"And who's the other guy?"

"Well, that's the thing. Ordinarily, I'd have Sherry trace You're El."

"Your what?"

"You're El. You're El. You Are El. Like Toys R Us. It's where the guy lives."

"Oh. His URL?"

"Isn't that what I said?"

"I have no idea what you're saying. Or whether it might be the truth."

"Harvey, that's unkind."

"Unkind? Did I steal your chairs?"

"Did I steal yours? Granted, I may have caused them to be stolen."

"Cora."

"The point is, Sherry's not too keen on helping me right now."

"How come?"

"Oh." The answer was because the crossword puzzle wound up in the paper. Cora couldn't tell Harvey that.

"Prewedding jitters. Perfectly understandable, but a pain in the fanny."

"So there's no way to find the bidder?"

Cora smiled. "Oh, I got a pretty good idea who he is."

Chapter 29.

CORA FELTON FINISHED the last sip of the coffee just as crotchety old Mr. Wilbur shuffled into Cushman's Bake Shop. The timing was no coincidence. Cora had been nursing her coffee a good half hour. The sight of the cranky antiques dealer was a blessed relief. Cora's skim latte was like cold mud.

Cora flicked the Styrofoam cup in the garbage can, muttered a few parting words to the gaggle of women with whom she'd been conversing, yawned, stretched (wondering if that was overdoing it), and went out the door.

Cora's red Toyota was parked across the street. Cora walked unhurriedly to it, opened the door, slipped into the driver's seat, started the engine. She backed up slowly, and drove leisurely out of town.

The moment she was out of sight, Cora executed a maneuver that would have done a NASCAR driver proud, going from zero to sixty in a heartbeat and not stopping there. Cora whizzed by two Subarus, one coming, one going, both drivers terrified, and covered the mile and a half out of town in what had to be the modern-day record.

Cora whizzed by Wilbur's Antiques as if it were the finish line, slammed on the brakes, and skidded a U-turn into the Sunoco station.

"Fill her up," Cora said, brandishing a hammer at the startled attendant, and set off down the road as if the devil were at her heels.

Wilbur's Antiques was locked up tighter than a drum. A drum that had recently been broken into. With surprising strength, dexterity, and speed for a woman of her years, Cora pried the plywood off the barn-door window, reached in, and unlocked the barn door. She hauled out the extension ladder, propped it against the house, climbed up, and pried the plywood off the window. Cora reached through the broken pane, unlocked the window, pushed it up, and climbed in.

There was no time for a search. Cora barely noted the contents of the shop as she hurried to the front door. She unlocked it and stepped out. Learning from Wilbur's example, Cora propped it open with a pottery gargoyle lawn ornament, an objet d'art too hideous for purchase.

Brandishing the hammer like a crazed serial killer, Cora flew around the house and vaulted up the ladder. The piece of plywood was hanging by a nail. Cora spun it over the window, pounded it back on. She practically slid down the ladder, grabbed it, wrestled it into the barn. She paused a moment to make sure no rattan chairs were present, then locked the door and pounded the sheet of plywood home.

Cora was panting as she ran around to the front of the house. She'd been a fool to trust the gargoyle. Surely it had cracked under the weight of the door just to spite her. Or slipped out. One way or another the damn thing would be gone and the door would be shut.

It wasn't. The gargoyle had held. It was a beautiful piece of pottery. She might even buy it.

Cora slipped in, moved the gargoyle, closed the door.

Okay, where to start?

It would have been nice if the chairs were in the middle of the room, but then she would have fallen over them. And it made no sense Wilbur would leave stolen property out where anyone could see. Even so, Cora gave the shop a once-over. The merchandise was as ugly as ever, and there was no sign of the chairs.

There was a door on the side wall. Cora tried it, found a small staircase. Was there more shop upstairs?

No, it was the living quarters. But it was a close call. The layout suggested Wilbur's domicile. But it had clearly been furnished from his wares. The writing desk, for instance, might have been worth more on Antiques Roadshow had it had all four legs, but the stack of cinderblocks seemed to be propping it up perfectly well. As for the bed, the brass headboard looked formidable enough to lash unsuspecting virgins to, though Cora found it hard to imagine even the dimmest of naive young lasses having anything to do with the old reprobate. Cora realized she was projecting-she had nothing to reprove him for.

Except his taste in furniture. Good lord. It was doubtless pulled out of his shop, but even so. How many men had an ottoman in this day and age? And that lamp shade. Was the design an attempt to illustrate Moby Dick, or just a really ugly fish?

There were no chairs in sight. Which, Cora had to admit, ended whatever tenuous right she might possibly have to be there.

Cora glanced at her watch. She had made amazing time, fantastic time. It was a mere eighteen minutes since Wilbur had arrived at the bakery. Hell, the contrary old son of a bitch sometimes took that long just choosing a scone. And after all her work, it would be a crime not to look around.

Cora frowned. The poorest of rationalizations, but one's own.

Certainly sufficient to rifle his desk.

The three-legged desk boasted a telephone and answering machine, surely the most modern pieces in the room. Except for the small box next to it, the function of which Cora could only guess at. A fax line? No, then it would need a printer.

Oh, well.

The pencil drawer had pencils, a small disappointment. It also had an assortment of standard pencil-drawer junk, from paper clips to pennies, to a plastic pencil sharpener, to a roll of 35-millimeter film, which appeared to be exposed, since it wasn't in a can. Cora wondered briefly if she should take it in and develop it.

Very briefly.

The three drawers on the right side of the desk looked much more promising. At least they were deeper than the pencil drawer, could hold something more substantial.

The top drawer did. A laptop computer. Folded up, but open a crack. Cora fished it out, set it on the desk, pushed up the top.

It was on.

That was weird. The computer in the drawer left on. Why would that be?

The answer immediately presented itself in the form of a small AOL mailbox icon at the bottom of the screen.

Of course. The machine near the phone was a modem, of the dial-up variety. Wilbur would plug it into the back of his laptop, and go on the Internet.

Should she connect the laptop? Why not? How hard could it be? She could go on-line and check his mail.

Wait a minute! She didn't need to be on-line. She wasn't going to pick up the guy's mail, just check it.

Cora moved the mouse, clicked on the AOL icon.

The mailbox opened.

There on the screen was a list of the headings of the last e-mails Wilbur had received. All she wanted was his You're El. Now, why wasn't it there?

His last e-mail was open. It seemed to be a mailing from some sort of antiques society, where a lot of members wrote in. Now, didn't Sherry call that something? Something to do with tennis. Now, what the hell was that? A McEnroe journal? Not likely. Ah, right. A list-serve.

Which didn't really help her. Where was the damn heading? Not heading. Header. That was it. VIEW FULL HEADER IN PREVIEW. Cora moved the cursor, clicked on it.

And there it was. Proof positive.

Wilbur was sb@aol.com.

Now, was there anything else?

Cora skimmed through the e-mail, didn't find anything interesting, aside from the fact that Wilbur had neglected to delete an offer of HOT ASIAN NYMPHOS, clearly an oversight.

Cora shrank the mailbox icon, closed the laptop, put it back in the drawer. After a moment she took it out of the drawer, opened it, clicked on the AOL icon, then clicked on VIEW SHORT HEADER IN PREVIEW. Wilbur wouldn't necessarily remember whether he'd left the full header on or off, but there was no reason to take a chance on arousing his suspicions.

Cora put the laptop back in the top drawer, then searched the bottom two. She found nothing of interest. On inspiration she slid the drawers out, held them up, looked underneath. She found the bottoms of the drawers.

Cora returned the last drawer to the desk, stood up, and looked around.

Under the mattress, perhaps?

It occurred to Cora it might have been useful if she'd known what she was looking for.

The phone rang, snapped Cora back to reality. She glanced at her watch. Twenty-two minutes.

The phone rang again.

Should she pick it up, rasp hello, see what the person said?

Probably not wise.

The answering machine rendered the decision moot. Wilbur's voice croaked, "I'm not in. Whaddya want?"

A voice said, "Geez, you sell a lot of merchandise with that line?"

That had been Cora's exact thought. She grinned, until she heard, "This is Benny Southstreet, if you can't tell. So, that info help, about who was bidding against you? There's more where that came from. I'm a wealth of information. You won't believe what else that woman's been up to. You interested, call the motel. Four Seasons. Unit 12. I'm going out, be back after two. Give me a call, you'll be glad you did."

Cora was furious. That son of a bitch! Something else she'd been up to? Evidence of her plagiarism, no doubt. Of all the dirty tricks. And she couldn't even defend the charge, since it was true. He'd probably planted something in her office.

Cora was roused from her musing by the sound of the front door.

Oh, my God!

Wilbur had been quicker than usual with his coffee. Of all the days. How was she going to explain her presence in his bedroom? She might have to seduce him. Cora shuddered at the thought.

Was there a window?

It didn't matter if there was. It would be too high.

Says who? She could climb down.

Climb down what?

Who cares what? Just open it!

It wouldn't open. It was nailed shut. Or stuck. Or never meant to open in the first place. It was too high anyway.

So where to hide?

The closet?

No, no closet. Metal standing closets. The kind that made a lot of noise and didn't hold a lot of clothes. She'd climb in and the damn thing would tip over. Or he'd hear her and stick a broomstick through the metal handles and she'd be locked in there like Alec Guinness in the oven in Bridge on the River Kwai. Granted, he got an Oscar; still, she'd never last like he did. Besides, he probably got to get out between takes.

Oh, my God, here he comes, what the hell to do?

Cora dived headlong under the bed.

It was dusty, dirty, and littered with knickknacks that probably dated back to 1962. Maybe she'd find Hank Aaron's rookie card. No, that was the '50s, not the '60s. Like the Guinness movie. Was she really that old?

Shhh! Here he comes! Quiet! Head down!

Her head was brushing the box spring. Cora prayed Wilbur hadn't brought home one of the hot Asian nymphos.

He hadn't. He headed straight for the bathroom.

Why hadn't she thought of the bathroom? If she had, he'd have found her, but she'd be more comfortable.

Go to the bathroom! Go, go, go, you old geezer! Close the door and stay in there forever!

He didn't close the door. Instead, he turned on the water in the sink and began brushing his teeth.

His teeth? After a cup of coffee he brushes his teeth? He shouldn't even have teeth. He's gotta brush 'em at the sink,, right by the open door, where he can see someone crawling out from under the bed.

Like a commando, Cora slithered across the bedroom floor, avoiding antiques and antiques dealers alike, until she reached the stairs.

Stand up or slide down?