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Briar

1942

A s I crept down the hallway of Mr. Schmidt’s house, my steps muted on the thick carpet, I shook my hands to stop them from trembling. I drew closer, trying to place the sound. A wounded animal? No, it was a human voice. Alternately moaning and then panting like a dog. Soon I made it to the living room and got a bird’s-eye view of one of those things that’s hard to unsee. The shades were drawn and the front door closed, despite the heat, and Tyson lay on the sofa, facing away from me; Shelby Parker sat astride him, caressing his chest.

So Tyson was home after all. And he had certainly recovered quickly.

There were magazines scattered here and there across the floor, and Shelby wore the bathing suit I’d seen her in at the hospital nurse’s station.

“Say it again,” she said, open-mouthed and breathless. “What have I got?”

“You’ve got the best ass on the island,” Tyson called out.

I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh.

“Louder!” Shelby shouted.

I hid around the corner, my back to the wall, heart pounding.

“Wait,” Tyson said. “What was that?”

“Hey,” Shelby said. “It was just getting good.”

“I heard something,” he said.

Tyson must have pushed her off, because Shelby let out an annoyed little noise.

“Jeez.”

I was trapped there around the corner from them and tried to slink away, but Tyson came through the door and caught me. “ Briar. What are you doing here?” he shouted, zipping up his pants.

Shelby followed him. “Did she see us?” she asked Tyson. “Tell her if she blabs, my parents will murder me.”

Tyson took me by the arm. “Were you watching us?”

I frowned. “No. Yuck. I just came to drop off some of your grandfather’s things, and I thought someone was getting murdered in here.”

“What did you drop off?” he asked.

He had me. I pulled my arm away. “Well…”

“I told you she lies,” Shelby said.

“Were you trying to steal something?” Tyson asked, with a concerned look. “If you need money…”

“No. But I did get a tip.”

“From who?”

“It’s confidential. But they said you bought something from Sandra Granger.”

He turned to Shelby. “Can you give us a minute?”

Shelby strolled off toward the kitchen, maybe on the prowl for chips.

He held on to the doorjamb and leaned in. “Okay, I do know Sandra. And I did buy something from her.”

“I figured. The gun, right?”

“What? No. Wait. Did you look in the office ? For God’s sake, Briar. I told you I’d help you. You know, I should call the cops.”

“Well, you bought that from her, right?” I knew I had him.

“ No. That’s Grandfather’s old World War I pistol. It doesn’t even fire anymore. There aren’t any bullets.” He turned away. “That wasn’t what I bought from her.”

“Then what?” I asked.

He stepped into the living room, bent to pull a magazine from the floor, and brought it to me. “There. Happy?”

I read the title on the cover aloud. “ Augenfallig .” It translated to Eyeful and was subtitled Glorifying the German Girl . The cover photo wasn’t exactly glorifying that girl, a pretty-much naked blonde wearing cheetah-print stockings and looking through a keyhole cutout.

“You bought German girlie mags from her?” I asked.

“Yes. Happy that you’ve embarrassed me? Gonna have your sister print it in her stupid column?”

“How was I supposed to know? You said you’d never met Sandra.”

“It’s not something I go around bragging about, Briar. At least Sandra kept it quiet. My grandfather would have had a fit if he’d found out.”

Shelby wandered back in, eating pistachio ice cream out of a cardboard container with a silver spoon. “Is she leaving?”

“Yes, she is,” I said.

Tyson was happy to give me the bum’s rush and go back to what he was doing. I walked out the way I came, each step drilling in the irritation. How was I supposed to know he was home?

I passed the office and glanced at the tugboat model on a lower shelf as I hurried by. Mr. Schmidt would have helped me figure it all out. I doubled back and grabbed the model from the shelf. If Tyson didn’t appreciate it, I would. He wouldn’t even notice it was gone, probably. Shelby wouldn’t be asking after it.

I walked off, telling myself that the whole trip had been worth it to get the tugboat model back, safely wrapped in one of Maria’s dish towels in my satchel.

As I headed down to Main Street to see what picture was playing at the Capawock, I spotted Cadence’s Major Gilbert on foot, with his quick British stride. Where was he going in such a hurry? I gave him a little head start and then followed. According to Sandra, he’d been right up there on her spy list. What harm would it do to check him out?