Sale tables filled the alley in front of the Timeworn Treasures pawnshop, piled high with a random assortment of odds and ends. Estate Auction: Everything Must Go! Alice the gremlin had meticulously checked the price tags, marked some items down for a quick sale, then left the larger pieces for the auctioneer.
While Robin remained buried alive in the new legislation, I took spending money from the Chambeaux & Deyer accounts and went to the auction, dead set on purchasing Snazz’s ledger book. McGoo had found no heart-and-soul listings at all, but I was convinced he’d missed something. I wanted to study every entry, looking for some sort of code the pawnbroker might have developed. I figured that others besides Jerry might want their bundles back.
I realized that the ledger would be advantageous in other cases as well, specifically because it would list who had pawned the theatrical company’s props before burning down the stage. I had left messages to tell Shakespeare that the pieces had been found, but I hadn’t been able to reach him—ghosts were often hard to track down, and he was busy rebuilding the stage for a comeback performance. Once the items were released from evidence, though, and available for reclaiming, I made sure the troupe knew about it. Several of the ghost actors had promised to come to the estate auction, where I suggested they could buy back their props for a song.
After the fire, Shakespeare in the Dark had received numerous donations, and a construction crew comprising both humans and ghosts had begun to rebuild the stage for a new production of The Tempest. The acting company promised to come back with a vengeance—not necessarily a good choice of words. I had seen numerous Tempest broadsides tacked up around the Quarter, most of them strategically placed over the top of Balfour’s You Are Damned! flyers. I still hoped to prove his minions had been behind the arson.
Alice the gremlin had set up a cash box and metal folding chair at the front table. As customers paid cash for smaller items, she plucked off the price tags and took their money. Several wide-eyed human sightseers perused the titillating objects, picking up baubles or leafing through battered paperback copies of out-of-print spell books. The gullible tourists always paid full price without complaint; more seasoned residents of the Quarter tried to haggle, even though Alice rarely negotiated.
A troll expressed interest in the slightly used monkey’s paw and argued price for five minutes. Alice wouldn’t budge. “It’s a hard-to-find item and very powerful.”
“It’s been used—there’s not much left! One wish?” the troll said with a disparaging tone. “And these things are notorious for going wrong. It’s not worth half of what you’re asking.”
Alice held the paw in her paws. “Look at the workmanship. It’s an antiquity. You don’t find these on a discount store shelf.”
The troll took out a coin purse and opened it without letting Alice see how much money he had. “I just don’t think it’s worth that much. I really wish you’d bring your price down.”
Both of them froze at what the troll had inadvertently said, staring at the monkey’s paw as they waited for something terrible to happen. Alice quickly said, “Oh, all right. I’ll take two dollars off, but that’s my final offer.”
“Two dollars?” the troll said. “Why would I want the thing now? You just used up the last wish.”
“That wasn’t the last wish. I was holding the paw, not you, and I’d already made up my mind to drop the price.”
The troll did not look convinced, but he couldn’t resist the reduction in price. He plucked out the appropriate number of ancient gold coins from his purse. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll be back wanting a refund.”
She made a tsking sound through her pointed teeth and indicated a hand-lettered index card by the cash box: All Sales Final. Grumbling, the troll took the monkey’s paw and went away.
One precocious young human boy picked up the pieces of a shattered amulet and studiously tried to line up the runes and put the amulet back together. In alarm, Alice scuttled over and swatted the pieces out of the boy’s hands. “There, now—It’s not a toy!” She found the boy’s mother and scolded, “Please, control your obstreperous child.” The alarmed parents whisked the kid away.
I spotted Sheyenne’s pawned jewelry locked in a case for high-end items, but priced for immediate sale, not to go to auction. That was another important purchase I intended to make today, but first I had to get the ledger book.
Though harried, Alice looked pleased with the number of customers. Many of the items had already vanished from the quick-sale table. I waited while she finished a transaction, and she greeted me. “I want you to thank Ms. Deyer for moving so promptly on the paperwork. She’s made this possible. I don’t know how to express my gratitude . . . except by paying your bill, of course.”
“You could thank me by letting me have a look at the ledger book,” I said.
“It’ll be the third item up once the auction starts. I think there’ll be a lot of interest in that particular item,” Alice said.
“Really? In a sales ledger?” I had already found the book on the auction table; its covers were held shut with a plastic security band.
“I sincerely hope you win it, Mr. Chambeaux. I’ll be rooting for you.”
“I just need to look at one entry. And you can still sell it afterward.”
Alice was having none of it, though. “Moving on.”
Two ghosts from the acting troupe, dressed in full Elizabethan costume, purchased the theater masks, props, and costumes. They seemed quite happy to have the items back.
“Oh, Mr. Chambeaux!” I turned to see Mavis Wannovich in her full black gown and pointed cap walking alongside her sister. “Alma and I came to see what bargains we could find, but I never pictured you as the sort to frequent yard sales.”
“It’s an estate sale,” Alice corrected, closing the metal cash box.
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“Higher-quality debris.”
Mavis sidled closer to me while Alma went over to snuffle at items on the various tables. “Next month we’ll have a very nice restorative spell for you, but I’m glad we could help your friend in the hospital.”
“He wasn’t my friend,” I said. Especially not after his latest stunt. “But thanks for helping him all the same. I knew I could count on you both.”
The witch said, “We still need to chat about your work as a private eye, provide the gritty details for our ghostwriter, tell us about some interesting cases that you’ve wrapped up. I left a message with your receptionist yesterday—perhaps you didn’t get it?”
“I haven’t had a chance to call back,” I said. “And Sheyenne had a particularly rough time last night. Family troubles. I’ve got a crazy caseload . . . but I will talk with you, I promise.”