Kinsey and Me (8 page)

T
HE GUN SHOP
was located on a narrow side street in Colgate, just off the main thoroughfare. Colgate
looks like it’s made up of hardware stores, U-Haul rentals, and plant nurseries—places
that seem to have half their merchandise outside, surrounded by chain-link fence.
The gun shop had been set up in someone’s front parlor in a dinky white frame house.
There were some glass counters filled with gun paraphernalia, but no guns in sight.

The man who came out of the back room was in his fifties, with a narrow face and graying
hair, gray eyes made luminous by rimless glasses. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves
rolled up and a long gray apron tied around his waist. He had perfect teeth, but when
he talked I could see the rim of pink where his upper plate was fit, and it spoiled
the effect. Still, I had to give him credit for a certain level of good looks, maybe
a seven on a scale of ten. Not bad for a man his age. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He had
a trace of an accent, Virginia, I thought.

“Are you Avery Lamb?”

“That’s right. What can I help you with?”

“I’m not sure. I’m wondering what you can tell me about this appraisal you did.” I
handed him the slip.

He glanced down and then looked up at me. “Where did you get this?”

“Rudd Osterling’s widow,” I said.

“She told me she didn’t have the gun.”

“That’s right.”

His manner was a combination of confusion and wariness. “What’s your connection to
the matter?”

I took out a business card and gave it to him. “She hired me to look into Rudd’s death.
I thought the shotgun might be relevant since he was killed with one.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on. This is the second time it’s disappeared.”

“Meaning what?”

“Some woman brought it in to have it appraised back in June. I made an offer on it
then, but before we could work out a deal, she claimed the gun was stolen.”

“I take it you had some doubts about that.”

“Sure I did. I don’t think she ever filed a police report, and I suspect she knew
damn well who took it but didn’t intend to pursue it. Next thing I knew, this Osterling
fellow brought the same gun in. It had a beavertail forend and an English grip. There
was no mistaking it.”

“Wasn’t that a bit of a coincidence? His bringing the gun in to you?”

“Not really. I’m one of the few master gunsmiths in this area. All he had to do was
ask around the same way she did.”

“Did you tell her the gun had showed up?”

He shrugged with his mouth and a lift of his brows. “Before I could talk to her, he
was dead and the Parker was gone again.”

I checked the date on the slip. “That was in August?”

“That’s right, and I haven’t seen the gun since.”

“Did he tell you how he acquired it?”

“Said he took it in trade. I told him this other woman showed up with it first, but
he didn’t seem to care about that.”

“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.