Greywalker - Kat Richardson [39]
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ingstrom. I want to ask a few questions. Maybe we could get some lunch and chat?” I suggested.
She answered very softly. “Oh. Yes. That would be pleasant. All right. There’s a . . . a sandwich shop just down the road. . . .”
I glanced at Will. He shook his head. “They’re going to be very crowded. People from the auction, you know. Why don’t you two go up to Speedy’s? It’s only a couple of blocks away and you can have a table, if you hurry.”
She looked blank, but nodded. I got directions from Will and drove the two of us in my Rover.
Speedy’s was the sort of workingman’s café that could easily have been called a diner or a dive. We did manage a table near the back and got some coffee while we waited for our food. Ann Ingstrom looked a bit better after a few sips of very sweet, white coffee.
“That William is a very nice man, isn’t he?” she offered in her thin voice.
“Yes. He’s very nice. I hope I’m not disturbing your day by taking you away like this.”
“Oh, no. I . . . it’s good to get away. I’ve been practically living at the warehouse since all this happened.” Her voice wavered, but held up. “Since . . . since Chet and Tommy were drowned. There. I’ve said it, haven’t I?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry,” I murmured. No matter how much of it I’ve seen, other people’s grief leaves me feeling embarrassed, as if I’ve peeked through their bedroom windows.
“Well,” she said, sitting back to let the waitress slide plates onto the table, “fishermen and sailors. The sea takes them away. They don’t come back. You just . . . you know, you don’t expect it to happen to you.”
“It’s terribly sad,” I offered.
She nodded. “It stinks. But you wanted some help. What was it you wanted to ask?”
“I’m trying to find a parlor organ the company might have salvaged from a damaged ship in the late seventies or early eighties. Do you remember anything like that?”
She chewed slowly and swallowed, chasing the mouthful down with a gulp of coffee. “A parlor organ. I think—well, I’m not sure how we got it, but we had one in the house for a while. I hated it. We finally got rid of the nasty thing when we redecorated. In 1986, I think. I’m not sure of the date, exactly. But it’s long gone now.”
“What did you do with it?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m not really sure. Chet took care of it. I was just glad to see it go. It always made me feel . . . unsettled. Isn’t that funny?” she asked. “It worked all right. Chet played it a couple of times.” She shuddered. “But it always sounded to me like the old thing was screaming and crying.” Then she coughed out a laugh. “Silly of me, wasn’t it? To be afraid of a piece of furniture? So I never asked him what he did with it.”
“Could you find out?”
“Well . . . there must be some papers, so I suppose so. It will give me something to do. Shall I call you when I find out?”
“I’d appreciate that.” I found one of my business cards and scribbled my home number on it as well before handing it to her. “You can call me anytime.”
She tucked it into her jacket pocket. “Thank you, dear. I’ll let you know what I find.”
We finished our lunch and drove back to the warehouse.
I offered her my hand before leaving her in the care of Michael and the mourners. “Thank you again for your help, Mrs. Ingstrom.”
This time, she squeezed my hand as if we were conspiring together. She smiled a bit, her face pleating suddenly into once-familiar lines. “I’ll do my best,” she whispered.
I returned to the auction floor. A different man was at the podium. He was older than Will, sleek as a salmon-gorged sea lion, but not much fun. He took himself too seriously to get the crowd whipped up and his performance was distracted and sloppy, closing a beautiful mahogany console far too fast. He shrugged the grumbles off, then turned the microphone and gavel back over to Will. The paddles began to fly again.