Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

He rubbed the thick stubble that he’d let grow on his face since the day the old lady died. By tomorrow, he thought, it would almost be a beard. Between a beard, sunglasses, and a hat he’d be okay. He sprayed some Right Guard under his arms, threw on some clothes, and reached for the clicker. He plopped himself down on the bed, thinking King would know what the ring was worth. King was smart like that. But King would lose his mind if he found out Hump had taken the ring. Even though no one was there to see it, Hump shrugged his shoulders. Maybe they’d hook up again someday. They were good together, on the inside and out.

He slid his index finger over the clicker buttons, searching for the ones that would get him to the paid movie channels, but when he looked up at the screen he stopped moving his finger. Stopped moving at all. Stopped breathing for a second, because there on the screen was Hump’s booking photo, next to King’s booking photo. Then King’s photo was enlarged, completely displacing Hump’s photo. Then King’s photo disappeared and was replaced by the image of a tall, good-looking cop standing before a row of microphones. Hump turned up the sound so he could hear what the cop was saying. When he heard, he turned off the TV.

He and King hadn’t been partners, not like some guys they’d known inside who worked together for years. They weren’t part of a crew. They were just two guys who had shared a cell for a few years and got along, each watching the other’s back. King was older and smarter, but he was as big a screwup as Hump, maybe even a bigger one. Still, King had been his friend, and now his friend had been murdered. Hump knew he should walk out of that room and never look back. He should fence the ring and just get on that bus to the place where it didn’t rain. Instead he clicked off the TV and searched the drawers King had used for his stuff while he’d been there.

45

Jesse waited for Henry Wilmott in the lobby outside the curator’s office. The Cain Library was at the center of what used to be all of Paradise. What the townspeople now called Old Town. It was where most of the quaint shops were, the ones that catered to the folks who came in spring for the garden tours and tours of the Victorian houses, the ones who came in summer for the regatta, and the ones who came in the fall for the changing of the leaves. These shops that had once been home to the butcher, baker, dry-goods store, greengrocer, and cobbler were now leased by cafés, antiques stores, art galleries, and tourist shops that sold souvenirs, sunblock, old-timey whaling paraphernalia, and plastic scrimshaw. Old Town wasn’t far from Pilgrim Cove and the old Cain house.

Jesse got tired of sitting. Between his visit to Dix and the press conference, he was full of the kind of energy he got charged with when he did unsettling or unpleasant things. Though his visit with Dix went as he had expected and the press conference had gone off without a hitch, he was wound up. He thought it might be a rebound effect from the day before and that in a few more hours he would begin to feel the drag on his body from the drinking, the nausea, the coffee, and the lack of sleep. It was an edgy, brittle kind of energy he was feeling as he strolled through the museum displays. Although it was called the Cain Library, the building also housed the Cain Museum. The museum told the story of the founders of Paradise and housed collections of art, finery — clothing, jewelry, silverware — family histories, and things like small stained-glass windows removed from their grand houses on the Bluffs before demolition.

“Jesse, Jesse, forgive me,” said Henry Wilmott, scurrying toward him, his right hand extended. “I’m so sorry, but I was on the phone with the broker for one of the Salters. They want to make a contribution.”

Wilmott was shorter than Jesse but not by much, though his hunched posture made him appear smaller than he actually was. His wispy gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and papery white skin gave him the look of a Dickens clerk. Jesse wasn’t fooled. Henry Wilmott had a handshake like a vise.

“No problem, Henry.”

“I saw the press conference on the local news at noon. This is a bad business. I mean, between poor Maude and this fellow. Awful stuff. Just awful.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, Jesse, how can a lowly curator and librarian assist the chief of our local constabulary?”

“Molly tells me you’re the man to talk to about the Cains.”

“I believe I am. Yes, indeed I am. What about the Cains?” Then he talked over himself before Jesse could answer. “Poor Maude. I’m afraid she was the last in the line of a wonderful and generous family. Did you know her?”

“I did not.”

“A shame. She was a lovely woman, really.”

“So, Henry, I was wondering if you knew whether Maude kept any valuables in her house. Something either she or her family hadn’t donated to a good cause or to the museum?”