“According to Tidwell, the pervading theory is that Nadine might have witnessed some sort of drug deal.”
“You think that’s what happened?”
“Stay with me on this,” Theodosia said. “If Nadine did witness a drug deal—and it does seem possible—then she was probably killed because of it.”
“Merciful heaven.” Drayton suddenly looked drained of energy.
“If Nadine was an eyewitness to a serious drug crime, then the stakes had been raised so high that the perpetrators pretty much had to keep Nadine quiet. Permanently quiet.”
“Gulp.”
“It also tells us something else.” Theodosia held up two fingers. “It means there were two people involved.”
Comprehension dawned on Drayton’s face. “The buyer and the seller.”
“Exactly.”
“Sweet Fanny Adams,” Drayton said. “Now we’re looking for two killers? That sounds doubly difficult.” He drummed his fingers against the wooden counter. “No, make that doubly dangerous.”
10
Some forty-five minutes later, Theodosia decided to stick Detective Tidwell’s warning on the far back burner and set off for a talk with Simon Nardwell, Nadine’s erstwhile boyfriend. Or, according to Bettina, the man Nadine had dated a few times. Maybe Nardwell would have a few ideas about why Nadine had been murdered? Although, if Nadine had stumbled into a dope deal, maybe he was clueless.
In any event, Theodosia got in her Jeep, drove a few blocks to Cumberland Street, parked in a sunny spot, and found his shop.
It turned out to be a narrow redbrick building sandwiched between two others and fronted with a single large window that had white plantation-style shutters on each side. Across the window, in gold letters done in old-timey typeface, were the words antique guns and collectibles. And underneath that in smaller type, simon nardwell, proprietor.
Antique guns, pistols, and derringers sat in the front window display, nestled cozily on green velvet fabric. Sunlight winked off a small derringer with rosewood grips. A Frontier-era pepperbox derringer looked old but wicked, as if it still had a few deadly tricks.
Knowing she had nothing to lose, Theodosia pushed the button that said ring for admittance and, when the door buzzed loudly, stepped inside.
There were two people in the shop. A customer who looked to be in his early sixties and Simon Nardwell, who was younger but not by much. He aimed a smile at Theodosia, the kind of smile that said I’m busy and will get to you as soon as I can, and went back to talking to his customer.
That was fine with Theodosia. It gave her time to study Nardwell and look around the shop. The shop itself was small and old-fashioned, wall to wall with locked wooden cases that featured rounded glass tops. Inside each case were dozens of antique guns, pistols, muskets, and derringers. Hanging on the walls were sepia-tone photos of men brandishing weapons and bird hunters showing off their dogs and game. The place smelled of Windex, cordite, and Hoppe’s gun oil.
Nardwell looked exactly like his shop. Slightly stoop shouldered, old-fashioned, and dressed in a three-piece tweed suit that sagged on his thin frame and had a slightly moth-eaten air about it.
No wonder Delaine referred to him as Simon Ne’er-do-well.
On the other hand, Nardwell was pitching his heart out with the earnest yet well-worn patois of a used-car salesman.
“This one’s a real beauty, a Scottish-made percussion pistol with a .50 caliber bore,” Nardwell said.
“Authentic?” the customer asked.
Nardwell scratched at the barrel with a finger. “See here? It’s marked ‘Edinburgh.’ ”
Theodosia listened with half an ear as she wandered around the shop, peering inside the glass cases. Here was a French flintlock pistol, looking polished and new, as if it had never been fired. She stopped in front of another case and studied a pair of Civil War pistols. They were Colt army guns, good-looking pistols, but with a deadly glint to them. She could just imagine one hanging on the belt of a grim-faced cavalry officer as he led his troops into battle. Into certain death.
“What’s the price on this one?” the customer asked Nardwell as he hefted a Remington revolver and sighted down the gun barrel.
“That one’s twelve hundred” Nardwell said. “But I could do eleven-five.”
“And if I pay cash?”
“Eleven even,” Nardwell said quickly.
“Sold,” the customer said.
Theodosia smiled to herself. Cash meant the gun sale wouldn’t appear on the books. Cash meant Nardwell was part of the enormous underground economy that the feds were always railing about but could never seem to put a stop to.
Of course it also meant that Nardwell could be dishonest as hell. And if someone was dishonest, was it that much of a stretch to murder? Theodosia wasn’t sure.
Nardwell counted out the cash his customer offered him, then wrapped the gun in a piece of suede cloth and placed it in a small wooden box. He handed the package over to his customer and said, “I hope you enjoy your new weapon.”
Then the front door banged shut and Nardwell was suddenly standing in front of Theodosia. “Help you?”
“Hello there,” Theodosia said.
Nardwell rested his hands on top of a glass case and said, “You’re interested in an antique pistol?” When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “Would this be for you or is it a gift?”
“Actually, I’m here on a kind of fact-finding mission.”
“Oh?” Nardwell looked curious.
“Concerning your friend’s murder.”
A nervous hand finger-walked up his tie. “You mean . . . ?”
“Nadine.”
Hearing her name spoken elicited a sorrowful look from Nardwell. “A wonderful woman,” he said in an almost whisper. “Such a shocking turn of events.”
“You have my condolences.”
“Thank you. I couldn’t quite believe it when I heard the news.”
“You were contacted by the police?” Theodosia said.
“The sheriff who’s overseeing the investigation,” Nardwell said.
“Sheriff Burney.”
“Yes, that’s the officer.”
“I’m sorry,” Theodosia said. “I know we’ve never met before, but I understand you were close with Nadine, and I knew her fairly well, too.”
It was a little bit of a white lie, but in a case like this Theodosia figured it wouldn’t hurt. Might even help.