Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

Timberlaine smiled at Steve. “You watch out. He’ll sell her two pistols before dinner.”

“I don’t think she’s in the market,” Steve said.

Timberlaine shrugged. “You’d be surprised who’s buying guns these days.”

“What’s with you?” Steve said.

“What do you mean?”

Steve jerked his thumb. “Your outfit.”

Timberlaine was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and his hair was parted and pulled back in a ponytail. He grinned. “You mean what happened to the Wild West getup? Well, I have to admit that’s a complete affectation. I put it on when I’m carryin’ Pistol Pete’s gun. Or in this case, the substitute.” Timberlaine hefted the gun in his hand. “Now this baby’s a derringer. It’s French. Dates back to 1820. I’d look stupid firin’ it in cowboy boots. Plus, the other guns in the auction will be from all different countries, periods, what have you.”

“You bidding on them?” Steve asked.

“Oh, definitely,” Timberlaine said. “I always bid. I’ll be bidding on several.” He looked at the gun in his hand. “Though I think this baby’s the one I really want.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, there’s a story with it. I’m a sucker for stories. This gun was once owned by Marie LaBlanc, who was the victim of a tragic love affair. Her lover, Pierre LaTour, left her for a cafe singer. In despair she blew his brains out, then turned the gun on herself.”

“You’re kidding.”

Timberlaine frowned. “Why should I kid about a thing like that?”

“This gun here?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’ll pardon me, but how do you know that?” Steve jerked his thumb at Nigouri, who was still pulling out guns and bending Tracy’s ear. “I mean, how do you know your friend there isn’t buying old guns wholesale, then coming out here telling fancy stories and auctioning them off for record prices?”

Timberlaine shook his head. “Couldn’t happen. The guns’ histories are authenticated. Everything’s double-checked. And we have our own independent expert on hand, hired specifically for these auctions. And of course any of the guests are free to bring their own experts. Believe me, the guns are genuine.”

“I see,” Steve said.

“Dad,” came a voice.

Steve looked up as a young blonde bounced into the clearing. Steve smiled as he realized that’s how he’d describe it. The girl was young enough and lively enough that she gave the impression of bouncing. She had short, curly blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a turned-up nose. She was wearing a halter top and shorts and was barefoot.

She ran up to Timberlaine and kissed him on the cheek. “There you are,” she said. To Steve she added, “Always know where to find Dad. Just follow the gunshots.” She turned back to her father. “Donald and I are going out. I need money.”

“Money?” Timberlaine said. “So why don’t you stop at a cash machine?”

“Oh, it always takes so long. Just give me some money, Dad.”

“Where are you going?”

“Shea Stadium. The Mets game.”

“Oh,” Timberlaine said. He fished in his pocket for his wallet.

The girl, having accomplished her purpose, now turned her attention to Steve. “Who’s this?”

“Oh,” Timberlaine said. “Steve Winslow, this is my daughter, Carrie. Carrie, Steve Winslow.”

Carrie Timberlaine extended her hand. “Are you a collector, Mr. Winslow?”

Steve smiled. “Everyone asks me that. No, I’m not.”

“Mr. Winslow is the attorney I told you about,” Timberlaine said.

Carrie’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Winslow. You’ll pardon me, but you don’t look like a lawyer.”

Steve smiled again. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

Tracy, who had observed this, managed to excuse herself from Mr. Nigouri and materialize at Steve’s side, prompting another round of introductions.

Steve watched with some amusement. Tracy and Carrie, who were about the same age, did not exactly hit it off. Observing them, the phrase “shake hands and come out fighting” came to mind. They certainly eyed each other like adversaries, and without actually moving, still gave the impression of circling each other.

At about that point an athletic-looking young man with wavy brown hair and a soap opera star’s plastic good looks arrived and proved to be Donald Walcott, Carrie’s boyfriend, and the whole round of introductions began again.

“Steve Winslow’s the lawyer,” Carrie put in.

“Oh,” Donald said. “Then you’re here about the gun.”

Steve raised his eyes to Timberlaine. “This is public knowledge?”

“Well, they know, of course,” Timberlaine said. He nodded at Nigouri, who was packing up his guns on the other side of the clearing. “But, no, there is no reason to tell everyone.”

“My apologies, Russ,” Donald said. He put his hand to his mouth, made a twisting motion. “My lips are sealed. Still,” he said to Steve, “I think it’s a good idea you’re here. To find out what the hell is going on. But we’ll be discreet, we won’t tell anyone. Come on, Carrie. I don’t wanna miss the first inning.”

“Oh, yeah? If you’re late, it’s your own damn fault,” she said, and turned and ran up the path.

Donald smiled and ran off after her.

As soon as he did there came a thump and a curse, like an offstage sound effect in a sitcom. Moments later, Melvin Burdett came into view. He was rubbing his head, and looked slightly peeved when he came around the corner, but when he saw Timberlaine his face brightened.

“Ah, there you are,” Burdett said. “I might have known. Getting a jump on the competition. And Mr. Nigouri.”

Burdett’s eyes went straight to the gun in Timberlaine’s hand. “And which one have you got there?”

Timberlaine’s instinct was to hide the gun, but it was way too late. He took a breath, glowered in helpless frustration.

“Ah, yes, of course, the derringer,” Burdett said. “Is that what you plan to bid on? Excellent. Excellent choice.” Burdett nodded with complete satisfaction. He rubbed his hands together. “All I can say is, may the best man win.”

Dinner did not, as Steve had feared, consist of all the guests seated around one huge, long, solid oak table. Instead, half a dozen small tables were scattered throughout the spacious dining room. As some of the guests were not due to arrive until Saturday, and as Timberlaine’s daughter and her fiance had gone off to the Mets game, only four of the six tables were filled.

Seating was not left to chance. Steve and Tracy were met at the dining room door by Martin, who guided them over to Timberlaine’s table.

Timberlaine hesitated just a beat as they sat down. He had told them to dress for dinner. Tracy, in a floor-length gown with her hair up and earrings, looked quite stunning. Steve Winslow had exchanged a T-shirt for a white shirt with collar and had thrown on a tie. Otherwise, he was still wearing his corduroy jacket and jeans. It was what he wore in court, and as far as he was concerned, that was as formal as he was going to go. Timberlaine did not comment, but he did hesitate perceptibly before introducing him.

The tables were round and seated eight. With Mr. Timberlaine was Mr. Nigouri, a middle-aged couple introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Crumbly, a trim, high-powered woman executive, introduced as Ms. Ebersol, and a white-haired gentleman with bifocals, introduced as Mr. Potter.

The guests quickly sorted themselves out. The Crumblys and Ms. Ebersol were collectors. There the resemblance stopped. The Crumblys were in bubbling spirits and seemed to treat the whole thing as a lark, as if coming up for the weekend and bidding on guns was a form of amusement for them, delightful, whatever the outcome. Ms. Ebersol seemed to regard the whole thing as a business venture and find the Crumblys’ attitude irritating.