The Stargazey (41 page)

“Muerte del Sol, if you recall, is—or was—that guerrilla bunch that split off from the military, say, four years ago, and a year later, when it tried for a coup, went down because its leader, name of”—Chilten rattled through papers—“Juan Ascension, got murdered. Assassinated, it went round. By somebody with a sniper's rifle and a steady hand.”

Jury waited. “This lesson in South American politics is interesting but, unfortunately, lost on me. What the hell's it got to do with—”

“Patience, patience, I'm just filling you in.”

“That's swell, but filling me in on
what
, exactly?” Jury watched the slow rhythm of Wiggins's measuring out some kind of orange glop from a squat bottle. He'd sooner drink that than listen to Chilten.

“What we were talking about, Ricardo. You've forgotten already? Passports, other passports.”

Jury sat back, interested in the context. “Nancy Pastis went to Argentina, you mean?”

“Or, say, Justine Cordova? Another dead baby, Jury. Who applies for a passport six years ago. Just as I hit the Argentina police, surprise, surprise, I discover they're coming at her from another end, been trying to get a lead on her for years.”

Jury swallowed as if he were indeed swallowing orange glop. “Nancy Pastis, you're saying? This Cordova woman is also—was also Nancy Pastis.”

“Um. Yes and no.”

Jury could almost hear Chilten smiling. “Then how, Ron?”

Unfortunately, this only begat another stop on the Chilten questionnaire. “Remember reading about the killing of that British executive, worked, I think, for IBM? Couple of years ago in Moscow?”

“No.”

“Another dead kid, apparently, was in Russia—just like Nancy Pastis—this one named Amanda Walker, Irish lass. Irish dead lass, I mean.”

Chilten paused and Jury prompted him. “Go on.”

“Now we're up to dead child number three: Eve Fellowes. Eve was in France when a Frenchman named Jules Pointier was killed, another sniper's bullet.”

“Wait a minute, Ron. Even if Nancy Pastis was traveling in those countries, the other three you've named would be using the passports named, not the Nancy Pastis passport.”

“Jury.” Chilten paused. “The point is all these targets were murdered by dead kids. I mean, don't you think that's kind of strange?”

Jury said nothing, sat there staring at nothing.

So Chilten said it again. “They were all assassinated by dead people. And who's to say that this woman with at least three fake passports—three names—might not have gone in at other times as Nancy Pastis?”

“What about the Papua New Guinea entry?”

“Nothing there. Maybe Nancy was just taking a holiday from murder. Hell, she earned it.”

“If there's a connection.”

“It sure as hell cranks up the motive, doesn't it? Imagine the heat with half a dozen police forces on your sorry arse.”

“I missed a beat, there.”

“Oh, I thought you were with me. Dana. You know, the one nobody's been able to fit a face to. The one they think pulled off the theft of that Chagall in St. Petersburg. The thief, the professional assassin. Dana.”

M
elrose opened that eye that was not crushed into the several goose-down pillows and looked toward the window. He hoped he was looking at day, not dawn. He'd finally got back to Long Piddleton at 2
A.M
. and had convinced himself he'd hardly had a wink of sleep until he remembered he'd woken himself up several times during the night, snoring.

With one side of his face pushed against his pillows, only one ear was available to him for hearing what sounded like laughter floating up the staircase. He frowned. He recognized that laughter: Trueblood. True-blood's cackle cutting across Ruthven's rumble. What in God's name had they to laugh about this early, and why was Trueblood at Ardry End?

He was afraid he was about to find out when he heard ascending footsteps and then a pounding on his door.

“Melrose!” Trueblood yelled.

“Go away.”

“Come on, old trout. Things to do!”

“I don't want to do things. Go away.”

Far from going away, Trueblood opened the door and walked in. “Thought you'd lapsed into a coma.” He pulled a walnut side chair over to the bed, regarded the chair's worn and intricately embroidered seat before he sat down, and said, “Nice piece, this; you should get it recovered. This burled wood looks—”

Melrose did turn over then. “Do I have to have a lecture on burled wood first thing this morning? I'd sooner duel. It's dawn, after all.” He turned his back again and closed his eyes.

He heard a match strike. “It's not dawn. Cigarette?”

“No,
thank
you. I'm not one who has to smoke first thing in the morning.”

“It's afternoon. Get garbed.”

Hearing it was afternoon, Melrose felt less sleepy. “Where's my tea?”

“One of those who can't move without your cuppa? I'll tell Ruthven.”

Ruthven, however, needn't be told. He was already at the door, which was open. He sailed into the room, silver tray before him like a ship's figurehead. From the squat silver pot, a ribbon of steam issued and threaded its way past Melrose's nose. “Ah!” said Melrose, as Ruthven poured.

Bowing slightly to Trueblood, as if they hadn't been hooting down there in the hall for God knows how long, Ruthven asked, “Sugar, sir?”

“Oh, about fifteen lumps, thanks,” said Trueblood.

“Sir,” Ruthven answered, beginning to measure it out.

“Just kidding, Ruthven. Two's fine.”

“Sir.” Possibly the last and certainly the best proponent of the his-not-to-reason-why school, Ruthven would not have shown surprise if Trueblood had asked for fifteen lumps of coal. He'd have measured it out. Finished with pouring both of these helpless creatures their cups of tea, Ruthven bowed again, turned on his heel, and sailed out.

“God, but if you ever want to reduce staff, give me him, will you? He's remarkable.”

“
Staff
at Ardry End consists of three people, that's all. There's Ruthven and Martha and Wyatt Earp. You may have Momaday any time you want.” Melrose yawned widely.

“Get your skates on, man. Don't you want to see what I've been up to for the last ten days?”

Melrose finished his tea and pulled his legs from the warm coverings. He did not think anything Trueblood could have been up to could match what he himself had been up to, but he didn't say so.

He checked to make sure the brown-wrapped painting was where he'd left it against the wall.

 • • • 

S
haved, dressed and full of toast and more tea, Melrose stood and surveyed the banner across the door of the Long Piddleton library:
REST READ AND LATTE AT THE LIBRARY!

“Bloody marvelous!” he said.

When they walked in, Una Twinny, the librarian, literally had her hands full. There were half a dozen customers waiting to have their books checked out and as many more wandering through the stacks. For this little library, that was a crowd.

“Come on,” said Trueblood, leading him into the library's other room.

The new Latte at the Library coffee shop opened promptly at nine, with the library itself. “How in God's name did you get all of this done in ten days?”

“With a lot of help from Ada Crisp, for one. She donated all the chairs and three tables.”

Ada Crisp thought Marshall Trueblood walked on water, ever since he had served as her defending solicitor in the infamous chamber-pot incident.

“We acquisitioned two more tables from the rectory, and Betty Ball supplied a fifth from the bakery, to say nothing of donating all these pastries.” Trueblood swept an arm over the plates of scones, croissants, hot-cross buns, and a beautiful vanilla-iced gâteau decorated with violets. “I found an espresso machine in London and brought back a crate of not-very-good china and that delftware. Which is good. The other pieces in here come from the shop, and the Sidbury Ladies' Club donated the checked tablecloths and napkins. Really, the place has quite a bit of tone. Several chaps from here gave their time to paint and redo the fireplace tiles. The florist in Sidbury insisted on donating those gorgeous flowers.”

On a highly polished bureau (donated by Trueblood's Antiques) sat a large display of roses, larkspur, and snowdrops. In front of the electric logs a big dog slept. “Where'd you get the—wait a minute! What's my dog doing here?”

“Mindy? Oh, we're just borrowing her for a while. You know, until we're firmly established. Every shop needs a cat or a dog. All the pubs have them—”

“But that's
my
dog. Mindy!” Melrose called out, sharpish.

The dog didn't respond, beyond turning its face toward the warm logs, reminding Melrose of himself that morning. They sat down at the table near the dog, and Trueblood went to the counter for latte. He returned in a moment with cups brimming with foam. “Delicious,” said Melrose, licking the foam from his upper lip. “I don't know some of these people in here. Has Mr. Browne's reputation traveled beyond Long Piddleton? Has his infamy reached Sidbury or even Northampton?”

“He is not, let's say, a popular player. And you can imagine how he likes the idea of this, can't you? All of the Piddletonians who have been renting their new books from Browne are taking their business elsewhere. In other words, here. Theo is threatening a lawsuit.”

Melrose brightened. “Another legal battle?”

“He's making all sorts of claims. For one, he says we can't get a clearance certificate because of infestation. Says he saw three mice—”

“Were they blind?”

“—running through here. Well, I called Rent-to-Kill and they came straightaway. They said there was no problem. Then Browne claimed the bylaws say the library isn't zoned for retail business purposes.”

“Zoned?
Good lord, if there were zoning laws Mrs. Withersby wouldn't be living in one of those almshouses.”

“If there were zoning laws, Withersby wouldn't be living anywhere.”

It was speak-of-the-devil time, for Melrose looked around to see Mrs. Withersby, of Indolents Anonymous, coming through the door with a pail and mop, and a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

“Ah, here's Withers, good girl.”

“Good girl? What's that supposed to signify?”

“Why, that Withers has kindly donated her time to char for the coffee shop.”

Melrose had just taken a drink of coffee and gasped and sputtered, sending a brief rain of droplets into the air. “Donating her
time?
That's
like saying a Franciscan monk is donating his Lou Reed collection. Withersby doesn't do anything with her time. What she sees in the deal is free coffee and fags from anyone who's got them.” At this, Melrose pulled out his cigarette case. “I'm counting to ten. . . . Six . . . seven . . . ”

“Well, if it ain't the Cray brothers come to collect their protection money. Got an extry fag there, Lord of the Manor?”

Melrose got up, all polite solicitation, and offered his case. Mrs. Withersby helped herself to five or six. Who was counting? “My pleasure.” He reseated himself.

Mop and pail by her side, still with her old coat and flowered kerchief on, Mrs. Withersby got down to business. “I'll have an espresso, me.”

“Absolutely,” said Trueblood, all charm. He raised a hand to get the coffee tender's attention and pointed to Mrs. Withersby, who, having got fags and free coffee, left them. Trueblood went on. “People were almost begging to help. Little Sally McVittie's mum is the lady over there working the espresso machine. She's a first-rate cappuccino maker. I heard her uttering dire prognostications as to the fate of ‘the moneylender and child abuser'—her way of referring to Mr. Browne.”

“Oh, I know young Sally, all right.” Melrose laughed. He looked across the room at a tall cherrywood bookcase, which housed some thirty or forty of the very newest books. “Where'd Miss Twinny get all those new books? Has the library system finally improved?”

“I brought them back from London. Just went into a bookstore and said I wanted several dozen new works of fiction and would they give me a discount? Those new ones are loaned out at five per day, at least seventy-five percent cheaper than Theo's. Of course the library drove his stupid book rentals out of business.”

“Marvelous! Trueblood, what can I say?”

“You can say two more cappuccinos. A pound a cup, which is cheaper than the Emporium Espresso in Sidbury.”

After Melrose had gone to get refills and spent a sunny few moments chatting with Sally's mum about Sally's and Bub's reading habits—Miss Twinny being far more accepting of Bub's spilling things on books than Theo Wrenn Browne ever was or would be—she told him, “My Sally, she thinks the world of you, Mr. Plant.”

This pleased and ruffled him. He went through a series of protestations (oh, my, no . . . I didn't do all that . . . giving me too much credit) before he collected the cappuccino and two hot-cross buns and returned to their table.

Trueblood was smoking one of his crayon-colored cigarettes and fiddling with a small printed sign that said,
SMOKING SECTION
. “I put this there,” he said, sheepishly. “Now, what's all this about an art restorer?”

“Do you know one? You must, in your line of work.”

“Hmm. Several, as a matter of fact. There's a woman in Northampton, actually. But you still haven't told me for what. I'm all ears. What went on in London?”

Melrose told him about Simeon Pitt. “Stabbed, right there in clear view of several of the members.”

“My lord. My lord,” he said again. When Melrose didn't elaborate, Trueblood said, “Well, come on, old trout.
Why?
What's your theory?”