Where we holed up
|(Photos by your humble blogkeeper)|
Me and Palmqvist — "Killer" Palmqvist; she says calling a woman by her last name is unladylike — figured that after we knocked over a couple of banks, we'd find some out-of-the-way farmhouse where we could hole up until the heat died down.
We found good escape routes and a place to divvy the dosh, only all the dinky banks that once made such easy targets along Maryland's Eastern Shore had been converted to upscale steakhouses and pizzerias.
So we'll move on. In the meantime, we posed as egg-headed collectors and riffled old books at Bookplate in Chestertown and Unicorn Bookshop in Trappe and Mystery Loves Company in Oxford.
I had to buy something in order to avoid suspicion. I came up with:
|Not the Mississippi |
- A stack of paperback original mysteries
- The Oxford History of Ireland
- A nice old edition of Emerson's essays for three dollars and ten cents
- A book of extracts in the original French from Rousseau's Confessions, which doesn't mean I'm confessing anything
- Peter Ackroyd's retelling of Le Morte d'Arthur
- Poets and Murder by Robert Van Gulik
- Autumn of the Phantoms by Yasmina Khadra
- Soccer in Sun and Shadow by Eduardo Galeano
- A book about Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad
- A guide to trees because I figured nothing marks a fellow as an outsider as much as walking around and pointing up and saying, "What's that?" every two minutes.