Art's House

Llwellyn stood behind the counter as two detectives walked his bookstore. It was an old place, older than when he bought it. Dust from a bygone century still clung to rotten shelves, their tattered books yellowed with age and spines ready to give. He hadn’t planned on speaking to the cops, but here they were. If they were already inside, he might as well ask about his stolen book.

He bought the store four years ago, before his wife fell ill. He made himself a room in the back, spending quiet days there while she worked on the silver screen in Los Angeles. She’d visit the chilly bayside town between shoots, and they’d be happy until another project dragged her back south.

A modest payout from the one crime novel he’d written kept them afloat. The only good thing he ever wrote, he often said. It let him live peacefully, surrounded by stories and the calm of the sea—until his mother-in-law called. He turned his living space into a hospital room and stayed by his wife's side until the end.

He shut down the store. Only nurses and doctors entered then. Eventually, palliative care nurses replaced them. Conscious or not, his wife always wanted to be read to. She loved crime novels, so that’s what he read. Day and night, he read until the pain let her sleep.

The last book she asked for was his own: The Art House Murder, about a local recluse killed two decades ago. He didn’t care for it.

"You sure you wanna read this one, amor? I got another I think you'd like better."

"No, mi vida," she said, her voice fractured and frail. "I love this one. It's your best. Please."

"Of course, miss lady." He kissed her forehead and began reading. He never finished. She passed two days later.

Two weeks after, he reopened the store, trying to pretend life went on. Since he couldn't sleep, he stayed open till midnight in case someone restless like him wandered in. One night, a girl, no older than eighteen, came in. Pale, fragile, her clothes were caked in mud and her hair was a tangled mess.

"Let me know if you need something," he said. She looked at him but said nothing. Her eyes shone the way a fox’s might in a henhouse—nervous, alert.

She wandered briefly, stopped at the crime section, grabbed a book, and bolted.

"Hey!" Llwellyn shouted, rushing after her. But she was gone. He returned to the shelf, cursed under his breath. She’d taken the wrong book. He was going to find her.

A detective approached the counter, thick black mustache, sharp side-part—straight out of the 1950s.

"Detective Gamble," he said, flashing a badge. "You the owner here?"

"Yes."

"A man was murdered last night, about a block away. Around midnight. Gunshot."

"How'd he go?"

"Gunshot," Gamble repeated. He looked past Llwellyn to a door ajar behind the counter. "You live here?"

"Yes."

"Were you awake around that time?"

"Yes."

"See or hear anything?"

"A girl came in around ten. She stole a book. Can you do something about that?"

"Description?"

"Homeless maybe. Frail. Wild eyes."

"Direction she went?"

"No. What about my book?"

"Surveillance?"

"No. Are you listening? She stole my goddamn book."

Gamble sighed and motioned to his deputies.

"We'll let you know if we find her."

Later that day, Llwellyn read in the paper that Lee Thomas had been shot in his car, pants around his ankles. He knew Lee Thomas. Didn’t like him. A mean drunk who once got handsy with Llwellyn’s wife.

She told him afterward, "I had it, you know."

"I know. Didn’t want you hurting your hand this time."

The next day, Llwellyn checked the crime scene again. For the fiftieth time. This time he found something new: a leather wallet under the bookshelf. Old. Too old to be hers. Inside was an Amtrak ticket—Sadie something, last name waterstained, possibly starting with an "H". From L.A. to San Luis Obispo.

He pocketed the ticket and wallet, grabbed his keys and the .22 pistol under the counter, and left.

It was noon, but the fog hung low like a veil. He drove with the windows down, salt air filling his lungs. He thought about the book. About Sadie. Why that one? The worst one. There had to be a reason.

He parked at the Amtrak station. Inside, the place buzzed: heels on linoleum, garbled announcements, a horn slicing through static. He approached the clerk, a stout young woman with a round, red face.

"My daughter bought this ticket," he said. "Used her mother’s card by mistake. Can I get the card number used?"

"What name's on the ticket?"

"Sadie."

"Sadie what?"

He squinted at the ticket. Nothing clear. "It's her mother's name. Hard to pronounce."

The clerk looked skeptical. "I'm sure you can try."

Something in him snapped. He pulled the pistol.

"Give me the card number. I won't ask again."

She froze. Then scribbled the number and slid it across.

He took it, eased the hammer down, and left.

He drove to the bank. The sky darkened; rain threatened. Maybe the card was local. Even if it wasn't, he'd go wherever it took him.

The bank was empty. His footsteps echoed across red carpet, muffled only by the musty scent of ink and metal. He approached the teller, a short man with glasses.

"Good evening, sir."

"Need info on my wife’s card."

"Number please."

He read it off.

"Maxed out," the teller said. "Want to make a payment?"

"Just need the mailing address."

"May I see ID?"

Llwellyn glanced around. The guard was asleep. He cocked the pistol—just loud enough. The teller turned pale.

"Address?"

"5034 Williams Street."

Williams Street. He knew it.

"You got what you wanted," the teller said, quietly pressing the alarm. "Now please leave."

He did.

The fog thickened. Rain came down in sheets. Sirens rose behind him. One patrol car, then two, then four. That teller had pressed the button. He shouldn’t have pulled the gun. But he couldn’t stop now.

He floored it.

The car was old but held strong. Rain thundered on the roof, tires screamed behind him. He veered off onto a dirt road, mud spraying across the highway. His rear fishtailed, clipped a tree, but he kept going. The cops couldn’t follow. He was gone.

The moon rose behind a black curtain of cloud as he pulled up to 5034 Williams Street. He grabbed an umbrella and stepped out.

The house was a wreck—roof caved in, windows busted, wood rotting. Next to it stood a more familiar ruin: Art House’s place. The one from his book.

Beside it sat an old Ford Bronco, half-sunken in the concrete.

Why would Sadie have a card tied to this house? It couldn’t have been lived in for years. He lit a cigarette.

"Shame that is," came a voice.

He spun, gun raised. An old man stood behind him with an umbrella.

"I almost shot you."

"That’d be fine. Beats dying slow."

They smoked in silence.

"You live in town?"

"Yeah."

"Then you know that house?"

"I wrote a book on the murder."

"Did you now? Funny thing—they never found the treasure."

"It wasn’t real."

"It was. I saw it. Boxes of silver bullion. He had a girl with him—his granddaughter, I think."

"Art didn’t have grandkids. No next of kin. Everything went to the state."

"His son had a wife. Junkie type. They had a girl. Lived right there. When the son got arrested, she vanished with the kid."

"Name?"

"Sadie, I think. Memory’s not what it was."

Sadie H. Sadie House.

Before he could process it, two gunshots rang out. One grazed his shoulder. The other hit the old man’s umbrella.

"Jesus!" the old man shouted, diving to the ground. Llwellyn returned fire, unsure where to aim. More shots split the night. He dove behind the Bronco.

He spotted the flash—a muzzle by the front window. He fired three times. A scream followed. He limped inside.

Inside was a makeshift camp: sleeping bag, grill, canned peaches. Sadie writhed on the floor, clutching her arm.

"Where's my book?"

"What? You’re not a cop?"

"No. I'm the man you stole from."

She laughed bitterly. "The one about my dead grandfather? It's by the bed."

He picked it up, covered in mud.

"Why this book?"

"To confirm what I knew. No one knew about the treasure. Until you showed up."

"Why didn’t your mother claim it?"

"She was strung out. Took me to L.A. Said it was a fresh start."

"Where is she?"

"Dead. Overdose."

"Sorry."

"No, you’re not."

"Did you kill Lee Thomas?"

"The creep who tried to assault me? What would you have done?"

"Shot him too."

He looked at her: hardened, not crazed. Her wrath came from somewhere deep.

"The treasure’s in the car, isn’t it?"

"How'd you know?"

"Old man saw you and Art with it. And that car's sinking."

"1.4 million in silver. You want a cut? Let me go."

He thought. Then said, "I just want my book."

He lowered the hammer, tucked the gun away, and walked out. Crossed the street. Got in his car. Drove away, thinking of his wife. Then of nothing at all.