Jeremy looked at his sister, who answered for the both of them: “His mind was going — to put it bluntly. We let him take a few things with him to the rest home. As far as he knows, he’s got everything right there with him.”
Natalia squinted at the two, perplexed. “But you just said he was giving you a percentage.”
“Oh. Well—” Jeremy turned to his sister.
“That was during one of his more lucid moments,” explained Erin. “You know how it is with people our grandfather’s age: perfectly rational and coherent one moment and totally out of it the next.” Erin swallowed. “Don’t you think you should let all those people in? It’s past time.”
Natalia opened the door. There were at least twenty men and women and a couple of children, who now rushed into the room. Their eager entrance was suggestive of a big department store sale, but obviously played out on a slightly smaller scale.
“Please be careful,” Natalia had to say to one man right off the bat. He was shaking a Roy Rogers boot bank, apparently trying to discover if there were any coins still left inside.
The memorabilia had been distributed throughout three different rooms. Natalia, Erin, and Jeremy each took a different room so they could keep a close eye on the customers and answer any questions.
“Are these their real autographs?” an overweight, middle-aged woman asked Natalia. The woman was holding an inscribed color photograph of Roy and Dale posed behind a rustic fence railing, each gazing lovingly into the eyes of the other. Both wore excessively fringed Western shirts and colorful kerchiefs around their necks.
“Since they’ve personalized their sentiments to someone named Patrick, I’d say these are their original signatures.” Natalia remembered that the old man’s first name was Tyler. Perhaps he bought the picture from someone named Patrick.
“I was only asking,” said the woman, clutching the framed photo, “because, as you can see, Roy Rogers’ name is on everything in this house. It’s hard to tell what’s a real signature and what isn’t.”
The man standing next to the woman, who did not seem to know her, volunteered an opinion: “Whether it’s a real signature or a printed one, it doesn’t much matter. Roy and Dale are notorious for signing anything you shove in their face. They’re real autographing sluts that way.”
“That was rude,” said the woman to the man.
“I’m just saying, don’t let this woman charge you too much for something just because it’s been autographed.” Then the man turned to Natalia and held up a Roy Rogers rodeo lamp — the kind you’d put next to a kid’s bed. “How much for the lamp?”
With a straight face, Natalia replied, “Ten thousand dollars.”
At eight o’clock, Erin’s friend Betsy came to help out. Betsy was blond and very pretty and lit up the room with her smile, like Mary Tyler Moore.
With Betsy now helping out, Natalia was able to turn the living room over to Erin and let Betsy have the den, and then Natalia moved to the kitchen, where she set herself up at the table with the cash box and the receipt book. This was easier than trying to transact business in a more roving fashion. So far, business had been much better than she expected. Usually the die-hards would come early. After that there would be a lull. The rest of the day would bring a trickle of dilettante collectors and curious locals and those hoping to find something for sale that didn’t necessarily have to do with the overriding theme of the collection. Not today. Today there was a good, steady stream of serious customers.
Natalia totaled up a large purchase from a man who had been in the house since she first opened the door. He was pulling a Roy Rogers “chuck wagon,” which was a little red wagon fitted up to look like a miniature Conestoga. The man had filled it with Roy Rogers authorized appareclass="underline" boots and “bootsters,” socks, spurs and cuffs, a rodeo suit and frontier shirt, all imprinted with the same familiar Roy Rogers signature, and one of several different images of Roy mounted on Trigger. The man was also set to purchase a Roy Rogers children’s paint set in mint condition, a Roy Rogers harmonica, and Roy Rogers authorized binoculars. He mostly accepted the prices Natalia had scribbled on the tags, but now and then would haggle a little, and Natalia would haggle a little in return until the two had reached an amicable agreement.
Once the man had emptied his wallet and departed, Natalia found herself alone. She took a sip from either her third or fourth cup of coffee of the morning (she’d lost count) and took a bite of her crumbly blueberry muffin. It was a little after ten. There were fewer buyers in the house now, but she could still hear the sound of people commenting to each other on all the remaining merchandise. She could hear something else as well — an odd noise coming from somewhere behind her. The only thing behind her was a door that she assumed opened onto a kitchen pantry.
It was a scratching sound with a little thumping mixed in. A mouse? Do mice “thump”? she wondered. Natalia was frightened to death of mice and had no desire whatsoever to investigate. She tried to distract herself by looking over the contract that Erin and Jeremy had signed. At the top of the page were the words “Estate Sale on Behalf of Tyler Enger. Authorized agents: Jeremy Enger, Erin Enger.” This reminded her of the autographed picture that had been personalized to someone named Patrick. It was a little thing, really, but most collectors didn’t like to buy items with personalized autographs unless the recipient was somebody famous.
And still there was the scratching and the thumping. This was no mouse. This was something much bigger. A chill shot through Natalia. She got up from her chair to go and ask Erin about it. Then there came from behind the door a different sound altogether: a moan. A human moan.
Something was going on — something disturbing that she would have to look into, whether she wanted to or not. Natalia recalled that Erin and her brother had struggled a little with answers to a couple of her questions about their grandfather. And earlier the brother and sister had contradicted their own statement about the arrangement the old man had made in terms of dividing the proceeds from the sale. It had seemed suspicious. Everything seemed suspicious to her now. Where were their parents? Why was it only the old man’s grandchildren who had been assigned the task of unloading his extensive Roy Rogers memorabilia collection?
Natalia went to the door. Not knowing what or who she might find, but hoping against hope that it had absolutely nothing to do with the old man, she slowly opened the door. It wasn’t a pantry that lay on the other side; it was a basement — or rather, stairs leading down to a basement. And it wasn’t Tyler Enger whom she found on the stairs. In spite of the disturbing picture in front of her, she almost sighed with relief. Erin and Jeremy hadn’t imprisoned their grandfather in the basement so they could sell his Roy Rogers collection. They’d imprisoned someone else — a much younger man. The young man was gagged and bound, but had apparently, over some period of time, managed to get himself two-thirds of the way up the stairs. He was looking up at her, pleading with his eyes for assistance.
Natalia found the light switch and flicked on the naked bulb that dangled over the stairs. She descended a couple of the steps and then closed the door behind her. Hopefully, this would buy her a minute or two. If Erin or Jeremy or Erin’s friend Betsy came into the kitchen, they would, perhaps, conclude that she had momentarily ducked into the bathroom.
Natalia took the three additional steps necessary to put herself next to the hog-tied young man. She fumbled with the knot that held the gag tightly in place and was able to undo it so that the man could speak.