A String of Beads (34 page)

“Lovely, Harry. But why would the Mafia care about a crime of passion? Why would they
go looking for Jimmy?”

“Janie, Janie, Janie. Think the way they do. What do they spend most of their time
doing?”

“Getting money. Extortion. Fixing games and races. Loaning money to people for huge
interest. Pumping up the price of fake stocks and then dumping them. Hijacking trucks.
Taking over legitimate businesses. Laundering money. Smuggling and selling drugs.
Prostitution. Gambling. Murder for hire. Stealing—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. One of those,” said Harry. “Getting money is what they care about,
so that’s got to be what Crane is doing for them. That’s the reason they have a stake
in keeping Daniel Crane from getting caught for the murder. And now, for drugging
the girl.”

“You can’t say what the stake is?”

“I know what you know. I’m not out there learning things anymore. I’m a leftover image
stored in your brain. If I take a guess, it will be the same as yours.”

“Nick Bauermeister worked for Crane. Nick Bauermeister was a burglar. Maybe that’s
what Crane does on the side—send out thieves and store the loot in his storage facility.”

“Not bad,” said Harry. “Would the Mafia take an interest in a whole storage place
filled with stolen stuff—­electronics, furniture, watches, and jewelry? I’m guessing
they might.”

“Of course they would. And that means that they still need to blame the murder on
someone besides Crane,” said Jane. “They need to get Jimmy.”

Harry pursed his lips and squinted up at the dark sky. “I imagine they’d like to.
The official story would be that the fugitive killer of Nicky B. came to a fitting
end. But right this minute I think the one who’s in the most danger is Chelsea Schnell.”
Harry turned his eyes to Jane. “Her and the one who shot one of their boys with a
shotgun. But getting revenge for him would be their second choice. Take it from me,
the dead are soon forgotten.”

“The hell they are.”

But Harry was gone. Only the plain brick wall remained.

27

I
n the morning Jane went for her run while it was still dark. She thought about John
Felker, about her husband, and about decisions she had made years ago—some shrewd
guesses and some mistakes that she regretted as much this morning as she had at the
time. And then she showered and made breakfast for Mattie, Jimmy, and Chelsea. They
talked about how beautiful the day was going to be.

Mattie mentioned that she had gone out alone a week ago and driven into the country
for an afternoon. She had found roadside sales and swap meets along her route, where
she had bought maple syrup and homemade baked goods, and seen lots of antiques and
hand-sewn quilts.

Jane said, “Maybe I’ll take a look around one of these days. Which way would you recommend?”

Mattie said, “I drove out on Route Four. There was a sale at Canaan, and a big antique
mall place out near Grafton. And there were a few places having garage sales and things.
It was fun. There were people selling just about anything you can imagine.”

The talk turned to other subjects. Afterward Jane walked into the downtown section
of Hanover. She was still looking around town for the kind of people who might be
here to find Jimmy Sanders, but today she saw no likely suspects.

Jane returned to the apartment, turned on the laptop computer she’d left with Jimmy,
and began to scan the articles in the Western New York newspapers. She checked the
Buffalo News
, the
Rochester
Democrat and Chronicle
, the
Niagara
Gazette
, and the
Livingston County News
. Then she found the websites of the four Buffalo local news stations and a site that
reported on the city of Akron, New York.

Jimmy watched her reading for a few minutes, and then said, “What are you looking
at?”

“When I was back home, I tried to get the police moving in the right direction, and
looking at the right things. If something changes, I want to know.”

“Couldn’t you check with your BFFs, the clan mothers?”

“Not a good idea,” she said. “No more phone calls until this is over.”

Jimmy studied her for a moment. “You brought what sounded like good news when you
came, but you seem just as worried.”

She looked up from her reading. “It’s not over yet.”

He nodded. “You said last night that you knew more. I didn’t want to ask in front
of my mother and Chelsea, but did you find out who those guys in Cleveland were?”

“I have theories. When I went to watch Daniel Crane’s storage facility, I saw two
men there and took their pictures while I pretended to talk on my phone. Ike Lloyd
told me one was named Lorenzo Malconi. He’s the boss of the Buffalo family of the
Mafia. The other man works for him.”

“What would they have to do with Daniel Crane?”

“I don’t know. They had some men with them, and they brought a big box to store in
one of the storage bays. It could mean nothing. Criminals probably have things to
store too. But the box could be something they don’t want to store on their own property,
or even close to home. They had driven pretty far out in the country to store their
box at Box Farm Personal Storage. As you know, that’s the place where Nick Bauermeister
worked, and its owner is Daniel Crane, the man who raped Chelsea. I think Daniel Crane
is the one who killed Nick Bauermeister, and that they’re trying to protect him.”

Jimmy stared at her for a second, and then looked across the room, his eyes unfocused.
“That means—”

“All it means is what we already know—that we’ve got to stay out of sight for a while.”

“How long?”

“I’ve been careful to stay out of the Mafia’s way in the past, and I’ve managed to
keep them from noticing me, so far. I think they’ll sniff around for a while, trying
to find us. But at some point they’ll reach the conclusion that it’s a waste of time
because it doesn’t bring them more money or power, and leaving us alone won’t hurt
them.”

“It all sounds very logical,” said Jimmy. “Are they logical?”

“It’s another dog and rabbit story,” said Jane. “They’re dogs, and we’re rabbits.
The dog chases the rabbit for fun. The rabbit runs just for the chance to be a rabbit
again tomorrow. The rabbit almost always wins.”

“Almost always.”

“It’s the best we can do.” She went back to scrolling down through the articles posted
on the Western New York websites.

The next day was Saturday. When Jane returned from her early morning run, showered,
and dressed, she picked up the laptop and looked at a map of New Hampshire. She had
never been on Route 4, but she could see it intersected with Interstate 89, the major
roadway that she’d driven to get here.

After breakfast she said, “I’m going out for a while.”

“Anywhere interesting?” asked Mattie.

“I’m just going to explore the area a little.”

“I can show you some of it,” Mattie said.

Jane glanced in her direction, and in the corner of her eye she saw Chelsea look up
at Jimmy, and Jimmy meet her gaze. “Okay. Glad to have you.”

Jane waited while Mattie went to her room and returned with her purse. “Bye, you two.”

Jimmy and Chelsea said bye in chorus, as though they had practiced.

Jane and Mattie went out to the sidewalk, and Mattie sighed. “I’m so glad to get out
of there for a while. Those two are so eager to be alone I can’t stand it.”

Jane glanced at her. “Besides being in the middle, are you okay with that?”

“It doesn’t matter if I am or not. They’re adults, and the universe works the way
it works. I don’t get a vote.”

“Do you like Chelsea?”

“I think she’s nice,” Mattie said. “I like having her around. She’s cheerful and helps
with the chores, and she seems to be keeping Jimmy from getting too claustrophobic.”

“Do you like her as a daughter-in-law?”

Mattie’s head swiveled to look at Jane. “That’s a little sudden. Especially sudden
when you’re talking about a girl who’s been hurt so much. I’d like to get to know
her better before that. Forget me. I’d like time for Jimmy to get to know her first.
But I like everything I’ve seen so far.”

“It wouldn’t bother you that she’s not Onondawaga?”

“She certainly isn’t.” Mattie walked along for a few steps. “I guess my thoughts on
that subject have changed over the years. Your mother was as white and blond as Chelsea.
But then I saw you come along, and watched you grow up. Is there anybody who’s more
Seneca than you are? You look like my great-grandmother. And you think like my great-grand
father.
”

“Thank you.”

Mattie laughed. “It wasn’t meant as a compliment. But the fact that you think it is
proves what I said.”

“So you think she’s helping Jimmy get through this?”

“So far. Jimmy’s lonely. He’s dated plenty of girls, but the relationships went only
so long. He’s never married, and it seems to me that at his age he’s running out of
chances. If it turns out he was just waiting for this one to come along, I’ll be delighted.
If not, she’s still a nice person, and he could do worse than ending up with a nice
friend.”

Jane and Mattie got into the Passat, and Jane drove south out of Hanover. Jane said,
“Mattie, I’ve got some other things we should talk over.”

“All right,” said Mattie.

“I no longer think that the worst thing we need to worry about is police officers
coming to hold Jimmy for extradition to New York State.”

“What, then?”

“I think that the men who are searching for us, and who broke into your house to
kidnap you, are Mafia soldiers.”

“You do?” asked Mattie. “Why? What would people like that want with us?”

“They seem to be trying to protect the man who drugged Chelsea. I think he was the
one who killed her boyfriend and tried to get it blamed on Jimmy.”

“So the way they’d help this man would be what?”

“First, making sure she’s not around to charge him with rape and testify at his trial.”

“Oh, that poor girl.”

“Yes. And they still need to have someone blamed for the murder, and that means they
want to find Jimmy, too.”

“I guess we aren’t going home anytime soon.”

“I hope I’m wrong. The reason I’m telling you this is partly to get you to think differently.
Trouble is not going to be police cars or police officers. And these men don’t look
like the gangsters on television. They could be any two or more males between twenty
and fifty.”

“You’re not exactly narrowing it down.”

“I know.”

They drove onto Interstate 89 and then got off on the Route 4 exit. They rode along
the curving route to Canaan and stopped at a small park across from the local market
and restaurant. In the park was a gathering of tables and booths. Local artisans sold
goat cheese, maple syrup and candy, handmade jewelry, herbal soaps, embroidered hangings,
and knitted scarves. Jane and Mattie browsed, and then went back to the restaurant
where Jane had parked the Passat, and drove on.

Their next stop was a giant parking lot that ran along in front of a row of barn-like
buildings. Several of them were stores that sold antique furniture, dishes, and other
household goods. Some had souvenirs and clothing. Jane moved through them with a restless,
impatient eye, scanning the cases and the walls, but not seeing what she was looking
for.

Outside in the lot there were rows of canvas awnings, open vans, tables and booths
where people were offering all sorts of items for sale. “They’ve got a little of everything,”
Mattie said.

They went to the car, and Jane drove to the end of the lot near the open-air bazaar.
She and Mattie walked from table to table, but as they went on they were attracted
to separate tables. Mattie looked at milk glass vessels, but Jane was always scanning
the tables and cases, studying the sellers and their vehicles for something that wasn’t
there.

Finally Jane gravitated to a man in his sixties with white hair and a white three-day
stubble of beard who sat at a set of tables before an oversize van. On the table were
duck decoys, a few knives with antler handles, some new and some used and resharpened.
On one of his tables Jane spotted a worn reloading kit with a turret press, cramp
dies, and decapper. On the table nearby was an old Ithaca pump shotgun. Jane pointed
to it. “Okay if I look it over?”

The man gestured and nodded, so Jane lifted it and examined the barrel and receiver
for corrosion and wear. “How much?”

“A hundred.”

Jane set the shotgun down again, but she didn’t leave. Instead she scanned his other
wares.

“Don’t you want it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jane. “I wasn’t really in the market for another shotgun.
I was mostly looking for handguns.”

The man looked at her with new interest. “What kind?”

“What have you got?”

The man got up from his folding lawn chair and stepped to his van, then rummaged around
for a minute and came back with what looked like the center drawer of an old oak desk
with the handles removed, and set it on the table in front of Jane. He had an oilcloth
on it, and now he pulled the cloth aside to reveal six handguns in two rows. “I’ve
got a few things right now, but I don’t like to leave them out on the table.”

He picked up a big revolver. “This one here is nice, but it might be a bit heavy for
you. It’s one of the last revolvers to be standard issue for the police. A Smith and
Wesson L-frame .357 magnum. This one’s got some wear on the finish and a couple of
dings on the grips, but it’s reliable and simple.”

Jane smiled. She picked it up, rotated the cylinder, swung it out, and looked into
the barrel. “Not bad for thirty or forty years old.”

“They don’t rot,” he said.

“Let’s see what else you have.”

He pointed at the smallest gun in the tray. “A Cobra CA380. Tiny. You could hide it
anywhere—in your purse, or whatever. They sell for about six hundred, but I can give
you a deal.”

“They must have gone up. They used to sell for about two hundred new, and this one
isn’t.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t be making fun of me, would you?”

The man smiled. “Well, look them over. Take your time.”

She examined each of the guns, then said, “Can I make you an offer?”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll take this old Colt 1911 .45, the Cobra .380, and the Czech CZ 97 .45. I’ll give
you six hundred.”

He stared at the guns. “The two .45s and the Cobra? That would be more like eight
hundred.”

“Seven is more like eight.”

He smiled again. “Make it eight and I’ll throw in two boxes of .45 ACP ammo, and most
of a box of .380—maybe fifteen rounds left—and the shotgun.”

“Done.”

“And done,” he said.

Jane reached into her pocket and pulled out hundred dollar bills one at a time while
he went to his van and brought out a two-handled shopping bag with a big red Macy’s
star on it and placed the pistols and the boxes of ammunition inside. She handed him
the eight bills. He counted them and folded them into his pocket. “You got a nice
deal.”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “Thanks. And you don’t need any paperwork, right?”

“No. Only licensed gun dealers need to do that in New Hampshire. The rest of us are
free. Have a nice day.”

“You too.” Jane picked up the bag and the shotgun, returned to the car, locked her
purchases in the trunk, and turned her head to look for Mattie. She stood by a table
with sweaters and gloves pretending she hadn’t been watching Jane. She stepped over
to the car.

Jane drove back toward Hanover. When they reached one of the big plazas in Lebanon,
Jane said, “I’ve got to make a stop. This wouldn’t be a bad time to stock up on food.
Can you get a start on the shopping and I’ll meet you in the supermarket?”

“Good idea.”

Jane pulled up to the market and let Mattie out, and then drove to a big discount
sporting goods store she had spotted from the road. She bought three boxes of five
­double-aught shotgun shells, a can of Hoppe’s gun oil, a can of solvent, and a gun-cleaning
kit, put them in the car trunk, and went to meet Mattie.