A Killing in the Market

"THIS IS A fine mess you got us into," Joe Hardy muttered to his brother, Frank, glancing at him over his shoulder. Joe's brow was beaded with sweat, and strands of blond hair stuck to it. Frank's dark, lean face was set in a grimace as he shifted the heavy bundles he was carrying.

The sound of laughter came from behind them. "You boys are moving like a pair of old men."

Joe craned his neck and said, "Aunt Gertrude, don't you think you kind of overdid the groceries this time?"

Gertrude Hardy smiled at the sight of her two nephews weighted down with the bags. "You were the ones who kept adding things! And Frank did volunteer your services." Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she said, "Now, don't tell me you can eat all of that but can't carry it home!"

Frank forced a chuckle, but Joe just grunted as they crossed the Bayport village square. Taking in the neat white clapboard church, the solid-looking bank, and the clean brick stores, Joe understood why his aunt preferred to shop in town. But as he counted the number of blocks they had left to walk, he vowed to himself that they'd take the van next time—and go to a supermarket with lots of parking space.

"Why don't you boys let me carry something?" Aunt Gertrude suggested. She slid the strap of her purse higher up on her right shoulder, reached out with that arm to Joe—and immediately let out a terrifying scream.

As Frank and Joe swung around, a bicyclist whooshed by them, practically knocking them over.

"My purse!" Aunt Gertrude yelled. "He's got my purse!"

Frank and Joe dropped their grocery bags, sending geysers of milk, orange juice, and tomato sauce all over the sidewalk. "We'll get him!" Frank shouted as he and his brother took off.

Ahead of them, the thief pedaled past the corner bakery and whipped into the side street, his black jacket flapping and Aunt Gertrude's purse dangling from his arm. Frank and Joe followed, already twenty yards behind him. They rounded the corner into a narrow, nearly empty side street. The cyclist was halfway to the end of the block, veering to the left to avoid the only pedestrian, a gray-haired man carrying an umbrella.

The man froze, a look of mild surprise on his face as the cyclist yelled at him. "Out of my way, you old — "

"Stop, thief!" Aunt Gertrude yelled.

In a split second the gray-haired man's eyes darted from the cyclist to the brothers to Aunt Gertrude, sizing up the situation.

The cyclist whizzed past him with less than a foot to spare. But instead of jumping out of the way, the man calmly reached out with his umbrella—and thrust it between the spokes of the speeding wheels.

With a scrrriiink, the umbrella made contact, and the bicycle jerked into the air.

"Whoooooa!" the thief yelled, his bike flipping over and tumbling him to the street. Aunt Gertrude's purse sailed away, its contents scattering all over the pavement.

Frank and Joe ran to the thief, who was crumpled up beside the delivery entrance of the bakery, motionless. Joe grabbed a wrist to check the guy's pulse. "Alive but in dreamland," he said.

"Well, I hope they're good dreams," the older man said. "Because where he's going, it's going to be a nightmare."

The boys took in the gray-haired man standing over them completely unruffled. He looked like a sixty-year-old preppie, with pressed chino pants and cardigan sweater, his perfectly combed silver hair glinting in the afternoon sun. An early autumn tan showed that he had spent time at the beach—or under a sunlamp.

"That was quick thinking," Joe complimented him.

The man flashed a dimpled smile. "Nothing any citizen shouldn't do," he said, turning to Aunt Gertrude as she joined them. "Especially to help a charming lady."

The color rose in Aunt Gertrude's face. "I can't believe how you stopped him!" she said, breathlessly huffing and puffing. Then she knelt, gathering the things that had fallen out of her purse — change purse, cosmetics case, notebook, a gold pen.

"Here, let me help you," the silver-haired man volunteered. He knelt beside Aunt Gertrude. "Please," he said, gently touching her arm. "I'll doit."

Aunt Gertrude stood and ran her fingers through her dark hair, trying to straighten it. "Thank you so much, Mr. — er — "

"Call me Cyril," he said with a warm grin. "Cyril Bayard. And don't mention it. I work in New York City," — he chuckled — "and see bicycle messengers almost run into people on the street all the time. To tell you the truth, I've been waiting a long time to pull this trick!" He patted his now-battered umbrella and winked.

As Mr. Bayard picked up some dollar bills, Aunt Gertrude said, "I should offer you some kind of a reward. At least, Mr. Bayard, I could replace your umbrella — "

"Don't worry about it," Mr. Bayard said. "I was happy that I could help. That smile is reward enough."

Gertrude Hardy looked down at the ground. Joe wasn't sure, but he thought he could see his aunt blushing.

"And, please," Mr. Bayard went on, "call me Cyril."

Joe and Frank both tried to hide a grin as they propped the thief against the side wall of the bakery. Curious passersby were gathering back at the corner, and the wail of a siren told them the police were on the way.

The crowd parted as a squad car screeched around the corner and skidded to a stop beside the four. As the front door swung open, a familiar stocky form in blue stepped out.

A grin lit up Con Riley's beefy features as he took in the scene. "Heads-up work, boys," Officer Riley said, leaning down to examine the thief's face. "We've had a lot of complaints about this guy."

"We didn't do anything," Frank answered modestly. "It's all because of Mr. Bayard — "

He and Joe turned around, expecting Mr. Bayard to accept the compliment. But his back was to them, his arm resting casually against the building. He was laughing in response to something Aunt Gertrude had said, and she was smiling broadly.

Officer Riley's partner helped the groggy thief stumble into the cruiser while he took statements from the boys, Aunt Gertrude, and Mr. Bayard. When he had all the answers he needed, Officer Riley slid back into the car and drove off.

"What now?" Joe asked. The passersby had straggled away, but Aunt Gertrude and Mr. Bayard showed no sign of moving. As she laughed at something Mr. Bayard said, Aunt Gertrude's face seemed younger than Joe could remember it — softer, almost vulnerable.

"Let's go get the stuff we dropped," Frank suggested quietly.

The grocery bags were where they had left them, torn and soaked with milk and juice.

"Can you believe what we were watching?" Joe asked as they started scooping up everything.

"I think she's really falling for that guy," Frank answered, shaking his head.

"Yeah. You know, somehow it's hard for me to imagine Aunt Gertrude actually in love. I mean, she's too old for that."

"I'll tell her you said so." Frank laughed as Joe feigned sudden terror. Then he got a little more serious. "I'm sure it's happened before— probably years ago. Besides, you know what she's always saying to Dad — "

"Right." Joe did a perfect imitation of Aunt Gertrude's voice: "'I tell you, Fenton, I'd kill for a nice older millionaire to sweep me off my feet.'"

The boys kept on working to salvage as many groceries as they could. Frank tossed one bagful of empty milk and juice cartons into a trash basket, then said, "Look on the bright side. We've got a lot less to carry."

As they went back around the corner, they saw Aunt Gertrude and Mr. Bayard scanning the ground.

"There were some things we missed." Aunt Gertrude leaned down to snatch up a pair of knitting needles and put them into her purse. "Knitting is my dearest hobby." She looked Mr. Bayard up and down and smiled shyly. "Sweaters are my specialty, you know. In fact, I have some beautiful cashmere yarn at home — "

Mr. Bayard laughed. "Don't go to any trouble." Then he reached for a small booklet spread open on the sidewalk. "Is this yours?" he asked, looking at it curiously. "A savings account passbook. I haven't seen one of these in years!"

"I've kept it faithfully since I was a little girl. My life savings is in it."

Bayard shook his head. "My dear, you live in the Stone Age!" he said with a laugh. "Aren't you aware of more sophisticated investments — mutual funds, tax-free municipal bonds — "

Aunt Gertrude gave him a sheepish look. "No, I really don't know much about any of those things — is that bad?"

"It's not my business to tell you that you've probably lost an opportunity to make a lot of money." He smiled. "Well, actually it is my business. I'm an investment counselor—semiretired. I still keep an office in New York."

"How fascinating! Maybe you could give me some advice!"

Mr. Bayard chuckled and said, "Well, usually I deal only with multi-million-dollar corporations, but I wouldn't mind one personal client — "

"Urn, Aunt Gertrude," Joe said, "ready to go home?"

Aunt Gertrude greeted Joe with a broad smile. "Frank, Joe, this is Cyril Bayard. He's kindly offered to help us carry the groceries home. Isn't that nice of him?"

With a gallant gesture, Mr. Bayard grabbed the lightest grocery bag, the only one that hadn't ripped. Together they walked along the tree-shaded residential blocks back to the Hardy house.

"Why don't you come for dinner?" Aunt Gertrude said. "My brother, Fenton, and his wife have just left for a month's vacation, and I've been cooking for the boys." She turned to Frank and Joe. "You wouldn't mind, would you, boys?"

"Uh, no." Frank looked at Joe.

"Of course not," Joe said.

"Thanks," Mr. Bayard said. "I'd love to come. Do you follow the market?" He started talking about things like no - load futures and growth-and-income securities. Turning to Aunt Gertrude, he said, "If you're really interested, I could look into some secure investments for you."

"Oh, I'm interested, all right," she said. But as he trudged home, Joe couldn't help wondering whether her interest was in finance or in Cyril Bayard. And was Mr. Bayard's interest romantic or something else? He seemed pretty eager to get his hands on Aunt Gertrude's money. . . .

That evening Aunt Gertrude made Mr. Bayard a delicious pasta dinner. Tuesday it was fried chicken, and on Wednesday an entire leg of lamb.

"Mmmmm-mmmm," said Joe during the after-dinner cleanup. "Looks like Aunt Gertrude's going to get to Mr. Bayard's heart through his stomach."

"She's serious about him," Frank agreed.

"She's sure doing some serious cooking," Joe said. "I can hardly wait for dinner tomorrow."

But when they got home for dinner on Thursday, there was no sign of Aunt Gertrude—or of Mr. Bayard.

"Hmmm," Joe mused. "Maybe she left something for us."

But after checking the oven and the fridge, they realized that dinner hadn't been prepared.

"I'm starving," Joe said. "What do you say to pizza?"

Frank shook his head. "Let's hang out a few minutes." He frowned. "This isn't like Aunt Gertrude. She'd have left us a note. Maybe she went someplace with Mr. Bayard, and they got delayed."

They spent an uncomfortable half hour pretending not to be worried and peering out into the gathering dusk. But Gertrude Hardy was nowhere to be seen.

At eight o'clock Joe's stomach began to growl. "You think she's at Mr. Bayard's?" he asked.

"I don't know. Let's call," Frank suggested.

"He's unlisted. I had the same idea a few minutes ago."

"Well, that leaves us one choice, doesn't it?" Frank began heading for the front door. "Now we know how she feels when we don't come home on time."

Joe followed him outside, and they both climbed into their black van. The tires squealed as Frank backed out of the driveway and followed the same route to Mr. Bayard's cottage that they'd used to drive him home on Monday.

A mist was rolling in off the bay as Frank and Joe stopped in front of a small, gray-shingled bungalow. A flickering amber light in the living room window shone out into the darkness.

"Fire!" Joe bolted out of the van, followed by Frank. They ran toward the house and pulled themselves up onto the ledge of the window.

Then they both lowered themselves down again.

They had seen a fire all right. Cyril Bayard had been fanning it in his fireplace while Aunt Gertrude rhythmically moved back and forth in a rocking chair, busily knitting a sweater. In a corner a parrot preened itself in its cage.

"Home sweet home," Joe muttered. "She's forgotten about us!"

"Let's not spoil her good time," Frank said. "We can go home and order a pizza."

Joe nodded. "Guess we're lucky they didn't see us. It would have been embarrassing."

They started to creep silently back to their van, which they could barely make out in the gray of the moonless evening.

But before they hit the front sidewalk, Frank suddenly gasped. There was no mistaking the gleaming object that had been thrust in front of his face — the muzzle of a revolver.

"DON'T JUST STOP like tha — " Joe didn't have time to finish his sentence before he saw what had stopped his brother. He gaped at the .38.