by Parnell Hall
“And you won’t tell me who took them?”
“I can’t.”
“Was the person who took my chairs the guy who was bidding on them?”
“No.”
“What? Then how did you ever find them?”
“That’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“I can’t tell you, Harvey. When I can, I will.”
“Does the person who took my chairs know that you’ve discovered that he took my chairs?”
“You’re assuming it’s a man?”
“Is it a woman?”
“I can’t tell you, Harvey.”
“Then why’d you bring it up?”
“To avoid the question.”
“What question?”
“Good. It’s working.”
Cora beamed at Harvey, and ducked out the door.
BENNY SOUTHSTREET WASN’T back by two o’clock. Cora knew because she was there at one forty-five, hoping to beat Mr. Wilbur to the punch. But Benny wasn’t back.
Either that or he’d come and gone. What a revolting development that would be. Particularly if he had taken the chairs. No, they were there. Cora could see them through the gap in the curtain.
There was no sign of the chambermaid. She must have finished her rounds. Evidently it wasn’t a full-time job. That was something her feigned friend’s daughter ought to know.
Cora got in her car, drove across the street to the Ace Hardware parking lot, and settled down to wait.
Benny never showed. Neither did Mr. Wilbur. Two o’clock came and went without so much as a single car. By two-fifteen, Cora was fed up.
Okay, what now?
Well, for one thing, the photos would be ready.
Cora pulled out of the hardware store parking lot, headed for the mall.
She never got there.
A car going the other direction looked suspiciously familiar. Cora pulled into the next driveway, turned around, and gave chase.
Sure enough, the car was being piloted by a feisty redhead with a chip on her shoulder and fire in her eyes.
Brenda Wallenstein drove straight into town, pulled up, and parked. She got out of the car and walked down the side street to the pizza parlor.
And Becky Baldwin’s office.
Cora parked in front of the library, crossed the street, and peered down the alley. Sure enough, Brenda Wallenstein had not driven all the way from New York City just for a Coke and a slice. Instead, she went in the door with the modest sign REBECCA BALDWIN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
Cora wished she could follow. Brenda was Sherry’s best friend. And her ex-husband’s wife. If this had anything to do with Sherry’s impending marriage, Cora had to know.
Could she follow her upstairs and listen through the door? Not a good idea. Becky’s one-room office shared the landing with a pediatrician. Cora would stand out like a sore thumb. On the other hand, it was a nice day. Becky would be likely to have her window open.
Cora knew right where the window was. Becky always made her sit on the sill to smoke. Cora hurried past the pizza parlor, and ducked around the corner.
Sure enough, the window was open. Cora wondered if she’d be able to hear.
She needn’t have worried. In college Brenda’d been a cheerleader who always projected to the back of the bleachers.
Becky Baldwin, on the other hand, was an attorney. She only raised her voice when necessary. Cora never heard her greeting, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.
“What the hell do you think I’m doing here?” Brenda stormed. “I don’t like being played for a fool. Do I look like a fool?”
Becky evidently refrained from comment.
“It’s a yes or no question, Becky. Does he have to check in with you or not?”
Apparently Becky sidestepped the issue.
“I’m not asking you to violate a confidential communication. I’m asking for a rule of law. Does a client on probation have to check in with his lawyer?”
Brenda must not have liked Becky’s answer because she had a few particularly choice comments regarding Becky’s chosen profession. Cora considered taking notes.
When Brenda slammed out the door unenlightened five minutes later, Cora was right on her heels. Keeping in the shadows, Cora followed Brenda back to her car.
Ordinarily, Cora would have confronted Brenda, demanded to know what the hell she thought she was doing. But it was a ticklish situation. Sherry’s impending marriage was fragile enough. The least little thing might shatter it. And Brenda was not a little thing. Brenda was a force of nature, an insanely jealous woman with the predatory instincts of a tigress. If she made a move on Sherry, Cora would reluctantly hurl herself in Brenda’s path, sacrificing herself for her niece. But if the woman had no such intention, there was no reason to rile her. Let her leave town.
Brenda did head out of town. Unfortunately, it was also in the direction of Sherry and Cora’s house. Cora followed along reluctantly, plotting when to make her move. She had to cut Brenda off before the driveway, or there’d be hell to pay.
Why couldn’t Sherry be more like her? Cora wouldn’t let a jealous wife keep her from a perfectly good marriage. Even the wife of the groom. Well, that hadn’t been one of her finest hours. Had that marriage been annulled? Cora couldn’t remember.
They were coming up on the moment of truth, the point of no return, or whatever the hell other cliché Cora couldn’t think of at the moment. Basically, the road to Sherry and Cora’s house. Once Brenda took that, it would be impossible to cut her off without creating a scene right at the foot of the driveway. On the other hand, if Cora tried to cut her off now, she’d drive straight into the milk truck bearing down on them from the opposite direction. What the hell was a milk truck doing out in the afternoon? Didn’t people get milk in the morning? Of course a New York City girl, Cora got milk all day long, from the corner fruit stand. But here in the sticks . . . What, the milkman couldn’t make a living working three hours a day?
As luck would have it, the milk truck passed Brenda just at the turnoff.
And Brenda kept on going. Right out of town.
Suddenly Cora loved the milkman. She’d have bought him a beer, if she hadn’t stopped drinking. Could she buy him a glass of milk? Or would that be coals to Newcastle, whatever the hell that meant? The type of thing Sherry would say.
Cora slowed the car, pulled into the driveway, turned around. She realized she was free-associating. Her mind was on overload, with chairs and money and weddings and eBay and thefts. Two thefts. One chairs, one money. Assuming any money was stolen. Wait. Three thefts. Two chairs, one money. One set of chairs recovered, one not. Well, not recovered, but found. She could prove it. Cora checked the dashboard clock. The photos were long done.
Cora drove out to the mall.
The Photomat booth was closed.
Closed? True, it was a one-man operation. But it was right in the mall. If the guy got hungry, he could call out for pizza. He didn’t have to close. Yet he had. Cora shouldn’t have been surprised. It was that type of day. The guy was closed for the same reason Benny Southstreet wasn’t at the motel.
It occurred to Cora maybe Benny had gone back to the motel. In fact, he surely should have gone back. He told Wilbur he would be there. He was simply late. If he wasn’t back now, he was really late. At any rate, she should check it out.
There was a car in front of Unit 12, which was a good sign. It would have been a better sign if the lines for the parking spaces had been painted with any degree of intelligence. But the car parked in front of Unit 12 was also parked in front of Unit 13. Cora had a vague recollection of seeing Benny Southstreet’s car in her driveway, but whether this nondescript Ford Taurus was it, she had no idea. If this was Benny’s parking space, he was in. But if Benny’s parking space was the empty one straddling Units 11 and 12, he was out.
Cora stepped up to Unit 12, knocked on the door.
No answer.
Cora tried the knob.
Whoa!
The door was unlocked, just as she would have left it had the chambermaid been a little less vigilant. And here it was, an open invitation. Or at least an unlocked invitation. She could go in and search the room.
Except for that car. It would be a little embarrassing if Benny was here. Cora wasn’t clear on protocol, but it was probably considered gauche to break in on someone accusing you of plagiarism. She’d have to look it up in Emily Post’s Etiquette.
Or on Google.
Cora knocked again, louder. She pushed the door open a crack, called, “Benny Southstreet!”
There was no answer.
Cora looked up and down the row.
A young man in a baseball cap stood watching her for a moment, then disappeared into the motel office. That, Cora figured, would be Ralph, the kid the chambermaid told her about. It would also be the end of her reputation.
If any.
Cora wondered if the young man was watching her through the office window. Just in case, she smiled and said, “Hi, Benny,” as she pushed the door open and stepped in.
The room was empty. The light was on. The bed was made; no surprise, she’d watched the chambermaid make it.
The four chairs were still there. Thank God. Cora never would have forgiven herself if they’d been gone. But, no, they were right where she’d left them.
Cora looked around. Was there any evidence of Benny Southstreet having been there?
Yes. The briefcase on the desk. It hadn’t been there when the chambermaid had made up the room.
Cora popped the briefcase open. Did she have any right to search it? Absolutely. The man was a thief. He’d stolen the chairs. What else might he have stolen?
The jackpot would be hundred-dollar bills. That would sure rock ’em in their sockets.
There were none. The briefcase contained letters, computer printouts, and, ugh, crossword puzzles.
Cora closed the briefcase, having found nothing of interest.
Whoa! What was that on the nightstand? Benny Southstreet had a gun. A snub-nosed revolver. Looked like a .38. Cora picked it up and sniffed it. Unlike in mystery books, it had not been recently fired. Benny probably never fired it. He wasn’t the type. Though he might have used it to intimidate people. Good thing he hadn’t tried to intimidate her. Cora’s gun was bigger.
Cora put the gun back on the nightstand, and proceeded to take the motel room apart.
There was nothing in the bathroom. Nothing in the closet. Nothing taped to the bottom of the drawers of the desk or the nightstand. Nothing under the bed.
If Benny Southstreet had stolen the bills from the Dillingers’ study, they were on his person.
Cora went to the door and looked out. There was no one in sight. The assistant manager was probably watching TV, or playing Nintendo, or on-line poker, or whatever it was young men did in this day and age. It occurred to Cora that if there had been on-line poker when she was married to Henry, it would have taken a good chunk out of the family fortune.
If there was on-line poker when she was married to Melvin, there would be no family fortune.
Okay. Moment of truth. She’d gotten Harvey into this. Maybe she couldn’t tell him who’d taken his chairs, but she could damn well get ’em back.
Cora went out to her Toyota, popped the trunk. Frowned. It was going to be tight. She brought a chair out. It just fit, but barely. Another might require some doing. Cora got a second chair, and, amid great sputtering, fuming, and imprecations the likes of which the motel had probably never heard, managed to nestle it next to the first one. She slammed the trunk, delighted to find it closed.
Cora stuck a third chair in the backseat from the driver’s side, a fourth from the passenger’s side. The chairs fit easier than the ones in the trunk.
Cora left the motel room door unlocked, exactly as she had found it.
As Cora pulled out of the motel parking lot, in the rearview mirror she could see the kid in the baseball cap come out of the office and stand there, watching her go.
HARVEY BEERBAUM WAS delighted. “You brought my chairs back!”
“Well, I felt responsible.”
“Yes, but.. .”
“But what?”
“How did you do it?”
“Trade secret, Harvey.”
“Yes, but if you found my chairs, you must know who took them.”
Cora put up her hands. “Now, let’s be very careful here, Harvey. Technically, legally, I don’t know who took them. I know who had them.”
“You’re splitting hairs.”
“That’s what the law does.”
“Yes, but just between you and me . . .”
“Just between you and me, we got your chairs back,
Harvey. Be glad you got ’em. That’s the best advice I can give you. That and lock your door.”
Cora drove by the motel, but nothing had changed. The Ford Taurus was in the spot between 12 and 13, but no car was in the spot between 11 and 12. That was too bad. Cora wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to Benny Southstreet, but she couldn’t wait to hear what Benny Southstreet had to say to her. Would he accuse her of taking his chairs? That would be interesting as all hell. Then he’d have to admit to having them in the first place. Cora was looking forward to it. Well, maybe later.
Cora got home to find Buddy tied up in the yard. Buddy wasn’t happy about it, and told her so in no uncertain terms. Cora unhooked the tiny poodle, and he scampered after her into the house.
Cora dumped some kibble in a bowl, added a spoonful of canned food, and mixed it around. She put the bowl on the floor, gave him fresh water, and went to check the answering machine.
Beep.
“This is Chief Harper. I’ve had a complaint of a break-in at Wilbur’s Antiques. Would you know anything about that?”
Oops.
Beep.
“Cora, it’s Harvey. Thank you for getting my chairs back. It’s all very well for you to say not to worry, but how can I? I had an intruder in my house. In the middle of the night. It is totally unsatisfactory not to know who that is. Please call and tell me.”
Beep.
“Sherry, it’s Bren. What’s going on? You’re not home, and Dennis isn’t home. Did you know he’s in town?
He claims he has to check in with his lawyer, but Becky won’t say whether he does or not. And, anyway, what difference does that make if he checks in and doesn’t leave. I’m worried, because you’ve got a wedding coming up, and I think that’s making him a little crazy. Has he called you? Have you seen him? Is that where you are now? Please let me know. This is getting serious. I’m afraid someone is going to get hurt.”
Oh, hell. Wait till Sherry heard that. Maybe she should delete it. Cora wondered if she knew how. Did this answering machine have a delete button? Or was the only way to erase it to record over it?
Beep.
“Sherry, what’s going on? I just heard Brenda’s message. Are you out with Dennis? I can’t believe you’re out with Dennis, I don’t care what the circumstances are. The guy is no good, and never has been. He doesn’t deserve whatever you’re giving him. … I don’t mean that like it sounded. But he doesn’t deserve to be heard. He’s had his chances. I don’t know where I’ll be, but call me on my cell phone. This is ridiculous.”
Beep.
“Aaron! What do you mean, picking up my messages? I’m not out with Dennis. I wouldn’t be out with Dennis. I can’t believe you would think such a thing. But that’s not the point. You’re picking up my messages and blaming me for them? Ah, hell. I tried your cell phone and it’s switched off. Which makes no sense since you asked me to call. So I left a message there, and I’m leaving a message here. If you pick up the message here, I’d like to know why you’re picking up my messages. Anyway, call me. You can leave a message.”
Beep.
“Sherry, how are you going out? I thought Cora had your car. Did someone give you a ride?”
Beep.
There was a long pause.
“Sorry, Aaron. You had me confused. Damn it, turn your damn phone on, will you?”
There it was. A veritable soap opera on the answering machine. Cora wanted no part of it. As far as she was concerned, if anyone else called, the answering machine could pick up again.
Cora left the young lovers to their own devices, and trudged down the hall to bed.
MARGE, THE CHAMBERMAID, looked at the door to Unit 12 and frowned. There was no DO NOT DISTURB
sign. But a car was parked in front of the unit. Actually, two cars were parked in front of the unit. One in the space straddling 12 and 13, and one in the space shared by 11 and 12. Either could be Mr. Southstreet’s car. On the other hand, it was equally possible neither car was. Due to the vagaries of the parking lot, the car between 11 and 12 could be for Unit 11, and the car between 12 and 13 could be for Unit 13, leaving no space at all for the car for Unit 12. Which sometimes happened. Usually, the guest in question would simply choose another space, but occasionally one got really ticked. Marge could remember an instance when the police had to be called, another when an irate guest had to be comped a room. Thank goodness she hadn’t had to deal with them. Ralph had been driven nuts.
So, what to do about Unit 12? It was after ten o’clock. By rights the guest should be up and out. Of course, she could skip his room and move down the line, but what if the car meant someone was in Unit 13?
Marge frowned. She would have to intrude. The thing she liked least about her job. Waking people up. Disturbing them in the shower. Or at even more embarrassing times. Like when that old couple was having an affair. That old couple were in their early forties, but that seemed ancient to Marge.
Associating, perhaps, Marge glanced down the row to where her genuinely old employers were having an argument in front of the motel office. Marge hated it when they bickered. Moms always won, and Pops always took it out on Marge. Without even realizing.