Green.”
“He said he’d never heard of the man. We have no reason to believe otherwise. Okay—I know you’re not going to like this . . .” Here it comes, thought Faith.
“But I don’t see the guy as guilty of anything more than lousy bookkeeping and maybe in-come-tax evasion. He brought some shoe boxes full of receipts and his lawyer made the point that a lot of your things look like other items from the same period. I showed him the pictures and they agreed some of the things were the same, but apparently the guy has been to several auctions since your break-in and that’s where he claims to have bought your silver and jewelry. Obviously, Green sold what he stole to somebody, but not to Stackpole, according to him. I gave the lawyer the list of your missing items and they’re going to go over Stackpole’s inventory and see what else he might have.”
“What!” Faith shrieked. “I can’t believe you did this! Why didn’t I just give the man a key to the place initially and let him come in and take what he wanted!”
“Now, Faith. He’s cooperating with our investigation. This is not an unusual thing for the police to do.”
“Cooperating! He’s probably digging holes in his backyard, burying everything this very minute! Why couldn’t you simply ask if we could look at his stock?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“No, instead you give him a detailed list and photographs!”
“I didn’t give him the photographs.” Charley stood up. He knew he could kiss the sour cream brownies good- bye.
“I’m very disappointed in you,” Faith said in her best schoolmarmish voice.
“You’ll get over it,” Charley said, and patted her on the shoulder as he let himself out the front door.
“Jeez, Faith, don’t you know anybody else?” Scott Phelan was complaining even as he drove north toward the New Hampshire border.
Faith ignored the comment. He had come as soon as she called and that was all she cared about. Samantha Miller had come to baby-sit, too.
She was punting the rest of senior year, she’d told Faith a week ago, and was taking it easy for the first time since kindergarten. Next fall at Wellesley, she’d pick up the load again.
After Chief MacIsaac had left, Faith went into the den and watched the tape with the kids for a while until she calmed down enough to think clearly. And one thought was clear: George Stackpole, now armed with the list, would clean out all his outlets of anything remotely resembling Fairchild loot. She reasoned he’d go to the co-ops nearest Aleford first, figuring she’d head for them, too, so her best bet was to go to the Old Oaken Bucket. It was open until eight o’clock, but even with Scott driving as fast as he dared, Faith was beginning to realize they wouldn’t make it in time.
Which was why she’d called him in the first place. True, after Saturday night, she wasn’t eager to venture out solo into antiques land—a place that had become fraught with danger even in the most secure places. She wanted company, particularly company who had a better left hook than, say, Pix, although Faith had a feeling the athletic Mrs. Miller’s might not be so bad.
But should the Bucket be closed, Scott was the only person Faith knew who might be able to disarm an alarm system—not so she could break into Stackpole’s case, but so she could have a look, she told herself. The idea that everything was fast disappearing down the drain obsessed her and she was firmly suppressing any felonious thoughts. She wasn’t breaking and entering herself. Fair was fair. She was tracking her own possessions. What’s hers was hers. It would stand up in any court of law, she told herself. And besides, this was her last chance.
“You’re awfully quiet—and it’s making me nervous. What’s going on in that screwy little head of yours, boss?”
“If it’s closed when we get there, we may have to do something to the alarm so I can go in and have a peek at what’s in Stackpole’s case. You don’t have to come. I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble.”
“Good, because I’m not going to. If it’s closed, we turn around and go home. When I said
‘screwy little head,’ I wasn’t kidding.” Faith kept her mouth shut.
The Old Oaken Bucket
“Okay, we tried. I’m sorry. First thing in the morning, we’ll come back.”
“Maybe they just have signs. Maybe they don’t set the alarm. Lots of people put the stickers up and don’t bother with the expense of a system.
Why don’t we pull around the back and have a look?”
Scott pulled around the back. It would be easier in the long run. Besides, she looked so pathetic.
She’d told him about James Green—the auction and the prints matching the ones in her house and Miss Winslow’s. He wished he could have a few minutes alone with the guy before the cops got him.
They had gotten out of the car and were approaching the back door when they heard another car stop in front of the building.
“George! I bet it’s George!” Faith whispered.
She darted around to the corner and was in time to see the dealer, flashlight in hand, unlock the front door and go in, closing it behind him.
“Come on.” She grabbed Scott’s sleeve, yanked him behind her, and crept toward the door.
Stackpole didn’t turn any lights on. Faith could see the flashlight beam through the glass on the door. He’d known how to disarm the alarm—if there had been one set. Despite her words to Scott, she was pretty sure there was. With all the security the Oaken Bucket displayed when open, they’d be even more cautious when closed.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Scott hissed at her. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m going inside. I want to see what he’s taking out of the case. And you can be my witness.
He’ll never see us. We’ll slip behind the counter and down the other aisle across from his booth.” She had the door open and was inside before Scott could object further. On the drive up, she’d told him about going to Framingham and seeing Stackpole with a gun—and told him he was the only person who knew. Scott wasn’t about to let her go into the building alone knowing this.
The interior of the Old Oaken Bucket was pitch-dark and it was easy to crawl under the counter and position themselves behind one of the booths in the aisle opposite the one Stackpole rented. The only problem was getting a clear view. If Faith had thought she’d have a front-row seat, she was mistaken. The flashlight darted up and down like a firefly. He was putting things into a bag at his feet, but it was impossible to see what these things were except for an occasional flash of silver.
“I’m going to try to get closer,” Faith whispered in Scott’s ear. He put his arm out in front of her.
“Don’t be crazy, Faith. The man packs a rod, remember?”
Faith did, but she’d been trying not to. She paused, then tried to push Scott’s arm out of the way. At that instant, the lights came on—bright, garish fluorescents flooding the vast interior, turning the booths into a sudden riot of sparkling color. Then as soon as they went on, they went off, leaving a series of images like smoke trails before Faith’s eyes. They must be on a timer, she thought.
She started to try to move forward again, but now it was a sound that stopped her.
and he’d get some insurance money, too, she bet!
They were too late. She was close to tears.
It wasn’t the things—well, it was a little—but this had been her chance to nail him. To catch him with their stolen property. And then maybe this James Green would rat on his partner or employer, whatever George was. Sarah’s murderers.
And all the pain they’d caused the group of people that had met in the Fairchilds’ living room.
Lost class rings, lost lockets, lost links to loved ones.
But she’d blown it. They should have confronted him. Pretended to have a gun. They should have called the police as soon as they saw George go in. There was a pay phone in the parking lot. They should have . . . She heard the car speed out of the parking lot, sending a spray of gravel against the outside wall.
“Let’s get going. We don’t want to hang around.” Scott was speaking normally and it sounded now as if he was shouting, after the tense silence of the last quarter hour. “He wants the cops to find his B and E, so he’ll call in
