“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.
The Girl Watcher
by Janice Law
“Mister, excuse me, Mister!”
Mister! Me, Troyman, formerly on a first name basis with a cool twenty million living, breathing listeners. Guys on cells and car phones making drive time with The Troy Donnelly Show, make that caps and emphasis, THE TROY DONNELLY SHOW! What’s this kid — twenty, maybe? Old enough but not enough car time. My fans were turnpike jockeys carrying a big load of carbon monoxide, reliables who got a thrill out of ringing up Troyman and saying Hello, keep giving them hell; no-lifers who wanted to vent, to grouse, to grab a bit of my air time.
“Yeah,” I say. “What’s wrong?” Course, I know. Knowledge has always been my strong suit. Who was on the take, who had an affair or an addiction; who was in, who was out, who had the goods, who had a weakness. I had all the dirt, and what I didn’t have, I knew how to get, because I could shake the Tree of Knowledge.
“You’re bothering the woman,” says the guard. Brown hair, dusty green top and pants over the regulation red swim trunks. He’s got a swimmer’s body, slim but well muscled, compact, not big. A lifesaver, not a bouncer.
“I’m looking for someone,” I say. “Someone important, all right? I’m meeting her on the beach and, sure, I stopped to talk to this young lady. She looks very like—”
“You grabbed her arm,” says the guard. “You kept calling her Shelley. You were insisting she knew you.”
“Mistake,” I say. “To err is human.” Kept me in business — the human penchant for error, for erring, for errant behavior, which in the right hands becomes blame, becomes a living, breathing illustration of the rottenness of things as they are, which is just the simple truth — and a damn profitable line, I can tell you.
“She was frightened,” says the guard. “She complained.” He looks like some bionic youth of the future in those reflecting bronze sunglasses. Probably has a drug problem.
“Look,” I say, “you don’t know who I am. I need to find Shelley...” I start to explain market share and distinctive voices and Shelley Phillips, who screwed my life up good, but he’s not listening.