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Both curious and alert now, I went into the business next to the lamp shop, a low, square red brick building dwarfed by its larger neighbor. It was an insurance office, and from the look of things, not a very prosperous one. Six desks, each with a chair for a customer, sat at discreet distances from each other. Only two of the desks were occupied. None of the chairs were.
“Gee, that lamp place next door isn’t going out of business, is it?” I asked the man nearest the door. “My cousin’s getting married and some of us went together thinking we’d get her a really nice lamp.”
He sprang up and pumped my hand and told me his name. The half dozen hairs on the top of his head struggled valiantly to hide its shine.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he said heartily, “but I’m afraid they’ve closed for good.”
“When? Why? They’ll be having a going-out-of-business sale, won’t they?”
“Uh, don’t know.” He was confused by the onslaught of questions crowned by a zigzag. It was a tactic I’d always found useful.
“The gentleman who owns the business took sick end of last week.” The other man in the office left his desk to stroll over and join us. “Lungs.” He patted his chest. “He’d had spells before. This time the doc told him it was either move to someplace out West where it’s dry or buy himself a nice casket. Just goes to show, nobody knows when their number’s going to be up. Right, Don?”
He winked at his co-worker.
“Oh... right. Right.” Don–of-the-half-dozen-hairs nodded sudden comprehension. “Even a healthy young lady like you. Do you have insurance?”
“Me? Oh, goodness no.” I giggled. “I lead such a humdrum life I don’t need it. Didn’t the man next door — what was his name?”
“Benning.”
“Didn’t he have other people who worked there?”
“Uh—”
“Yeah, a clerk and a pimple faced kid that carried things,” Don’s more adept colleague answered. “Ran the legs off both of ‘em. If you’re wondering why they’re not over there, they probably knew old Walt would like as not stiff them on what he already owed them and they’d be better off hunting new jobs.”
“This time of year some stores hire extra help, especially if they’ve got experience,” Don said. “Because of more shoppers. But even somebody in a nice, safe job like selling socks or perfume — or a girl who still lives at home and is just out buying a spool of thread — can still get hit by a car or—”
“How can I find out about the sale?” I interrupted.
The two men looked blank.
“Sale?”
“The going-out-of-business sale.” I gestured toward the lamp shop. “The sign that says FOR RENT doesn’t have a number to call. Who put it up?”
“Oh, uh, some real estate agent,” said Don. “Stopped in to tell us about Walt’s health, and that he’d taken off for, was it Arizona?”
The other insurance man nodded.
“Wanted us to know there’d be men coming in to do work. Plastering and that. Nice fellow.”
“Did he leave a card? That would have a number, and I really want to find out if there’ll be a sale. Oh, I want one of your cards too.”
Don nearly fell over himself handing me his business card.
“I don’t think the real estate fellow gave me anything. How about you?”
His pal shook his head.
“He had a short name, though. Dixon, I think.”
“No, Henson. I’d say it was Henson.”
“Well, thanks anyway. Hey, since I’m in here, will you both take a look at this picture?”
I fished out the photograph of Gil Tremain and went through the same story I’d told the waitress. Neither remembered seeing him. I made as if to leave, then turned back.
“When did that real estate man stop in?”
“Yesterday. Yesterday afternoon when he came to switch signs.”
“If he comes back, would you get his phone number? I’ll stop back and check. And I’ll be sure and tell my cousin’s husband-to-be that he should buy insurance.”
I escaped as Don floundered into another pitch.
***
Chewing on what I’d learned, I walked up the street. The lamp shop owner had taken ill over the weekend, according to the waitress. Monday morning Gil Tremain had been seen in the vicinity, according to Daisy. He might have walked on, or jumped into a cab or onto a trolley, or maybe not even been there at all. And yesterday, according to the insurance gents, a real estate agent had slapped a FOR RENT sign in the window. A sign that had no contact information.
What did all that leave me?
More questions.
It was still too early for Lucille Collingswood to be at home. Since I was already here, it seemed smart to try and find answers. Stopping in businesses along the way to show Tremain’s photograph, I retraced my steps. Then I crossed the street and stood admiring the building that housed the lamp shop.
Small wonder Daisy had noticed it. At three stories it was taller than its immediate neighbors. Fancier, too. Bright terra cotta stipes ran the width of the ground floor, one at ankle level and a wider one above the three front doors. Each of the doors was flanked by the generous windows which had given me such a good view of the store’s wares.
If that wasn’t enough, the two top floors of the building groaned with gingerbread. The octet of curving, three-sided windows Daisy had described wore frills of carving and paint. Above them, stacked one above the other like necklaces, were layers of more carving and paint. The result was gaudy, but easily spotted by customers.
I showed Tremain’s picture in an eye doctor’s place with no success. Then I entered what turned out to be a piano and sheet music store. It sat directly across from the lamp shop. A rotund man with uplifted chin padded toward me with a patronizing smile.
“Good morning, my dear. You have the look of a young lady out Christmas shopping.”
“Well, yes.” I glanced over my shoulder with what I hoped was a sympathetic frown. “The man who owns that lamp shop, Mr. Benning, he didn’t die, did he? I came past on Tuesday and there was a CLOSED sign. Now it says it’s for rent. A man next door told me Mr. Benning had taken ill.”
“Oh, he’s not dead. The rascal landed on his feet. I guess he did have one of his spells, but wouldn’t you know it? A relative out West had just recently left him a bit of a windfall. He said since he had the wherewithal, he was going to take his doctor’s advice, off he went.
“Now, what can I show you? I can make you a wonderful deal on that little maple upright in the corner.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful, but all I need is sheet music. It’s not for Christmas, really, just a little thank-you.”
“Of course. Did you have anything particular in mind?”
“Umm...”
I’d entered knowing I might need to make a small purchase to keep him chatting. It happened I knew a man who was taking piano lessons. From all indications his past work had included being a trigger man for people on the other side of the law, though I was moderately certain his current job didn’t make use of those skills.
Mr. Music led the way toward three wire racks displaying music.
“These are the new ones that are all the craze here. This rack’s the old standards. And of course I have stacks of other things behind the counter.”
I didn’t know much about Pearlie, but I knew his musical tastes.
“He likes Jellyroll Morton. Things like that.”
The store owner’s nostrils narrowed but he soldiered on.
“What level?”
“Intermediate.”
That part could be wrong, but the thought of Pearlie walking in to exchange it gave me enjoyment. There was nothing the least unattractive about Pearlie’s looks, but something in his manner made most people nervous.
I settled on something from the new arrivals rack. The owner was ringing my small purchase up when a slender woman who was still a good deal short of middle aged came down a stairway next to the counter. Everything about her was quiet except for an emerald green hat with an extravagant brim.
“Stepping out to get milk for her tea,” she said briefly.
The store owner nodded without interest.
“Bring me back a couple of Butterfingers, will ya, honey?”
“Yes, Mr. Miller.”
“Hope you made sure she has everything she’s likely to need. I can’t be running up and leaving customers if she starts thumping.”
“Yes, Mr. Miller.”
He slid my sheet music into a paper bag.
“There you go.”
“Thanks. Say, any chance you’ve seen this man around? He used to be my sister’s beau, but they had a silly spat. A friend of mine swore she’d seen him going into a store down here.”
He started to look at the small picture of Tremain I’d produced. A murmur at the door interrupted him.
“Mrs. Arnold. Lovely to see you.” His smile, which had faded considerably, returned full force. He thrust the photograph back at me. “Never saw him.” He hurried to the new arrival. “I just got in the most marvelous metronomes. Absolute works of art! Let me show you.”
I left without delay, hoping I might catch sight of the woman in the green hat. She, like Gil Tremain, had disappeared.