The Wrong Gun

8

Tracy Garvin came pelting down the circular staircase and found Martin standing in the front hallway calmly consulting his clipboard. In her agitation, Tracy couldn’t remember his name. So she clattered down the stairs crying out simply, “Gunshot!”

Martin looked up, saw her, smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “That would be Mr. Timberlaine and I believe Mr. Nigouri at the pistol range. I know he had a gun Mr. Timberlaine wanted to check out.”

Tracy blinked. “Pistol range?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Martin pointed. “From the patio take the path off to the left.”

Steve Winslow came walking calmly down the circular stair in time to hear the last exchange. Tracy looked up, caught his eye and he smiled.

Tracy flushed slightly, then turning back to Martin and mustering what dignity she could, said, “And how do we get to the patio?”

Martin pointed again. “Right through there.”

“I suppose you knew it all along,” Tracy said, as she and Steve followed Martin’s directions and stepped out onto a marble terrace running the length of the back of the building.

“Not at all,” Steve said. “That gunshot could just as well have been the murderer firing Pistol Pete Robbins’s Colt.45 into the heart of Russ Timberlaine’s archrival, Melvin Burdett. And I think the fact that it wasn’t in no way diminishes any theories you’ve advanced so far.”

“Fuck you,” Tracy said. “How did you know it was nothing?”

“I didn’t.”

“You walked calmly down the stairs as if nothing had happened.”

“I walked calmly down the stairs because running wouldn’t have helped.”

“Why not?”

“Because unfortunately killers don’t stand over their victims holding the murder weapon, they flee the scene. Once they do, they leave a tableau that basically does not change. The matter of a few seconds in viewing it is not going to make any difference whatsoever.”

“We might have seen something.”

“What?”

“Someone fleeing the scene.”

“If there had been, I’m sure you would have seen them and told me.”

“Yes, of course, but-”

“And,” Steve said. “If I’d gone racing down those front steps, I’d be feeling as foolish as you’re feeling now.”

“Exactly,” Tracy said. “That’s what pisses me off. You’re developing into a conservative old fogy. You’re so concerned about what people might think of you that you’d risk missing a murder scene so as not to appear foolish.”

Steve frowned. “Not a very charitable interpretation of my actions.”

There came the sound of a gunshot up ahead and to the left.

Steve looked at Tracy. “What do you think? Should we run, or stroll along like old fogies?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Tracy said.

Steve nodded. “Right. Yet another hostile sexual reference. Tell me, are you upset because I’m so cool to your theories, or because they gave us separate rooms?”

Whatever crushing comeback Tracy may have had was forever lost, for at that moment they rounded a bend in the path and emerged at the pistol range.

The range was simply a small clearing in the wood. Two men stood in the clearing, Russ Timberlaine and a Japanese gentleman. They were looking down what appeared to be a path off to the left. As Steve and Tracy approached, Russ Timberlaine raised a gun, sighted and fired down the path. He lowered the gun, turned to the Japanese gentleman and said something.

Steve and Tracy came walking up.

Timberlaine saw them, turned, smiled, “Ah, Mr. Winslow. Miss Garvin. Glad you could make it.” He turned to the Japanese gentleman. “Mr. Nigouri, Mr. Winslow.”

As they shook hands, Mr. Nigouri said in perfect English, “Are you a collector, Mr. Winslow?”

“Afraid not,” Steve said. “And you?”

Nigouri smiled. “I’m selling, not buying. I’m here to auction off several weapons. Including that one,” he said, pointing to the one Timberlaine was holding. “So you won’t be bidding on it?”

“Afraid not,” Steve said.

“Then, perhaps you, Miss …?”

“Garvin,” Tracy said, taking his hand. “I’m afraid Steve and I are just looking.”

“Do you know anything about guns?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Ah, then let me show you,” Nigouri said.

He led Tracy off to one side of the clearing where there was a circular marble alcove and bench, obviously part of the original estate. On the bench was an open leather box. Nigouri began opening drawers, removing guns and showing them to Tracy.

Timberlaine smiled at Steve. “You watch out. He’ll sell her two pistols before dinner.”

“I don’t think she’s in the market,” Steve said.

Timberlaine shrugged. “You’d be surprised who’s buying guns these days.”

“What’s with you?” Steve said.

“What do you mean?”

Steve jerked his thumb. “Your outfit.”

Timberlaine was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and his hair was parted and pulled back in a ponytail. He grinned. “You mean what happened to the Wild West getup? Well, I have to admit that’s a complete affectation. I put it on when I’m carryin’ Pistol Pete’s gun. Or in this case, the substitute.” Timberlaine hefted the gun in his hand. “Now this baby’s a derringer. It’s French. Dates back to 1820. I’d look stupid firin’ it in cowboy boots. Plus, the other guns in the auction will be from all different countries, periods, what have you.”

“You bidding on them?” Steve asked.

“Oh, definitely,” Timberlaine said. “I always bid. I’ll be bidding on several.” He looked at the gun in his hand. “Though I think this baby’s the one I really want.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, there’s a story with it. I’m a sucker for stories. This gun was once owned by Marie LaBlanc, who was the victim of a tragic love affair. Her lover, Pierre LaTour, left her for a cafe singer. In despair she blew his brains out, then turned the gun on herself.”

“You’re kidding.”

Timberlaine frowned. “Why should I kid about a thing like that?”

“This gun here?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’ll pardon me, but how do you know that?” Steve jerked his thumb at Nigouri, who was still pulling out guns and bending Tracy’s ear. “I mean, how do you know your friend there isn’t buying old guns wholesale, then coming out here telling fancy stories and auctioning them off for record prices?”

Timberlaine shook his head. “Couldn’t happen. The guns’ histories are authenticated. Everything’s double-checked. And we have our own independent expert on hand, hired specifically for these auctions. And of course any of the guests are free to bring their own experts. Believe me, the guns are genuine.”

“I see,” Steve said.

“Dad,” came a voice.

Steve looked up as a young blonde bounced into the clearing. Steve smiled as he realized that’s how he’d describe it. The girl was young enough and lively enough that she gave the impression of bouncing. She had short, curly blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a turned-up nose. She was wearing a halter top and shorts and was barefoot.

She ran up to Timberlaine and kissed him on the cheek. “There you are,” she said. To Steve she added, “Always know where to find Dad. Just follow the gunshots.” She turned back to her father. “Donald and I are going out. I need money.”

“Money?” Timberlaine said. “So why don’t you stop at a cash machine?”

“Oh, it always takes so long. Just give me some money, Dad.”

“Where are you going?”

“Shea Stadium. The Mets game.”

“Oh,” Timberlaine said. He fished in his pocket for his wallet.

The girl, having accomplished her purpose, now turned her attention to Steve. “Who’s this?”

“Oh,” Timberlaine said. “Steve Winslow, this is my daughter, Carrie. Carrie, Steve Winslow.”

Carrie Timberlaine extended her hand. “Are you a collector, Mr. Winslow?”

Steve smiled. “Everyone asks me that. No, I’m not.”

“Mr. Winslow is the attorney I told you about,” Timberlaine said.

Carrie’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Winslow. You’ll pardon me, but you don’t look like a lawyer.”

Steve smiled again. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

Tracy, who had observed this, managed to excuse herself from Mr. Nigouri and materialize at Steve’s side, prompting another round of introductions.

Steve watched with some amusement. Tracy and Carrie, who were about the same age, did not exactly hit it off. Observing them, the phrase “shake hands and come out fighting” came to mind. They certainly eyed each other like adversaries, and without actually moving, still gave the impression of circling each other.

At about that point an athletic-looking young man with wavy brown hair and a soap opera star’s plastic good looks arrived and proved to be Donald Walcott, Carrie’s boyfriend, and the whole round of introductions began again.

“Steve Winslow’s the lawyer,” Carrie put in.

“Oh,” Donald said. “Then you’re here about the gun.”

Steve raised his eyes to Timberlaine. “This is public knowledge?”

“Well, they know, of course,” Timberlaine said. He nodded at Nigouri, who was packing up his guns on the other side of the clearing. “But, no, there is no reason to tell everyone.”

“My apologies, Russ,” Donald said. He put his hand to his mouth, made a twisting motion. “My lips are sealed. Still,” he said to Steve, “I think it’s a good idea you’re here. To find out what the hell is going on. But we’ll be discreet, we won’t tell anyone. Come on, Carrie. I don’t wanna miss the first inning.”

“Oh, yeah? If you’re late, it’s your own damn fault,” she said, and turned and ran up the path.

Donald smiled and ran off after her.

As soon as he did there came a thump and a curse, like an offstage sound effect in a sitcom. Moments later, Melvin Burdett came into view. He was rubbing his head, and looked slightly peeved when he came around the corner, but when he saw Timberlaine his face brightened.

“Ah, there you are,” Burdett said. “I might have known. Getting a jump on the competition. And Mr. Nigouri.”

Burdett’s eyes went straight to the gun in Timberlaine’s hand. “And which one have you got there?”

Timberlaine’s instinct was to hide the gun, but it was way too late. He took a breath, glowered in helpless frustration.

“Ah, yes, of course, the derringer,” Burdett said. “Is that what you plan to bid on? Excellent. Excellent choice.” Burdett nodded with complete satisfaction. He rubbed his hands together. “All I can say is, may the best man win.”