on the floor still giggling. I got up.
“You need any help?” I said.
He shook his head. “I’ve done this before.”
“Okay, then I’ll go to bed. Thanks for supper” As I went. out of the kitchen I saw Dolly Bartlett scuttle up the stairs ahead of me and into her room. Pleasant dreams, kid.
Chapter 13
The next morning, Saturday, Kevin’s guinea pig turned up. I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Globe when I heard Marge Bartlett scream in the front hall. A short startled scream and then a long steady one. When I got there the front door was ajar, and she was holding an open package about the size of a shoe box. I took it from her.
Inside was a dead guinea pig on its back, its short legs sticking stiffly up. I looked out the door. A young Smithfield cop I didn’t know came busting around the corner of the house with a shotgun at high port.
“It’s okay,” I said. Marge Bartlett continued to scream steadily. Now that I was holding the package her hands were free, and she put both of them over her face. The cop came in holding the shotgun down along the side of his leg, the muzzle pointing at the floor. He looked in the box and made a face. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“It came in the mail,” I said. “I suppose it’s the same one the kid took with him when he disappeared.”
Marge Bartlett stopped screaming. She nodded without taking her hands from her face. The cop said, “I’ll call Trask,” and headed back for the cruiser in the driveway. I took the box and wrapping paper and dead guinea pig into the kitchen and sat down at the table and looked at them.
There was nothing to suggest what killed the guinea pig.
The box said Thom McAn on the cover, and the brown paper in which it had been wrapped looked like all the other brown paper wrapping in the world. The box had been mailed in Boston, addressed to Mrs. Margery Bartlett.
There was no return address. They’re too smart for me, I thought.
“What does it mean, Spenser?” Marge Bartlett asked.
“I don’t know. Just more of the same. I’d guess the guinea pig died, and someone thought it would be a good idea to send it to you. It doesn’t look as if it’s been killed.
That might suggest that Kevin is well.”
“Why?”
“Well, a kidnapper or a murderer is not likely to bother keeping a guinea pig, right?”
She nodded. I heard a car spin gravel into the driveway and slam to a stop. I bet myself it was Trask. I won. He came in without knocking.
“Oh, George,” Marge Bartlett said, “I can’t stand much more.”
He crossed to where she was standing and put an arm around her shoulder. “Marge, we’re doing what we can.
We’re working on it around the clock.” He looked at me.
“Where’s the evidence?”
I nodded at the box on the table.
“You been messing with it?” Trask said. Tough as nails.
“Not me, Chief. I’ve been keeping it under close surveillance. I think the guinea pig is faking.”
“Move aside,” he said and picked up the box. He looked at the guinea pig and shook his head. “Sick,” he said.
“Sickest goddamned thing I ever been involved in. Hey, Silveria.” The young cop appeared at the back door. He had a round moon face and bushy black hair. His uniform cap seemed too small for his head.
“Take this stuff down to the station and hold it for me. I’ll be down in a while to examine it. Send Marsh back here to relieve you.”
Silveria departed. Trask took a ball-point pen and a notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Okay, Marge,” he said, “let’s have it all. When did the package arrive?” I didn’t need to dance that circle with them. “Excuse me,” I said and went out the back door. The day was new and sunny. All it needed to be September mom was a nude bathing in the pool. I looked, just to be sure, but there wasn’t any. A scarlet tanager flashed across the lawn from the crab apple tree to the barn and disappeared into an open loft where the fake post for a hay
“You need any help?” I said.
He shook his head. “I’ve done this before.”
“Okay, then I’ll go to bed. Thanks for supper” As I went. out of the kitchen I saw Dolly Bartlett scuttle up the stairs ahead of me and into her room. Pleasant dreams, kid.
Chapter 13
The next morning, Saturday, Kevin’s guinea pig turned up. I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Globe when I heard Marge Bartlett scream in the front hall. A short startled scream and then a long steady one. When I got there the front door was ajar, and she was holding an open package about the size of a shoe box. I took it from her.
Inside was a dead guinea pig on its back, its short legs sticking stiffly up. I looked out the door. A young Smithfield cop I didn’t know came busting around the corner of the house with a shotgun at high port.
“It’s okay,” I said. Marge Bartlett continued to scream steadily. Now that I was holding the package her hands were free, and she put both of them over her face. The cop came in holding the shotgun down along the side of his leg, the muzzle pointing at the floor. He looked in the box and made a face. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“It came in the mail,” I said. “I suppose it’s the same one the kid took with him when he disappeared.”
Marge Bartlett stopped screaming. She nodded without taking her hands from her face. The cop said, “I’ll call Trask,” and headed back for the cruiser in the driveway. I took the box and wrapping paper and dead guinea pig into the kitchen and sat down at the table and looked at them.
There was nothing to suggest what killed the guinea pig.
The box said Thom McAn on the cover, and the brown paper in which it had been wrapped looked like all the other brown paper wrapping in the world. The box had been mailed in Boston, addressed to Mrs. Margery Bartlett.
There was no return address. They’re too smart for me, I thought.
“What does it mean, Spenser?” Marge Bartlett asked.
“I don’t know. Just more of the same. I’d guess the guinea pig died, and someone thought it would be a good idea to send it to you. It doesn’t look as if it’s been killed.
That might suggest that Kevin is well.”
“Why?”
“Well, a kidnapper or a murderer is not likely to bother keeping a guinea pig, right?”
She nodded. I heard a car spin gravel into the driveway and slam to a stop. I bet myself it was Trask. I won. He came in without knocking.
“Oh, George,” Marge Bartlett said, “I can’t stand much more.”
He crossed to where she was standing and put an arm around her shoulder. “Marge, we’re doing what we can.
We’re working on it around the clock.” He looked at me.
“Where’s the evidence?”
I nodded at the box on the table.
“You been messing with it?” Trask said. Tough as nails.
“Not me, Chief. I’ve been keeping it under close surveillance. I think the guinea pig is faking.”
“Move aside,” he said and picked up the box. He looked at the guinea pig and shook his head. “Sick,” he said.
“Sickest goddamned thing I ever been involved in. Hey, Silveria.” The young cop appeared at the back door. He had a round moon face and bushy black hair. His uniform cap seemed too small for his head.
“Take this stuff down to the station and hold it for me. I’ll be down in a while to examine it. Send Marsh back here to relieve you.”
Silveria departed. Trask took a ball-point pen and a notebook out of his shirt pocket. “Okay, Marge,” he said, “let’s have it all. When did the package arrive?” I didn’t need to dance that circle with them. “Excuse me,” I said and went out the back door. The day was new and sunny. All it needed to be September mom was a nude bathing in the pool. I looked, just to be sure, but there wasn’t any. A scarlet tanager flashed across the lawn from the crab apple tree to the barn and disappeared into an open loft where the fake post for a hay
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