Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

Secondhand Heart by Doug Allyn

Some nights I dream of toasters. An endless assembly line of 1955 Sunbeam T-35’s snakes through my sleep. Each one pristine. Chrome gleaming. Brand spanking new. Thousands of toasters.

Millions.

Then the new starts to wear off. Pinheads of rust discolor the chrome. The toasters look tired. Used. Secondhand.

Suddenly the assembly line veers and the toasters start spilling off the end, tumbling down into a landfill, down and down into a bottomless black pit...

And I snap awake! Wide-eyed, panting. Scanning the room for... I don’t know what. Something horrible. Death, maybe.

But no one’s ever there. Only me. Alone.

So I fall back to my pillow. But not to sleep. Instead I begin the deep breathing exercises they taught me in the hospital, slowing my hammering heartbeat. Willing myself to calm down.

Just make it through the night. A few more hours. How hard can that be?

Very hard, sometimes.

My bedroom helps. The room is softly lit. I never sleep in the dark anymore. Every stick of furniture is familiar. It took me months of scrounging to find them all. A fifties’ vintage McCobb six-drawer maple bureau, a Maloof day bed, cast-iron Laurel lamps with white mushroom shades.

In mint condition the furnishings might be worth five or six grand, but they aren’t museum pieces. I live with them.

Everything I own is secondhand. By choice.

Secondhand means that other people once chose these things, too. Bought them, enjoyed them. So in a small way, I feel connected to their lives, to their happiness. It’s the only connection I have now. Strictly secondhand.

Most people like new things. They buy new cars. Their cups all match. Their curtains color-complement their carpets and the art on their walls.

On garbage day, armies of empty cardboard boxes from Sears or Marshall Field’s line their curbs. Treasures mingling with the trash. A 1964 Eureka upright vacuum, a Plycraft bar stool.

Thank God for those people. If American consumers didn’t keep ditching their old stuff to buy new stuff, there wouldn’t be nearly as much cool secondhand stuff for the rest of us.

Secondhand goods are more than my obsession. They’re my business now. Stu’s Nothing New Store. The Right Stuff at the Right Price. It’s not what I planned for my life. But it’s the right thing. For now.

My shop shares a block with a half dozen similar stores, Needful Things, Clara’s Classic Collectibles, L’Attitude, in Bay Harbor’s Oldtown district near the Saginaw River. Tourists flock here in the summer, but in November it’s quieter. Waiting for winter.

Owning a secondhand store isn’t like running a supermarket. You can’t order stock from a catalog and salesmen don’t call.

Occasionally civilians bring in things to sell. I seldom buy. Can’t afford to. The Antiques Roadshow has everyone convinced that their mismatched saltshakers are worth umpty millions. They don’t want a fair price. They want me to save their lives. I can’t. I’m barely clinging to my own.

My store is a mixed bag, vintage furniture, lamps, and appliances. Useful things whether you’re into antiques or not. I keep it stocked by scanning the classifieds, shopping the sales. Hunting and gathering. A Neanderthal in chinos and deck shoes.

Moving sales are my favorites, especially when Grandma’s bailing out for Florida. Decades of stuff priced to sell quick, cash on the barrelhead, no gouging, everybody’s happy.

Estate sales have similar goods but they can be a downer when they’re run by grieving widows. Or surly relatives who were counting on a really big bequest from Uncle Ernie.

Garage sales are great if they’re actually in a garage and you arrive early enough.

Rummage sales depend on the sponsors. The richer the church, the better the stuff. Sometimes people donate valuable things just to prove they can.

Dead last on my list, or anyone’s list, are execution sales. The bill collector’s last resort. Cops slap a lien on your stuff and auction it off. But since people only bid dimes on the dollar, a poor bastard can lose everything he owns and still owe bigtime.

The goods at execution sales are usually a notch above trash. If a guy’s busted flat, how much good stuff can he have?

When I first opened my store, my father-in-law steered some city business my way. Execution sales. Whoopee. It was like running an estate sale with the corpse moping around. Looking sadly over your shoulder as you price tag his stuff. Appraising the value of his life. For a quick sale.

Never again. I’d rather backstroke across Saginaw Bay with a skunk stapled to my forehead. But you don’t always get to choose your poison. Sometimes life just serves it up.

A biker blew into my store on a blustery November afternoon. Didn’t glance at my stock, strode straight to the counter. Big guy, faded jeans, leather vest, tattooed arms, ratty beard.

“You own this place?”

“More or less. Can I help you?”

“Do you buy stuff?”

“Sometimes. What kind of—”

“I got all kinds. Furniture, appliances, plates. All old.”

“How old? Older than you, or—”

“Older than your grandma, pal. I’m in this ol’ wreck of a house and we’re gettin’ evicted by the damn city. I gotta sell everything off. You interested or not?”

“I can take a look, sure. No promises.”

“I can’t spend promises anyway. Bring cash.” He gave me an address on Centralia, an older section of town. I said I’d stop by after supper. Almost didn’t go. I didn’t like the look of... whatever his name was. He hadn’t mentioned it.

Wreck of a house was an understatement. Tudor style, complete with parapets and matching towers, three stories, Civil War era, maybe older. Hadn’t seen paint since the Depression.

There was something familiar about it. Couldn’t think what. Since my accident I have a lot of memories like that. Fragments. Images with no sense of time or place. Remembering my past is like watching a slide show of someone else’s summer vacation.

Then it hit me. The Addams Family TV show. Morticia and Uncle Fester would feel right at home in this dump.

Lurch answered the doorbell. My biker host, looking even edgier than before. At least I wasn’t alone. Half the dealers from Oldtown were already inside.

Marta Cohen from L’Attitude was prowling through piles of odds and ends in the living room. Squared off and surly in black denims, combat boots, and a muscle shirt, I figured Marta could probably stomp Lurch in a fair fight. Or an unfair one.

I said hi but Marta ignored me, lost in the hunt. She already had a stack of stuff set aside, a couple of dusty cameras, a Western Electric wall phone, ashtrays, a storm lantern with a cracked chimney.

Ted Sorensen from Needful Things was there too, gawky as a stork in horn-rims and a red Mr. Rogers cardigan. The only shopper I didn’t recognize was a pert, dark woman with a curly mop and Mediterranean features, bustling cheerfully through the stacks like a puppy at play.

Obviously nothing interesting would be around for long. I began working the room. The goods were an odd mix. A K-Mart card table, particle-board serving trays, the kind of crapola Lurch would own. But some of the pieces were much older. A previous tenant, maybe.

I zeroed in on a 1920 Starck Victrola in the corner. Beat Ted Sorenson to it by a step. A little rough, but the motor still worked and there were spare needles in the cup. Perfect for a restorer. No price on it, or on anything else.

I glanced the question at the biker.

“Pick what you want, we’ll settle up at the end, okay? Don’t worry, I’ll make it work. Got no choice.”

Fair enough. I found a few more things, a painted bookcase, possibly Roycroft but more likely a copy; a child’s school slate; and a pair of Bean Patrolman handcuffs. I was almost ready to check out when I spotted a pop case of what looked like file cards. A closer look proved a lot more interesting. Three-inch plastic disks ringed with thumbnail-sized slides. View-Master reels, very early from the look of them. They weren’t even labeled.

“I noticed those.” The short, dark woman was at my shoulder. “What are they?”

“Slide reels, probably for a View-Master, the little binocular type viewers that give a 3-D effect?”

“Oh, I remember them. TV cartoon slides, right?”

“Only the ones made after 1960. Before that they had all kinds of things on them, street scenes, travelogues, even old movie stills. I’m not sure what these are, they aren’t labeled, but I know a dealer who loves this stuff.”

“You’re Stuart Kenyon, aren’t you? From Stu’s Nothing New?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry, should I know you?”

“Not yet. I’m Karla Frantzis. Clara Pattakos is my cousin. Clara’s Classic Collectibles? I’m buying Clara’s business.”

“Welcome to the asylum. How do you like it so far?”

“I love antiques and love managing the shop but I’ve got a lot to learn. Thanks for the tip on View-Master slides. Next time I’ll beat you to them.”

“No good deed goes unpunished.”

A quick smile transformed her face from interesting to... even more interesting. A good smile. “Ain’t it the truth,” she said. “Any other free tips?”

“That little box of glass slides? They’re negatives for a stereopticon, the View-Masters of the nineteenth century. I don’t carry them myself but I know Clara has a few. Don’t pay more than twenty bucks for the lot.”

“Thanks, I won’t. I’ll let you get back to scrounging. See you around, Stu’s Nothing New.”

Parking the case of stereopticon negatives with her stash, Karla returned to the stack of LPs she’d been sorting through. I finished my hunt without finding anything else worthwhile. I waved Lurch over to my little hoard. He was jumpy as a cricket on a hotplate, eyes shifting restlessly. Worried, or wired on uppers. Maybe both.

“These are the things I’m interested in. How much?”

“Man, I got no clue what this crap’s worth. What’ll you gimme for it?”

I did some mental arithmetic. “Thirty-five bucks for the Victrola, ten each for the bookcase and cuffs, five each for the drum and the slateboard. This box of reels might be worth a hundred or nothing at all. I’ll gamble a twenty on them. I make it... eighty-five bucks total.”

“That old record player ought to be worth more than a lousy thirty-five.”

“To a collector, maybe. Not to me.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, scowling. “You sure you don’t want nothing else? It’s all gotta go tonight.”

“Is there anything I haven’t seen? In the basement? Or maybe the garage?”

“The what?”

“The garage. Any old tools or—”

“Forget the damn garage!” he snapped. “Just gimme my money and clear the hell out!”

His reaction caught me by surprise. Lurch definitely needed to tweak his medication. But I let it pass. “No problem.” I counted out the cash. Several dealers glanced up at the edge in Lurch’s tone, gazelles startled by a lion’s cough.

“I’ll give you a hand carrying it out, Stu,” Ted Sorenson offered. The others went back to browsing. It would take more than a growl to drive them off. That’s why lions stay sleek.

Ted and I lugged the heavy Starck Victrola out to my van and eased it carefully inside. Lurch followed us out, glowering from the porch.

“Our host seems a bit jumpy,” Ted said. “Maybe he’s been seeing Potter’s ghost.”

“Who?”

“Jerome Potter. He used to have a photography studio in this house. It was a beautiful home then. I had all my school pictures taken here. Most kids did back in the day. Potter committed suicide in... can’t recall. Thirty-odd years ago. Hanged himself here. Somewhere upstairs, I think. A real shocker at the time. Rich guy comes back to his hometown just to kill himself.”

“Back from where?”

“I don’t know. He’d been away a few years. Maybe Florida. My memory’s not what it used to be.”

“Mine either,” I smiled.

“No, I guess not,” he said, glancing quickly at the half-moon scar on my forehead. “Sorry, Stu, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Forget it. I already have. Thanks for the help, Ted.”

Climbing into my truck, I fired it up and let it idle a few minutes, warming it gently. It’s a Corvan, a mint-condition 1966 Chevy Greenbrier, rear engine, air cooled. The American Porsche of delivery vans.

But as I shifted into reverse, I noticed Lurch, still on the porch, staring. He watched me all the way out of the drive. And into the street.

My visit to Lurch’s lair wasn’t pleasant but it turned out to be profitable. Checking my card file the next morning, I found an inquiry note about Victrolas, called the number, and sold the Starck sight unseen for triple what I paid for it.

Mamie Szmanski, a View-Master buff from Midland, agreed to take the box of untitled reels off my hands at two bucks a pop with a right of return for any she couldn’t use.

Packing up Mamie’s box for UPS I found a couple of glass stereopticon negatives mixed in with the reels. Ghostly images, barely more than line drawings, echoes from a past we can’t even imagine.

One of the slides caught my eye. The face of a boy staring up at me. His life probably played out and ended before I was born. But even in reverse black and white there was something haunting about his image. I put it in a desk drawer, out of sight. I have enough ghosts of my own.

A few customers came in and I was up roughly six hundred bucks before noon. All in all, not a bad morning for November.

My father-in-law, Phil Barrett, dropped by with lunch. Nothing elaborate, a couple of sandwiches from Subway. I furnished the coffee, custom-ground Colombian beans brewed in a fifties-era graniteware coffeepot with the original Bakelite knob.

Phil brings in lunch a couple of times a week. A duty, I think. A courtesy to my late wife. He’s a nice man, big as a bear, six-two, two-fifty, an amiable giant, quick with a joke or a story. Phil’s also a decorated Vietnam vet who built a small machine shop into a booming auto parts business and made a ton of money in the process. A two-term mayor of Bay Harbor, he’s presently sitting on the city council.

I mention this because Phil never does. He’d rather hear your story than tell you his. A rare quality. Especially in a politician.

He stuck by me after the auto accident that killed my wife and almost turned me into an eggplant. When doctors suggested it might be time to pull the plug on me, Phil not only refused, he made sure I got the best care available and covered the financial gaps in my health insurance.

He truly treated me like a blood son when he could just as easily have walked away. After all, we aren’t actually related by marriage anymore. Only by a funeral.

Sometimes I wish he would walk away. Since the accident, my memory is shaky. Tiffany and I were married nearly seven years, but I can only remember a few days of it, scuffling days, when we were living together at U of M, scraping by.

I have pictures of her, of course, but that’s all they are to me. Photographs. I can’t remember when they were taken, or where. Or what our lives were like at the time. Perhaps it’s a blessing. But it feels more like a betrayal.

I’m pretty sure I loved her, though. Once in awhile Phil will say something, or turn his head a certain way, and I’ll get a memory flash, a momentary glimpse of Tiff that pierces my heart like an ice pick.

It’s not Phil’s fault. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I’ve never mentioned it to him. He has pain enough of his own. And I’m the guy who caused it. The one who married his only daughter and carried her off to Detroit to pursue my hotshot legal career. The one who was driving when a drunk swerved across the centerline and erased Tiffany and most of my memories of her.

I’m sure Phil would rather have lunch with almost anyone else on the planet. But twice a week, like clockwork, we share sandwiches at my desk and make conversation. About local politics, the antiques business, my health, his health. Anything but Tiffany.

Sometimes he brings me brochures for college classes or tells me about a law firm looking for a junior partner. He thinks I’m wasting my talents in the shop. I should go back to law school or retrain myself to do something else. Move on. Start a new life.

But how can I do that when I can’t remember my old one?

Just as Phil and I were running out of small talk, Karla Frantzis swept in. In a slate blouse and slacks, she reminded me of a junco, pert, energetic. Bright-eyed.

“Hi, am I interrupting?”

“Not a bit,” Phil said, rising. “I’m Phil Barrett, Stuart’s father-in-law.”

“Karla Frantzis,” she nodded. “Have we met? Your name seems familiar.”

“It’s probably on your lease,” I said. “Phil owns most of the buildings on this block, including yours. Karla’s buying out Clara Pattakos.”

“Glad to hear it,” Phil said. “We need more new faces in the Oldtown district. How’s the business doing?”

“Almost too well. I hope you weren’t kidding about that free advice offer, Mr. Kenyon.”

“Call me Stu, and I wasn’t kidding. What’s up?”

“I got a call from the city clerk’s office asking if I could handle an... execution sale? Is that the right word? Anyway, I said I’d do it, the shop needs the money, but they want to hold it tomorrow afternoon—”

“Tomorrow? They usually advertise them for a couple of weeks. What’s the rush?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done one of these before. That’s why I’m here. I could really use your help.”

“No offense, Miss Frantzis, but I’d rather not—”

“Please, it won’t take much time. You’ve already seen the merchandise.”

“What do you mean, I’ve seen it?”

“The execution sale is at the old house on Centralia, where we met.”

“The Potter house?” Phil asked, frowning.

“You know it?” I asked.

“Everybody knows that old eyesore,” Phil shrugged. “The Potters were big rich once, lumber money. Gone now. The Downtown Development Authority bought the house a few months ago. It’s slated for demolition. Anybody living there must be squatting.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Karla said. “The clerk just asked me to catalog anything of value on the premises and sell it off tomorrow. If you’re willing to help with the pricing, we can tag everything tonight. I’ll handle the sale tomorrow and split the take fifty-fifty. Does that sound fair?”

“It’s more than fair, it’s just that—”

“I know, Clara already warned me these sales are awful and I shouldn’t have taken the commission. If you’d rather not help, I understand.”

“But you’re going ahead whether I help or not?”

“I said I’d do it so I will,” she said simply. “Sorry, didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Maybe another time. Nice meeting you, Mr. Barrett.” She was already halfway to the door.

“Hey, wait up, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.”

“You mean you will? Great! Does seven thirty work for you?”

“Tonight? Um, sure, that’s fine.”

“Good, I’ll meet you there. I’d better get back to the shop. And thanks.” She waved a cheery goodbye to Phil and bustled out. The energy level in the room dropped by eighty percent.

“Nice-looking woman,” Phil observed.

“I guess.”

“I thought you hated execution sales.”

“I do, but the guy squatting at the Potter house is a goon. I couldn’t very well let her go there alone.”

“What were you doing at the Potter house?” Phil was eyeing me oddly.

“Lurch held a private sale last night. Probably trying to beat the execution sale.”

“That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“Not if he hasn’t been officially notified of the sale. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. People say the place is haunted.”

“It looks like it should be. Somebody said a photographer committed suicide there.”

“Jerome Potter. The last of his sorry-ass line.”

“You knew him?”

“Met him.” There was an “end of story” chill in his tone so I changed the subject. Phil and I don’t need to share any ghost stories. We’re living in one.

Karla Frantzis climbed out of a hot pink VW as I pulled up in front of the Potter house that night. The car suited her. Perky and bright. Phil was right. She was a good-looking woman. Funny I hadn’t noticed before.

“Hi, I was about to give up on you.”

“Am I late?”

“Nope,” she grinned, “I’m always early. Shall we?”

I followed her up the steps and she rang the bell. A woman/girl answered, dishwater blonde, unkempt hair, soiled T-shirt and shorts, dark circles under her eyes. She was only twenty or so. A hard twenty.

“Trane ain’t here.”

“Actually, we’re not here to see him,” Karla said, giving the girl a hundred-watt smile and a business card. “We’re the appraisers. For the execution sale tomorrow?”

The girl frowned at the card, her lips moving as she read it. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“We need to price things for the sale. The city clerk said you’d been notified.”

“Trane said somethin’ about it. Never tells me squat anyway. What do you want to see?”

“Pretty much everything, I’m afraid,” Karla said, trailing the girl into the living room. “Your name is...?”

“Chastity. That’s a hoot, huh? There ain’t much left; Trane already ditched most of it. Help yourself. I never go upstairs anyway. Place creeps me out. Frickin’ wind howls around this house like a coyote. You want me, I’ll be in my bedroom watchin’ TV. The stuff in there is mine, personal, I mean. Stay the hell away from it.”

She shuffled off to her bedroom, closing the door. And locking it with an audible click.

“Can she do that?” Karla asked. “I thought the execution lien covered everything in the house.”

“You’re right, it does. Stand back, I’ll kick down her door.”

“Wait a minute!” She grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the door. “Are you nuts! You can’t—” I tried to keep a straight face, couldn’t quite manage.

“You jerk!” she said, punching my shoulder.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. But you’re right. Technically, everything in the house is supposed to be sold, but nobody expects us to unplug that kid’s TV. The city doesn’t really care about the money from the sale anyway. They want Lurch to move on and an execution sale is one more way to turn the screw.”

“Lurch?”

“The butler from the Addams Family? This place reminds me of their haunted house. What’s his real name again?”

“Trane. John Thomas Trane.”

“Lurch suits him better. Let’s try to wrap this up before Mr. Trane pulls into the station.”

The Potter house was a rambling wreck of a place, three floors with a dozen rooms each. Still, cataloging the furnishings wasn’t difficult. Trane and his girlfriend were only using a few rooms on the first floor. The others were either empty or trashed. Walls kicked in, ceiling fixtures ripped down. Senseless carnage.

We found a few pieces of chipped china in the kitchen, some filthy flatware. One of the dinette chairs looked like part of a Gambles set, but the seat had been recovered with terry cloth and the legs were rusty. Two bucks instead of two hundred.

All the living room furniture was third- or fourthhand, castoffs Goodwill wouldn’t bother picking up.

“Look, I’m sorry about this,” Karla said. “If the sale doesn’t earn enough to pay for your time, I’ll make up the difference.”

“Forget it, a deal’s a deal. Besides, this is kind of fun, like exploring a haunted castle.”

“Complete with an evil giant. Maybe we’ll have better luck upstairs.”

And we did, sort of. The second floor was closed off to save heat and a few rooms still had some original furnishings. Or what was left of them.

Chairs had been torn apart, linings slashed. A turn of the century sleigh bed had been kicked to pieces.

“My god,” Karla said softly, “this must have been a lovely home once. How could anybody do this to it?”

“Maybe Lurch was looking for something. Loose change, a lost doobie? Or maybe kids trashed it before he moved in. It’s slated for demolition anyway so I don’t suppose it matters.”

“But even that seems like a crime. I thought the Downtown Development Authority was supposed to preserve old houses. Look at this woodwork, the moldings, the mantels above the doors. All oak and at least a century old. Isn’t it worth quite a bit?”

“It’s certainly worth more than the furniture we’ve seen. I expect the contractor will recover it before they raze the place. C’mon, let’s finish up. This is beginning to bum me out.”

The other rooms were the same, a shambles. But at the end of one hall, a mystery.

The room was windowless, its walls lined with shelves, most torn down. Metal bins scattered around. Karla glanced the question at me.

“I think this was probably a darkroom. The previous owner was a photographer, Jerome Potter. I was told he committed suicide here.”

“In this room, you mean?”

“I don’t know. He supposedly hanged himself so I guess it could have been here. These shelves look strong enough.”

“Thanks for sharing that,” Karla shivered. “Is this stuff worth anything?”

“Not in this condition. Most of the trays are too banged up to be of any use.” I opened a storage closet... and froze. Trying to understand what I was seeing.

“What is it?” Karla asked, moving up beside my shoulder.

“I’m not sure.” The closet was deep, lined with bookcase shelving. But one of the bookcases was on hinges. It was pulled away from the wall, revealing another cubicle beyond it.

“Whoa, a secret room?” Karla asked.

“Looks like it,” I said, swinging the bookcase/door open a little wider. I thought the hidden room was just another storage closet. Until I noticed the small three-step ladder. And the sliding panel set high in the wall. Curious, I stepped up and slid open the panel.

“What is it?”

“A peephole,” I said. “I’ve only seen them in movies. You can see into the next room from here.”

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing now, it’s as trashed as the rest of the house. But there are clothes hooks and a couple of smashed mirrors. Maybe it was a dressing room.”

“So the photographer was a Peeping Tom?”

“Peeping Jerome, actually.”

“What did he keep in these cabinets?” Karla asked, tugging open an empty drawer.

“Pictures and stereopticon slides, I think. There’s some broken glass in this drawer. By the way, I found a couple of slides mixed in with the View-Master reels I bought. You’re welcome to them.” I knelt to pick up a torn black and white photograph. Someone’s arm. I passed it to Karla.

“This was taken here,” she said.

“Here?”

“In the sitting room at the end of the hall. See, the fireplace is in the background.”

She was right, not that it mattered. There was no way to tell whose arm it was or even when it was taken. The photo wasn’t dated. More scrap. Which summed up everything we’d seen.

We poked our noses into every room on the upper floors. Zip. The attic had a small trove, a few toys, some doll furniture, a rusty tricycle. Karla consulted with me on prices but it was strictly a courtesy. She knew this kind of merchandise better than I did.

“I think we’re done,” Karla said, taking a final look around the attic. “A few pieces of furniture from below might be salvageable but I think Mr. Trane has already sold off everything of value. I’m guessing he left this stuff up here because it isn’t worth toting downstairs. If the execution sale clears fifty bucks tomorrow I’ll be amazed.”

Chastity was waiting for us at the foot of the stairs.

“Satisfied? I told you there wasn’t nothin’.”

“You were right,” Karla said. “And I don’t blame you for avoiding the upstairs. It’s like The Shining up there.”

“We found a darkroom on the second floor with a concealed storage room,” I said. “Do you know what was in there?”

“Trane found some French postcards in a closet upstairs. Weird pictures, little boys undressing? Plus some old cameras and stuff. Sold ’em for a few bucks, then he kicked the crap out of the place lookin’ for more secret rooms.”

“Any luck?”

“Sure. He found a million bucks stashed in the walls. That’s why we’re still squattin’ in this beautiful mansion. Are you two done screwin’ around?”

“For tonight,” Karla said. “I’ll be back in the morning to set up the sale. I’ll try not to disturb you but—”

“Disturb all you want. I’m bailin’ outa here in the morning. Had enough of this town, enough of Trane, too. Beat it and lemme get some sleep. I got a big day tomorrow.”

“No problem,” Karla said sweetly. “Pleasant dreams.”

“Sorry this turned out to be such a bust,” she sighed, as we walked to our cars.

“Not your fault. Execution sales are never much fun. I’m just sorry we didn’t get to see the place before Trane tore it apart.”

“The house has obviously been closed up for years. I wonder what he thought he’d find? Other than porno postcards, I mean.” I hesitated. “Maybe he did find something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t looking for antiques, since he wrecked some pretty fine furniture looking for whatever it was. None of the stuff at his clearance sale last night was valuable. I wonder if he showed us everything? Or maybe set the good stuff aside?”

“Where? We went through the whole house.”

“But not the garage. I asked Lurch about it last night and he got hostile... hey, wait up!”

Karla was already trotting up the driveway around the house to the rear. A two-car, two-story garage as old as the house and just as decrepit.

“Wow. It’s certainly big enough,” she said.

“There were no automobiles when the house was built. This was probably a carriage house first, converted for cars later on. Maybe servants’ quarters upstairs. Unfortunately, the windows have been painted over and that’s a pretty hefty padlock on the door.”

“The clerk gave me a key ring for the house,” Karla said, fishing through her purse. “Maybe we can open it. Assuming I don’t keel over from the stench first. What is that godawful smell?”

“Maybe Lurch hides the bodies back here—”

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Trane roared, charging around the corner of the house.

“Pricing items for the execution sale tomorrow,” Karla said firmly. “We need to see what’s inside.”

“There ain’t nothin’ inside!”

“In that case you won’t mind if—”

“Forget it! Maybe the city can run me out by claimin’ I owe bogus taxes but I still got rights. My personal stuff’s in this garage and you two are nothin’ but frickin’ thieves! You’d best get steppin’ or you’re by God gonna need an ambulance. Move!”

“Absolutely,” I said, taking Karla’s arm, hauling her off. “We’re on our way.”

“And don’t come back!” A gust of wind howled up the driveway, echoing his rage.

“Now wait just a darn minute,” Karla protested.

“Quiet!” I hissed, taking a firmer grip as she struggled to twist free, hurrying her back to her car.

“Damn it, Kenyon, let go of me! What are you doing?”

“Getting us out of serious trouble.”

“That big goof doesn’t scare me—”

“Well he should! Did you see his eyes? Pupils dilated, twitching, hyperaggressive. He’s stoned to the bone on something, probably methedrine. You could clip him with a sledge hammer and he’d look around for mosquitoes. He’s irrational and touchy as a time bomb.”

She hesitated, scanning my face. “Okay,” she nodded, “maybe you’re right. So why does an antiques dealer know so much about methedrine?”

“Because I’ve prosecuted forty or fifty crystal meth cases, everything from DUI to murder.”

“Prosecuted? You mean you’re an attorney?”

“Used to be. I was an assistant D.A. for Wayne County. Had an auto accident. My wife was killed. I got my face rearranged and my brains scrambled. Massive head injury. Wasn’t expected to live. But I did. Sort of.”

“How do you mean, sort of?”

“I was comatose for months, came out of it with my memory damaged. Some sections of it are missing. Years. You can’t try cases if you can’t remember precedents or even whether you took a course on precedents.”

“You seem all right to me.”

“I am okay. I’m walking, talking...” I froze, staring at her. “Who are you?”

“Karla,” she said, concerned. “I’m... you jerk! You did it again.”

“Sorry. I think the crash twisted my sense of humor.”

“Assuming you ever had one,” she said, shaking her head. “Clara warned me you were a little strange. Nice, but strange.”

“Then humor me. Don’t come here alone tomorrow. I’ll call my father-in-law and get a deputy to escort you, okay?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second. Let me arrange some protection anyway. Please.”

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea. Our friend back there does seem a little spacey. A deputy? Can your father-in-law really fix that?”

“Sure. Bay Harbor’s a nice town, but it’s old fashioned. The same families have been running things here for the last hundred years. My father-in-law, the sheriff, local judges, businessmen. All buddies who grew up together, went to the same schools.”

“An old boy network?”

“Something like that. But in a good way.”

“Maybe. If you’re one of the old boys.”

“I’m not, but my father-in-law is. Let me fix this.”

“Okay,” she said, climbing into her VW. “But tell him to be on time. I’ll be here at ten.”

“The deputy will be waiting.”

“You know, it’s really a shame. This was a beautiful house once. Didn’t Mr. Barrett say the Potters were old money? Wouldn’t that make them part of your old boy network?”

“Maybe,” I said, glancing at the run-down old mansion. “Why?”

“Because if the last Potter hanged himself here, I guess being an old boy wasn’t much help, was it?”

I didn’t dream of toasters that night. Had a new one instead. I was wandering through the Potter house, alone. And terribly afraid. Because the wind was howling around the house like a wolf pack. And every room had a corpse in it. A dead man, hanging from the ceiling, turning slowly to face me, his features hideously distorted. And then his eyes would open—

And I’d bolt from the room, fleeing down endless icy corridors, desperately seeking a way out.

But behind every door I opened...

At some point I snapped awake, took twenty minutes to calm down, then fell back to sleep and started the same damned dream all over again. A long, hard night.

In the morning I was exhausted. Felt like I’d been running all night. I guess I had been. If nightmare miles count.

But my nightmare was only beginning.

A police car was in my parking spot in the lot behind my shop. When I parked beside it a cop climbed out at the same time I did. Short, squared-off, gunmetal gray hair combed straight back, fifties’ style. Brown satin jacket.

“Mr. Kenyon? I’m Chief Tom Liske, with the sheriff’s department. You’re Phil Barrett’s son-in-law, right?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Phil called me first thing this morning, said you needed a deputy as an escort?”

“It isn’t for me. You were supposed to meet the woman running the execution sale at the Potter house on Centralia.” I checked my watch. “Jeez, you’d better get over there. She said she’d be there at ten.”

“I don’t do escort work, Mr. Kenyon, and there won’t be any execution sale at the Potter house. It’s not there anymore.”

“What?”

“There was an explosion last night. The garage blew up and the house burned to the ground. Can you tell me anything about that?”

“I don’t understand. Why ask me?”

“You obviously had some trouble over there or you wouldn’t have requested a deputy, right? So what happened?”

“I went there to help Miss Frantzis price items for an execution sale. Lurch got—”

“Lurch?”

“The guy living there.”

“You mean John Trane?”

“I guess that’s his name. Big guy, spooky house. Lurch, the giant butler, right? The Addams Family on TV?”

“I get it, Mr. Kenyon. And you had some trouble with Lurch?”

“Not exactly. More like a minor confrontation. We were checking out the garage, he got hostile and ran us off.”

“Must have been embarrassing, in front of your girl and all.”

“Miss Frantzis isn’t my girl, I’ve only known her a few days. Look, I know you’re only doing your job here but you’re wasting your time. Lurch, Trane, whatever his name is, was half out of his tree on meth last night. Since the city’s evicting him and his girlfriend is taking off—”

“You know his girlfriend too?” He checked a notepad. “Chastity Salvador?”

“We met her last night, why?”

“You seem to know these people pretty well.”

“Well enough to know that if somebody torched the Potter house, Trane’s the one you should be talking to, not me.”

“Maybe so. Phil tells me you’re a lawyer. Used to be an assistant D.A. with the Wayne County prosecutor’s office?”

“That’s right. So?”

“Seems like you came a long ways from Detroit just to open a junk shop.”

“Secondhand shop.”

“Whatever. I’d think an attorney could do better. A lot of guys would give an arm for the opportunities you have.”

“I wouldn’t know. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m just trying to make you add up, Mr. Kenyon. Me, I’m a Bay Harbor boy, born and raised. A northside Polack, strong as an ox and half as smart. But when the Potter house blew up, it occurred to me that Trane might be involved. I even put out an all points for him. Found him too. Know where he was?”

“I give up. Where?”

“In jail. Punched out a bartender over in Saginaw. Spent the night in the tank there. Refused to give the arresting officers his name. They didn’t know who he was till his prints came back this morning. How’s that for an alibi, counselor?”

“Pretty good.”

“I think so too. That’s why I’m here, talking to the guy who had a... minor confrontation with Trane last night. Just before his freakin’ house blew up.”

“I’ve told you all I know. What did his girlfriend say?”

He looked away a moment, making up his mind. “She won’t be making any statements,” he shrugged. “On account of she’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“She was in the house when it went up. Never had a chance. Garage exploded, torched the old house like a flamethrower. If she was lucky, the explosion killed her before she burned. Looks like the garage was a methamphetamine lab. But then you already knew that, didn’t you? You said Trane was high on meth.”

“I don’t know anything about a lab, but I’ve met a few meth heads.”

“In Detroit, you mean. Trane is from Detroit.”

“So is Eminem. Detroit’s a big town, Chief. I only met Trane a few days ago. Here.”

“Are you certain about that? Phil tells me you had a closed head injury a year or so back. Said it affects your memory.”

“That’s right. Sometimes.”

“No offense, Mr. Kenyon, but you’ve got a pretty good defense going yourself. Could it be you knew Trane but don’t remember? But maybe he remembered you? Something like that?”

“If he remembered me he didn’t mention it. You’re making this too complicated, Chief. If Trane was cooking crystal the clock was already running on him. Meth’s a high risk business. Labs blow up, guys toast their brains on their own dope, or their competition whacks them out.”

“You think that’s what happened? Trane’s competition took a run at him? Killed his girlfriend by accident?”

“I don’t know, I’m only guessing. Sounds like you are too.”

“Amen to that,” Liske admitted. “Well. This has been real interesting, Mr. Kenyon. Just so we’re clear on something, I’m not the detective who’s handling this case, that’ll be Sergeant Thompson. He may want to talk to you later. I came because Phil Barrett and I have been pals our whole lives, dated the same girls, played high school football together. I knew your wife, Tiffany. Watched her grow up. I’m sorry as hell for your loss. She was special.”

“Yes she was.”

“That said, I can only do so much for auld lang syne. You say you don’t know Trane or his girlfriend, I’ll accept that. For now. But if you’re jerking me around—”

“I’m not.”

He eyed me a moment, reading my face. And maybe my thoughts. “Okay. Sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances, Mr. Kenyon. And if you have any more ideas about who might’ve torched that house, give me a call, okay? Us small town cops need all the big city help we can get.”

Right.

After Liske left I opened the shop. Sort of. Usually I put on coffee, straighten the stock, then scan the morning paper for sales. Not today. Didn’t even turn on the lights. Just sat at my desk, surrounded by debris from other lives. Thinking about a girl named Chastity. And how sudden life can be. And how hard.

The bell on the front door jingled. Karla Frantzis poked her head in. “Hi, are you busy?”

“Not very. I take it you’ve heard what happened?”

“Had a visit from the police first thing this morning,” she said somberly, stepping in. “It’s awful. That poor girl.”

“She said the house frightened her. I guess she was right to be afraid. What did the police want?”

“I’m not sure. He was polite, but he asked a lot of questions. Mostly about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth, that I don’t know you very well. I don’t think he believed me.”

“Cops quit believing people the first week they wear the badge. They get lied to. A lot. Tends to shake their faith in humanity.”

“You used to be in that line of work. How’s your faith in humanity?”

“I’m not sure I ever had any. Why do you ask?”

“You seem different this morning. Darker.”

“This situation’s stirring up a lot of stuff I’m still trying to work through.”

“The accident, you mean? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. All I did was talk about it in the hospital. Talked to psychiatrists, psychologists, rehab therapists. Try to remember, Mr. Kenyon. Try to forget. Try to fly to the moon by flapping your arms. I’ve had all the advice I can handle.”

“Maybe you just need a friend. I’m a good listener.”

“Then try listening! I don’t want to talk, I don’t want a new pal, I just want to be left alone.”

“Whoa,” she said, stiffening. “I hear that loud and clear. I didn’t mean to pry, I just — maybe I’d better go.”

“No, wait a minute. I’m sorry I bit your head off. You seem like a nice person and you probably mean well, but you’re wasting your time on me. I’m like the things in my shop. Damaged goods. Secondhand.”

Pausing in the doorway, she glanced back at me. “I happen to like secondhand, Stu’s Nothing New. Good stuff is worth saving. Maybe I’ll see you around. Maybe not.”

And she was gone. I sat there in the dark awhile, massaging my eyes, kicking myself for being a jerk. The phone rang. The last thing I wanted was more conversation. Picked it up anyway.

“Stu? It’s Mamie Szmanski, from Midland. About those View-Master reels you sent over?”

“What about them? No good?”

“The quality’s fine but we need to talk about them. Your place or mine?”

“I don’t know if — damn. I’ll have to call you back, Mamie, somebody’s at the delivery door.”

Probably Phil wondering why the lights were off in the shop.

I unlocked the delivery door and Trane barged in, shoving me back inside, slamming the door behind him.

“Hold on, you can’t—” He hit me! No warning, a hard right, flush on the jaw. Then something slammed into my face. The floor, I think. I was on my hands and knees, trying to clear the haze. Still had the phone in my hand. Couldn’t remember why.

Grabbing my shirt, Trane hauled me upright, his face an inch from mine. Red-eyed, pupils dilated, twitching, he was barely two clicks from insanity.

“I need my stuff back,” he snarled. “Where is it?”

“What stuff?”

“From the house! I need all of it! Right frickin’ now!”

“But I don’t have it, I—”

“Don’t jack me around! I ain’t doin’ no time over this! Where the hell is it?”

“I’ve already sold some—”

The front doorbell jingled, freezing both of us. Karla again.

“Okay, I’ve cooled off and — hey, what’s going on?”

“Get out of here!” I yelled, hammering Trane with the phone, knocking him off me, gashing open his cheek. His face was streaming blood but he scarcely noticed. Scrambling to his feet, he went charging through the shop after Karla.

She ducked out into the street, yelling for help, fumbling for a cell phone.

I reeled after them, still wobbly from Trane’s sucker punch, bouncing off the displays.

Outside, Trane and Karla were struggling over her cell phone, Karla still screaming for help. Tearing her phone away, Trane backhanded her, knocking her down.

And I snapped! Howling, I slammed into him, tackling him chest high, the rush carrying us across the hood of a parked car into the street. I came down on top as we crashed to the pavement, flailing wildly, landing a couple of punches, spraying us both with his blood. But he was too wired, too strong!

Clubbing me off him with a forearm, he wrestled me against the car, pinning me with his weight, his hands gouging my throat, cutting off my air. The world shifted to red, then to black. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t break his hold.

Tried to twist free, brought my knee up, hard, into his groin. Grunting from the impact, he lost his hold, stumbling back. As he lunged again I jammed my foot into his chest, kicking him off me.

Karla’s scream was drowned in a shriek of rubber, then an earthquake crunch of metal bucked me into the sky! For an endless instant I was soaring, airborne, then I crashed down, bouncing off parked cars like a pinball. Landing hard on the concrete.

Tried to get up. Only made it to my hands and knees, dazed, looking around. Trane was sprawled a few feet from me, his legs pinned under a wrecked car, eyes sightless, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.

But it wasn’t Trane. It was Tiffany! God! Tiff was bleeding! I crawled to her, cradling her head in my arms, crooning her name. But she didn’t answer...

Snow. Slowly swirling clouds of misty white. Couldn’t quite see through it. Blinked, trying to focus. The blizzard slowly morphed into a ceiling tile. Not snow. A white ceiling tile. Heard a voice, far away. Faint, metallic. Asking Dr. Somebody to report somewhere. Didn’t recognize the name. But the sound was very familiar.

Hospital. I was in a hospital. Tried to sit up. My head was hammering. Phil Barrett was there, sitting in a plastic chair by the bed. He looked rumpled, his tie askew.

“Easy, Stu,” he said. “Just relax, I’ll get a nurse.”

“No, wait,” I mumbled, grabbing his wrist. “Tiff was bleeding. Is she all right?”

He stared at me without answering. Which was answer enough. I lay back on my pillows. And faded away.

The second time I came out of the fog my head was a little clearer. Which was a good thing. Phil was still beside my bed but he wasn’t alone. Chief Liske was there too, in uniform, leaning against the window frame, arms folded. Watching me.

“How do you feel?” Phil asked quietly.

“Like I fell off a mountain. A big one,” I said, blinking, taking in the room, trying to gather my wits. “What happened?”

“We were hoping you could clear that up for us,” Liske said.

“When you woke earlier, you seemed pretty confused,” Phil said quickly. “Are you sure you’re all right now?”

I considered that, remembering. “There was a... crash. I guess I had a flashback. Something like that. I thought... Hell, I don’t know what I thought. I’m okay now.”

“What went down out there, Mr. Kenyon?” Liske pressed.

“I just remember... bits and pieces. Trane came to my shop. Angry. Wired up on something. I think he’d been in a fight.”

“Why do you say that?”

“His face was marked, fat lip, scratch under one eye. He was raving, then he decked me. We were mixing it up when Karla came in. He chased her. I went after him and... tackled him, I guess. I’m not clear about the rest of it. There was some kind of a crash and... here we are.”

“You were fighting in the street,” Phil said. “A car swerved to avoid you and lost control. You’re lucky to be alive—”

Liske waved him to silence. “Why were you fighting with Mr. Trane? Did you two have a falling out?”

I stared at Liske, trying to grasp the question. “We never had a falling in. I hardly know the guy. I only met him a few days ago.”

“Then what was the fight about?”

“I honestly don’t know. He pushed into my shop ranting about wanting his stuff back.”

“The meth, you mean?”

“Meth?”

“Trane was running a methedrine lab in his garage,” Liske explained patiently. “It blew up, remember? About an hour after your previous argument with him.”

“I didn’t argue with him that night. We were near the garage and he ran us off.”

“So you said. And this morning this guy you hardly know comes to your store and attacks you for no reason at all?”

“It’s the truth. Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Questioning me like a suspect. You must have talked to Miss Frantzis. Didn’t she tell you what happened?”

“She said she walked into your shop, saw you and Trane struggling. You yelled at her to run, Trane caught her as she was dialing 911 on her cell. You jumped Trane, pushed him into the street. Where he was struck by a car. And killed.”

“He’s dead?” I swallowed.

“Why should you care? He attacked you for no reason, remember?”

I looked away, trying to make sense of it.

“Mr. Kenyon,” Liske said quietly. “You’d better understand your situation. We don’t have much crime here in Bay Harbor. All of a sudden we’ve got two deaths in as many days and you’re associated with both of them. The only reason you’re not under arrest right now is because Phil Barrett says you’re okay and that’s good enough for me. But I’ve gone as far as I can to protect you. If there’s anything you haven’t told me—”

“There isn’t.”

“All right. Look, I know that your accident left you with some memory problems, but I need something to work with here. If you can come up with anything that might help clear this up, anything at all, you call me or tell Phil about it. We take care of our own in this town. We’ll do our best to keep you out of trouble. Fair enough?”

“More than fair, Chief. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, this isn’t over. We’ll talk again when you’re feeling better. Meantime, you rest up. And do some serious thinking, all right?”

After Liske left, Phil tried to make small talk, but he was clearly uneasy, fidgeting, avoiding my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked at last.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Stu? When you woke up before, you...”

“I asked you about Tiffany. I remember.”

He nodded, his eyes misting.

“I was groggy, Phil. Waking up in a hospital, I guess I got the two accidents mixed up. I’m sorry if it upset you. But I’m not crazy. I know Tiff’s gone.”

“And the rest of it? Your trouble with this Trane fella? You’ve got to admit it looks bad. Is there anything more you want to say to me? Off the record, I mean?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Do you have some kind of a drug problem, Stu? Do you need money? Damn it, I’ve stood by you and I’ve asked friends to go out on a limb for you—”

“What are you saying? That you think I might be mixed up with a dope dealer? That I kill people? I thought you believed in me.”

“I did. I mean, I do. But—”

“But what?”

“You’ve changed, Stu. The fella my Tiffany married was a hotshot young attorney who took my girl down to Detroit to ride a rocket to the top. But since the accident, moving to Bay Harbor, opening a dinky little secondhand shop...” He shook his head. “I’ve tried to be patient, Stu, I know you’ve been through a lot. But I’m not sure I know you anymore.”

“Then maybe you never did. Look, I’m really tired, Phil. It’s been a long day.”

“Sure,” he said, rising stiffly. “You get some rest, boy. We’ll talk later. Meantime, take Tom Liske’s advice and do some thinking. You could be in a lot of trouble.”

“I will.”

And I did. But not at the hospital. After Phil left, I dragged myself out of bed, waited for the room to stop rocking, then stumbled into the bathroom for a quick inventory. A bandage on my left side, assorted bruises everywhere, throat going purple, a half dozen stitches above my right ear. No wonder Phil figured me for a thug. I looked like a wino after a train wreck. Felt like one, too.

I struggled into my street clothes, then checked myself out. I’ve already spent too much of my life in hospitals.

My shop was stone silent when I let myself in. Nothing moving, nothing breathing. Dead. The green message light on my answering machine was winking at me. I ignored it.

Instead, I eased myself painfully down at my desk at the back of the store, looking out over the orderly rows of secondhand stock. Kitchen canister sets, magazine racks, Bentwood rockers, Beatlemania handbags, all neatly arranged by era or manufacturer. I’d only been away a few hours, but somehow it looked very different to me.

Liske called it a junk shop. He was right. Everything in it was hard used. Thrown away.

Especially me. Battered and scarred. With a broken memory. And a secondhand heart.

There was a tentative tap on the back door.

“Come on in, Phil.” But it wasn’t Phil.

“Hey,” Karla Frantzis said. “I called the hospital, they said you checked out. I need to talk to you... oh my God. You look awful. Are you okay?”

“No. I’m definitely not okay. My, ah,” I coughed. “My wife is dead. Tiffany was killed in an auto accident eighteen months ago.”

Karla stared at me, her eyes dark with concern. “I don’t understand.”

“When I woke up at the hospital, I asked my father-in-law if Tiff was all right. Scared the hell out of him. He thought I’d lost the few marbles I have left. When he asked me about it later I told him I knew she was dead. No big deal. I’ve said it a hundred times since the accident. But...” I swallowed. “Today was the first time I said it and knew it was true.”

“You’d better let me drive you home. You need to rest—”

“I’ve been resting. Hell, I’ve been sleepwalking for over a year. Hiding out in this place. I can’t do it anymore. Trane’s dead. Did you know?”

“I saw it happen,” she nodded. “It wasn’t your fault, Stu. He was trying to kill you.”

“Yeah, I guess he was. But I don’t understand why. I barely knew him.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Something about wanting his stuff back.”

“What stuff?”

“Methedrine, I guess. That’s the police theory, anyway.”

“But it was destroyed in the fire. He knew that. Why would he think you had it?”

“Maybe he didn’t. I mean — he didn’t say anything about meth. He said...” I closed my eyes, trying to focus. “He said he wanted the stuff from the house. All of it. But the meth was never in the house. We would have smelled it. Remember the stench outside the garage? Cooking up methedrine involves some nasty chemicals. Damn it, I should have recognized that smell.”

“We were looking for antiques, not dope. But if Trane didn’t want the meth, what was he after?”

“I don’t know. Nothing from that house was worth more than a few bucks.”

“I’m not so sure. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. After you got hurt I followed the ambulance to the hospital, hung around the waiting room.”

“Why?”

“Don’t be a jerk! I wanted to be sure you were all right. When they told me you were okay, I came back to my shop. But it felt odd. The door was still locked but... I think somebody broke in while I was away.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I’m a neat freak, Stu. I know where things belong. Everything in the place was disarranged, not trashed or anything, but definitely moved around. I think someone searched it.”

“Is anything missing?”

“That’s the odd thing. Only my ledger. The one with my notes from the execution sale at the Potter house.”

I chewed that over a moment, remembering cold, empty rooms, smashed furniture. And my dark dream of the hanged man.

“But we didn’t find anything of value in that house. Nothing. Unless it was something Trane sold the night before.”

“Like what?”

“It had to be something I bought because he came here looking for it. And I didn’t buy much, so...” I broke off, thinking.

“What is it?”

“That box of glass slides. The stereopticon negatives? Did you look at them?”

“Just a glance. The tints are reversed so I couldn’t tell much.”

“Do you have a stereopticon viewer?”

“A couple of them, why?”

“I want you to go through that box of negatives carefully, to see exactly what they are. But don’t do it in your shop. Take them to a public place, let’s say the Hampton Mall cafeteria.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

“I have to check something first. I’ll meet you there in an hour. But don’t dally at your shop. Get in and get out. Whoever searched it didn’t find what he was after. He might try again.”

After Karla left, I took the two stereopticon slides I’d put aside in my desk and held them up to the light.

There was nothing remarkable about them. They were duplicates of the same shot. A boy, ten or eleven, leaning over, lacing his shoes. And I realized what had bothered me about the picture earlier.

There was a radio on a coffee table in the background. A Deltrola, chrome front, naugahyde body. Very stylish, quite collectable.

But it didn’t belong there.

Stereopticons were popular in the late nineteenth century, for parlors, public slide shows. By World War I they were gone, replaced by the movies. Collectors prize the slides because they offer a clear view of the past, a window into the Victorian era.

But the radio in this shot dated from around nineteen fifty. So what was it doing in a stereopticon negative?

Obviously Jerome Potter had taken these photographs using an antique camera. But why?

And why make two negatives of the same shot... but they weren’t exactly the same. The angle was slightly different. And that was the answer. 3-D. The pictures were three dimensional.

I made a call to Mamie Szmanski to ask about the View-Master reels I sent her. And got a major chewing out. She used language I’ve never heard outside a locker room.

Afterward I sat at my desk, thinking, as the afternoon faded into dusk. I didn’t turn on the lights.

They came a little after seven. Didn’t bother to knock. I was half dozing when I heard a key in the lock. The door eased open and they slipped inside. Shadow figures in the dark. Flashlight beams flicked around the room. One flicked across my face. Then whipped back, locking onto me.

“Come on in. Why don’t you switch on the lights?”

The fluorescent lights flickered on overhead, bathing the shop in an icy glare.

There were two of them. Chief Tom Liske in civvies, blue windbreaker, faded jeans, carrying a weighted flashlight. And my father-in-law, Phil Barrett.

“Put your hands on the desk, Kenyon,” Chief Liske ordered, pulling a snub-nosed automatic from under his windbreaker. “Don’t even blink.” Crossing the room, he patted me down for weapons. Didn’t find any. Then backed away, the gun leveled at my midsection.

“My God, Tom, what are you doing?” Phil objected. “There’s no need for that.”

“You’ve stood up for this guy from the first and I’ve gone along,” Liske growled. “Not anymore. There’s too much at stake. We’re gonna have a conversation, Kenyon. And if I don’t like the way it goes, you’ll be in more trouble than you ever dreamed of. Clear?”

I nodded.

“Where’s the stuff you got from the Potter house?”

“Why do you want it?”

“Don’t play dumb, Kenyon. You know Trane was cooking meth in the garage. He may have concealed it in something you bought—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No chance.”

“What do you mean, no!”

“You aren’t looking for methedrine, Chief. If you were, you’d have a dog with you. Any half-trained pooch can sniff that crap from across the street and we both know it. You’re after something else.”

“Like what?”

“Pictures. Pornography. Secret shots of little kids undressing. Pretty tame by today’s standards, but there’s a monster market for kiddie porn on the Internet. Especially if it’s three dimensional, like stereopticons or View-Masters. How did you spot it? On the Web?”

Liske was a pro, his face showed nothing. But the pain in Phil’s eyes told me more than I wanted to know.

“God,” he said softly. “I’m almost glad—”

“Shut your mouth, Phil,” Liske snapped. “He isn’t one of us.”

“No, I’m not,” I conceded. “I’m an outsider who blundered into this. And now two people are dead. I need to understand what’s happening.”

“Give you enough to bury us?” Liske snorted. “Not likely.”

“I don’t want to bury anybody, Chief. I’m having trouble enough just making it day to day. But I’m involved in this now. And so are you. I think I know part of it. Suppose I tell you what I think? You can fill in the blanks. Or not. Your choice.”

“I’m listening,” Liske said.

“All right. Jerome Potter was a pornographer and a pedophile. He was old money and social position meant a lot in those days so business was good. Parents were proud to have their kids’ pictures taken by a society photographer. But he was also sneaking pictures of the kids changing clothes. I’m guessing he got caught at some point. What happened?”

Warning Phil to silence with a look, Liske eyed me a moment, then shrugged. “Apparently taking pictures wasn’t enough for Jerome. He started groping boys. When their parents found out, they had a real problem. They couldn’t try Potter without putting a lot of children through hell, maybe marking them for life.”

“So they ran him off instead?”

“Exactly,” Phil said bitterly. “Jerome closed his studio and moved to Florida. Some years later he came back home to that old house and committed suicide. And good riddance!”

“The house stood empty for years,” Liske continued. “Then a few months ago, some photos showed up in my department’s Internet porn watch. I recognized some of the kids from years ago. Trane was squatting in the old Potter place. We figured he found a cache of Jerome’s old photographs and peddled them.”

“When he wasn’t cooking meth,” I added.

“Yeah, I knew about that,” Liske admitted. “Trane wasn’t too bright. You could smell his lab a block away. But I couldn’t bust him. If he had more pictures they’d be found and entered as evidence. It would dredge up the whole dirty business again, cause a lot of pain and embarrassment to innocent people.”

“So we decided to squeeze him out,” Phil said, the story coming out in a rush now. “The Downtown Development Authority bought the house, served him with eviction papers, and ordered an execution sale. We didn’t want trouble, we just wanted him to move on.”

“I thought we had things under control,” Liske continued. “We planned to buy up everything at the sale, force Trane out, then demolish the place once and for all.”

“But you found out Trane tried to beat the execution sale by unloading everything first. Then what? You torched the house?”

Phil and Liske exchanged a glance.

“We didn’t,” Liske conceded, “but there are others involved. Good men, family men, who have a lot to lose if those pictures become public. It’s possible someone panicked and started that fire. There’s no way to prove it now. Meth labs are high risk operations, you said so yourself. They blow up every damn day.”

“And the dead girl?”

“Was living on top of her brain-dead boyfriend’s meth operation. What happened was awful but it was an accident. No one meant her harm. She should have chosen her playmates better.”

I glanced at Phil but he avoided my eyes.

“And now?” I asked.

“Now? Now it’s over,” Liske said simply. “If you’ll let it be. We’ll buy any pictures that surface and I’ll bust the perverts who sell ’em. The DDA will build low income apartments on the Potter house site and in a few years nobody will remember it was ever there. We all move on. Any problem with that?”

“Just one.”

“What’s that?”

“You left out part of the story. You didn’t commit arson and burglary to keep a few old pictures from turning up. You were afraid the truth about Jerome Potter would come out.”

“What truth?”

“Child molesters are monsters who can pass for normal because they don’t feel guilt about what they do. They commit unspeakable acts. They even commit murder. But they never commit suicide.”

“What are you saying?”

“A few years after your folks ran Jerome off, he came back. Maybe he thought the scandal had blown over or that his money and social position would protect him. What he didn’t figure was that some of the kids he molested had grown up. A few of them were playing high school football. When Jerome Potter hanged himself in that house, he wasn’t alone, was he? And it wasn’t suicide.”

“God,” Phil groaned, turning away.

“Shut your mouth,” Liske snapped. “You’re only guessing, Kenyon. You can’t prove a thing.”

“I’m not trying to. I don’t give a damn about Potter. What happened to him was rough but it was still justice. It’s the aftermath that bothers me. Trane was a speed freak on borrowed time, but his girl wasn’t part of this and neither was I. I think you threatened Trane with jail time, roughed him up, and turned him loose on me to recover those pictures. He wound up dead and nearly took me with him. And the girl? You can’t just write her off as a casualty. She didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“Nobody meant for that to happen!”

“I believe you. I truly do. But she’s dead all the same. And so is Trane. I don’t know how you can make that right, gentlemen, but you’ll have to find a way. I know a little about living with ghosts. My God, Potter’s been dead all these years and he’s still smashing your lives.”

“What are you going to do?” Liske asked.

“Nothing. I owe Phil Barrett more than I can ever repay. So I won’t say anything. I don’t have to. Even if you never spend a day in jail you won’t get away with this. It’s going to destroy you. It’s already happening. That’s the trouble with the past. It may be gone, but it’s never really over, is it? For any of us.”

I was marking things down for a quick sale when the front doorbell jingled and Karla Frantzis came in. She was wearing a Christmas sweater, red with an embroidered green tree. Very festive. But there was nothing light about her mood. She made her way through the aisles to me, frowning at the sale prices.

“Somebody told me you were selling out and leaving. Going back to Detroit?”

“No. To Lansing. A buddy has a small law firm there. I can work as a paralegal, take some refresher courses at State, fill in the gaps.”

“But why sell the shop? You love this place.”

“I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe I only needed it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was comatose for months after the crash. When I came out of the dark, they sent me home. Or tried to. We had a condo in Rochester Hills. All the furniture was new, expensive. Looked like it had just been delivered. But I couldn’t remember it. Where we bought it or why we chose it. Tiff’s grave was the same way. Her name is on the stone but...” I shook my head. “I couldn’t remember her.”

“Not anything?” Karla asked, watching me with those dark eyes.

“Only one thing. An afternoon when we were still in college. Tiff came charging into our crummy little apartment with a toaster she found at a flea market for five bucks. She was so excited about it she made breakfast for supper that night. Bacon and eggs. And toast. Lots of toast. And we were laughing. I don’t know why. And that’s the only clear memory I have of her. Tiff and that dumb five dollar toaster.”

“That’s not so dumb,” Karla said.

“Sure it is. People come into our stores shopping for bargains or collectibles, but down deep, most of them are really looking for... tokens. They think if they can find just the right memento, that somehow it’ll open a door into their past and bring it all back. If only for a moment.”

“My God,” she said softly, getting it. “That’s what you did, isn’t it? Some people buy a few relics. You bought a whole store. This place is a shrine. To one afternoon a long time ago. To a single memory.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. Crazy, right?”

“A little,” she admitted. “It’s also the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Romantic, crazy. What’s the difference?”

“In your case, probably none, Kenyon. But that’s not why I came. Can we talk business?”

“What business?”

“Secondhand. If you dump your stock at these prices you might as well hold an execution sale. Why don’t you let me keep the shop open instead? I can run it for you along with my own, we can split the profits. And I’ll have an excuse to see you once in awhile. To talk. What do you say?”

“That’s a very generous offer.”

“You bet it is. So?”

“Look, if you want to take over the shop, we can work that out. But you’re wasting your time on me, lady. I’m damaged goods.”

“I know that. And maybe you’re not repairable. With secondhand, every buy is a gamble. But that’s not always a bad thing. Taking a chance is part of the fun. Whenever I walk into a secondhand shop, do you know what I feel?”

“What?”

“Hope,” she said.