The telephone’s such a convenient thing; it just sits there and demands you call someone who doesn’t want to be called.
—Ray Bradbury, “The Murderer”
I WAITED UNTIL we were on the street before I spoke.
“Good job, Seymour. You grabbed it.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “But what did I grab? Sure, the volume knob might have fingerprints on it, but unless you’ve got a forensics expert—”
“Spencer’s no expert, but he can lift a fingerprint off of anything. He proved that to me and his school principal.”
Seymour shrugged. “Okay, but without a database, what is a fingerprint really worth?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“And I don’t get why you didn’t tell Ciders everything.”
“Everything?”
“You know. About the possible connection to Dorothy Willard’s murder, about the man with the big feet, about the letter to Kritzer . . . Everything.”
“Seymour, you and I both know Ciders is a man of limited capacity—”
“To put it kindly,” the mailman deadpanned.
“Meanwhile, you heard Deputy Chief Franzetti at the Quibblers meeting. He’s been on top of this case from the beginning. I’ll tell Eddie everything when he gets back from Providence.”
Seymour glanced at his watch. “Speaking of getting back, we better pick up Brainert. It will be dark in an hour or so. He’ll have a meltdown out there in the woods all alone if we don’t make it before sunset.”
“We have two quick stops to make.”
“We do?”
“I want Spencer to get to work on those fingerprints, and I want to pick up your bugout kit.”
Seymour’s jaw dropped. “You know about my bugout kit?”
“You told me. Don’t you remember? Two years ago, on your birthday. When Harlan Gilman tricked you into eating those hash brownies.”
“It’s all a blur, Pen. For like a week after that.”
“Well, you told me how you had a ready-made way to escape, to bug out, if you had to. You told me you had a tent, flashlights, supplies—and we’re going to need them to camp out at Norma’s trailer. With the storm over and the muddy ground firming up, I’m betting she’ll return soon to get her things. We’ll be waiting for her when she does.”
“Fine, I’ll grab the kit. But we’d better tell Brainert we’re going to be a little late.”
Seymour hit speed dial. After a moment, he ended the call. “That’s funny. Brainert didn’t pick up. My call went to voice mail, I guess he’s . . . you know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, what’s a bear do in the woods?”
“Ew! Seymour!”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be interrupted while he plays the bear and bares all in the woods. I’ll call Brainert back while you slip Spencer the evidence.”
But two more calls—one from Seymour at my bookstore, the other from me while I waited for Seymour to dig out his kit—went unanswered. By the time we were on the road again, I was starting to worry.
“Ah, you know Brainert,” Seymour said. “That beautiful mind of his wanders and gets distracted fast. Mr. ADHD probably forgot he turned his phone off, and he’s fallen asleep from boredom while poking around Norma’s trailer.”
Or the man with the big feet returned and ruined his day, Jack added.
I refused to go down that road and told him so.
You and I both know that sheepskin is useless in an investigation, Jack countered.
You said that about Seymour, too, but he did grab a piece of evidence—
You mean that picture radio dial? That was your idea, doll. Clever, too. You might make some hay out of that.
Right before we reached Millstone, I called Brainert again—and again, I got his voice mail.
“Maybe the bookworm let his phone battery die,” Seymour suggested.
Yeah, Jack said, jumping in. Or maybe he did.
“Step on it, Seymour. It’s nearly sunset.”
We arrived just as the sun was sinking below the trees. We left the kit in the Volkswagen—because I was worried and because Seymour wanted Brainert’s help dragging it to the campsite.
We hurried along the pitted road to the creek. As we waded across the shallow water to the island, I spied movement inside the trailer.
“Come out, Brainert,” I called. “We’re back.”
The teardrop trailer shook a little, and so did my knees. A moment later, Brainert stepped through the narrow door, into the open.
“We were calling and calling,” Seymour cried. “Didn’t you hear your phone?”
“I . . . ignored it. I was busy . . . reading.”
My rush of relief was short-lived. My good friend was pale, and tears streamed down his face.
“Brainert! What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I just finished Amanda Pilgrim’s new novel. It was quite poignant.”
Seymour chuckled. “Since when have you read anything on the New York Times bestseller list? Or anything published in this century, for that matter?”
“How is that possible, Brainert?” I countered. “The book isn’t even out yet. Aunt Sadie has an advance reading copy. Did Norma get one, too?”
“No, no, not that novel,” Brainert said. “I mean her next book . . . Well, I assume it’s her next book. She titled it The Crows Will Carry Your Soul.”
“What are you talking about, Brainert?”
He turned, reached into the trailer, and pulled out some of the pages that had been bundled and stacked beside Norma’s typewriter. He waved them under my nose.
“Look!” he cried. “Don’t you see?”
Seymour stepped up. “See what, Brainiac?”
“That Norma Stanton . . . the woman we know as Norma the Nomad . . . is really the world-renowned author Amanda Pilgrim!”