“It’s not a picture,” she said. “It’s a Florida Highwaymen painting.” She sucked in a breath. “And I was thinking I might draw from my 401(k).” She started walking again.
“To buy it?” She nodded. “Wow,” I said, following behind her, “you’d spend your retirement money on that?”
“It’s an investment,” she said. “Probably in twenty years, or forty years when I’m old enough to retire, I could sell it for three times as much. Maybe more. And like you said, they’re having a sale, so I might get it cheaper.”
“Ivan did say he’d give you a deal.”
“Yes. He did,” she said. Then I saw a smirk emerge on her face. “You still have your 401(k)?”
“Nope,” I said.
“And what did you spend your retirement money on?”
“The light bill. My cell phone bill. Rent.” I listed the things I paid to live. “Bread. Milk. Microwavable popcorn.” And what I needed to eat.
She chuckled. “See, that’s why you should take Peter’s offer. How are you going to live when you reach retirement?”
“Same way I’m living now,” I said. “I’ll make ice cream.”
chapter
THIRTEEN
After we left the gallery, we walked aimlessly down the sidewalk in front of the shops and boutiques, and chitchatted. By the time we made it around, it was late. Rory had said she was going to check in, and I thought I’d go back by the ice cream shop, but before I could, I saw Maisie bounding toward us.
“Where are you going?” I said, checking my watch again although I knew exactly what time it was.
“I came to check on my building.”
“Didn’t you just check on it at lunch?” I said.
“It likes to be checked,” she said. “Hi, Rory!” She flapped an arm at her.
Rory gave a polite smile. “Hi.”
“Where you guys coming from?” Maisie asked.
“Who’s minding the store?” I said. “That’s the question.”
“PopPop and your aunt Jack.”
“Aunt Jack?” I reiterated this as a question. That was surprising— no—disturbing news. “I thought she’d left.”
Maisie shrugged. “She came back.”
“Oh my,” I said and swiped a hand across my forehead. I could feel my red snapper coming back up my throat. “You let her behind the counter?”
“You know your aunt,” Maisie said. “I didn’t let her do anything.”
“Where was my mother?”
“She’d left before your aunt came back.”
I glanced over at Rory, she seemed to find the whole thing amusing.
“Told you you were going to need a job,” Rory said.
“You go buy your painting from Black Market Paper and let me worry about my livelihood.”
“Black Market Paper?” Maisie said, her face going flush. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to interrogate suspects?”
“What?” I said, scrunching up my nose. “We didn’t.”
“What did they say?” she said, shrugging off her book bag and scrambling through the stuff inside. “Did you find out his first name? The husband?”
“What is she talking about?” Rory asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“The detective that’s working on the murder we had here asked us to help.” She stopped rummaging through her bag and looked at Rory. “Did you know we had a murder here? It’s the second one.”
“She knows,” I said.
“Oh wow,” Rory said. “Are you really going to help with this murder, too?”
“No,” I said resoundingly. I wanted to convey that message to Rory and Maisie.
“Yes,” Maisie said at the same time.
“I’m not,” I said with a brashness I’m sure Maisie didn’t expect.
“I am,” Maisie said, matching my tone.
“She’s not either,” I said, shaking my head and pointing my thumb at Maisie.
I wasn’t going to follow Maisie down that rabbit hole. And I decided I was going to have to keep her from going down it, too.
Yes, sure, I had helped to solve the last murder, the only murder we’d had in Chagrin Falls, but that was because my father was a suspect. I had been dragged into that fray reluctantly. There was no need for me to help in this investigation. I was sure Detective Beverly did not mean that he wanted us to go purposely snoop, he just meant if we had any ideas or heard anything we should help.
Maisie had her small notebook opened and a pen hovering over it to take notes. “Tell me everything they said.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The suspects.” I gave her a blank look. “The owners of the art gallery.”
“They’re suspects?” Rory asked.
“Yes,” Maisie said.
“No,” I said.
“Why do you think they are the ones that killed the guy?” Rory asked.
“Maisie thinks everyone who wasn’t at the business meeting is a suspect.”
“Is that why?” Rory asked, as she raised an eyebrow at Maisie.
“Yes.”
“That’s your only evidence?” A look of disbelief emerged on Rory’s face. “I’ve watched enough Law & Order to know that that’s not enough to convict anyone of anything.”
“That’s why it’s called being an amateur sleuth,” I said.
“We have to start somewhere,” Maisie said.
“I see you found the red ball!” Mr. Mason had one of his big toothless grins. He walked over to us, dragging his right foot in a limp that I didn’t remember ever seeing before. But that didn’t stop him from getting to us, nodding his head and pointing to Rory with his left hand.
Good thing he showed up and broke the tension. I was going to have to find some way to talk Maisie off that amateur sleuth ledge.
“This is my friend from New York,” I said, turning to smile at Rory, but she had stepped behind me like she was trying to hide. “Rory.” I tried to get her to greet Mr. Mason. “This is Myles Mason. He’s an artist, too. You two probably have stuff in common.” But she wasn’t listening and wouldn’t budge from her hiding place. She stayed planted firmly behind me. Her eyes focused on the ground.
She couldn’t be afraid of him, I thought. There were plenty of down-on-their-luck residents in New York City. I’d seen her give them money and even food a time or two. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked her.
“I gotta go,” she said and took off. Just like that.
Mr. Mason watched Rory leave, bobbing his head up and down, up and down, just as if he was watching a ball bouncing.
A big red ball.
“What was that about?” Maisie asked, turning to me after seeing Rory leave. “Is she okay?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” I said.
“That’s the red ball,” Mr. Mason said, focusing his attention back on me. He had lost the grin and was pretty serious about what he was telling me.
“Rory?” I asked. “You think she’s a ball?”
I looked back in the direction Rory had disappeared then at Mr. Mason. He was confused, and I was getting somewhat concerned over the things he’d been telling me. I blew out a breath. Just like I was concerned about Rory. I took in Mr. Mason. His clothes were relatively clean, although maybe he was wearing too many of them for the warm weather we were having, and other than needing some dental care, he appeared to be relatively clean, too.
I had one brother, Lew, who was a dentist, and another one, Bobby, a nurse practitioner, who ran a community clinic in the village. There was some reason I’d run into Mr. Mason twice today, and I was sure it had nothing to do with bouncing red balls. My Grandma Kay would have seen to him. She was all about family and community.
I decided I’d help him out and make sure he was okay.
“Your grandmother’s ice cream shop?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure she’d want you to come by and see it and have a little taste of what we have.”
There was that rotten-tooth grin again. “She always gave me ice cream.”
I was sure in those days he was able to buy it, but I knew what he was getting at. “I’ll have some ice cream for you,” I said.
And, I thought, an appointment with both my brothers.
chapter
FOURTEEN
I padded down the hallway wondering who in the world could be at my door. The little red-numbered alarm clock on my bedside table said 10:04 p.m.
As I got farther down the hallway, I cringed at the thought that maybe someone was dropping by to tell me there had been another murder. I couldn’t figure out how my hometown got to be so dangerous. I even thought about stopping by my kitchen and grabbing one of those twelve-inch chef knives my mother had been wielding earlier in the day. But decided if it were that kind of news, they—whoever it was—would have called.
I shook off the thought and shook my head. How could that be what I was thinking about anymore? Sure, we’re parked right next to Cleveland—a big city with big-city problems—but that wasn’t Chagrin Falls.
“Hi,” I said, pulling open the door and talking through the screen. Rory was standing there with her Dooney & Bourke overnight bag in hand, her purse in the other, and dejection written all over her face.
“Hi,” she said back and nothing else.
We stood there in a stare-off for a long moment. Not sure what to say to her, she seemed to be having the same problem.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
I pushed open the screen door and stepped out of the way, gesturing with a hand sweep. “Sure,” I said, trying to sound chipper. I didn’t want her thinking I minded her stopping by. “Come on in. I live up here.” I pointed to the steps and, after locking the door, led the way up to my apartment. At the top, we hooked a left into my living space and I pointed to a chair for her to sit down. I sat on the couch across from her.
“You okay?” I asked. Seemed like that was all I ever said to her.
“I need a place to stay,” she said. “Can I stay here?”
“Of course you can,” I said, feeling bad that I hadn’t offered it to her earlier. I hopped off the couch and went to the linen closet. “I only have the one bedroom and one bed,” I yelled over my shoulder as I grabbed a couple of sheets, a pillow and a case for it. “You’re welcome to take half my bed and sleep with me, or”—I appeared back in the doorway with my arms full—“you can bunk out here on the couch.”
“The couch is fine,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “We can have a sleepover anytime as long as we’re limited to polishing nails, doing hair and talking about boys.”
She chuckled. The first sign of life I’d seen in her lifeless eyes since she knocked on my door. “What about if I want to talk about Peter and his offer?”
“Then I will promptly kick you out.”
She shook her head. “Fair,” she said. “But tomorrow I’ll get a room because I drove those four hundred–plus miles to talk about Peter and his offer.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But I should warn you, just because you talk about it, doesn’t mean I’ll listen.”
“Yeah,” she said, pulling her legs up into the chair and crossing them. “I’ve noticed that. But that was before I had help.”
“Help? You’ve got help?”
“Aunt Jack.” She said it as if it were obvious.
I threw up my hands. “No! Please! Let’s not talk about her either.”
“You see how as soon as you left the ice cream shop—”
“She slithered back in?” I finished her sentence.
“You’re in trouble, girl.” She pointed her finger at me.
I picked up one of the throw pillows from the couch and threw it at her.
“Don’t be mean to me,” she said, catching the pillow. “I might just end up being your rescuer. Here in the nick of time with another job for you.”
“I really don’t want to have to send you and your Mary Poppins Dooney bag scrambling out the door as I chase you with my umbrella.”
“Sorry!” she said, clutching her chest in mock sorrow. “Not another word about it from me. Promise.” She hooked an imaginary lock to her mouth, turned the key and tossed it over her shoulder.
“What happened with your room?” I couldn’t imagine she’d come all the way from New York and hadn’t arranged for a place to stay. I’d imagine it would be the Ritz-Carlton in downtown Cleveland or something on that scale. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “What is going on with you?”
“Nothing!” she said animatedly as, uncrossing her legs, she scooted to the edge of the chair and dug down in her overnight bag, pulling out a comb. “She said I was too late to get my room.”
“Who said you were too late?”
“The lady at the bed-and-breakfast.” She pointed over her shoulder.
I followed her finger—although it indicated the wall behind her, I knew what she meant. “You made a reservation at Rose Cottage. Dell told you you were too late?”
“Is that her name?” she asked. She made a small part in her hair and, grabbing a section, she twisted it.
“She owns it, yeah.”
“Okay, then Dell told me.” She shook her comb at me. “Can you believe that? Too late to get my room. In this little bitty city.” She held up her hands. “Tell me. Honestly. How many people are actually coming here and needing a room? I’m sure not many.”
“When did you get there?”
“When I left you,” she said, parting off another section of hair.
I wanted to say, When you ran away from me. But I didn’t.
“Remember,” she was saying, “once we finished at the art gallery, my car was still parked in front of the Wicked Twin Witches’ fake coffee shop. And I drove right over.”
“I hadn’t thought about your car,” I said and glanced out of the window. “Did you drive it over here?”
“I couldn’t have gotten over here without it.” She sectioned off another part and twisted it. I always wondered how she got that half-wavy, half-curly do she wore. “I put your address in the navigation system. Thank goodness I had it.”
“You could have just called.”
“I was so frustrated.”
“Maybe I could talk to her.” I stood up. “Let me get my phone.”
“No. Don’t,” she said, waving her hands back and forth like windshield wipers on a car. “I’m good if you are.”
“I already told you, no problem. You can stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” she said, finishing up her hair. “I came here to save you and you’re saving me.”
“It’s just a place to sleep, Rory.” I waved a hand. “It’s nothing. Really. In spite of your ‘mission’”—I did the air quotation marks—“I’m really happy to see you.” I put a smile on my face. “I’m happy to have you.”
“Good,” she said, and she stuck her comb back down in her bag. “Because I’m happy to be here.” She got up and took the linens off the couch where I’d placed them.
“You good?” I asked, thinking I should leave her alone and get back to bed.
“Yep,” she said absently. Taking one of the sheets, she unfolded it and with a flick of her wrists let it fly over the couch and float back down, covering it.
She made busy readying her bed. Instead of going back to my room, I stood and watched her. With that last question, I wasn’t asking if she was “good” making up the couch, what I was really wond
ering was what was wrong with her in general. She been acting weird all day. Moody. Distracted. Seemingly more was on her mind than talking me into coming back to Hawken Spencer.
But she was in another zone. A zone that didn’t include me. Her words trailing off, I decided not to bring it up.
“Hey, do you have a laptop?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “You need it?”
“Yeah, I wanna see if I can find an online catalogue raisonné, like I told you. I’ll look for one for the entire Florida Highwaymen collection, although that’ll be big. I might be able to find one for either one of the two artists that they have at Black Market Paper Fine Art, though.”
I pointed to a corner table. “There it is,” I said. Once she got it fired up, I put in my password.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Okay. Well.” I looked around to see if there was anything else. “I’m going to bed. I usually get an early start.”
“How early?” She stopped what she was doing, stood up straight and eyed me.
I laughed. “On mornings I make ice cream, I’m up by four thirty.”
“Oh good lord,” she said. “Do you have to make ice cream tomorrow?”
“No,” I said.
“Thank goodness,” she said. “Does that mean we can sleep in?”
“Yes,” I said. “We don’t have to get up until six.”
“Six! I don’t ever get up that early, and I have a real job.”
“So do I,” I said, walking out of the room and down the hall to my bedroom.
“Not for long,” she shouted behind me. “Not if your aunt Jack gets her way.”
I knew I should have thrown her out right then and there.
chapter
FIFTEEN
It seemed like I had just dozed off when I heard her. She was standing at the door speaking so softly to me it made me think she was trying not to wake me. But if she was talking, she must have wanted me to hear her.
A Game of Cones Page 9