As usual, by the time Bobo went downstairs, Lemuel had been asleep in his apartment for over an hour. Bobo reopened the shop, turned on the lights, and sat down to read the customer register that Lemuel insisted they keep, though everything was entered on the computer as it ought to be. Lemuel had had two customers during the later part of the night, but that wasn’t what Bobo was checking for.
Yes, Price Eggleston had been in the store a few weeks ago. Bobo had a good memory (one better than he wanted, actually), and he recalled the man clearly once he saw his register. Eggleston had come in with an antique gun he’d wanted to pawn. The whole time he was in the shop, Eggleston had looked around constantly, as if he expected to see someone in the corners. Then he’d haggled over the money he could get for the weapon, but with a suspicious lack of fire. The gun was worth something, though it was no fine family heirloom. In fact, it needed some work to be usable. Eggleston had suggested Bobo restore the gun.
“I don’t know anything about working on guns,” Bobo had replied, surprised. “You’ll have to get someone else to do the work. You’d get a lot more money for it if you have it cleaned up and in working order.”
Eggleston had looked at him sharply and with some contempt. “All right, then,” he’d said, clearly angry, and he’d accepted the low price Bobo had offered. The more Bobo thought of the conversation, the more clearly he could recall Eggleston. The man had been tall and tan, his face broad across the cheeks and narrow at the chin. Cowboy boots, jeans, western shirt. He’d been wearing a ball cap, not a western hat.
Bobo felt as though he should tell someone about Eggleston’s visit, but he couldn’t think why, when he got right down to it. Since he was alone in the shop, he sat at the computer and Googled “Price Eggleston.”
After five minutes of reading, Bobo was pretty happy that the man’s “hunting lodge” had burned down. He was only theoretically sorry that Eggleston hadn’t burned along with it.
A couple came in to see if there were any old wedding rings that might work for them, and for half an hour Bobo was busy taking out the cases of rings (some of them had been sitting in the worn velvet slots for longer than he’d been alive) and showing them to the middle-aged couple, who seemed charmed by the assortment. They actually bought silver bands, and he entered the sale carefully. He was glad to see them smile at each other as they left the pawnshop.
Bobo had plenty to think about when he was alone once more. He reviewed his memory of Price Eggleston’s visit to the shop. In hindsight, Bobo became convinced that the man had wanted a look at him. He was sure that Eggleston had deliberately tried to provoke a discussion about firearms, perhaps to see if Bobo actually liked guns, was adept in their care and maintenance.
Or maybe, to have a legitimate reason to meet Bobo, Eggleston had grabbed the nearest object someone might be likely to take to a pawnshop.
Bobo had to abandon this rearview reassessment when the bell over the door rang. An old, old woman came in. She moved oddly, and something about her made the hairs on Bobo’s arms tingle, and not in a pleasant way. This was surely one of Lemuel’s customers. She sidled through the shelves and the furniture as if she wasn’t able to walk in a straight line, and her stringy long hair, which was as many shades of gray as a cloudy sky, slid around her face.
“Are you the current proprietor of this establishment?” she asked, rolling the words around in her mouth as if she were pleased to be saying them, glad to exhibit a skill she didn’t often exercise.
“I am,” Bobo said. Perhaps Olivia might come up? She knew more about the night customers than Bobo did. But then he recalled he’d seen her getting into her car from his apartment window, right after he’d gotten out of bed, and he realized she’d been leaving for the airport.
Well . . . okay. He could handle one old woman, even if she did give him the creeps. Wasn’t he tired of being rescued all the time? No, he decided as she grew closer and he could see her more clearly. No, I’m not. I’d love it if someone else came in right now. Fiji, Manfred, Chuy, Connor, anybody.
“I’m sure you are wondering who I am and why I’ve come to patronize your store,” she crooned.
“Yes,” he said. That was all he could manage.
“I mean you no harm,” she said unconvincingly. “I understand that you are a friend of Lemuel’s and of Emilio’s.”
Emilio. Bobo was stumped for a second. “The Rev,” he said. “The Reverend Sheehan.”
“Yes, of course.” She was right up in his face by that time, and he could see a lot of detail. The view was not encouraging. The lines in her cheeks were deep enough to look etched, and she smelled like dirt and rain. “I could not wait until tonight to pick up the brooch Lemuel repaired for me.”
Bobo felt a certain measure of relief. She was a legitimate customer. She wanted something tangible. She wasn’t going to rip his throat out and feed him to the dogs. (Where had that image come from?) “Yes,” he said, hoping that this was the right customer. “I think the brooch you’re talking about is right here in the case.” The pretty one he’d been showing Arthur Smith, it had to be. Bobo found he was incredibly pleased to be behind a counter, which provided a handy bulwark between him and . . . “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” he said.
The thick gray brows rose. “And so you don’t,” she said. “You may call me Maggie.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Maggie,” he said, and she actually cackled with laughter. He’d never heard anyone cackle before. It was as unpleasant as he’d always imagined. Bobo’s hands weren’t completely steady, but he managed to reach under the glass counter to extricate the brooch. He looked at the little tag Lemuel had attached to double-check his memory. “That’ll be twenty dollars, Miss Maggie.”
“Oh, that’s dear,” the hag moaned, shaking her head. (He thought she might say “Tut, tut,” but she didn’t.) “Oh, that’s such a price!” She cast a sly glance at Bobo to see if he was going to negotiate. He gave her a level stare. “However, Lemuel does wonderful work, and he’s such a sweet boy,” she said, seeing that Bobo wasn’t going to cave.
Lemuel had been a boy well over a century and a half ago, by Bobo’s quick estimation. The odds were good that Lemuel had been sweet to someone, at some point. “He’s repaired it,” Bobo said agreeably. “Worth every penny.”