The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) (36 page)

The sky was getting light, and that made sense; according to the calendar, we weren’t far from the shortest night of the year. From my own perspective it had gone on a little longer than the Thirty Years War, without being nearly as much fun.

I got into bed around seven and out of it three hours later when the phone rang. I answered in a voice still full of sleep, and Ray said, “Aw, hell, Bernie. I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“You did me a favor. I couldn’t get down from the fire escape.”

“Huh?”

“In the dream,” I said. “What’s funny is on some level I knew it was a dream, and I figured the way out was to fall. Just step off into space.”

“But you couldn’t do it, right?”

“Yeah. Why’s that?”

“You’re a survivor, Bernie. Even in your sleep. Turns out you were right.”

“Not to jump?”

“About the syringe. About a couple of other things, too. You want to call me back when you’re awake enough to take it all in?”

“I’m awake now,” I said, hoping it was true. “Let’s hear it.”

“It all ties together,” I said. “I was pretty busy last night.”

“Doin’ things I don’t need to know about.”

“So how about if I tell you a few things that I happen to know, without saying how I came by the information?”

“That’ll work.”

When I was done he asked a few questions, listened to my answers, and made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “It’s kind of complicated,” he said. “I know what my grandmother would have called it.”

“Oh?”

“A real cluster fuck, God rest her soul. I guess I better not use the term in front of Meredith and Whatsisname.”

“Nils,” I said, “and you’re right. They’d want to get in on it.”

“I’d better get some warrants,” he said. “Problem is I got no grounds, which means gettin’ hold of the right judge. You got your hat ready, Bernie? The one you like to pull rabbits out of?”

Did I? “Let’s hope so,” I said. “When do you want to do this? What’s today, Friday?”

“Last I looked.”

“Yesterday was Thursday,” I said, “even if it does feel like a week ago. It ought to be today, Ray, before anybody heads out to the Hamptons. What time? Six-thirty?”

“Make it seven.”

“At the Ostermaier house? Scene of the crime and all?”

“No,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “Anything goes wrong, I’d hate to try explainin’ why I decided to hold a convention at a crime scene. You know, if you wouldn’t mind—”

Sure, why not? Barnegat Books at seven, with all the usual suspects on hand. What the hell, it wouldn’t be the first time.

I got to my store just in time to close for lunch. I opened up, turned on the lights, put the bargain table on the sidewalk, told Raffles I knew damn well he’d been fed, turned off the lights, and went out and locked the door. I thought of leaving a note for my wannabe customer, and I might have done so if I could have come up with anything clever. But I thought about the tasks I’d just performed and the order in which I’d performed them, and I decided my mind wasn’t working well enough to leave a blank piece of paper, let alone write something on it.

“Juneau Lock,” Carolyn sang out when I came through her door. “And what are those bottles? Is that Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray Tonic?”

“From the deli,” I said. “It suddenly occurred to me that spicy Taiwanese food could have no better accompaniment.”

“Somebody didn’t get much sleep last night,” she said, and a few minutes later she said, “Okay, I apologize. This is what we should have been drinking all along.”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” she said, “even though it shouldn’t. A sweet fizzy soft drink that tastes like celery—”

“Except artificial.”

“Like artificial celery,” she agreed. “It shouldn’t go with pastrami, and yet it does.”

“It’s almost traditional.”

“Well, it’s a far cry from traditional with Juneau Lock, but I can see where it’s a tradition in the making. Okay, you’re a genius, Bern, especially when you’re sleep-deprived. Now tell me about last night.”

“You know what’s funny, Bern?”

“That it took us this long to try Dr. Brown’s with Juneau Lock?”

“Besides that. I have this strong sense of all these people, Deirdre and Boyd and Meredith and Jackson, and yet I haven’t met any of them.”

“Neither have I.”

“Gee, that’s right, isn’t it? You haven’t. At least you’ve been in their homes.”

“Not Jackson’s.”

“You haven’t, have you? Why leave him out?”

“He was probably home in Park Slope. And if he was in Boerum Hill with his girlfriend, then his wife and kids were in Park Slope. And his office is downtown in the Financial Center, and the only way to get into that building these days is to rent your own office there. Besides, Jackson gets a pass on the murder.”

“It really was a murder, huh?”

“Ray confirmed it. There’s evidence, although I’d hate to be the one presenting it to a jury.”

“And Jackson’s in the clear.”

“He didn’t kill anybody,” I said, “but he’s tied into the other crime, and I didn’t have to go to his home or his office to tie him in.”

“Or his love nest?” She grinned. “I just wanted to use the phrase. How often do I get the chance? You must have found what you needed in Brooklyn Heights.”

“I found everything I needed,” I told her.

I went back to the store after lunch, but all I really did was make a phone call. Then I went out again, and at 2:30 I was sitting in a booth at a coffee shop on Madison Avenue, looking at a tattoo of a gecko.

“I don’t get it,” Chloe said, squinting at the Button Gwinnett spoon. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“Not a thing.”

“The guy didn’t want it?”

“Oh, he wanted it,” I said. “It made him feel like Alexander the Great.”

“Then why isn’t he keeping it?”

“An attack of conscience.”

“His conscience was bothering him?”

“Not his,” I said. “Bottom line, he’s not going to keep it.”

She frowned. “I guess you want your money back.”

I shook my head.

“You don’t?”

“We had a deal, Chloe. You gave me the spoon, I gave you the money. Period.”

“What am I supposed to do with it now?”

“The money? Go to Europe, if you still want to. It’s yours.”

“The spoon,” she said.

“I’d say just put it back in the cabinet,” I said, “but he already knows it’s missing. So I guess you’ll have to put it somewhere and discover it.”

“Someplace where it’d be his fault for having put it there.”

“Whatever works.”

“And I get to keep the money.”

“Right.”

She thought about it. “You know,” she said, “yesterday this was the best deal ever, and now it’s even better. Unless there’s a catch. Be straight with me, okay? Is there a catch?”

“No catch.”

“That’s really amazing,” she said. She put the spoon in her purse, drew out a pen, scribbled on a paper napkin.

“Here,” she said. “My cell number. That’s the best way to reach me. In case, you know, there’s something else you want me to steal.”

I folded the napkin, put it in my pocket.

“Even after I quit my job,” she said, “that’ll still be my number.” She grinned. “Unless I’m in Europe.”

“The four Ostermaier children,” I said.

“Deirdre, Boyd, Meredith, and Jackson. Boyd’s bringin’ his partner. Stephen’s his name, but don’t ask me which partner he is.”

“Stephen’s his life partner.”

“Then that’s who he’s bringin’, so they can leave together for Fire Island when the show’s over. Meredith’s bringin’ Nils. Deirdre’s got nobody to bring, and Jackson’s got his wife and his girlfriend, and he’s not bringin’ either of ’em.”

“So that’s six.”

“Plus our mystery guest from Willow Street. I’ll bring him myself.”

“Making seven. And you’ll be eight, and I suppose there’ll be some other municipal employees present.”