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Sunday, December 9
After a restless night’s sleep and some Apple Valley Resort signature cranberry maple scones that were disappointingly stale, Beverly felt the need to get out and do something. Anything. She enjoyed getting out on the open road, driving endlessly, going nowhere. But this morning, she had a destination in mind and pointed the SUV down the road.
Her thoughts turned to her outing with Adam yesterday afternoon, which she’d secretly enjoyed. Not just going to talk with Braddon Hopper, but stopping at Uncommon Grounds afterward. She knew Adam wanted her to go to dinner with him, and going out for coffee or a quick bite was a poor second-best. But dinner felt so. . .committed. A Real Date. Before she knew it, she’d have makeup and clothing in two different houses and be choosing between a German chocolate or red velvet groom’s cake.
She pushed those images away when the familiar mini-castle came into view. Although less agitated than her last visit here, she still felt restless, unsettled. She wanted to be a more thoughtful guest this time and had stopped along the way to pick up a vase of bamboo and birds-of-paradise from Fern Gery’s florist shop.
Mr. X thanked her and placed the vase in a prominent spot on the marble-top étagère. “The usual or perhaps some Portugal port?”
“Hmm?” She saw him looking at her questioningly and realized he’d asked her a question. “Oh. Sorry. The port sounds lovely, but I’m driving.”
“Depends upon how long you’re planning on staying. A woman your size after one glass and two hours should be fine.”
“You sound like a walking breathalyzer.”
“Did you know they sell those now? Portable ones.”
“Wonder how Adam feels about those?”
“I’m surprised not to find him with you today.”
“He’s busy. Harlan’s case.”
Mr. X disappeared long enough to bring her a glass of the port. “That sounds promising.”
“I wish.” She rushed to add, “It’s not Adam. I’m frustrated. Police work is like skating on molasses. Harlan’s case, the vandalism at Agnes’s shop. Guess I’m used to making things happen on my schedule.”
“It’s only been eight days since the murder, six days since Harlan was arrested, and only three days since Agnes’s shop was broken into. The average time for a typical murder investigation is ten months, last I checked.”
Beverly smiled and shook her head. Mr. X obviously had a lot more first-hand knowledge about crime and the legal system than she knew. She was dying to hear about his background and could have done a little investigation, herself. But she respected him too much for that. When he was ready to tell her, he would.
“Adam told me about a separate antiques store theft two weeks ago. Could it be related to Agnes’s case?”
“I learned of that event through my network. That same network tipped me off as to who the prime suspect might be. I still like to keep apprised of the business.”
“Do you have a name?” Beverly hoped it wasn’t Blaine Morland, for Agnes’s sake.
“Dmitri Chekhol.”
“Russian?”
“Originally. Raised in New York, moved here recently. He’s a lone operator, an ordinary thug. Not part of the small, but active, Eastern European organized-crime faction in New England.”
Beverly sat up straight. “Do you know where he lives? Works?”
“Yes. I know about Mr. Chekhol. Most of it distasteful.”
“I want to check him out. To see if he’s been anywhere near Agnes’s shop.”
“I’m not sure I like that idea, Beverly. It didn’t turn out so well last time.”
Beverly patted her purse. “I won’t forget my gun this time.”
“I still don’t like it. But if you are bound and determined to go, then I must go with you.”
Beverly beamed at him. “This is wonderful. Agnes puts on a brave face, but I think she’s terrified the vandals might come back.”
The ever-thoughtful Mr. X gave her a thermos of some yak hot chocolate, and they were on their way. Their target was a small house near Crawford, “house” being a generous term. The warped siding and rotting boards were topped off with a roof with half its shingles missing. Beverly had heard of “lean-tos” before, but this seemed more of a “lean-away.”
Upon spying a car in the driveway with its motor running, Mr. X had her drive past the house so he could get a good look at the place and then circle around the block. When they came around again, the car was pulling out of the driveway, and they followed.
“Are you sure this is the right man?”
“Balding, with a scruffy patch on the crown to match his scruffy stubble. Hooded eyes, a small beak nose, and a large black spider tattoo on his neck.”
They followed him to a smallish warehouse-barn combo, and Beverly parked a short way down the road, partially hidden by a stack of brush. She said, “I’ll bet that’s where he stores the hot merchandise. I need to get closer.” Mr. X didn’t have time to protest before Beverly was out of the car and scurrying toward the same door where Chekhol disappeared.
She quietly turned the knob and opened the door a crack. It led into a closed-off vestibule, and she silently cheered. She’d be able to get in and take a peek, then get out.
Getting in was easy, and she immediately saw boxes and shelves with antiques. Stolen? Most likely. Getting out wasn’t as simple, because right as she turned to duck toward the door, a man’s voice growled from behind. “You shouldn’t be snooping around in other people’s business.”
She batted her eyes innocently at him. “I’m sorry. Guess I got lost. Or my friend gave me the wrong address. This sure isn’t Reuben’s Tire Shop.” Not her best line, but she hoped it would fool him.
It didn’t. “Don’t know of any Reuben’s Tire Shops around here. You look waaaaay out of place. You a cop?”
He started toward her, and she quickly fumbled around in her purse, but her fingers were shaking, and the gun fell out. She swooped down to pick it up, but right as she straightened up, she heard a loud “thwack.” Looking toward the sound, she saw Mr. X with his hand out in a flat-palmed chop—and Chekhol lay flat on the floor.
“Karate?” she asked.
“The shuto, or knife-hand, strike. It can be deadly. When you want it to be.”
Chekhol groaned, and Mr. X planted his foot on the man’s forehead. “Now, Mr. Chekhol. What we want is simple. We want to know if you recently broke into a wine shop in Ironwood Junction. And I strongly encourage you to be honest. Two hundred pounds pressing down on a man’s skull is not very pleasant.”
“Look,” Chekhol managed to choke out. “I didn’t rob no wine shop. And I ain’t been near Ironwood Junction in months.”
“But you did rob the Saffell Antiques Market?”
Chekhol hesitated, and Mr. X pressed down harder. “Okay, okay. I robbed it. So what? A man’s gotta make a living.”
“I’ll assume for now you are being honest. So here’s what I want you to do. You will return all the stolen items, anonymously if you choose. I have very little interest in adding to the prison system’s bloated membership.”
“Yeah, okay. Okay, already.”
Mr. X removed his foot and nodded at Beverly, his way of indicating they should exit. On the way back to the car, Beverly kept an eye on the door, half-expecting to see Chekhol running after them, but he didn’t.
“How did you get in there?” she asked.
“A second door.”
“Weren’t you afraid he had weapons?”
“I could see he didn’t.” Xenakis pulled two guns out of his pocket and tossed them into the back seat. “And I made sure he wouldn’t be able to use the ones I found.”
Beverly looked over at him as they climbed into the car. “You really believe he’ll take those antiques back?”
“I will make sure he does.” The tone of his voice let Beverly know she shouldn’t press it any further.
He tapped her purse. “Although having a gun in there is better than nothing, your struggle with it was distressing. Have you considered a holster? I understand they make some rather attractive ones for women. So invisible, you can’t tell someone’s packing.”
“Gun cozies? That should be fun to shop for.” She grinned at him, but he didn’t return her smile.
“Beverly, your willingness—and even eagerness—to dash into danger troubles me. Perhaps you are missing something in your life that makes such endeavors a replacement? Being reckless almost got you killed once.”
“Guess I’m an adrenaline junkie.” But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? She loved nothing better than to browse through stores looking for bargains or curl up with a good book and a glass of wine. To a true adrenaline junkie, that would be worse than death.
Missing something in her life? Well, she wasn’t about to run out and get a cat. Even if she liked cats. Or get a husband, even if. . .
No, she wasn’t missing anything. She loved her life, loved her freedom, loved the type of thrills she got from a successful con. Maybe Adam was right in questioning whether she’d ever truly be able to go “straight.” Then she thought of the cabin by Beaver Brook Pond. Could she still travel around and use the cabin as a home base?
She glanced over at Mr. X. “Do they make gun holsters shaped like a penis?”
Finally, something that made him laugh.
