The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  Again, I looked very closely at the painting. I carefully sat down on the sofa, thinking. I’d read a few articles about a newly discovered artist who was rapidly gaining fame, but I couldn’t remember his name. Although ML was not thoroughly recognized yet, this painting wonderfully exhibited that desperately sought-after transcendence.

  Aunt Evelyn had taken a seat as well and took up her account. “Yes. You’ve seen some of his works. Lane, dear, ML was an artist who died having sold just one of his works. But now, the world is just beginning to see his genius. ML was a man named Vincent van Gogh. My eccentric uncle was Dr. Gachet, van Gogh’s doctor, who specialized in diseases of the mind. I was there in Auvers-sur-Oise, France, during the last couple of months of Vincent’s life.

  “Tragic is just the word for the poor man. He was capable of such strength and beauty, but also a horrifying distrust of himself and of life. When he talked with me, just for minutes at a time, as he was so consumed with his paintings, he’d often leave me with a tiny note. The ones in that journal.

  “My uncle filled in a lot about Vincent’s past, once he gave in to my persistent questions. For years, Vincent wanted to work for the church in some capacity. But he was a bit of a loose cannon, to put it mildly. Vincent then forced his attention to flow into his other passion, hoping that through art, he might be able to express what his words and his actions were incapable of doing. And he was no saint, by the way, believe me. His physical self always wrestled with the spiritual; he could never seem to find a place where both could coexist.

  “Anyway, in this piece, The Starry Night, the heavens are a beautiful but turbulent swirl above, and in the center, the view looks in toward the church. And it grounds or completes the painting. If it weren’t there, it wouldn’t look right, see?” She demonstrated by covering the church with her hands, then removing them.

  “I believe he always felt like an outsider—with the church and with life in general, I think. What turned out to be the last week of his life, I begged him to let me have The Starry Night; it moved me so much. I wanted to look at it every day.

  “I didn’t see his demise coming so shortly. He was horribly worried about his little nephew, who had become ill, and he felt that he was a burden to his brother, Theo, despite Theo’s best efforts to reassure him. He felt certain his sadness would never end. He shot himself out in the fields only days later.”

  “Oh, Aunt Evelyn,” I said, with my hand to my mouth, shaking my head. “I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded, with a sad smile. “My uncle allowed me to go to the funeral. Vincent’s poor brother was completely shattered, as well as many of his artist friends. I remember his one friend, Émile Bernard, wrote a piece about the funeral. He articulated what we’d all been feeling. That day there had been a glorious blue sky, and his grave was overlooking beautiful fields that Vincent would have loved. We couldn’t help but wonder if this particular day was beautiful enough to think he could have still been happy. We wished it were so. There are always so many what-ifs, aren’t there?”

  She sighed and took a sip of her tea. “I left my uncle’s and returned home. But I was changed forever. And this is my most prized possession.” She clasped the journal to her heart.

  “My God, Aunt Evelyn. I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.

  Mr. Kirkland took up the story. “And this little journal is what we thought the thieves were after when they assaulted you in the subway and then broke into our home. The Museum of Modern Art is trying to buy this piece, and we were wondering if word got out about the journal. Trust me, he’s going to be a household name one day.”

  “So . . . You . . . Van Gogh . . .” I was stuttering in my efforts to put it all together, and I caught a mischievous glint in my preposterous aunt’s eye.

  I couldn’t help but smile. I said, “So, Aunt Evelyn, your journal is unquestionably valuable. But, given the fact that it was Danny who burglarized the house hunting for random treasure, it seems that no one does know about it.”

  “Right. But what is delightfully ironic”—she chuckled like she relished this part—“is that the thief stole something worthless that, unbeknownst to him, actually points to the real treasure. That painting of mine had been my take on The Starry Night, with my personal technique.” She looked lovingly at the painting.

  “What are you going to do with that, Aunt Evelyn?” I asked curiously.

  “Oh, I knew for years what I had and that I wanted to keep my connection with Vincent private. I have been working with friends who will eventually sell it permanently to the Museum of Modern Art on my behalf, keeping my part anonymous,” she said.

  “So, as far as you know, are there other treasures in our family that could have started those rumors? Treasures that my parents might have . . . acquired?”

  She and Mr. Kirkland exchanged a glance, and I felt compelled to remind them, “You said no more secrets.”

  Mr. Kirkland fixed me with his light blue stare. “Lane, I didn’t promise that, and I can’t. But what I can tell you is, I don’t really know everything your parents were involved with near the end of the war. We worked together frequently, but we all had our secret missions. One day, I think we may find some answers in Michigan.”

  The puzzle we had so neatly figured out last week had just led into a more intricate and enigmatic chain of events. What were my parents involved with? How much did Eliza know? Was this all leading down a road that I was meant to traverse? Or was it one that I would wish I had never followed? Well, for better or worse, I knew one thing: There was no way that I wouldn’t take this path. I had to know.

  Underneath it all was that silver gun. It did, in fact, point to our villains. I thought it pointed to a lot more, too, yet it was gone. The police sent a search party underneath the point where it fell off the bridge, and nothing was found on the shore or in the water around the area. They said it must have sunk into the murky bottom of the East River. The other one that my dad must have had, the twin gun that I must have seen or even touched, was nowhere to be found for decades. Maybe that was lost, too.

  Something lifted, shifting a ponderous weight off my mind. What if this meant the end? What if that gun had disappeared into the mud forever, where it belonged? Maybe this meant the nightmare would stop.

  CHAPTER 43

  Be clearly aware of the stars and infinity on high. Then life seems almost enchanted after all.

  —ML

  The next night, Valerie, the LaGuardias, Roarke, Aunt Evelyn, Mr. Kirkland, and I all had dinner together in celebration of my twenty-fourth birthday.

  We were busy chatting, setting the finishing touches on the table, and drinking festive drinks like prosecco with cranberry juice and lime. Just as I was about to sit down and enjoy an appetizer, the doorbell rang. I ran for the door.

  “Finn!” He bounded in, dropped a shiny red box on the table, and grabbed me up with both arms.

  My breath whooshed out of me as he squeezed me tight and said into my ear, “Happy birthday, Lane.”

  We walked into the dining room holding hands, with six people grinning at us.

  Fio nonchalantly kissed Marie’s hand. That old softy. Roarke and Valerie were talking about The Great Ziegfeld and laughing as they chatted about the bigger-than-life dance numbers and how much they loved the music. I looked about the room as we took our chairs: the people I loved, the warm room full of old memories and new ones in the making. The only feeling of sadness was a small sting from a leftover memory of that dream about my parents and our home in Michigan. It was nagging, irritating like a rusty old nail stuck in a board. My parents couldn’t be part of this.

  That sting grew a dangerous little bit.

  But it was a wonderful night of laughter, happy bantering, and delicious food. The LaGuardias’ birthday present was a couple of new albums by Benny Goodman and Fred Astaire. Valerie gave me a beautiful new scarf with reds and purples all swirled together and a big ruffle along the edge. It looked like a wonderful painting.
Roarke gave me a delicate pearl necklace from one of his travels. Aunt Evelyn and Mr. Kirkland gave me a new journal in deep blue silk and a new Agatha Christie novel that I kept leafing through, dying to dig in.

  Lastly, I opened the lovely red package from Finn. It was an oval, black lacquer jewelry box. I opened it, and inside there was a small engraving on the lid that read, “Lane—With all my love, Finn.”

  “Thank you, Finn. I love it.” I reached over to him and kissed him on the cheek.

  At the end of the night, all our guests left except Finn. He and I were helping Evelyn and Mr. Kirkland wash the dishes. It was a cheery room with the warm glow of the lamps, a bright red rose at the pine table, and the good scents of dinner and coffee still wafting through.

  At the last glass, Aunt Evelyn said, “All right, my dears, to the final event of the evening.”

  We sat down at the kitchen table, and she brought me a large, white envelope.

  “From my parents?” I asked.

  They nodded.

  It was from the lawyer telling me that my parents left two keys for me, which were contained in the envelope. One would open a safe deposit box located at a bank here in New York City. The second would open a safe located in the Rochester house.

  Mr. Kirkland promised to get the contents of the safe deposit box the next day. So Finn and I planned a dinner date, then we’d come back here to find out what was in the box.

  * * *

  The next morning, I stood at my dresser taking a good look at the person in the mirror. It was the same face as always: blue eyes, big smile, framed by brown hair. A girl-next-door look. But those eyes had seen a lot. Experienced a lot for being only twenty-four years old.

  I looked down at my hands. My left was making figure eights on the top of the smooth oak dresser. My right was balancing the pearl dagger perfectly on my middle finger, blade side up. Then, with a deft flick of the wrist, I flipped the blade down, its tip now just touching the dresser. It stood nice and steady with that same middle finger gently holding it straight. I had clearly done that a hundred times. It was natural. I’m pretty sure that’s not normal.

  I smiled. When Mr. Kirkland gave me this dagger, the weight of it was as familiar to me as the branch of that maple tree back in Rochester. My hands knew exactly what to do with it. Memories of my father that had been buried deep down came into focus like they had just been patiently waiting around the corner for me to call them.

  They were good memories: camping up north in Michigan, rowing around a crystal clear lake (where I first learned to hate rowing), archery, throwing a knife at a target that my dad had made on a dead tree, roasting marshmallows. . . . He loved to teach, and I loved a challenge even then. Some things never took. But archery and the knife? Piece of cake.

  I fingered the beautiful curves of the mother-of-pearl inlaid in the ebony on the handle. Wanting the confidence of having it nearby, I put it in my purse. I had an important meeting.

  CHAPTER 44

  It is a pity that, as one gradually gains experience, one loses one’s youth.

  —ML

  I was sitting on a bench overlooking the water. The Brooklyn Bridge looked as majestic and steadfast as ever, and I had a whole new appreciation for just how grand bridges were. A warm gust of wind whipped through, making my new scarf from Valerie flutter about as I settled on the bench. It was perfect against my black blouse and cranberry red pencil skirt and shoes. I had brought a newspaper with me, to look like I was taking a leisurely break.

  From behind, someone cleared his throat in introduction, and a large man sat down next to me. He had on a black suit with wide pinstripes, and the fedora with the white band and white feather. From my peripheral vision I could see his massive gray and black caterpillar eyebrows.

  “Mr. Venetti, thank you for meeting me.”

  “Hello, Lane. I must say that I was surprised to get your message this morning.”

  “I would have come to you, but I thought that you might prefer an inconspicuous place.”

  “I do, that I do.” He looked down at my paper in my hands, and a smile tugged at his mouth.

  “What?” I said, slightly defensively.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Mr. Venetti, I’ll get right to the point. I’m assuming you heard about the body of Eliza Franco?” It wasn’t in the papers, but I figured he had ears and eyes all over the place.

  I kept my head turned to my paper, but I darted my eyes over to his face to see his expression. It went dark, and his brows lowered. I was glad that my name didn’t provoke that response in him. Despite the fact that this was not our first meeting, the man made me very nervous. His power was something tangible and potent.

  “I figured you had. I’ve been speculating on what could have happened. But I wanted you to know that in our last hours together, she did confess to murdering Danny. And though I don’t know what happened, I think she’s still alive.”

  He paused, breathing in and out slowly, deliberately. It felt like a bull trying to contain his rage. I tensed, ready to run. I knew his anger was not focused on me, but like I said, I had an excellent sense of self-preservation.

  His voice came out deep and raspy. “I’m certain, too.”

  Okay, then. I fought the urge to scoot farther away from him on the bench. I had a small idea forming in the back of my mind that I wanted to ask him about. “Sir, have you heard anything about a new person in New York in your line of . . . work? Someone who may have assisted Eliza?”

  I saw his chest move from a soundless chuckle. “You might not like this, but you and I think a lot alike, Lane. Let me leave you with this. It’s not someone new to the city, in fact, he’s been here quite a while. People have seen him fleetingly, but no one knows his name. There’s power and menace to the mystery of a man. Let’s just say, if I were a betting man—and I am—I would think he’s involved. The only description I’ve heard about him is that he wears a large ruby ring on his pinky finger.”

  Uncle Louie stood up from the bench and looked around, his eyes lingering on the bridge. “Lane? It was delightful meeting with you once again. Be careful. You’re running in crowds that can be . . .”

  I whispered, “Deadly.”

  “Yes.”

  He was about to leave, but I blurted out one last thing. “Uh, Mr. Venetti . . . thank you. Thank you for helping me. And Valerie.”

  He put a cigar in his mouth and looked at me closely, slightly squinting his eyes in calculated thought. He nodded minutely. Then he turned on his heels and walked slowly up the bank toward his muscular bodyguards. I stayed on the bench for a few moments longer, getting my heart rate back down to normal, then hurried back to the office.

  CHAPTER 45

  In the end we shall have had enough of cynicism, skepticism and humbug, and we shall want to live more musically.

  —ML

  I felt off the rest of the day. I couldn’t shake the image of a new gangster to worry about. It had to be an extremely powerful man to have executed a plan involving a body-exchange, for crying out loud. It had to be someone who followed us around, who knew our movements, and was waiting. Watching.

  Finn picked me up early. As we left city hall, I found that I desperately wanted to unburden myself of all this information. So I bared my soul about Venetti and my own musings, spewing out everything in a rush to get it over with. Finn and I had been walking down the street. In my exuberance to get everything off my chest, including my fears about damn Eliza and the über gangster, I found myself winded. I’d been walking faster and faster with the intensity of my words.

  Finn pulled me over to the side and said, “Whoa, Lane! You can slow down. We’re almost sprinting down the street.” His eyes were crinkling with amusement, and yet his brow was furrowed. I was breathing pretty heavily; I hadn’t noticed that I was walking at breakneck speed.

  “Sorry,” I said, laughing at myself.

  He smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay, Lane.” He brushed a strand of hai
r that had fallen into my eyes and put it behind my ear. “Do you feel better? Got it all off your chest?” His Irish accent was in full voice.

  “Yes, I do feel better. No, ah, recriminations? Admonishments?”

  “Well, Lane, I learned a while ago that you march to the beat of your own drummer. And, I do worry about you, but I trust your instincts.” His brow darkened for a second. He looked to the side and said, as if in deep contemplation, “Your intuition and instincts about the case were terrifyingly like my own.” Ho boy, if he only knew Uncle Louie said the exact same thing....

  We made our way to Copioli’s, and we had a delectable meal of fettuccine Alfredo, salad, and fresh bread. And those amazing crusted olives, of course. We talked about current movies and old books, and delightfully normal things.

  “You gonna let me have one of those olives?” asked Finn as I dipped my hand into the bowl yet again.

  My eyes narrowed. “You can have one. Or two.” He chuckled.

  The little band walked out just then, and people started moving tables like last time. As we were just about to get up ourselves, the first few beats of “Mambo Italiano” started to play.

  Finn fixed his eyes on me, and I replied to his look, “Oh, definitely.”

  We moved our table without taking our eyes off each other. He reached out his right arm and pulled me to him. My right hand clasped his left, and we moved and swayed to the rhythmic, swinging song.

  Hey mambo, mambo Italiano . . .

  The candles glowed, the music swelled around us, and once again we were in a room crowded with others, yet completely alone.

  We both smiled, content and just plain happy. He held me closer, and I laid my head on his shoulder.

  I said, “I finally figured it out, Finn.”

  “Figured it out?”