Death & the Redheaded Woman Read online

  Wren had been coming to their auctions all her life and was something of a cross between a pet and a protégée. She’d been ten the first time Roy stood her on a ladder and let her sell a box of dusty baby dolls. She was a regular caller now too, and an expert appraiser. Occasionally she’d take a team of the grandsons and run an auction entirely by herself, when they had two sales at the same time.

  The Melvyn estate looked to be a good sale. The goods were clean and in good repair, with modern furniture and appliances, a smattering of Depression glass, and enough antiques to draw dealers from up in the city. It was still fifteen minutes to sale time when Wren drove up and already cars packed a nearby church parking lot and lined both sides of the street for two blocks in every direction. One of the grandsons moved a sawhorse for her and she pulled into the backyard and added her pickup to the collection of battered trucks.

  Crowds milled around, inspecting the wares, while the sons and older grandsons finished moving furniture into long lines on the lawn. The concession trailer was up and running, filling the air with the sharp tang of wood smoke and barbecue. Wren found Sam and Roy in the money tent, drinking soda and eating chips while Leona set up the cashbox and organized her record-keeping system.

  “There’s been a problem with the Campbell estate.”

  Leona looked up from her books, concern in her eyes. “Oh, honey! We heard. Are you all right?”

  “You heard? Already?”

  “Naked dead guy,” Roy said. “That sort of thing tends to get around.” He thought about it. “Well, actually, it’s just news of that sort of thing that tends to get around. Naked dead guys don’t usually go anywhere, as a rule. Not without a lot of help, anyways.”

  Leona gave her husband a fond, exasperated look. “Millie Weeks from the Historical Society called me. The police came around to ask her questions. They wanted to know if she knew who he was, but she didn’t recognize him. She said it was a pity, though. She said that he was very handsome.”

  “Yeah, he was gorgeous,” Wren agreed. “Plus, he was naked. Really too bad about the whole being dead thing. I’m sorry they went to Ms. Weeks about it, though. I kind of thought it should come from one of us. But I just now got done at the police station and I wanted to talk to you guys first.”

  “She wasn’t upset,” Leona said kindly. “Actually, I think she was a little thrilled to be involved in something so lurid. She’s already making up ghost stories to draw in tourists when the museum opens.”

  “Did the police tell you anything?” Sam asked. “They figure out who he was or how he got there?”

  “They think he broke in meaning to rob the place.”

  “Naked?”

  “Yeah. He was pretty, but I guess he wasn’t very smart. There’s an oriel window that opens onto the spiral staircase, between the second and third floors. Well, there are several oriel windows, but this one in particular, the lock is busted. Has been for years, I guess.”

  “I noticed that window. But, Wren! That thing was tiny. You’re not trying to tell me he got in through there.”

  “That’s why he was naked. See, the police figure he climbed up onto the verandah roof and took all his clothes off. He put his clothes in a Walmart bag and dropped them through the window, then he coated himself with grease and forced himself inside. Tripped on the bag with his clothes in it, fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”

  Roy giggled and wiped his eyes. “I shouldn’t laugh, but that’s damn funny. Talk about your poetic justice.”

  “Instant karma’s gonna get ya,” Wren agreed.

  One of the sons stuck his head in the tent. “Pop, there’s a guy out here with a question about the garden tractor. Y’wanna take it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” Roy pulled himself to his feet and kicked at his brother. “Come on, you old goat. Time we get this show on the road.”

  Sam paused to cup Wren’s cheek in one hand. “You just take it easy for a bit, sweetheart. Later, if you feel like it, we’ll let you call the Depression glass.”

  The men left. Wren got a can of soda from the big chest cooler in the corner, then sat on the chest to pop it open. She took a sip, then sighed, staring down at it unseeing as the scene at the police station played in her mind.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  Wren looked up, surprised to find Leona watching her out of the corner of her eye as she laid out her receipts and logbook.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Okay. So what are you looking all sad and humiliated about?”

  Wren felt her cheeks darken. “I’m … it’s nothing.”

  “You know I’m just going to keep bugging you. Might as well save us both the aggravation and spill it now.”

  That drew a rueful smile. “Eric Farrington showed up while I was at the police station. He was being … himself, I guess. He just said some really rude things.”

  “Huh. There’s nothing wrong with the Farrington boy that a big stick and a shallow grave wouldn’t solve. What did he say?”

  From outside they could hear one of the brothers talking over the loudspeaker. His words were too indistinct to follow, but then he started calling and it was clear the sale had begun.

  “I found a naked dead man with an erection,” Wren said dryly. “Use your imagination.”

  “Boy’s an idiot. Hell, he was home-schooled by two people who shouldn’t have been allowed to breed, let alone educate. You can’t let him get you down.”

  “Yeah, I know. Only, I was just embarrassed. And he said it in front of—” she broke off, not wanting to go there.

  “In front of who? The cops? You don’t need to worry about that. They know better than anyone what a little prick Eric Farrington is.”

  “No, not them. I … it’s not important.”

  Leona opened a cash bag from the bank and counted out $125 dollars into a lock box, taking the paper wrapping off a bundle of ones and opening rolls of change. “Oh. I see. Was he pretty, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy you’re blushing and fretting and sighing over.”

  “Am I really that transparent?”

  “Completely.”

  Wren grinned. “Yes, he was very pretty. About six-one, with short, spiky, golden-brown hair and soulful, jade-green eyes. Strong Roman features, like a classical statue. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, a wide, sensuous mouth. His name was Death. And he seemed sad, but he had the nicest smile.”

  “He smiled at you?”

  “Yes, but I think he was only being polite. I lingered on the way out, hoping to talk to him, but he just smiled and turned away.” She sang the last bit to the tune of American Pie. She shrugged and her shoulders slumped. “Anyway, we both know how good I’m not at judging men. He’s probably gay.”

  “Maybe it was a bad time. What was he doing in a police station?”

  “He said he was a, um,” Wren fished for the unfamiliar term, “surety recovery agent?”

  “Oh!” Leona grinned. “A bounty hunter!”

  “Is that what that is?”

  “Mmhmm. That’s the technical name for them in Missouri.”

  Wren giggled. “Eric was mouthing off to him, too. It was so funny! I mean! He barely came up to Death’s bicep and here he is prancing around, spouting off and trying to intimidate him. Death just looked at him. It reminded me of those videos you see on the web, where a big, noble Great Dane is being harassed by a chihuahua. He was like, what is this thing and why is it making that noise?”

  “I wouldn’t compare Eric Farrington to a chihuahua. It’s cruel to insult chihuahuas that way.” Leona finished her preparations, closed the cash box and turned to face Wren full on. “So, was Death The Bounty Hunter as gorgeous as Naked Dead Guy?”

  “Oh, more gorgeous! Magnitudes more gorgeous. And he was living. But, unfortunately, he was dressed.”

  “There’s just no such thing as a perfect man,” Leona said wisely.

  Wren raised her soda can in tribute and drank to th
at.

  _____

  Most bonds, in Death’s admittedly limited experience, were written for between one and five thousand dollars. Bail bondsmen tended to be very careful about securing the bonds they wrote and to keep close tabs on the people they wrote them for. When someone did cut and run, they usually went after them in person. On the rare occasions when they hired a professional surety recovery agent, they generally paid ten percent of the outstanding bond, payable upon delivery of the skip and with no expenses.

  Capturing Tyrone Blount took Death almost a week and earned him $500. He traded the body receipt for a check at the bond office and made it to his bank with minutes to spare before they closed. Living as he did, time tended to get away from him. He hadn’t even realized it was Saturday. Having cash in his pocket loosened the tension in his chest, but only a little.

  There was no telling how long it would be before he got another skip.

  He needed to gas up the Jeep and he needed real food. For three days he’d been living on peanut butter and stale protein bars he’d bought at a skiffy little thrift shop on the highway. The first thing he wanted to do, though, was rescue his gun. He’d been so broke, he’d had to hock it. Unfortunately, when he pulled into the pawn shop lot, the place was gated and dark. A sign in the front window read, “illness in family—closed until Monday.”

  I just have to wait until Monday, he thought, and turned away in search of a meal. It seemed that for years now his life had consisted of waiting, of trying to get by for just a few more minutes or hours or days in the hope that, if he did, everything would finally get better.

  Sitting in a small diner, waiting for his meal, Death took out his phone. The Fairchild jewel case was a long shot, as lucrative and as unlikely as winning the lottery. But he had a lead now, and a reason for hope, and hope was something of which he was sorely in need.

  _____

  Maxine Melvyn had passed away quietly at the age of 86. After picking out a few mementos they wanted to keep, her children and grandchildren had contacted Keystone and Sons. Now, virtually all of her worldly possessions were strung out across her lawn, being picked over by curious strangers.

  Over the course of forty years a three-bedroom house can accumulate an astonishing array of contents. Furniture and appliances sat row upon row, interspersed with tables holding dishes, books, knickknacks, half-finished craft projects, quilt squares, board games, and practically everything else imaginable.

  Sam and Roy had started at the west end of the yard, where long rolling racks were packed with clothes. The clothing was a bit of an oddity at an auction, but Maxine had been a clothes horse. Not only was her vast wardrobe in excellent condition, but it contained a lot of designer labels and there were outfits dating back to the forties, vintage clothing that would attract a whole new class of auction goers. Next to the racks, half of a long table was taken up with hats from the 1940s. Wren edged her way into the crowd around the table, breathing in the scent of mothballs and Chanel No. 5 that she always thought smelled like history.

  Sam was up on the stepladder calling and Roy was modeling the old dresses against his wiry frame. He held up a bold print dress and crowned his head with a little hat with small flowers and a dark blue veil.

  “There you go,” Sam said. “See? It makes him look just like Jackie Kennedy, if Jackie Kennedy had been an ugly old man.”

  The crowd laughed as Roy called out, “you do remember we’re identical twins, right?”

  Wren laughed with everyone else, shook her head and picked out a white hat to toss to him.

  “Oh, sorry. My fashion consultant says this hat with this dress.”

  “How do we want to do this, old man?” Sam asked.

  “How about choice off this rack, to start with?”

  “Sounds good.” Sam turned to the crowd and spoke into his microphone. “Did everyone get that? High bidder gets first pick off the rack, however many items they want at whatever the going price is each. Then we’ll go from there? Okay? And-a-one-and-a-one-and-a …”

  As Sam launched into his patter, Wren worked her way around the table and helped Roy hold up the various dresses. The old clothing struck a chord with her. She had a weakness for vintage and there were real poodle skirts and go-go skirts. Roy caught the look in her eye and leaned in close. “Gonna bid on something?”

  She considered it. “Nah, probably not.” It wasn’t like she had anyone to dress up for, she thought. Her mind turned to the handsome bounty hunter again and she wondered, wistfully, if Death had someone to dress up for him.

  First choice went for $73—a genuine fox fur stole from the fifties that Wren, ever the animal lover, refused to even touch. After the winning bidder claimed his prize Sam offered anyone else choice off the racks for $73 but, not surprisingly, there were no takers. On second choice it got bid up to $17. Third choice went for $10 and took out nearly two-thirds of the rack. They finished it off by selling the rest of the clothes on that rack as a lot before moving to the next one.

  Sam worked his way through the racks of clothing and the half of the table that held the hats. The lower half of the table was filled with vintage dishware and when they got to it Sam shot Wren a questioning glance and she nodded and made her way up to where he was stationed.

  He climbed down the stepladder and she climbed up and perched on top. “Talk fast, Wren!” Sam said into the microphone, tossing it up to her.

  She caught it easily and grinned back before turning to address the crowd.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to move now to the dishware and knickknacks. If you look to the far end, on my right, you’ll see Will holding up our first piece of Depression Glass. This is a cobalt blue Aurora creamer made by the Hazel Atlas Glass Company in the late 1930s. These were originally given out as a premium for buying cereal, but, since I don’t have any cereal in my pockets this morning, I’m going to start the bidding at five dollars. AND-a-five-gotta-five-anda-six-do-I-gotta-six-anda-seven-anda-eight-doIgotta-eight-anda-nine-anda-nine-anda-gottanine-anda-ten-andadoIgotta-ten-gotta-ten-anda-half-anda-’leven-anda-half-anda-twelve-anda-half-anda-thirteen-anda-thirteen-anda-doIgottathirteen-anybodywannagimme-thirteen-going-once-anda-twice-anda-SOLD for twelve-fifty to number 23!”

  Number 23 took her creamer and clasped it happily to her breast while her sister, who had been bidding against her, looked on sourly. Wren shook her head ruefully and moved on to the next piece. She had worked her way halfway through the glassware and knickknacks and was in the middle of selling a lot of horrible, big-eyed-children figurines, when she glanced up and saw Death watching her from across the crowd.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she stuttered slightly and, though she caught herself quickly, she knew the brothers Keystone would have noticed her bobble and she suspected the handsome stranger had too. Nailing her attention on the bidders, she finished selling the figurines and moved on to an assortment of mismatched dishware. When she dared to glance up again several minutes later, Death was gone.

  _____

  Death had to circle the block four times to find a parking place close to the auction. He got out and approached slowly—Afghanistan had made him wary of crowds—passing people leaving with boxes of books and knickknacks and an odd assortment of furniture. The scent of barbecue was already making him hungry again, but it was the sound of a woman’s voice, amplified over a loudspeaker, that drew his attention. He stepped off the sidewalk to avoid a middle-aged woman possessively lugging an awkward hat rack, but then continued across the grass to where a crowd had converged around a long trestle table.

  It was the redhead from the police station. She was perched on something to raise her up and was talking in a rapid-fire patter he couldn’t begin to follow. Apparently she was selling something out of his line of vision. It had come down to two bidders, each trying to outlast the other, and, as she worked between them, she glanced up and caught his eye. She stuttered slightly, quickly regained her stride and turned her attention
back to her work.

  Death smirked, albeit sadly, and wished he were in a position to chase girls.

  An old man stood to his right—a small, wizened character who still bore himself in a military fashion. He wore a sleeveless tee shirt and a denim vest with the “Keystone and Sons Auctioneers” logo on the back, and on his left arm was a familiar tattoo. An image of a bulldog, wearing a Marine helmet and smoking a cigar, appeared above a rank insignia that Death knew very well, indeed. Death nudged his arm to get his attention.

  The old man gave him a questioning look and Death indicated the girl with a nod of his head. “You know her?”

  He got a cool stare in return and stood patiently while the old guy looked him up and down. “She’s one of us,” he said, finally.

  “So, tell me something. I ran into her earlier today and there was this little punk mouthing off to her. Something about never having seen a guy’s junk before and making men’s balls fall off ?”

  “Who said that?”

  Death shrugged. “He was wearing a uniform. Jail guard, maybe?”

  The man’s eyes darkened. “Eric Farrington. That boy needs my foot up his ass!”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. It’s just that, she seemed to take his nonsense to heart and I wondered if there was a story there.”

  “Not one that you need to know.”

  Death tipped his head, cajoling. “Ah, come on man. Give me a sitrep, gunny to gunny.”

  The other man looked him over again, this time with more interest. “Really?”

  Death rolled up his own left sleeve to reveal the same insignia. He’d never been much of one for tattoos, but he’d made an exception for this. He’d gotten it when he’d known he was being discharged and that he’d never climb any higher, to always remind himself of what he had once been.

  The old guy stuck out a hand. “Felix Knotty.”

  “Death Bogart.”

  “Wren’s a sweet girl. I won’t have anybody messing her around.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”