Bob.”
“Then maybe he took it.”
“That’s what the police said, the sheriff’s man. But why would Bob have broken the case? He had keys.”
Ann added an eggroll to the heap of duck and rice on her plate. “Then if somebody got him—Willie, do you really mean they kidnapped him? One of our salesmen?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
“Then they’d have the keys, too. So why would they break the glass, either?”
“God knows. The funny thing was that I’d heard glass break before they broke into the case. That was an upstairs window in back, as it turned out. But I thought it was the case with the diary in it, and I ran to look. Bob ran upstairs—he’d heard it right—and that was the last I saw of him.”
Ann grinned. “Willie, do you know you’ve eaten about five mouthfuls of that pork without drinking? You must be hungry.”
“I am. Maybe being scared does it. After Bob disappeared, I was all alone in that old house—except that I wasn’t actually alone, there was somebody in there with me, maybe more than one. Did I mention the carved wood? There were carved heads over the fireplaces in a lot of the rooms—tough-looking men, and women with smooth oval faces. It felt as though they were trying to talk, trying to warn me about something that was creeping up on me.” Shields shivered, and drained his little cup of tea. The pork was nearly gone; he took some beef and a few wontons.
Ann told him, “The scarier you say this place was, the more interesting it sounds. What were the other carvings?”
“Horses. Swords and daggers and lances, and shields with
blazons. At first I thought it was just because of the name of this town—Castleview. Later I realized it was all Malory. The sword in the stone was carved over the fireplace in the parlor, downstairs.”
“Malory?”
“He was an English author, Sir Thomas Malory. He wrote Le Morte d’Arthur. The old doctor must have loved it, or maybe his wife did. Then the calliope in the stable started playing. Did I tell you about the calliope? It’s sort of like an organ.”
“Willie, you’re making all this up. You’re embroidering.”
“No, I’m not.” The shredded beef was delicious.
“You know you are. You were never in any real danger—not at all like me. I’ve been through living holy hell, and believe me there wasn’t a drop of fantasy involved. And the car—”
He looked up sharply. “What happened to it?”
“Well, Willie, I went up to talk to that nice old lady who runs the motel. I wanted to ask about the horse you almost ran into—the big man who rode across the road, remember that? It had seemed sort of uncanny—”
“No fantasy, you said.”
“But Willie, it isn’t. I thought it might be somebody in the neighborhood, somebody who might ride at night in the rain, and if there was, I thought the old lady would probably know all about it. And she did, but she had this recipe for pear jelly—I’ve got it in my purse, and Lisa’s cheesecake too—and so we got to talking, and that delayed me. I met her husband; he’s a nice old guy. Anyway, she told me—”
A soft voice at Shields’s elbow inquired, “What was it you said to Hwan? The poor man’s terrified.”
Shields looked around.
12
THE BUYER
THERE WAS a knock at the door, soft and almost furtive—Seth! This had to be Seth, Sally Howard thought, come home at last. She ran to the door and threw it open.
“Sally, darling, I just heard,” old Mrs. Cosgriff said; she was holding a casserole.
“Oh, I’m so sorry …” Sally paused, wondering what she was sorry for, then realized it was for the way her face had fallen when she saw it was old Mrs. Cosgriff, who must surely have seen it, and not Seth. “I thought you were my son.”
“Ah,” said old Mrs. Cosgriff. “That’s who’s got your car. I saw it was gone while I was making the cobbler. He’s probably down to the funeral parlor.”
There was a distinct implication that Sally
“Then maybe he took it.”
“That’s what the police said, the sheriff’s man. But why would Bob have broken the case? He had keys.”
Ann added an eggroll to the heap of duck and rice on her plate. “Then if somebody got him—Willie, do you really mean they kidnapped him? One of our salesmen?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
“Then they’d have the keys, too. So why would they break the glass, either?”
“God knows. The funny thing was that I’d heard glass break before they broke into the case. That was an upstairs window in back, as it turned out. But I thought it was the case with the diary in it, and I ran to look. Bob ran upstairs—he’d heard it right—and that was the last I saw of him.”
Ann grinned. “Willie, do you know you’ve eaten about five mouthfuls of that pork without drinking? You must be hungry.”
“I am. Maybe being scared does it. After Bob disappeared, I was all alone in that old house—except that I wasn’t actually alone, there was somebody in there with me, maybe more than one. Did I mention the carved wood? There were carved heads over the fireplaces in a lot of the rooms—tough-looking men, and women with smooth oval faces. It felt as though they were trying to talk, trying to warn me about something that was creeping up on me.” Shields shivered, and drained his little cup of tea. The pork was nearly gone; he took some beef and a few wontons.
Ann told him, “The scarier you say this place was, the more interesting it sounds. What were the other carvings?”
“Horses. Swords and daggers and lances, and shields with
blazons. At first I thought it was just because of the name of this town—Castleview. Later I realized it was all Malory. The sword in the stone was carved over the fireplace in the parlor, downstairs.”
“Malory?”
“He was an English author, Sir Thomas Malory. He wrote Le Morte d’Arthur. The old doctor must have loved it, or maybe his wife did. Then the calliope in the stable started playing. Did I tell you about the calliope? It’s sort of like an organ.”
“Willie, you’re making all this up. You’re embroidering.”
“No, I’m not.” The shredded beef was delicious.
“You know you are. You were never in any real danger—not at all like me. I’ve been through living holy hell, and believe me there wasn’t a drop of fantasy involved. And the car—”
He looked up sharply. “What happened to it?”
“Well, Willie, I went up to talk to that nice old lady who runs the motel. I wanted to ask about the horse you almost ran into—the big man who rode across the road, remember that? It had seemed sort of uncanny—”
“No fantasy, you said.”
“But Willie, it isn’t. I thought it might be somebody in the neighborhood, somebody who might ride at night in the rain, and if there was, I thought the old lady would probably know all about it. And she did, but she had this recipe for pear jelly—I’ve got it in my purse, and Lisa’s cheesecake too—and so we got to talking, and that delayed me. I met her husband; he’s a nice old guy. Anyway, she told me—”
A soft voice at Shields’s elbow inquired, “What was it you said to Hwan? The poor man’s terrified.”
Shields looked around.
12
THE BUYER
THERE WAS a knock at the door, soft and almost furtive—Seth! This had to be Seth, Sally Howard thought, come home at last. She ran to the door and threw it open.
“Sally, darling, I just heard,” old Mrs. Cosgriff said; she was holding a casserole.
“Oh, I’m so sorry …” Sally paused, wondering what she was sorry for, then realized it was for the way her face had fallen when she saw it was old Mrs. Cosgriff, who must surely have seen it, and not Seth. “I thought you were my son.”
“Ah,” said old Mrs. Cosgriff. “That’s who’s got your car. I saw it was gone while I was making the cobbler. He’s probably down to the funeral parlor.”
There was a distinct implication that Sally
Similar Books
