"Are you Avery Lamb?"
"That's right. What can I help you with?"
"I'm not sure. I'm wondering what you can tell me about this appraisal you did." I handed him the slip.
He glanced down and then looked up at me. "Where did you get this?"
"Rudd Osterling's widow," I said.
"She told me she didn't have the gun."
"That's right."
His manner was a combination of confusion and wariness. "What's your connection to the matter?"
I took out a business card and gave it to him. "She hired me to look into Rudd's death. I thought the shotgun might be relevant since he was killed with one."
He shook his head. "I don't know what's going on. This is the second time it's disappeared."
"Meaning what?"
"Some woman brought it in to have it appraised back in June. I made an offer on it then, but before we could work out a deal, she claimed the gun was stolen."
"I take it you had some doubts about that."
"Sure I did. I don't think she ever filed a police report, and I suspect she knew damn well who took it but didn't intend to pursue it. Next thing I knew, this Osterling fellow brought the same gun in. It had a beavertail fore-end and an English grip. There was no mistaking it."
"Wasn't that a bit of a coincidence? His bringing the gun in to you?"
"Not really. I'm one of the few master gunsmiths in this area. All he had to do was ask around the same way she did."
"Did you tell her the gun had showed up?"
He shrugged with his mouth and a lift of his brows. "Before I could talk to her, he was dead and the Parker was gone again."
I checked the date on the slip. "That was in August?"
"That's right, and I haven't seen the gun since."
"Did he tell you how he acquired it?"
"Said he took it in trade. I told him this other woman showed up with it first, but he didn't seem to care about that."
"How much was the Parker worth?"
He hesitated, weighing his words. "I offered him six thousand."
"But what's its value out in the marketplace?"
"Depends on what people are willing to pay."
I tried to control the little surge of impatience he had sparked. I could tell he'd jumped into his crafty negotiator's mode, unwilling to tip his hand in case the gun showed up and he could nick it off cheap. "Look," I said, "I'm asking you in confidence. This won't go any further unless it becomes a police matter, and then neither one of us will have a choice. Right now, the gun's missing anyway, so what difference does it make?"
He didn't seem entirely convinced, but he got my point. He cleared his throat with obvious embarrassment. "Ninety-six."
I stared at him. "Thousand dollars?"
He nodded.
"Jesus. That's a lot for a gun, isn't it?"
His voice dropped. "Ms. Millhone, that gun is priceless. It's an A-l Special 28-gauge with a two-barrel set. There were only two of them made."
"But why so much?"
"For one thing, the Parker's a beautifully crafted shotgun. There are different grades, of course, but this one was exceptional. Fine wood. Some of the most incredible scroll-work you'll ever see. Parker had an Italian working for him back then who'd spend sometimes five thousand hours on the engraving alone. The company went out of business around 1942, so there aren't any more to be had."
"You said there were two. Where's the other one, or would you know?"
"Only what I've heard. A dealer in Ohio bought the one at auction a couple years back for ninety-six. I understand some fella down in Texas has it now, part of a collection of Parkers. The gun Rudd Osterling brought in has been missing for years. I don't think he knew what he had on his hands."
"And you didn't tell him."
Lamb shifted his gaze. "I told him enough," he said carefully. "I can't help it if the man didn't do his homework."
"How'd you know it was the missing Parker?"
"The serial number matched, and so did everything else. It wasn't a fake, either. I examined the gun under heavy magnification, checking for fill-in welds and traces of markings that might have been overstamped. After I checked it out, I showed it to a buddy of mine, a big gun buff, and he recognised it, too."
"Who else knew about it besides you and this friend?"
"Whoever Rudd Osterling got it from, I guess."
"I'll want the woman's name and address if you've still got it. Maybe she knows how the gun fell into Rudd's hands."
Again he hesitated for a moment, and then he shrugged. "I don't see why not." He made a note on a piece of scratch paper and pushed it across the counter to me. "I'd like to know if the gun shows up," he said.
"Sure, as long as Mrs. Osterling doesn't object."
I didn't have any questions for the moment. I moved toward the door, then glanced back at him. "How could Rudd have sold the gun if it was stolen property? Wouldn't he have needed a bill of sale for it? Some proof of ownership?"
Avery Lamb's face was devoid of expression. "Not necessarily. If an avid collector got hold of that gun, it would sink out of sight, and that's the last you'd ever see of it. He'd keep it in his basement and never show it to a soul. It'd be enough if he knew he had it. You don't need a bill of sale for that."
I sat out in my car and made some notes while the information was fresh. Then I checked the address Lamb had given me, and I could feel the adrenaline stir. It was right back in Rudd's neighbourhood.
The woman's name was Jackie Barnett. The address was two streets over from the Osterling house and just about parallel; a big corner lot planted with avocado trees and bracketed with palms. The house itself was yellow stucco with flaking brown shutters and a yard that needed mowing. The mailbox read 'Squires,' but the house number seemed to match. There was a basketball hoop nailed up above the two-car garage and a dismantled motorcycle in the driveway.
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.