Well, I do detective work, all right, but I’m not exactly a detective.
—Frank Gruber, “The Sad Serbian,” Black Mask (magazine), 1939
“PEN! PEN! ARE you okay? What happened? Did you pass out?”
I opened my eyes to blurry shadows. Sprawled on the suite’s living room carpet, I felt rain pelting me from the open door. I pondered where I was, how I got here, and where in the heck my glasses went. I felt pain in a half dozen places, starting with my throbbing head.
“Did I get hit by a truck?” I moaned.
“On the second floor of the Comfy-Time Motel? Doubtful. All I know is, I came up to meet you and found you on the floor.”
Kneeling beside me with a concerned expression, Seymour obviously hadn’t changed from his moonlighting gig. He was still wearing his vanilla white ice cream vendor smock over white slacks and a flannel shirt.
“Sorry it took me so long, but those kids just wouldn’t let up. And then it comes time to pay the bill and daddy tries to squeeze me for free Dove bars. Some people!” Seymour shook his head, the wool cap still in place covering the bandage underneath.
I staggered to my feet and found my glasses. The frames weren’t too messed up, considering.
“So, what were you doing on the floor?”
“Someone made sure my head hit that doorjamb. I was intentionally knocked out.”
“Was it Conway? I’ll murder him!”
“I don’t know who it was . . .”
I didn’t bother asking Jack. I already knew the answer. The bookshop where he died was his tomb and his prison. Whenever I brought him out of it, he used my senses to see the world. So if I didn’t see something, neither did he.
“Do you need an ambulance, Pen?”
“No, I’ll be okay.” I rubbed the hot, tender lump on the top of my forehead. Suddenly, I froze.
“What is it?” Seymour asked. “What are you staring at?”
I pointed. “Those three doors at the end of the hall. They were all shut when I arrived. Now one is partially open.”
This is your chance, Penny. Your sno-cone-peddling backup is here. Search the place for Old Walt’s notebooks. Do it now!
“Watch my back, Seymour. I’m going to check that room. If anyone comes through the front door, give me a shout.”
“I will,” he said with a nod. “Right after I slug ’em.”
I proceeded with caution, gently nudging the half-open door with my elbow before stepping across the threshold. The bedroom was illuminated by a single lamp on the end table, but it was enough.
I found the body of Clifford Conway sprawled across the blood-soaked bed. Fully dressed, he lay facedown, the white pillow beneath his head stained gory red.
Check the hands, doll.
Conway’s dead white knuckles clutched the wrinkled bedsheets.
The first whack didn’t do the trick, so more followed. The Reaper took his good old time with Conway.
My own hands were shaky as I called Chief Ciders. I got his second-in-command instead. I told Eddie Franzetti where I was and what I’d discovered. I even had the presence of mind to give him the room number.
“Don’t leave the motel,” he warned, “but get out of that crime scene. Wait for me outside, and try not to touch anything on the way out.”
“Got it, Eddie.”
I was sweating now—and had a whole new appreciation for my gumshoe ghost. Jack’s shivery presence was helping me keep my cool in more ways than one.
You’re doing great, Penny, he coaxed. Just remember, the cops will seal this place when they arrive. Survey the scene now while you have the chance.
Okay . . .
On top of the dresser, I saw a wallet, keys for a rental car, and loose change. The phone was facedown and mostly covered by a copy of the Quindicott Bulletin, but I recognized the sky blue cover with the tiny biplanes on it—
“That looks like Walt Waverly’s phone!”
I almost moved the newspaper to make double sure, but Jack reminded me not to touch a thing this close to the body.
If the phone and wallet were left, this couldn’t be a robbery.
Not your typical burglary, anyway.
Walt’s phone—if it is Walt’s phone—is on the dresser. But I don’t see his notebooks. They might be in his van.
Or he could have tossed them.
You’re right, Jack. If he grabbed all three, trying to figure out who bought the Harriet painting, then he didn’t need them anymore.
With time ticking by, I returned to the front room and told Seymour how I found Conway. As his jaw dropped in shock, I realized this room looked different.
“The computer and appointment book are gone!” I blurted and saw the camera was taken, too. With hope, I looked to the coffee table. One of the water tumblers was missing, though the other glass and the bottle of champagne remained untouched.
The killer likely nipped it for a cleaner getaway, Jack said. No fingerprint clues for the coppers.
There may be one clue, I told Jack. The champagne toast. It looks like Conway and his killer were celebrating something. But what? On the surface, it doesn’t add up.
Are you sure?
Back at our shop, Conway dismissed the possibility of secret messages in Harriet’s work. He scoffed and called them “the random, nonsensical doodles of a highly disturbed woman.” Yet before Conway’s laptop was taken, he was looking at an extreme close-up of an obscure detail in that painting. Why was he suddenly so interested in studying those “nonsensical” doodles?
And why would a murdering thief leave a wallet and smartphone but take a computer and camera?
The digital copies of Harriet’s painting were in that camera’s memory card and the laptop’s hard drive—could that be the reason?
If it is, then the creep who cracked Conway’s skull may be trying to crack Harriet’s secret, too.