I parked my car and got out. As I approached the house, I saw an old man in a wheelchair planted in the side yard like a lawn ornament. He was parchment pale, with baby-fine white hair and rheumy eyes. The left half of his face had been disconnected by a stroke, and his left arm and hand rested uselessly in his lap. I caught sight of a woman peering through the window, apparently drawn by the sound of my car door slamming shut. I crossed the yard, moving toward the front porch. She opened the door before I had a chance to knock.
"You must be Kinsey Millhone. I just got off the phone with Avery. He said you'd be stopping by."
"That was quick. I didn't realise he'd be calling ahead. Saves me an explanation. I take it you're Jackie Barnett."
"That's right. Come in if you like. I just have to check on him," she said, indicating the man in the yard.
"Your father?"
She shot me a look. "Husband," she said. I watched her cross the grass toward the old man, grateful for a chance to recover from my gaffe. I could see now that she was older than she'd first appeared. She must have been in her fifties-at that stage where women wear too much makeup and dye their hair too bold a shade of blond. She was buxom, clearly overweight, but lush. In a seventeenth-century painting, she'd have been depicted supine, her plump naked body draped in sheer white. Standing over her, something with a goat's rear end would be poised for assault. Both would look coy but excited at the prospects.
The old man was beyond the pleasures of the flesh, yet the noises he made-garbled and indistinguishable because of the stroke-had the same intimate quality as sounds uttered in the throes of passion, a disquieting effect.
I looked away from him, thinking of Avery Lamb instead. He hadn't actually told me the woman was a stranger to him, but he'd certainly implied as much. I wondered now what their relationship consisted of.
Jackie spoke to the old man briefly, adjusting his lap robe. Then she came back and we went inside.
"Is your name Barnett or Squires?" I asked.
"Technically its Squires, but I still use Barnett for the most part," she said. She seemed angry, and I thought at first the rage was directed at me. She caught my look. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I've about had it with him. Have you ever dealt with a stroke victim?"
"I understand it's difficult."
"It's impossible! I know I sound hard-hearted, but he was always short-tempered and now he's frustrated on top of that. Self-centered, demanding. Nothing suits him. Nothing. I put him out in the yard sometimes just so I won't have to fool with him. Have a seat, hon."
I sat. "How long has he been sick?"
"He had the first stroke in June. He's been in and out of the hospital ever since."
"What's the story on the gun you took out to Avery's shop?"
"Oh, that's right. He said you were looking into some fellow's death. He lived right here on the Bluffs, too, didn't he?"
"Over on Whitmore."
"That was terrible. I read about it in the papers, but I never did hear the end of it. What went on?"
"I wasn't given the details," I said briefly. "Actually, I'm trying to track down a shotgun that belonged to him. Avery Lamb says it was the same gun you brought in."
She had automatically proceeded to get out two cups and saucers, so her answer was delayed until she'd poured coffee for us both. She passed a cup over to me, and then she sat down, stirring milk into hers. She glanced at me self-consciously. "I just took that gun to spite him," she said with a nod toward the yard. "I've been married to Bill for six years and miserable for every one of them. It was my own damn fault. I'd been divorced for ages and I was doing fine, but somehow when I hit fifty, I got in a panic. Afraid of growing old alone, I guess. I ran into Bill, and he looked like a catch. He was retired, but he had loads of money, or so he said. He promised me the moon. Said we'd travel. Said he'd buy me clothes and a car and I don't know what all. Turns out he's a penny-pinching miser with a mean mouth and a quick fist. At least he can't do that anymore." She paused to shake her head, staring down at her coffee cup.
"The gun was his?"
"Well, yes, it was. He has a collection of shotguns. I swear he took better care of them than he did of me. I just despise guns. I was always after him to get rid of them. Makes me nervous to have them in the house. Anyway, when he got sick, it turned out he had insurance, but it only paid eighty percent. I was afraid his whole life savings would go up in smoke. I figured he'd go on for years, using up all the money, and then I'd be stuck with his debts when he died. So I just picked up one of the guns and took it out to that gun place to sell. I was going to buy me some clothes."
"What made you change your mind?"
"Well, I didn't think it'd be worth but eight or nine hundred dollars. Then Avery said he'd give me six thousand for it, so I had to guess it was worth at least twice that. I got nervous and thought I better put it back."
"How soon after that did the gun disappear?"
"Oh, gee, I don't know. I didn't pay much attention until Bill got out of the hospital the second time. He's the one who noticed it was gone," she said. "Of course, he raised pluperfect hell. You should have seen him. He had a conniption fit for two days, and then he had another stroke and had to be hospitalized all over again. Served him right if you ask me. At least I had Labour Day weekend to myself. I needed it."
"Do you have any idea who might have taken the gun?"
She gave me a long, candid look. Her eyes were very blue and couldn't have appeared more guileless. "Not the faintest."
I let her practice her wide-eyed stare for a moment, and then I laid out a little bait just to see what she'd do. "God, that's too bad," I said. "I'm assuming you reported it to the police."
I could see her debate briefly before she replied. Yes or no. Check one. "Well, of course," she said.
She was one of those liars who blush from lack of practice.
I kept my tone of voice mild. "What about the insurance? Did you put in a claim?"
She looked at me blankly, and I had the feeling I'd taken her by surprise on that one. She said, "You know, it never even occurred to me. But of course he probably would have it insured, wouldn't he?"
"Sure, if the gun's worth that much. What company is he with?"
"I don't remember offhand. I'd have to look it up."
"I'd do that if I were you," I said. "You can file a claim, and then all you have to do is give the agent the case number."
"Case number?"
"The police will give you that from their report."
She stirred restlessly, glancing at her watch. "Oh, lordy, I'm going to have to give him his medicine. Was there anything else you wanted to ask while you were here?" Now that she'd told me a fib or two, she was anxious to get rid of me so she could assess the situation. Avery Lamb had told me she'd never reported it to the cops. I wondered if she'd call him up now to compare notes.
"Could I take a quick look at his collection?" I said, getting up.
"I suppose that'd be all right. It's in here," she said. She moved toward a small panelled den, and I followed, stepping around a suitcase near the door.
A rack of six guns was enclosed in a glass-fronted cabinet. All of them were beautifully engraved, with fine wood stocks, and I wondered how a priceless Parker could really be distinguished. Both the cabinet and the rack were locked, and there were no empty slots. "Did he keep the Parker in here?"
She shook her head. "The Parker had its own case." She hauled out a handsome wood case from behind the couch and opened it for me, demonstrating its emptiness as though she might be setting up a magic trick. Actually, there was a set of barrels in the box, but nothing else.