A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(107)

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.

That night after dinner, Jane brought the guns into the apartment. She spread newspapers on the kitchen table, then took each firearm apart, cleaned, and oiled it. When she was nearly finished, Chelsea walked into the kitchen.