a small bistro table by a large-paned glass window. Miss Belle had Earl Grey tea and I had a double shot of espresso. Not my usual order, but today seemed to call for an extra boost of energy. I picked at the blueberry scone sitting in front of me while Miss Belle added milk and sugar to her tea. She daintily stirred the tea before taking a sip and visibly relaxing.

  “It seems to me if Roger had been in the house this morning, someone would have seen him. Certainly, he would have come to my aid when he heard me cry out.”

  Unless he was in on it, I thought again.

  “Did you see his car this morning when you arrived?” Miss Belle asked.

  I shook my head. “No. There weren’t any other cars around.” That gave me another thought. “Did Kay have a car?”

  “She did,” Miss Belle said. “A black sedan. She keeps it parked in the garage next to mine.”

  “A black sedan? That’s what I saw this morning on the road. The car I told you we followed.”

  “Oh, dear. I never thought to check the garage.”

  “Neither did I. Excuse me.” I pulled out my phone to call Pellner. Maybe he’d know about Kay’s car. It could be the one that was abandoned on the side of the road. All I got was his voice mail. He wouldn’t necessarily have answered my question, but I left him the information anyway. I nibbled on my scone for a moment. “When did you decide to do a sale for the Ellington Library?”

  “A couple of months ago. Roger had been over visiting and mentioned doing something like that. That it was a shame to have all those books sitting around when they could be appreciated by so many.”

  “Really? He was such a snob about them the first time we met.”

  Miss Belle laughed. I didn’t want to add that he said many cretins would appreciate them.

  “Maybe he was hoping you’d sell them through his store.” I shook my head. “Then again the way he feels about them, probably not. Unless there was something valuable or rare.” I did my best impression of Roger’s voice.

  Miss Belle smiled. “He might have been. But I’d rather help the library.”

  “He loses a lot of income by not being able to sell them.”

  “I’m paying him an exorbitant fee. I’m worried about him. It’s unlike him not to be where he said he was going to be.”

  I couldn’t help but feel as if no fee would match getting a commission off the sale of the books. Maybe he resented that, but how would he even know about the Hemingway manuscripts to be in on stealing them? The whole thing seemed like a spur-of-the-moment crime. I found the manuscripts and Kay, realizing their value, took off with them. But that didn’t explain the man in the woods with the car. Maybe Kay had ThugsRUs on speed dial.

  “What’s our next move?” Miss Belle asked. Her appetite seemed intact as she forked a bite of scone into her mouth.

  I opened my mouth while I tried to process her question. It’s not as if we were Cagney and Lacey out on a case. If anything, I felt as if I needed to get Miss Belle home and safely tucked in bed.

  “I see you’re surprised at my question. I’ll invite you to my next poker party. My card-shark pals will make a fortune off you with that face.”

  It was hard to picture Miss Belle with a pack of card-shark friends smoking cigars and placing bets. “As I said the day we met, no one has ever accused me of having a poker face.”

  “And you aren’t going to answer me? Just give me a hypothetical. What would be your next move?”

  “Going home?”

  “That doesn’t sound like the woman I’ve read about in the papers.”

  “Yes. Well, the woman you’ve read about in the papers
might be a fictional version of the real me. A big old scaredy-cat that’s stumbled into a few bad situations and managed to come out on the other side.”

  “I see. What would that woman do?”

  “You’re very stubborn.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  I took a bite of the scone to hold her off. It was moist and delicious. The blueberries were still plump and juicy. “I’d go to Roger’s house and see if he was there.”

  “Excellent idea. We can walk over when we’re finished.”

  * * *

  There was no dissuading Miss Belle once she had her mind set on something. I’d refuse to go. Miss Belle would tell me fine, she’d walk to Roger’s house and Uber home. Uber! Home! Of course I couldn’t let her do that, and as we walked over I berated myself for even mentioning going to Roger’s in the first place.

  “Oh, stop,” Miss Belle said when we’d walked a block.

  I did.

  “I didn’t mean stop walking. I meant stop torturing yourself. You keep making hand gestures that I assume go along with some internal debate you’re having with yourself.”

  I didn’t even realize I’d been making gestures, but the debate had been going on the whole time.

  “I would have suggested going to Roger’s house even if you hadn’t,” Miss Belle said.

  “We could call the Boston PD and have them do a welfare check.” I should have thought of that when we were having tea.

  “It will take them hours to send someone and we’re almost there.”

  Miss Belle had a point. I started moving again. “Okay, then. Let’s do this.”

  “He’s just two up in the lovely brick with the wide steps.”

  All the brick houses looked lovely to me. On any other occasion, I’d be enjoying this walk. The weather had cooled a bit since noon. I followed Miss Belle up the steps and she rang an impressively large brass doorbell in the shape of a book. We waited a moment. I studied the lion’s head door knocker. The kind in the Mr. Magoo version of A Christmas Carol. I expected it to turn into a face and say something any moment. Instead, nothing happened.

  “Knock, please,” Miss Belle said.

  I did. Nothing.

  “A bit harder, perhaps?”

  This time I put some power behind it, and the door opened. Miss Belle was through it before I could say anything. It took me a minute to realize it hadn’t been pulled open from the other side, but swung open with the force of my knock. It must not have been latched securely, which worried me. By that time, Miss Belle was through a foyer and disappearing down a hall, calling for Roger.

  “Miss Belle, come back.” I hesitated, fearing what awaited us in there. She didn’t return. I stepped in, leaving the door wide open and hustled after her. By the time I caught up with her in the kitchen, she was drumming her fingers on an old-fashioned linoleum countertop and frowning. What a contrast to the entrance hall and marble stairs. It made me wonder if Roger didn’t have the money to update the kitchen or if he just didn’t care.

  “Where the devil could he be?” she asked.

  “We shouldn’t be in here. What if something’s wrong, or someone else is in here?” We both stopped moving around and listened. All I heard was a bit of traffic noise from the street. She pivoted and headed back to the front of the house. I grabbed her arm as she started up the marble staircase in the foyer.

  “Wait. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Then stay here by the door and I’ll yell if I run afoul of anything.”

  I sighed. “You stay. I’ll go.”

  “Okay.”

  As I trotted up the first couple of stairs, eager to get this over with, I realized Miss Belle had manipulated me in to doing this very thing. I looked back down at her, but her face was all innocence as she nodded encouragingly at me. The house was so quiet. The steps were marble, so they didn’t creak. The baluster was cool under my sweaty hand. Sweaty from nerves, because it was unusually cool in here.

  “Roger? Mr. Mervine?” I called out every few steps, hoping for an answer but hearing nothing. I got to the top and looked down the hall. Of course, all of the freaking doors were closed. There were five to choose from. I knocked, waited, called out, and opened the first door on the left. An empty guest room. I headed across the hall to the right, repeated my knocking routine, and opened the next door. A lovely study filled with shelves and old books. I went back into the hall and opened more doors. A linen closet full of neatly folded towels and sheets on the right. A sparkling white bathroom across from it.

  That left the door at the end of the hall, which must be the master bedroom. I stopped in front of the door and gave myself a shake. I could do this. Better me than Miss Belle, although I was starting to feel like a bit of a lapdog doing her bidding. I knocked, called out, and waited. Nothing. I reached for the doorknob. Maybe it would be locked and I could scamper back down the stairs and out the door. But it turned in my hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  I decided to use the ripping-off-a-bandage approach and flung the door open. A bed with a light gray tufted headboard was the focal point. A gray comforter with an assortment of pillows including European shams and a neck roll were propped up. The only thing out of place was a large suitcase with clothes thrown haphazardly into it. Some only partially in. Closet doors were open and hangers were in disarray, as were the rows of shoes on a shoe rack.

  Thankfully, there were no dead bodies. A half-filled suitcase I could deal with. Everything about Roger was neat and particular. This hastily filled suitcase was telling of something. I hustled back down the steps and explained the situation to Miss Belle.

  “I don’t like it,” she said. “The door not locked or closed. The suitcase. He would have mentioned leaving town to his helper at the store or me. We were both counting on him.”

  Something was up, but my plan was to get Miss Belle home and figure out what to do. We weren’t supposed to be in his house in the first place.

  “What do we do now?” Miss Belle asked.

  “Lock the door and go home.” I heard the hint of a question in my voice and wanted to slap myself.

  Miss Belle pounced faster than a kitten on a ball of yarn. I needed to quit thinking of her as a kitten and more of a lion, strong, determined, and fierce. Then she wouldn’t keep getting the upper hand on me.

  “I know where Roger’s favorite restaurant in the North End is. We both need to eat, and we can look for him at the same time.”

  The North End was the Italian section of Boston near the harbor, well known for its numerous Italian restaurants. My mouth almost watered at the thought. I was still hungry; the scone and tea had been my breakfast and lunch. “Okay.” I did it partly to humor Miss Belle. If we were at a restaurant, we’d be away from that partially packed suitcase. It made me uneasy. I couldn’t decide if I should mention it to Pellner or not. If I did, I’d have to fess up that we hadn’t exactly been invited in to roam around a private citizen’s house. Although maybe the extenuating circumstances were solid ground for doing so.

  * * *

  After I locked Roger’s door, we retrieved my car from where it sat by Roger’s store and headed to the North End. The parking gods were with us and I found a spot two down from the restaurant. I managed to squeeze the Suburban into the tight space. The restaurant was just up the block from Il Formaggio, a cheese shop owned by Mike “the Big Cheese” Titone. Mike was connected to the mob, had done me the occasional favor, and wasn’t what he seemed. I’d asked him for help in the past, but had come to realize that staying far away from him was my best policy. Being so close to his business raised my anxiety level another notch. As if I needed that.

  I glanced over my shoulder a couple of times as we walked down the street. The unease of finding Roger’s door unlatched hadn’t left me. The buildings were brick, four or five stories, and connected to each other like LEGOs. Windows were open, people sat in front of the now-closed stores on aluminum lawn chairs, the conversations fol
lowing us in Italian. On any other night I’d stop to listen.

  We entered the dimly lit restaurant. It was small, like many restaurants in the North End, where space of any kind was at a premium. A kitchen on one side and about ten tables on the other. Roger didn’t appear to be sitting at any of them. The host recognized Miss Belle, kissed her cheeks, and led us to a table. He handed us heavy menus with a flourish. As he left, a young man hurried over and filled our water glasses. A waitress with lush dark hair and a lush figure came to see if we wanted wine.

  “None for me,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Belle asked.

  “It’s been a long day and I have to drive us home.”

  “I don’t need any either. Will you just tell Chef Sal to pick an appetizer and entrees for us?” she asked the waitress. After the waitress retrieved the menus, Miss Belle turned to me. “I hope you don’t mind. But his specials are superb and aren’t always listed on the menu or the specials board.”

  “It’s fine. Roger isn’t here,” I said, pointing out the obvious. “Is there a back room or upstairs to this place?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Are you going to ask for him?”

  “All in good time. Sal is the owner and chef. We’ll eat, compliment the food, overtip, and then ask for information.”

  I smiled. “Excellent thinking. Who knows, maybe he’ll show up while we’re here.”

  “Yes, with a logical explanation for the half-packed bag and unlocked door.”

  Miss Belle was as worried as I was.

  The food started to arrive. First bread with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and herbs, followed by a breadcrumb-and-parmesan-stuffed artichoke.

  “Pace yourself,” said Miss Belle. “When Chef Sal gets going, it can be quite the feast.”

  A caprese salad of beautifully red tomatoes, fresh basil, and a mozzarella as creamy as butter arrived next. Then came osso buco with polenta. When I thought I couldn’t eat another bite, the tiramisu showed up. I glanced outside. Long shadows were cast on the street by the setting sun, so I checked my phone. We’d been there for almost two hours. I could have had a glass of wine early on if I’d known we’d be so long.