“Someone had dragged it into the barn,” Dad said.
“Gordon-you-thief,” I said, nodding. “Put it down while we look for the key. No, don’t block the cashier’s line—it could take us some time to find the key.”
Following my gestures, Dad and the other man maneuvered the trunk down behind the cashiers’ tables, into the small roped-off area we’d set aside so we’d have a place to put our own stuff and hide from the customers.
Pacified, the customers in line grew quiet again. For now.
The man dropped his end before Dad did, and I heard something thump inside the trunk.
“We definitely need the key before I can sell you the trunk,” I said. “It was empty when we put it out; the price doesn’t include the contents, whatever they are.”
“I don’t want the contents,” the woman said, with a sniff. “I didn’t put them there. I just want the trunk. In working order. With a key.”
She’s a customer, I told myself. I tried to smile, and then decided not to bother; the Groucho mustache hid my mouth anyway, and the smile wasn’t likely to reach my eyes.
“Dad, could you go and see if you can find Gordon McCoy,” I said. “The jerk probably locked some stuff he wanted into the trunk and took away the key.”
The woman remained, tapping her foot and looking pointedly at her watch while Dad and Rob went up and down the aisles, looking for Gordon. I began to worry. What was Gordon trying to pull? I didn’t think there was any way he could get out of the yard sale area without our seeing him—certainly not with anything valuable. Anyway, despite the nickname, literal larceny wasn’t really Gordon’s style, only sharp business practices.
“Maybe he went to lunch,” Dad suggested, returning after his third or fourth sweep through the grounds. “But I got these from your cousin Fred’s table. I suspect those trunk keys don’t have too many variations—see if any of these fit.”
He handed me a shoebox full of keys—probably several hundred of them, in a variety of sizes—and dashed off again.
Cursing Gordon-you-thief under my breath, I sat down beside the trunk with the shoebox in my lap and began trying keys. The metal plate around the keyhole was slightly scratched. It hadn’t been when I’d put it out, which meant that she’d probably tried to pick or force the lock before bringing the trunk to me. A fact I’d bring up if, as I anticipated, she tried using the scratches to dicker over the price when I finally got the damned thing open.
To my complete astonishment, the seventeenth key I tried actually fit.
“Victory!” I exclaimed.
“It’s about time,” the woman who wanted to buy the trunk exclaimed.
I heaved the lid up and looked inside.
“It’s Gordon,” I said.
“Yes, he’s probably the one who locked the trunk,” Michael said, over his shoulder. “What did he put inside?”
“No, I don’t think he locked the trunk,” I said. “I mean, it’s Gordon inside the trunk.”
Chapter 8
“Gordon?” Michael exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. “In the trunk? Is he—?”
“Definitely,” I said. “I think his head’s bashed in.”
I hoped I sounded calm. I’d seen dead bodies before, and as a doctor’s daughter, I like to think I have a pretty strong stomach. But there’s a difference between hearing your father prattle on at the dinner table about dead bodies, real or on the pages of the mystery books he loves, and finding one in your own backyard. I inhaled deeply, as my yoga teacher always recommended in moments of stress, and then decided to postpone further deep breathing until later. Even through the reek of Gordon’s aftershave, I could smell the unmistakable odor of blood.
Gordon’s red pirate bandanna was askew, revealing his thinning, straw-colored hair, and both bandanna and hair were clotted with clumps of darker red.
“Someone probably hit him with that bookend,” Michael said, pointing to an object lying at the other end of the trunk, by Gordon’s feet.
“Oh, damn,” I muttered. The last time I’d seen that owl-shaped bookend, Giles had been carrying it.
The woman who wanted to buy the trunk looked in, shrieked, and fainted. I looked around. The people in line hadn’t been paying much attention to what I was doing before, but now, thanks to the unconscious woman, they were starting to gawk.
“Shut the trunk,” I said, and then followed my own orders. “Mrs. Fenniman, can you take care of her? We need to keep people behind the ropes—maybe if they don’t see what’s happened we won’t have a panic. And can someone go tell Dad not to let anyone in the barn?”