farm implements. And the place was massive. It would probably take all day to fred someone who knew Marina's father.
Still, he thought his idea of finding another seller of phonographs was a good one, and he walked up and down the aisles, looking for Victrolas or Amberolas or other types of old record players.
He passed a lot of tables covered with antique toys--apparently a hot trend among current collectors--and several of the so-called and ques were things he'd had as a child. He saw his old James Bond lunch pail selling for fifty dollars, his Hot Wheel Supercharger for thirty-five.
He wandered past boxes of Life magazines, stacks of old Beatle albums.
Next to an Aurora Wolfman model he saw a Fred Flintstone Pez dispenser.
One of the small candies was pushed halfway out, and Fred's head was tilted slightly back, making it look as though his throat had been slit.
Miles looked away. Montgomery Jones' death the other
day had affected him more than he'd thought. Now he was even ascribing malevolent meaning to Pcz dispensers.
Which reminded him that he should call Graham. He hadn't talked to the lawyer since leaving the crime scene, but the murder had somehow been kept out of the papers and off the TV news, and Miles wanted to know if that was Graham's doing or if Thompson had pulled some strings. He also wanted to know if the lawyer wanted him to pursue his investigation of the company or if everything was now in the hands of the police.
Miles kept walking. Ahead was a blanket spread on the ground atop which were old Victrola speaker horns. A heavily bearded, grossly overweight man with a long, greasy ponytail sat in a metal folding chair behind the blanket, polishing what looked like a miniature speaker horn.
"Excuse me," Miles said. The man looked up. "Do you know Liam Connor?"
"Liam? Sure. You want his card?"
"No, I want to ask you a few questions about him."
The man's expression shut down. What had been willing helpfulness became blank neutrality. "Sorry. Can't help you."
"I'm not a cop," Miles quickly explained. "I'm a private investigator.
I've been hired by Mr. Connor's daughter to investigate a possible stalker. Mr. Connor has apparently been followed and harassed recently, and his daughter is worded. I was wondering if he'd talked to you about any of this or if he'd mentioned any enemies that he might have."
"Liam?" The man let out a loud, gruffly obnoxious laugh that caused most of the browsers nearby to look in his direction. "Liam doesn't have an enemy in this world!"
Miles smiled thinly. "Apparently he does."
The laughter died. "Seriously? Someone's stalking him?" "We think so."
"Why? To... kill him?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. If you could just tell me whether he's talked to you about--"
"Wait a minute. Why are you asking me what he talked about? Why don't you ask him?" The man looked at Miles suspiciously. "You're investigating him, aren't you?" "No, I assure you, his daughter hired me--"
"His daughter's probably after his money or something." The man shook his head. "Nope. If Liam ain't talking, I ain't talking." He picked up the rag he'd placed on his lap and started polishing the small horn he'd been working on.
Miles knew better than to press the man, and he peeled off a card, dropped it on the blanket. 'ais is legit. Call Mr. Connor and ask him if you want. And if you think of some thing, give me a call."
The man just looked at him. He didn't reach down to pick up Miles' card, but he didn't tear it up either. Miles hoped that the man would keep it and change his mind.
Several other vendors knew Liam, and two of them were more than willing to talk, but neither of them seemed to have heard anything or noticed any unusual behavior on his part recently.
It was nearly three o'clock when Miles made his way dejectedly back out to the car. He knew no more now than he had when he'd first arrived.
The whole day had been a waste, and he wanted to just go home and take a nap. But
Still, he thought his idea of finding another seller of phonographs was a good one, and he walked up and down the aisles, looking for Victrolas or Amberolas or other types of old record players.
He passed a lot of tables covered with antique toys--apparently a hot trend among current collectors--and several of the so-called and ques were things he'd had as a child. He saw his old James Bond lunch pail selling for fifty dollars, his Hot Wheel Supercharger for thirty-five.
He wandered past boxes of Life magazines, stacks of old Beatle albums.
Next to an Aurora Wolfman model he saw a Fred Flintstone Pez dispenser.
One of the small candies was pushed halfway out, and Fred's head was tilted slightly back, making it look as though his throat had been slit.
Miles looked away. Montgomery Jones' death the other
day had affected him more than he'd thought. Now he was even ascribing malevolent meaning to Pcz dispensers.
Which reminded him that he should call Graham. He hadn't talked to the lawyer since leaving the crime scene, but the murder had somehow been kept out of the papers and off the TV news, and Miles wanted to know if that was Graham's doing or if Thompson had pulled some strings. He also wanted to know if the lawyer wanted him to pursue his investigation of the company or if everything was now in the hands of the police.
Miles kept walking. Ahead was a blanket spread on the ground atop which were old Victrola speaker horns. A heavily bearded, grossly overweight man with a long, greasy ponytail sat in a metal folding chair behind the blanket, polishing what looked like a miniature speaker horn.
"Excuse me," Miles said. The man looked up. "Do you know Liam Connor?"
"Liam? Sure. You want his card?"
"No, I want to ask you a few questions about him."
The man's expression shut down. What had been willing helpfulness became blank neutrality. "Sorry. Can't help you."
"I'm not a cop," Miles quickly explained. "I'm a private investigator.
I've been hired by Mr. Connor's daughter to investigate a possible stalker. Mr. Connor has apparently been followed and harassed recently, and his daughter is worded. I was wondering if he'd talked to you about any of this or if he'd mentioned any enemies that he might have."
"Liam?" The man let out a loud, gruffly obnoxious laugh that caused most of the browsers nearby to look in his direction. "Liam doesn't have an enemy in this world!"
Miles smiled thinly. "Apparently he does."
The laughter died. "Seriously? Someone's stalking him?" "We think so."
"Why? To... kill him?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. If you could just tell me whether he's talked to you about--"
"Wait a minute. Why are you asking me what he talked about? Why don't you ask him?" The man looked at Miles suspiciously. "You're investigating him, aren't you?" "No, I assure you, his daughter hired me--"
"His daughter's probably after his money or something." The man shook his head. "Nope. If Liam ain't talking, I ain't talking." He picked up the rag he'd placed on his lap and started polishing the small horn he'd been working on.
Miles knew better than to press the man, and he peeled off a card, dropped it on the blanket. 'ais is legit. Call Mr. Connor and ask him if you want. And if you think of some thing, give me a call."
The man just looked at him. He didn't reach down to pick up Miles' card, but he didn't tear it up either. Miles hoped that the man would keep it and change his mind.
Several other vendors knew Liam, and two of them were more than willing to talk, but neither of them seemed to have heard anything or noticed any unusual behavior on his part recently.
It was nearly three o'clock when Miles made his way dejectedly back out to the car. He knew no more now than he had when he'd first arrived.
The whole day had been a waste, and he wanted to just go home and take a nap. But
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