“You always have . . . a smooth explanation ready.”
“What do you want me to do? Learn to stutter?”
—Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon
DEPUTY CHIEF FRANZETTI frowned.
Now, I’d known Eddie Franzetti since I was a gawky adolescent with a major crush on my older brother’s best friend, which is why I recognized that particular pinched face. Eddie was seriously skeptical of Seymour’s story, and almost certainly the reason he asked the mailman to recount it again, from the top.
When Seymour was finished, Eddie began firing off questions.
“You’re saying someone broke in, hit you over the head, tied you up, and locked you in the closet?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm,” the deputy chief muttered.
“What?!” Seymour replied. “You think I gave myself ten stitches and a concussion?”
“Four stitches,” Dr. Rubino corrected. “And no sign of a concussion. Though you really should go to the emergency room—”
“Not until I find out what happened here, and what’s missing,” Seymour snapped.
Dr. Rubino cleaned and stitched Seymour’s wound. Then he wrapped his head in a gauze turban. Despite the fact that he’d been knocked cold, and in the face of the physician’s recommendation, my friend adamantly refused to go to the hospital.
Out of sheer bullheaded stubbornness, Seymour wouldn’t allow Eddie to call an ambulance, either. Lucky for him, Dr. Rubino lived in the neighborhood. When he saw Eddie’s police car roll up, he stopped by with his doctor’s bag to see if everything was all right.
Obviously, it wasn’t.
While the doc ministered to his reluctant patient, Eddie Franzetti searched Seymour’s house. I attempted to join him, only to get scolded for disobeying Chief Ciders’ order and entering the house before he arrived.
“In my defense, I did free Seymour.”
Eddie ordered me to turn around and go back to the living room.
I can’t believe it, Jack. Eddie is peeved at me for helping.
He’s peeved because you might have gotten your scrawny neck broken.
But what was I supposed to do? Seymour needed help—and I don’t have a scrawny neck.
Your mailman chum needs help, all right. He’s completely bing and I don’t mean Crosby.
Bing?
He’s a bunny—attracts trouble the way a serge suit gathers lint. And I think we both know what the burglar was looking for.
Yes, we do. And when he gets back, I’m going to tell Eddie about my suspicions—
Fat lot of good that will do you. You’re going to sound just as daffy as your lug-nut pal.
Eddie was gone for a surprisingly long time. When he finally did return, he seemed more dubious of Seymour’s story than ever.
“Someone came in through your back porch door,” Eddie said. “Appears you left it unlocked, because it wasn’t messed with. The screen door lock was flimsy, and it looks broken. As far as I can determine, nothing was taken. Your entertainment system is untouched. There’s a jar full of loose bills and change on the kitchen table, along with your very expensive smartphone, which is still in its charging dock. And all your valuable books are behind lock and key, like you told me they were.”
The deputy chief paused. “So, Seymour, tell me what really happened. A Tinder date gone wild maybe?”
“No! You said it yourself. Someone broke in through my back porch screen door—”
“A burglar who didn’t steal anything and you can’t identify?”
“I can’t ID them because I never saw a thing,” Seymour said. “When I heard Waldo squawking, I went to the bottom of the steps to see why, and someone hit me from behind. That’s all I know, until I came to in the closet, tied up like an extra in The Perils of Pauline!”
“Do you think this was personal?” Eddie asked.
“What do you mean?”
“A gripe, a grudge, revenge. Did you piss off someone on your mail route or peddle some bad ice cream?”
“Certainly not.” Seymour squared his shoulders. “I’m a consummate professional at both of my vocations.”
“Okay, maybe this was a stunt one of your friends pulled, like that guy Henry Gilman. Aren’t you two always arguing?”
“It’s Harlan Gilman. And he’d never expend the energy for a stunt like this.”
“Brainert always argues with Seymour, too,” I pointed out. “But Professor Parker wouldn’t do a thing like this, either.”
“I’ll concede we’ve had some burglaries, in and around Larchmont,” Eddie said. “I suspect one of a half-dozen opioid junkies who took up residence at Wentworth Arms—”
“That mobile home park out near Phelps Tool-and-Die?”
The deputy chief nodded. “We’re no different than any other small town as far as drugs and crime go.”
Seymour cocked an eyebrow under his gauze turban, giving a fair impression of Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
“But nothing has been taken, Seymour, so I can’t even file a burglary report. We can go with assault, but since you didn’t see the assailant and you have no security cameras, there’s not much the police can do other than canvas the area. You know, ask your neighbors if they saw anything suspicious.”
“You do that,” Seymour shot back. “And don’t be so sure nothing is gone. I have a lot of valuable stuff around here. Let me have a look-see before you run off to buy doughnuts.”
Seymour’s “look-see” commenced with an outraged cry.
“Waldo! Bad bird! You crapped on Leonard Nimoy’s shoulder.”
I heard wings fluttering in the kitchen, followed by the parrot’s reply.
“Bad bird, bad bird, what you gonna do? What you gonna do when they come for you?” The bird whistled.
Eddie smirked. “Why do you keep that parrot, Seymour?”
“Waldo is a companion I can talk to at night, though I’m rethinking our relationship now that he defiled my favorite Vulcan.”
Seymour circled the room, checking shelves and tables for any missing items. He moved to the hall, the dining room, and finally the kitchen.
Watching Seymour, I silently consulted my own companion: It looks like nothing was stolen, Jack.
That’s because what the thief came for wasn’t here. Harriet’s portrait is hanging back at your shop.
You’re probably right, but Eddie won’t see it that way. We need a way to prove the portrait and this break-in are connected.
“Ah-HAH!” Seymour cried. “There is something missing. That creep stole my mirror.”
“Mirror? Off the wall?” Eddie asked.
“No. Last week, I broke the big mirror in my master bath. A few days ago, I picked up a replacement at Napp Hardware, and I left it right here.” Seymour shrugged. “I was going to mount it tonight, but I guess my evening is suddenly free.”
“Seymour, what did the mirror look like?” I asked.
“It was a nice bathroom mirror. Had a thick wooden frame.” Seymour shrugged again. “I didn’t even unpack it—”
“What?”
“It was wrapped in cardboard and taped shut—I mean really taped. Bud Napp is one thorough packer.”
“Any labels?”
“Just my name. Bud wrote it with a Magic Marker.”
“What was this package shaped like? How big was it?” I hammered.
A puzzled Seymour demonstrated the size with his hands. “About this big. And rectangular . . . Maybe this wide.”
“In other words, around the same size and shape of the Harriet McClure painting!”
Seymour’s jaw dropped, and I faced Eddie.
“I think the thief came here to steal a painting that Seymour bought. When this person saw a wrapped package of a similar size and shape, they grabbed it without realizing there was a mirror inside instead of the painting they came for.”
Deputy Chief Franzetti scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “I need more . . . Maybe you’d like to explain, Penelope?”
“I’ll be happy to—in detail.”
Good luck with that.