I pulled out the keys, laid them on the counter, and gave Betty the short version of what I’d been doing.
She moved the keys around with a finger, gave me a side-eyed look, and said, “Glad to hear of your reprieve. I was worried about you living in Teller’s Hotel, sitting in one of those musty old rooms drinking yourself to death. I’d feel just a little guilty because I was the one who arrested Duncan, thanks to you.
“As for that station wagon, I can’t do anything for you. There’d be no reason for the DMV to keep any records this long, so where would I start? If I were you, I’d ask Philip where the store records are. Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’re still around. Then you can hunt up the bill of sale for that chest and find out who bought it. Odds are, they’re the ones who came down and drove off in that wagon with it.”
As I coasted into the barnyard, I noticed that Annie’s kitchen window was open. I pulled up to the house, leaned against the window, and said to Annie’s back, “Did Bob ever mention a chest he sold that day?”
Annie jerked and dropped a cast-iron skillet on the floor. She stepped over the skillet, which was oozing gray, thick liquid, and said, “Next time knock. A chest? I don’t believe so. Is it important?”
“That day, the day of his first stroke, he was going to deliver a chest to someone. Apparently it resembled the classic treasure chest. His Buick had a flat tire, so the someone lent him a car. It was a ’76 Plymouth station wagon.”
She frowned. “So the Chrysler keys are to the station wagon, and the smaller key could be to the chest. Which means he was babbling when he said they were the keys to my dream. What he might have meant was that he had a key to a chest like a hope chest.”
“Possibly,” I said. “There are still a couple of things I’m going to check on, but I wouldn’t count on going to Key West next winter.”
“I won’t plan on it.” She stared at me a moment, gave me a thin smile, and said, “You’ve got a bit of a gleam in your eye.”
“Your reprieve has swept the acidic fog from my mind and replaced it with mild euphoria.”
She nodded and got down on her hands and knees to clean up the mess on the floor. “Well, Harry, as I said, you’ve been good to The Farm, and after a bit of rational thought I realized it would be ludicrous to punish you for doing what you thought was right.”
I watched her a moment. “What I’ve been wondering is, did you really come to that decision yesterday? Or did you plan on letting me stay weeks ago and allow me to suffer for a while as punishment?”
She slowly raised her head and gave me a heavy-lidded look and a smile that would curdle icewater. We stared at each other for several seconds; then she bent her head to her task, and I left the window and pedaled to the boat.
After supper I spent an hour or so unpacking, then, with Cat snuggled in my lap, sat in the settee with a mug of wine and looked out the window at the grove.
My grove.
After breakfast the next morning I finished unpacking and decided to start Cat on her daily stretches. CeeCee Dorfman was undoubtedly right. I spend twenty or thirty minutes a day stretching, and it made sense that Cat, as handicapped as she was, would also benefit from a daily workout.
I put her on her back in the middle of the cabin, gently took her front legs and pulled them over her head. She yowled, struggled to her feet, gave me a shocked look and a squeaky little hiss.
I petted her for a bit, massaged her scar tissue, and tried again. As soon as I started pulling on her legs, she yeowled, lurched to her feet, and paw raised, claws extended, gave that squeaky little hiss and limped into her nest under the cockpit.
Apparently my technique was just a tad off.
I spent ten minutes on my hands and knees with my head in the berth staring into Cat’s dilated eyes and spewing forth a lot of pleading nonsense. Finally I reestablished a semblance of trust, got her bundled up in the trailer, and headed to town. I didn’t want to play Talking for Dollars with Philip Kinch again, so I pedaled to Blood Sweat and Black Iron.
The parking lot was empty except for a rust-spotted maroon van with a black iron weight painted on the driver’s door. I leaned the bike against crumbling brick, put Cat in her sling, and pulled on the small door built into the first bay door.
It was locked. I stood there a moment, looked at the van, then slapped the door several times with the flat of my hand. I waited a few moments, then smacked it again.
The door opened suddenly, and CeeCee Dorfman said, “The door to my apartment is around back, up the stairway.”
She was dressed in jeans and a tight yellow T-shirt and was barefoot and braless. She also looked pale, bleary-eyed, and not exactly delighted to see me. I pasted a smile on my face. “I apologize. Am I interrupting something or may I come in?”
She gave Cat a quick knuckle rub and stepped back. “Come on up. I’ll spot you a cup of coffee and a glass of CeeCee Dorfman’s Magic Stuff.”
I followed her into the garage, through a silent dark forest of black iron to an open red door marked PRIVATE in white letters. We climbed narrow stairs, turned right, and entered a large room that was half kitchen, half living room.
The kitchen part was dominated by a commercial gas stove with eight burners and a large grill. She pointed at an unpainted picnic table squatting in front of the stove, and I pulled out a bench and perched on it. Cat immediately hauled herself out of the sling, climbed on the table, sat by a restaurant napkin holder, and stared at CeeCee Dorfman.
CeeCee gave me a mug of steaming coffee and set an empty glass next to it. From a large blender she poured a thick purple liquid into the glass. “My Magic Stuff. One quart would keep half a Mongol horde raping and pillaging for a week.” She sat next to me, smiled, and said, “So why the visit? You want to join up? Become a bodybuilder? Or do you just want to hang around and stare at my boobs?”
“I’m too old for the former and too reserved for the latter. I came to see you for two reasons. One, I’d like to hire you to stretch and massage Cat. This morning I tried and hurt her, and she got mad at me. If l keep it up, I’ll lose her trust. I also want to ask you if you happen to know what happened to Kinch and Kokar’s records, especially the bills of sale.”
She plucked Cat off the table and scratched her cars. “You’re still dogging that car?”
“Not compulsively, not like you dog weights. But I would like to find out who bought the chest. Perhaps they can shed light on Annie’s puzzle.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. I tried her Magic Stuff. It was thick, smelled like vanilla, and tasted like overripe bananas and malt. I took several gulps and followed it with a few sips of excellent coffee.
“Actually, I do know where K and K’s papers might be. After Bob stroked, Philip just barely hung on. Bob was the businessman and kept everything going. Philip was the salesman, liked to gab with the customers and couldn’t care less about the rest of it. After Bob had his second stroke and it was obvious he was heading out, we had a going-out-of-business sale and then Philip sold the building to the Catholic Church.”
“And the Catholics turned it into a center for senior citizens.”
“That they did, but originally, before it was K and K Furniture, it was Osborn’s Restaurant. From what Bob said, the place was very popular for several years; then Mrs. Osborn was diagnosed with cervical cancer, fought the good fight, and croaked. Mr. Osborn was devastated, sold the place to Bob and Philip for a song, and the rest you know.”