I glanced around. There was a shotgun propped in one corner, and I picked it up, checking the manufacturer's imprint on the frame. L. C. Smith. Too bad. For a moment I'd thought it might be the missing Parker. I'm always hoping for the obvious. I set the Smith back in the corner with regret.
"Well, I guess that'll do," I said. "Thanks for the coffee."
"No trouble. I wish I could be more help." She started easing me toward the door.
I held out my hand. "Nice meeting you," I said. "Thanks again for your time."
She gave my hand a perfunctory shake. "That's all right. Sorry I'm in such a rush, but you know how it is when you have someone sick."
Next thing I knew, the door was closing at my back and I was heading toward my car, wondering what she was up to.
I'd just reached the driveway when a white Corvette came roaring down the street and rumbled into the drive. The kid at the wheel flipped the ignition key and cantilevered himself up onto the seat top.
"Hi. You know if my mom's here?"
"Who, Jackie? Sure," I said, taking a flyer. "You must be Doug."
He looked puzzled. "No, Eric. Do I know you?"
I shook my head. "I'm just a friend passing through."
He hopped out of the Corvette. I moved on toward my car, keeping an eye on him as he headed toward the house. He looked about seventeen, blond, blue-eyed, with good cheekbones, a moody, sensual mouth, lean surfer's body. I pictured him in a few years, hanging out in resort hotels, picking up women three times his age. He'd do well. So would they.
Jackie had apparently heard him pull in, and she came out onto the porch, intercepting him with a quick look at me. She put her arm through his, and the two moved into the house. I looked over at the old man. He was making noises again, plucking aimlessly at his bad hand with his good one. I felt a mental jolt, like an interior tremor shifting the ground under me. I was beginning to get it.
I drove the two blocks to Lisa Osterling's. She was in the backyard, stretched out on a chaise in a sunsuit that made her belly look like a watermelon in a laundry bag. Her face and arms were rosy, and her tanned legs glistened with tanning oil. As I crossed the grass, she raised a hand to her eyes, shading her face from the winter sunlight so she could look at me. "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."
"I have a question," I said, "and then I need to use your phone. Did Rudd know a kid named Eric Barnett?"
"I'm not sure. What's he look like?"
I gave her a quick rundown, including a description of the white Corvette. I could see the recognition in her face as she sat up.
"Oh, him. Sure. He was over here two or three times a week. I just never knew his name. Rudd said he lived around here somewhere and stopped by to borrow tools so he could work on his motorcycle. Is he the one who owed Rudd the money?"
"Well, I don't know how we're going to prove it, but I suspect he was."
"You think he killed him?"
"I can't answer that yet, but I'm working on it. Is the phone in here?" I was moving toward the kitchen. She struggled to her feet and followed me into the house. There was a wall phone near the back door. I tucked the receiver against my shoulder, pulling the appraisal slip out of my pocket. I dialled Avery Lamb's gun shop. The phone rang twice.
Somebody picked up on the other end. "Gun shop."
"Mr. Lamb?"
"This is Orville Lamb. Did you want me or my brother, Avery?"
"Avery, actually. I have a quick question for him."
"Well, he left a short while ago, and I'm not sure when he'll be back. Is it something I can help you with?"
"Maybe so," I said. "If you had a priceless shotgun-say, an Ithaca or a Parker, one of the classics-would you shoot a gun like that?"
"You could," he said dubiously, "but it wouldn't be a good idea, especially if it was in mint condition to begin with. You wouldn't want to take a chance on lowering the value. Now if it'd been in use previously, I don't guess it would matter much, but still I wouldn't advise it-just speaking for myself. Is this a gun of yours?"
But I'd hung up. Lisa was right behind me, her expression anxious. "I've got to go in a minute," I said, "but here's what I think went on. Eric Barnett's stepfather has a collection of fine shotguns, one of which turns out to be very, very valuable. The old man was hospitalised, and Eric's mother decided to hock one of the guns in order to do a little something for herself before he'd blown every asset he had on his medical bills. She had no idea the gun she chose was worth so much, but the gun dealer recognised it as the find of a lifetime. I don't know whether he told her that or not, but when she realised it was more valuable than she thought, she lost her nerve and put it back."
"Was that the same gun Rudd took in trade?"
"Exactly. My guess is that she mentioned it to her son, who saw a chance to square his drug debt. He offered Rudd the shotgun in trade, and Rudd decided he'd better get the gun appraised, so he took it out to the same place. The gun dealer recognised it when he brought it in."
She stared at me. "Rudd was killed over the gun itself, wasn't he?" she said.
"I think so, yes. It might have been an accident. Maybe there was a struggle and the gun went off."
She closed her eyes and nodded. "Okay. Oh, wow. That feels better. I can live with that." Her eyes came open, and she smiled painfully. "Now what?"
"I have one more hunch to check out, and then I think we'll know what's what."
She reached over and squeezed my arm. "Thanks."
"Yeah, well, it's not over yet, but we're getting there."
When I got back to Jackie Barnett's, the white Corvette was still in the driveway, but the old man in the wheelchair had apparently been moved into the house. I knocked, and after an interval, Eric opened the door, his expression altering only slightly when he saw me. I said, "Hello again. Can I talk to your mom?"
"Well, not really. She's gone right now."
"Did she and Avery go off together?"
"Who?"
I smiled briefly. "You can drop the bullshit, Eric. I saw the suitcase in the hall when I was here the first time. Are they gone for good or just for a quick jaunt?"
"They said they'd be back by the end of the week," he mumbled. It was clear he looked a lot slicker than he really was. I almost felt bad that he was so far outclassed.
"Do you mind if I talk to your stepfather?"
He flushed. "She doesn't want him upset."
"I won't upset him."
He shifted uneasily, trying to decide what to do with me.
I thought I'd help him out. "Could I just make a suggestion here? According to the California penal code, grand theft is committed when the real or personal property taken is of a value exceeding two hundred dollars. Now that includes domestic fowl, avocados, olives, citrus, nuts, and artichokes. Also shotguns, and it's punishable by imprisonment in the county jail or state prison for not more than one year. I don't think you'd care for it."
He stepped away from the door and let me in.
The old man was huddled in his wheelchair in the den. The rheumy eyes came up to meet mine, but there was no recognition in them. Or maybe there was recognition but no interest. I hunkered beside his wheelchair. "Is your hearing okay?"
He began to pluck aimlessly at his pant leg with his good hand, looking away from me. I've seen dogs with the same expression when they've done pottie on the rug and know you've got a roll of newspaper tucked behind your back.
"Want me to tell you what I think happened?" I didn't really need to wait. He couldn't answer in any mode that I could interpret. "I think when you came home from the hospital the first time and found out the gun was gone, the shit hit the fan. You must have figured out that Eric took it. He'd probably taken other things if he'd been doing cocaine for long. You probably hounded him until you found out what he'd done with it, and then you went over to Rudd's to get it. Maybe you took the L. C Smith with you the first time, or maybe you came back for it when he refused to return the Parker. In either case, you blew his head off and then came back across the yards. And then you had another stroke."