A Killing in the Market (4 page)

The ride to the Shore Inn took Frank and Callie down Bay Road, the route that went past Henry Simone's cottage.

"Simone lived around here, didn't he?" Callie asked, peering out the window.

"In the clearing just past these trees," Frank said, keeping his eyes firmly on the road as it twisted left and right.

"You mean that gray cottage with the big Lincoln parked in the drive?"

Frank nodded. "That's it," he said.

Screeeech! Frank stomped on the brakes. "Lincoln parked in the drive? Simone didn't have a Lincoln. He drove a BMW. What's it doing there?"

Callie's eyes beamed with excitement. "I don't know! Let's find out!"

Frank threw the van into reverse and backed down the road, stopping just before the cottage so the van would be hidden by the trees.

Callie said, "I'm sure you've noticed this already, Frank, but there's a window open on the side of the house."

She was wrong—he hadn't noticed it. "Uh, good observation, Callie. That'll be my point of entry."

"Why don't you just knock?" Callie wanted to know.

"Because whoever's here has entered illegally. The house was sealed by the police. No one should be in it."

Before Frank could say anything else, Callie was out of the van and running beside him to the open window.

"Look," Frank whispered to her. "Nobody's in the car, so they're probably in the house. Look around downstairs; I'll take the second floor. I didn't go up there when Con did yesterday. If there's trouble, get out."

"Right."

Frank gave her a leg up and then climbed in himself. The place looked exactly as it did when they had left it.

Leaving Callie to snoop around downstairs, Frank stole silently up the stairs to the second floor. There were three doors opening off the hall. One of them was ajar. Hugging the wall, Frank sneaked over to the open door. He reached out and slowly pushed it all the way open. The hinges let out an agonizing screech.

Frank peered into the shadowy room. A queen-size mattress had been thrown off its box spring and torn to shreds. Empty drawers hung open from two dressers, and clothes were strewn around the floor.

Inside the room, he noticed a sophisticated-looking camera standing on a tripod in one corner. It appeared to be completely intact, untouched by whoever had ransacked the room.

Frank walked closer to examine it. Simone must have spent a lot on the camera, but he wasn't much of a photographer, Frank thought. Trees kept the room in shade most of the day. He would have needed a flash attachment to work in here even during the afternoon.

And what could he have been taking pictures of? Frank walked behind the camera, putting his eye up to the viewfinder.

"Go ahead, take a shot," came a low voice from behind him. "Then it'll be my turn."

Frank froze as he felt a cold metal object being pressed up against the back of his neck.

"SOMEHOW, I DON'T think that's a camera you're pointing at me." Frank was amazed at how steady his voice sounded. He had to keep this guy talking until he could figure out a way to turn the tables and get the drop on him.

The only answer he got was a sharp click. The sound of a revolver being cocked.

But the muzzle of the gun was removed from his neck. "Turn around," his captor ordered.

Frank turned to face a tall, stocky man with a receding hairline. He wore an expensive and elegant dark blue suit. In his hand was a .38 revolver.

"Next comes the line from all the detective movies you've ever seen," the man told him.

Frank raised his hands in the air, staring at the gun.

"Good. You figured that one out. Now, how about telling me exactly why you're snooping around here, young man?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," Frank said boldly. "Do you make a habit of hiding with a gun in the closet of a house that doesn't belong to you?"

"What makes you think this house doesn't belong to me?" the man snapped.

"I think you know why," Frank said carefully. "And I think you know something about Henry Simone's death — don't you?"

The man raised one corner of his mouth in a lopsided smirk. "Something tells me we need to talk." He waved the gun toward the door. "Move."

Frank walked slowly out the door and down the stairs, followed closely by the stranger. His mind raced, searching for a way to signal Callie, to warn her.

But it wasn't necessary. Looking around the first floor of the cottage, he noticed no sign of her. She must have heard them upstairs.

"Keep moving," the man ordered. "Out the back door."

The gunman kicked the back door open and held it as Frank walked through. Parked in back of the cottage was a black BMW — Simone's car.

"Around to the side," the man said. "Get in the Lincoln, we're going for a ride. Ugh!"

"What did you say?" Frank asked, spinning around to see the gunman on his knees, clutching at his throat. Behind him, Callie was holding tightly to a garden hose she had thrown around his neck.

Without missing a beat Frank unleashed a karate kick to the man's stomach.

Callie let go of the hose as the man fell to the ground, dropping his gun.

But as quickly as he fell, he recovered, and his arm snaked out for the revolver. Frank kicked at the gun but missed. He got the guy's hand instead. The man bellowed. The pain seemed to enrage him, and he hurled himself forward until his fingertips just touched the cold steel.

Frank took in the situation in a flash and grabbed Callie's hand. "Let's go!"

They raced to the van as the man's hand circled the butt of the gun and he staggered to his feet, ready to shoot.

Frank sped down Bay Road, quickly leaving the cottage far behind. Even though he kept his eyes straight ahead of him, he did notice a smile forming on Callie's face.

"You wanted to come on this alone, didn't you?" she said smugly.

"You did a good job," Frank admitted. "Although I did have a plan to deal with that guy."

"Oh, come on, Frank! Admit it, you'd have been sunk without me — "

Frank laughed. "All right, all right, I admit it! Now maybe you can help me figure out what was going on back there. The whole place was ransacked, but an expensive camera was left on a tripod upstairs, completely untouched."

"Was Simone a photographer?"

"Not that I know of. The only thing I can think is that the camera belonged to that gunman. But why would he bring it up there?"

"I have a question, too," Callie said. She pulled a long, colorfully patterned silk scarf out of her handbag. "Whose is this? I found it behind one of the armchairs."

Frank glanced at it quickly. "Somehow I don't think this belonged to our pistol-packing friend. I'd say it was Aunt Gertrude's, but it's a little too — too — "

"High fashion? I agree. Doesn't look like the kind of thing she'd wear."

"We'll have to ask her later," Frank said as he caught a glimpse of a small wooden sign.

VICTUALS AND GROG IN AN OLD-TIME SETTING

THE SHORE INN

ENTERTAINMENT NIGHTLY

"Last stop," Frank said. "Oh, good," Callie remarked with a smile. "I'm hungry."

"We can't stay — I promised Joe we'd be right back."

They pulled into a gravel driveway. At the end of it was an old red-brick building with smoke rising from the chimney. A brass plaque on the front wall said "The Shore Inn — 1737. Here lodged the young Benjamin Franklin on his way to Philadelphia to seek his fortune."

Frank parked the van next to the only other three cars in the parking lot. As he and Callie got out, the loud thump of a song's bass line rattled the ground-floor windows.

"I wonder what Ben Franklin would have thought of that," Frank mused.

They walked through the front door and looked around. Dark wooden chairs rested upside down on top of round tables, and a long, shiny mahogany bar stretched along one wall. Right next to it, two enormous oak doors led into what must have been the kitchen. Frank heard chopping noises. The music echoed loudly through the building, and three workers boogied to it as they swept and cleaned up. One was muscular, running to fat. The second was taller, with a sprinkling of acne scars across his face. The third was tall and weedy — he was singing along with the record, using his broomstick as a microphone.

Just then a tall redheaded woman burst through the swinging oak doors. Her lips were drawn into a straight, tight line. "All right, guys. Knock it off!" she ordered. "We're trying to talk in here!"

The worker behind the bar yanked the cassette from the tape deck. "Sorry, Mrs. Simone," he said.

Without answering, the woman whirled around and headed back toward the kitchen.

"Uh, excuse me! Mrs. Simone?" Frank called out.

The woman turned around again. When she saw Frank, she gave him a bored, dismissive look. "We're not hiring anybody right now," she said, walking through the door. "Check back with me in the spring, okay?"

Frank rushed over to the door and held it open. "That's not why I'm here, Mrs. Simone," he replied. "I want to talk to you about your ex-husband!"

The woman turned around and eyed Frank suspiciously.

"You are Mrs. Henry Simone, aren't you?" Frank asked.

"Yes," she answered, her face drawn and tight. She followed Frank back into the restaurant and let the door swing closed behind them. "And who are you?"

"My name is Frank Hardy, ma'am," he said. He pulled a couple of chairs off the nearest table. "Here—have a seat."

"Well, thank you," Alexandra Simone said dryly as she sat down. "I like being made to feel welcome in my own restaurant."

"I, uh — I have some disturbing news for you, Mrs. Simone," Frank said, sitting opposite her. Callie was standing beside the bar. "Mr. Simone is — " He leaned across the table and tried to speak as gently as possible. "Well, he was found dead this morning."

Mrs. Simone leaned back in her chair and skeptically raised an eyebrow. "What is this, some sort of joke?"

"I wish it were," Frank said. "The police tried to reach you. It seems — it seems he was murdered."

Mrs. Simone stared at him in silence, her eyes narrowing. "How terrible," she finally said. "I mean, we weren't exactly on speaking terms, but I wouldn't have wanted anything like this to happen. Now, who did you say you were?"

Somehow Frank had expected a little more emotion than this. "Frank Hardy. I'm working to find out — "

"Aiieeeeeee!" A scream pierced the air. Frank wheeled around. Glasses crashed to the floor as Callie flailed her arms against the bar. Around her neck was the thick, muscular arm of the man they had escaped from at Henry Simone's cottage!

Frank bolted from his chair, ready to get the gunman. The three workers remained motionless, dumbfounded, until Callie's attacker called out, "Don't just stand there! Get the other kid! The guy!"

The three men rushed Frank. The linebacker going to seed was nearest. He tackled Frank. And as he fell, Frank grabbed onto the leg of a table and gave it a shake, sending the chairs toppling onto his assailant.

"Arrrggh!" The man lost his grip on Frank as he raised his arms to shield himself from the heavy chairs. Frank rolled away just in time to see the guy with the scars come up ready to jump him.

Frank leapt toward him and grabbed his ankles. The man tumbled—straight into the wall. Frank sprang to his feet as he saw Callie being pulled into the kitchen. "Hang on, Callie!" he called out.

But as he was running toward her, the weedy worker blindsided him, swinging the broom into Frank's midsection.

Frank's "Oof!" resounded through the empty restaurant. He clutched his side and fell facedown onto the floor. Instantly the thin guy tossed the broom aside and pounced on top of him, pulling his arms behind his back.

Frank struggled to escape his grip, but he gave up. It was no use. He was aware of heavy breathing all around him—and he realized that the other men had come to help their friend.

"Now hold still—unless you think you can breathe inside this slop bucket!" the thin guy told him.

"Nice," Frank retorted. "What else do you do around here for thrills?"

"We'll show you!" came the fat guy's voice. All at once Frank was pulled to his feet and shoved toward the kitchen. He crashed into one of the massive wooden doors, and it swung open, revealing Callie and Mrs. Simone backed up against a work counter while the gunman from the cottage stood in front of them with his revolver.

"Glad to see that the three of you could handle the kid," the man said sarcastically. "I hope he wasn't too hard on you."

The three men grumbled as they walked back out the door. Frank leaned against a rack of shelves, next to Callie. The stark, gleaming white walls of the kitchen were in jarring contrast to the dark restaurant.

"Are you all right?" Frank whispered to Callie.

"Couldn't be better, considering I was just grabbed by a two-hundred-pound goon who likes to beat up girls half his size."

The mysterious man let out an angry little snort. Mrs. Simone looked at him nervously and grabbed onto the side of the countertop. Behind them, a gray-haired, potbellied chef was busy chopping meat with a cleaver.

"What's going on, Eric?" Mrs. Simone asked. "Who are these kids?"

"I found them snooping around in your ex-husband's cottage," the man replied. "They seem to know something."

Frank glanced up and down the shelves to his left: a container full of chopped lettuce, a few jars of dressing, and a bottle marked Cayenne Pepper — uncovered and nearly empty.

"Which one of you kids is going to talk first?" the man asked.

Frank looked at Callie and shrugged. Callie looked at her shoes. Slowly Frank inched his arm along the shelf behind them.

"Well, uh — " he began. "We saw this car in the drive — "

"And we knew it wasn't Simone's car," Callie added. By now Frank was closing his fingers firmly around the cayenne bottle.

"So, we decided ... " Callie said, trailing off.

The man glowered at Callie, impatient for her to continue her explanation. Then his eyes caught the slight motion behind her. He shot a glance at Frank and lunged forward. "Hey, what are you — "