“Five.”
“Two fifty. I don’t absolutely have to have this information, you see. I can do just fine without it. It would be icing on the cake.”
“Three hundred, and I’ll remember all about it.”
“Fine,” Ginny agreed, though she would have gone to five hundred. “Tell me what you know.”
“Money first.”
Ginny sighed. “Tell you what. You call Mitch at North Shore Auctions, and then you call Jack Morgan, who bought the bar, and you ask them if they got their money. Then you call me back and we’ll do business.” She gave him all the phone numbers and made him repeat them. “The sooner the better,” she suggested.
“You bet your ass,” he snarled, then hung up.
Not the most pleasant character to deal with
. He knew something about the provenance of the painting, that much was clear. Ginny just hoped it was worth the money she would have to pay him. There was nothing she could do about it until he called back, so she returned to her paperwork.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t get her mind to focus on it. She closed her eyes and thought about the painting again. With her characteristic honesty, she realized she just didn’t want to accept the idea of Jerry being with Abby. The stab of pain caught her by surprise. In ten years, why hadn’t she gotten over him?
To her relief, Baldwin returned her call in less than an hour. The scratchy voice bruised her eardrum. “Seems like you’re legit. Send me the money and I’ll send back the dirt.”
She laughed at him. “Yeah, right. Tell me what you know now. I’ll send half right away and the rest if it checks out.”
“Shit, woman, you don’t want much.”
“As I said, I don’t really need—”
“All right, all right. This guy walks in about six, seven years ago—make it eight, it was the summer we had a hurricane hit here—he walks in with this thing under his arm. ‘My wife won’t let me keep it,’ he says. He says, ‘Put it over the bar and I’ll come visit my lady friend every night.’ So I put it up there. Filled a hole, see? And that’s all I know.”
“The man’s name? And where did he get it?”
“Aah…Chris, that’s all I know, I swear. He said he found it on the side of the road. I ask you, what a bunch of bull. He swore blue it was the truth, but I never believed him.”
“This Chris—was he local? Did he live on the Cape?
“Nah, he was summer people. Lived up in N’Hampsha someplace. And don’t ask me where, I swear I dunno. No, wait, there’s somethin’ else. He was in the Rotary, y’know? He used to talk about joining up here when he retired.”
“What happened to him?”
She could almost see Baldwin shrug. “How should I know? He didn’t show up the last summer I had Billy’s, so I didn’t feel bad about selling his bare-assed lady. This is really a famous artist?”
“I’ll invite you to the unveiling, Matt.”
“Fuck you, lady. I ain’t got no car. Just send me my money.” The phone slammed down in her ear, and Ginny chuckled.
He is just like my father
,
no class whatsoever.
Still, she owed him something. She was a little further on. A Rotarian named Chris, from New Hampshire, who summered on the Cape. There shouldn’t be more than, oh say, fifty men who met that description. Matt would get his first payment of hundred and fifty, but probably no more.
Chapter Eighteen
Tom DiAndreo thought fast. He judged the distance between him and Jemmie, factored in the complication that he was squatting in slippery mud, and plotted the positions of the two women with him. All three of them were in Jemmie’s line of fire. Tom had learned from bitter experience not to discount a desperate man’s aim.
There was no doubt Jemmie was desperate, despite his quavering voice. He had a haunted look about him. His eyes darted from side to side, though he never moved his head.
How did he manage to sneak up on us?
He must be more experienced in the woods than he looks
. Adrenaline stabbed at Tom; if Jemmie had experience in the woods and a gun to add to his habitual barely-controlled anxiety, he was even more dangerous than Tom had ever imagined.
“Hey, Jemmie,” he said, keeping his voice even and calm. “Let’s take this real easy, okay? I’m going to put this stuff back in the box. Then I’m going to stand up. Is that okay with you?”
“Keep your hands up—I want to see your hands all the time. Got that, cop?” Jemmie tried to sound tough, but his shaky voice spoiled the effect.
Tom moved with great care, inch by inch. He bent his head to the stack of papers and folded the oil cloth over them. While his head was down and his face was hidden from Jemmie, he whispered to the women, “Don’t do anything. Don’t look at him. Watch me. When I stand up, I want you to run. Elsie, behind the rocks. Sue, into the trees. Don’t look back. Keep moving. Got it?” He lifted his eyes without moving his head and glanced into their white, frightened faces. “Whatever you do, don’t come back without help.” He finished wrapping the papers and tucked them into the box. “I don’t understand what the problem is, Jemmie. These just look like old receipts. What’s the big deal?”
“They’re mine, that’s the big deal. They’re mine. They belong to me and I want them back. I gotta get them back!” The jeweler’s voice rose into the upper registers. His breath rasped in his throat. “Hurry up. It’s fuckin’ cold out here.”
“The ladies are going to stand up, Jemmie.” Tom used his voice to soothe the man. “It’s cold and wet here, and I don’t want them to fall. Is that okay with you? If they stand up?”
Jemmie waved the gun. “I-I’m sorry you’re here,” he stammered. He almost seemed to mean it. “Go ahead and stand up. But don’t move, see. I swear I’ll shoot.”
Tom gestured with his hand. Sue and Elsie unbent slowly from their crouch. They kept their hands at their sides and their eyes on Tom as they took a step or two backward.
“Don’t move, I said!” Jemmie screamed. “Don’t move anywhere!”
“It’s okay, Jemmie,” Tom soothed him. “You should see the mud here, they had to get some footing. Is it okay if I stand up now?”
“Give me the box.” Jemmie held out his hand. Again he made the gesture with the gun.
Maybe he isn’t so experienced with firearms
. Tom put his hands on his knees and began to straighten his back. Still bent over, he reached for the box, glancing over his shoulder to judge his aim at Jemmie. Then he stood to his full height.
Several things happened very fast. Sue and Elsie darted in opposite directions, their sudden movement a surprise even to Tom. Jemmie waved the gun from side to side without firing. Maculato, a white and brown blur, leaped from behind the rocks and propelled himself straight at Jemmie. A stern female voice yelled, “Leave it!” The dog rose up on his hind legs and deposited something in Jemmie’s outstretched hand before bounding away.
Jemmie screamed. The gun went off. Tom heaved the box in Jemmie’s direction and launched a tackle at him. Sue, yelling like a banshee, swung her hiking stick as if it were a baseball bat.
Had Jemmie still been standing, the stick would have hit him square on the temple. It might have knocked him out if it had connected. Instead it whistled through the air and just missed Tom’s head, still tucked low for the tackle. At the end of his leap, Tom fell on Jemmie, who scrabbled on the ground squealing as if he feared for his life. Sue wound up her arm for another blow; Elsie caught up the gun in one hand and attempted to latch onto her dog’s collar with the other.
“Get it off!” Jemmie pleaded, twisting under the weight of Tom’s body. “Get it off!” He screamed again, in complete panic. The dog thought this was a marvelous game and bounced around the struggling men, barking for all he was worth. Jemmie covered his face with his hands and convulsed on the ground. “
Get it off me
!”
Tom twirled him onto his belly and pressed a knee into his neck. Sue plopped herself on his thrashing legs, while Elsie managed to capture Maculato and drag him away. Incredibly, she still had the gun in her hand. Even more incredibly, she seemed to know what to do with it. She held it pointed down and away from her body.
Tom wrenched Jemmie’s right arm behind his back, then his left. He shifted his weight so that his knee pressed into Jemmie’s spine. “Something to tie him, quick,” he panted.
Elsie slipped her fingers into Mac’s collar and handed over his leash. Tom looped the braided leather around Jemmie’s unresisting wrists. “Please get it off,” the jeweler moaned, shuddering. He made no move to try to escape either Tom or Sue.
Keeping his knee in position, Tom nodded to Sue to rise. She eased herself to her feet and then, to Tom’s surprise, removed her belt and fastened it around Jemmie’s ankles. He nodded his approval, slid off the subdued man, and rolled him to his side.
A frog hopped out from under him. Mac barked at it.
Jemmie cringed. “Get it away from me! Please, get it away!”
Elsie tugged Mac a few steps back. He whined and broke away from her, chasing the frog. Jemmie curled into a ball and began to cry.
DiAndreo got to his feet and looked down at the sobbing man in disgust. “Bad move, Demarais. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…” He completed the rest of the recitation and then helped him sit up. “What do we do with you now?” he added sarcastically.
“Pictures?” Sue suggested. She still looked a little pale, but she had recovered well. Elsie looked grim and angry as she called her dog to heel. Enormous gratitude toward them both washed over Tom.
“Pictures, definitely. But not just yet. Let’s not mess up the scene by moving around. Stay away from the boggy places if you can, and let’s see if we can get some help.”
The next half hour wore on as Elsie handed over her cell phone and Tom made the call to 911 to set things in motion. He sent her and Mac back to the road to guide the local police in, while he and Sue guarded Jemmie. The man didn’t seem to realize where he was or what he had done; every now and then he shuddered and looked around wild-eyed, as if a plague of frogs might pop into existence and devour him. Tom almost felt sorry for him, except when he panicked and struggled against his bonds. Then he was too busy subduing him to feel any pity.
After one brief outburst, during which Jemmie came close to tossing the cop off him, Tom glared up at Sue. “You could’ve helped,” he panted. “Where were—What are you doing?”
Sue had opened the box and begun to photograph each paper inside it, one by one. She made a neat pile of them on top of the spread-out oilcloth. “Taking pictures,” she said without returning his stare. She had a latex glove on one hand.
“You can’t do that!” he cried. “That’s police evidence—”
“You’re the cop, not me. Shut up and keep your eye on Jemmie. I want to look at these, and I’ll never get a chance if I don’t do it now.”
“Sue, I’m warning you—” He broke off as Jemmie bucked under him. The man seemed to find an extra reserve of manic energy and was much harder to control this time. His belted legs lashed out and connected with the back of Tom’s knees. He swayed with the blow, stumbled on a loose root, and went down. They rolled in the mud, scrabbling for a hold. Jemmie squealed and cursed as Tom finally got a knee into his back. He shuddered and lay face down, quivering.
“You gonna behave now? Or do I have to add resisting arrest to your list of violations?” Tom waited a few minutes, then returned his attention to Sue.
By that time, she had taken up a perch on one of the rocks and returned his gaze with no sign she might have done anything illegal. The camera and glove were nowhere in sight. The closed cash box sat beside her. Tom opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. He’d have it out with her later. To tell the truth, he wanted a look at those photos himself. He’d square it with regulations somehow.
At last Elsie, without the dog, brought the locals down the trail. Two police officers took charge of Jemmie, untying his feet and marching him back to the road. Another, whose nametag proclaimed him to be “Sanger,” started to ask questions and make notes. He produced a camera and took a lot of photographs.
The rain started up again, reminding them they were very wet, muddy, and cold. Elsie produced the thermos of hot sweet tea, which helped, but they needed dry clothes and warmth. “I’m taking the women back to their car,” Tom told the Douglass officer. His tone said he would brook no argument. The local guy took one look at their blue lips and shooed them off. “Just don’t leave without giving us your names,” he warned.
“I got it,” Tom replied. He led them away.
Mac greeted them with enthusiastic yips and wiggles when they got back to the truck, and they sank into the seats with grateful sighs. The heater worked wonders on their shivering, and before long, they began to shed some of their wet outerwear. Sue pulled some trail bars from her backpack.
“I always keep a couple in there,” she explained as they munched eagerly.
Elsie made a neat bundle of her trail bar wrapper and stowed it into a trash bag dangling from the glove box handle. She drained the last of her tea and relaxed back into her seat. “Well,” she said in her quiet, dignified way, “I learned something today.”
The others looked at her, Tom with surprise, Sue with expectation. “And just what did you learn?” Sue encouraged her friend.
“I learned I’m really not cut out for police work.”
Sue melted into helpless giggles as she tried to object. “You? The gun? That frog…I never…Oh!” She dissolved in shouts of nervous laughter before she managed to gain a measure of control. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she gasped, “Where did you ever learn to handle a gun?”
“From Archer Mayor novels.” Elsie said it as if it were obvious.
That set Sue off again. This time Tom’s booming chuckles joined in. Elsie regarded them with serious concern until the utter silliness infected her, too. The truck rocked with their hilarity.
Tom was grateful they had such a healthy release from tension. He got thrown into situations like this all the time, so he knew how stressful they could be. Getting over the first shakes with a round of laughter was a very sane reaction.
“What I don’t understand,” Sue began, between hiccups of leftover giggles, “is how Jemmie could have snuck up on us. I’m usually pretty aware of what’s going on in the woods, and Elsie has great hearing. She can always tell what truck is pulling up outside our door at work.”