Murder Miscalculated (7 page)

“You are correct, Mister Carson. You do smell soup. It’s beef and rice soup, and I made it just today. You are welcome to have some if you like.”

Max slapped me on the back. “You see, son? Come on, let’s go eat.”

Max, April, Lynn, Barbara and I crowded around the table in the back room of the store. We’ve often had six or more people at that table, but Max’s overlarge personality managed to make it feel crowded. I watched Barbara ladle the soup into bowls and wondered if there would be enough for everyone.

Much to my annoyance, Junior took a liking to Max and hopped onto his lap when he sat down at the table. Max earned a point in his favor by understanding that this was an honor. He rubbed Junior behind his ears for a few seconds and then went on eating. Junior blinked his eyes at me as though daring me to complain. I ignored the little traitor.

“So,” said Lynn in an effort to start a conversation as we ate. “Mister Carson, I understand your book is about the Donner Party.”

Max was offended. “You mean you haven’t read it?”

Lynn shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I’ve been too busy.”

Max placed his large hand over Lynn’s. “That’s okay, little lady. I’ll make certain you get a signed copy with a personal dedication from me to you.”

“Isn’t that great, Lynn?” I asked with an innocent smile. Beneath the table her foot made sharp contact with my shin.

“Max’s book is creating quite a stir,” said April, properly playing the role of publicist. “In it, he shows how what happened to the Donner Party was the result of the theft of a US Cavalry payroll.”

“That’s hard to believe,” said Barbara.

“No, not if you know as much about it as I do,” said Max. “I believe that my novel, though presented as fiction, is the true story of what happened to those poor settlers.”

“Fiddlesticks,” said Barbara. “I’ve read the diaries of Tamzene Donner and Patricia Reed. There’s no mention of such a thing in them.”

“Exactly!” said Max with triumph. “That shows you how well the thieves covered their tracks.”

Made mute by his ludicrous illogic, we could only stare back at him.

The bell above the shop door jingled. It was six-thirty. “I guess people are starting to arrive,” I said, getting up from the table. “Max, why don’t you stay and finish eating while Lynn and I take care of a few final things up front?”

Lynn and I made our escape as fast as we could. As I expected, the visitor was Old Tom. I told him there might be some soup left for him, and at the same time he could meet the great Max Carson. Tom went to the back room, leaving us alone.

“He’d better be worth this,” Lynn said quietly to me as we stood in the bookstore surveying the scene. “If he calls me little lady again, he’s going to regret it.”

I told her how much the profit margin was on each of his books. She counted the number of chairs, did a quick calculation, and her eyebrows went up. “I suppose he’s worth it.”

Max chose just that moment to sweep through the bead curtain from the back room.

“Hey, little lady, I didn’t get a chance to tell you the rest of that story.”

Lynn punched me on the arm, stalked past Max and left without saying a word.

Max watched her leave, then turned back to me. “Kind of a moody girl, ain’t she?”

I explained to Max that Lynn had a lot of prep work to do for her dancing classes.

He studied the poster on the wall. “Adult dancing?” he asked. “Is that what I think it is?”

He didn’t give me a chance to answer as he smiled a lecherous grin. “Well, what do you know? I guess you bookstore types get to have a little fun after all, don’t you?”

“Bookstore types?”

“Yeah, you know. You guys always have your noses in books. You read so much you miss what’s going on in the real world.”

He walked over to the front door and opened it with a flourish. He continued talking as the bell jangled an accompaniment. “Son, outside there’s a whole world going on. There’s action out on those streets you couldn’t imagine in your wildest dreams.”

“There is, is there?”

“There certainly is. Son, I could show you a side of life you don’t know exists. It’s my job as a writer to explore not just the best in people but the worst, as well. Why, you and I could walk down this street, and I could point out to you who’s a saint and who’s a sinner.”

“Really?”

“You bet I could. Son, there are crooks out there who could steal you blind without you suspecting a thing. Why, I could …” His words were cut off as two people walked through the door he was holding open. Max Carson’s audience was arriving.

Max Carson may be a hack writer, and Lynn may add that he’s a chauvinist of porcine parentage. Barbara may simply sniff and say he’s a phony from his hat down. But after watching him in action at the book signing that evening, all three of us had to agree that Max Carson was also one heck of a showman.

He began the event by reading a short selection from his book, and he chose well. Some writers choose the first page or two of their novel. Some choose favorite passages, those they are proud of as a writer. Max was one of the comparatively few writers who know how to choose passages that hook the audience and make them want to buy the book. He picked a passage that began with these words:

“Theirs were the last covered wagons that summer to leave Independence, Missouri. They knew they needed to push hard to reach the Sierras before winter set in and made the passage impossible. Donner, the man elected by the other settlers as leader, relied on Reed’s experience at traveling through rough terrain. Reed insisted that they make their way through the Wasatch Mountains to the Utah Territories via Hasting’s Cutoff, as it promised to shave critical time and distance from their race against the coming snows. But the eighty-one people, including thirty-five children, soon found themselves struggling to travel through mountains where boulders blocked their way, and across deserts where sand mired their wheels. They were a month behind schedule by the time they reached Jim Bridger’s trading post at the foot of the Sierras. What they didn’t know was that taking that route was Reed’s way to justify his rendezvous with Lanford Hastings at Bridger’s. That is where the conspirators intended to transfer the stolen gold, and what those poor people didn’t know was going to kill more than half of them and cause the memory of those who survived to live in infamy.”

Max described the research he had conducted when preparing to write his book, how he had studied diaries, letters and other contemporary accounts. He talked about the trips he had taken, arduously retracing the settlers’ route. April Quist passed around photos Max had taken when he’d visited the Alder Creek and Donner Lake where the Donner Party had spent that fateful winter. He held up a piece of a broken ceramic plate that he said he’d found there and, in his expert opinion, must have belonged to the settlers.

Max admitted he had no irrefutable proof to back his claim of stolen gold being secretly transported by the Donner Party, but I saw more than a few people in the audience nodding as he listed what he claimed were irrefutable pieces of evidence that supported his conjecture.

However, what regard Max had built up in me for him was tossed away by his answer to an innocuous question by a fan. “Mr. Carson,” gushed a middle-aged woman with dyed hair and too much makeup, “I admire you so much. You go out and live your life to the fullest while the rest of us stay at home and only dream.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he answered. “Yes, I was just saying to young Greg over there,” he pointed to where I was standing behind the counter. “I was just telling him that while he’s lived his life inside of books, I’ve been outside in the real world living life as it really is.”

I began to speculate about what would happen if Max were to find his wallet missing.

The question and answer portion of the evening went on for another fifteen minutes. The audience then dispersed to taste the snacks and drink the coffee we’d set out and buy autographed copies of Max’s book. April took one photograph after another of Max with his fans.

At length the event was over. The chairs were folded and put on carts for rolling back to St. Timothy’s in the morning. I made certain a signed copy of Max’s book was placed with them for the rector. I know The Reverend Cathy Walton and also know of her love for westerns.

“So, son, I don’t suppose you know a good place where a fella can get a decent drink around here, do you?” I started to answer, but Max cut me off. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got a nose for such things.” He placed one long finger against his nose. “I’m sure I can sniff one out quick enough.” He turned to April, who was hovering nearby. “Come along, little lady. You and I are gonna’ do the town.”

April protested that they had an early morning guest spot on a local radio show, but Max would have none of it. They left with April trying to get Max to agree to just one drink before going back to the hotel.

I closed the door behind them, glad to be finished with the Great Max Carson.

The woman standing next to me on the bus was an ideal target. She was talking on her cell phone, making plans for that evening, oblivious to what was going on around her. The bus was crowded enough that I was justified in standing only inches away.

I gave a quick glance to ensure no one was watching and let my arm drop to my side, next to her purse. My fingers worked the latch. I kept my eyes on the woman’s face, watching to see if she noticed me opening her purse. She didn’t. I reached into my own pants pocket and withdrew a business card and slipped it into her purse and then closed it again. At the next stop, I got off the bus.

The next time she looked in her purse, perhaps when putting her cell phone away, she would find my card. It’s a simple card with a simple message, “Surprise! You’ve been put-pocketed!” In smaller letters at the bottom it says, “Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood pickpockets.”

It was Saturday afternoon. Although I had told Lynn that I would start picking pockets on Monday, I decided to spend the weekend brushing up on my skills by engaging in some put-pocketing, picking pockets in reverse, so to speak.

I don’t know who came up with the idea of it, but put-pocketing is a way for pickpockets to keep up their skills without having to worry too much about being arrested. It also serves as a warning to people to keep a better watch over their property.

I spent Saturday afternoon riding the streetcars and buses, slipping my cards into the purses and pockets of unwitting victims. I kept an eye out for people watching me, fellow practitioners taking note of a competitor, but couldn’t tell if I was seen.

I spent Sunday afternoon at City Center where crowds of tourists filled the enormous expanse of concrete, replacing the office workers and other working stiffs of weekday afternoons. Sidewalk venders hawked their wares, street musicians competed with each other for volume and tips, and pigeons enjoyed the visitors’ largesse. If I wanted word to spread on the street that I had returned to picking pockets, and I did, this was the place to do it. Over the afternoon I left a couple of dozen cards, and as I did I was aware of more than a few pairs of eyes watching me.

I paused for a moment outside a bookstore on the plaza. It’s a local chain and well regarded, as they do a good job of promoting local authors. To my chagrin, there was a large display of Max Carson’s book in the window with posters for a signing there by Max on Thursday evening. I remembered that April had mentioned Max was staying in town for ten days, working the bookstore circuit, giving interviews and making public appearances. His appearance at our store had been only a warm-up for the larger venues. I shook my head. There was just no escaping the guy.

As I studied the window display I became aware of someone standing about forty feet behind me. I could see him in the window’s reflection. He was noticeable, as he was standing still while others walked past him. He was too far away for me to make out his face.

I turned halfway and began to walk across the plaza at an angle that let me keep my watcher visible in the corner of my eye without it being obvious I was aware of him. By the time I passed him I had a pretty good idea who it was—Chad, the pickpocket from the book fair. Well, I wanted word to get out that I had returned to the street, and now I knew that Doris Whitaker would hear of it soon.

Mission accomplished, I headed back to The Book Nook.

“Hey, Kid, good to see you. I heard you were back working the street.”

“Hello, Jay, long time no see.” We shook hands. Jay motioned in the direction of some shade by the side of a nearby building, and we walked a few steps over to its shelter. We leaned our backs against the wall, talking sideways to each other. Pedestrians streamed by on the busy downtown sidewalk.

Jay was a street fence, someone who buys and sells stolen credit cards and such from people like me on the street.

It was mid-morning on Tuesday, the second day of my return to a life of crime. In the last twenty-four hours I had relieved a couple of dozen people of their wallets and gleaned a handful of watches from their owners. I tried to target people who could get along without those items for a few days until the feds quietly returned them as found property. That didn’t mean I felt good about it.

“How’s Lynn and married life?” Jay asked.

“Lynn’s fine,” I answered. “How’s Dave?” Dave is Jay’s partner and runs a small dog grooming business.

“Dave’s fine. The shop’s keeping him pretty busy these days. I’ve been helping out when I can.” The edges of his mouth dropped. “I might as well. It’s getting harder and harder to work the street.”

“How so?”

“Doris Whitaker is making a heavy play to take charge of pickpocketing in the city. She’s dictating who works where and what we fences can charge.”

I made a note of that.

Jay surveyed the crowd. “So if you’re back in business, Kid, where are you dropping your merchandise? I’m always willing to deal with you, you know.”