Of course, that left unanswered the more disturbing question: why Paisley had dreamed about that very woman last night? Even before she had noticed Ruth's picture on the wall? For there was no doubt the woman in the photograph was an older version of the woman she had seen in her dreams, not with that name written on the back.
Paisley shook her head to clear it. There was no answer for why she had dreamed about Ruth, not once, but twice since arriving in the house. But it was natural that Paisley should feel some connection to Jonathan's famous ancestress. After all, they had several attributes in common. Both were opera singers, and, as Ian pointed out, the two women even shared a certain physical superficial resemblance: they were both petite and had black eyes and dark wavy hair.
She looked at the picture again. Ruth Wegiel stared stiffly back from the frame, her hair bobbed in the fashion of the mid-1920s, her husband's hand planted on her shoulder. Rather than satins and rubies, like in the dream, Ruth wore a high-necked, long-sleeved dress with a white lace collar and a brooch at the throat. Her dark eyes met the viewer's under thick, sharply pitched eyebrows. Spitting image? Paisley thought. Hardly.
Privately, she thought Ruth looked more like a middle-class housewife of her era than a glamorous opera singer, although there was a certain charm about the pointed chin, round cheeks, and large, expressive eyes. Of course, standards of beauty were different back then, and Ruth was a decade past her prime when the photograph was taken.
Then Paisley leaned forward to get a closer look at the brooch pinned to the woman's lapel and gasped. A cameo! Just like the one that lay in her jewelry box. Although it was impossible to make out the details of the blurry Grecian profile, Paisley had no doubt the pieces of jewelry were one and the same. It made sense. A family heirloom, passed down to Esther, and then to herself. Still, it was one more unsettling coincidence. What did it all mean?
Her stomach growled. It had been a long time since her last unsatisfying meal of Spaghettios. She'd have to walk to town today. There was only so long that she could rely on Esther's eclectic choices of canned food.
The boxes of cereal looked stale. She threw them away and heated herself a can of chili on the old electric range, before sitting at the kitchen table to eat her unorthodox breakfast while looking out at the large, overgrown back yard ringed with trees. This time, her thoughts turned to the strange, tall young man who had turned up to fix her house.
Who was Ian McMurtry, anyway? From his yawning performance on the telephone yesterday, she had expected a incompetent boor. This morning, she'd gathered the opposite impression: that of someone alert and intelligent. He was slightly annoying with his brashness and know-it-all air, but all that was overshadowed by another, more positive quality, that she found it hard to put a finger on.
The word popped into her head. Integrity. An old-fashioned word, which one didn't hear often these days. She knew better than to put too much stock in her impression, though. One read in the paper almost every day about old widows signing over their life's savings to some charming con man. Had Esther been one of those women?
After her unusual but filling breakfast, Paisley figuratively rolled back her sleeves. The shops in River Bend were not likely to be open yet, so she might as well spend the next hour or two cleaning up the house. Who knew? Maybe she'd find a few antiques worth selling. Now that she thought of it, it might not be a bad idea to go through with a notebook at some point and do a full-scale inventory.
For now, she just wanted to get rid of the worst of the dust. It appeared that no one had cleaned the place since Esther went into the retirement home.
Paisley put the Maria Callas record on the hi-fi full blast … it thrilled her to find the old equipment still worked … and found Lysol, rags, and a bucket under the sink. As she swept and vacuumed, she felt like Snow White cleaning the dwarfs' cottage, except there were no cute forest animals to help brush the dust under the carpets.
When she was done, she left the ancient, dust-belching vacuum cleaner in a corner, and went upstairs to take much-needed bath in the antique, clawfoot tub. Now that Ian had relit the pilot light, a steaming waterfall burst out of the tap when she twisted the knob, and she soaped her legs and arms until her skin was shiny and pink. She wished the other problems in the house would be as easily, and cheaply, solved.
Mentally she listed the items she would present Ian later: replace the bad roof tiles ... slap on a new coat of paint ... fill in the crack in the front steps.... Instead of depressing her, the prospect of fixing up the house lifted her spirits. The project would keep her mind off her problems and give her the sense of purpose she had been lacking these past few months. Besides, who knew? When the place sold, she might make back the money, or even make a profit. Some people made a living fixing up old houses.
Her mouth curved upward. Had the spirits of Auntie Esther and Great-grandmother Ruth had coaxed her into coming to River Bend? It was a fanciful idea, and she didn't believe in such things. But if they had, she doubted they would want her to turn around and sell the house to a stranger. Although Esther might not consider Steve Lopez a stranger. He was a neighbor, wasn't he, and small town residents always knew their neighbors.
Submerged in bubbles up to her neck, her mind drifted. Then suddenly she sat upright, almost hitting her knee on the tub faucet. Ray had said the utility bills were on auto pay. From Esther's bank account. Barry had said she'd inherited everything, although she couldn't remember him specifically mentioning Esther's bank account. Maybe it had been listed in the papers she had looked at without really reading. Probably there would not be much money left in it, but it was worth checking out.
As she dried herself with a slightly musty towel she found folded in the linen closet and pulled on the last of the three outfits she had packed, a scoop-necked peach-colored knit top and white cotton skirt, she said another silent prayer of gratitude to her kind, generous fairy godmother, Auntie Esther.
#
The late-May sun shone boldly from a deep-blue sky as Paisley marched past her closest neighbor's vineyard on the two-lane road that wound uphill toward town, passing a large field where a bored-looking black-and-white cow was grazing. It raised its head to watch her pass by, then lowered it again. Fresh scents filled the air, and bees buzzed lazily among the wildflowers.
Her burst of energy flagged by the time she made it half-way up the hill, however, and she stopped to gasp in several long breaths of air. When she arrived at the top of the hill, she stopped again, this tie for another reason. She felt as if she were standing on Main Street at Disneyland. The 19th century buildings were painted in pastel shades of lemon yellow and pale blue and trimmed with crisp white accents. Wire baskets overflowing with red, pink, and white geraniums hung from antique-looking wrought-iron lamp posts, and wooden signs above the store entrances bore quaint names like "The Grab Bag" and "Grannie's Attic."
"I thought Mayberry was just on TV," she muttered under her breath, remembering her favorite retro TV show. But those old buildings were real enough. Once upon a time, horses had been tethered at the ornate iron posts where cars now parked, and she was willing to bet the lamps had once been lit by gas, rather than electric lights.
A banner hung across the street, featuring a pair of crossed cutlasses, and she blinked at it for a moment before realizing it was publicizing a local theater production. The Pirates of Penzance. She loved Gilbert and Sullivan operettas—who didn't?—but she knew what to expect from a small-town show: cheap sets, threadbare costumes, off-tune singers, and uneven acting. She'd participated in plenty of those productions herself, before winning that scholarship to the conservatory.
At an outdoor café, a pretty young waitress with a blond ponytail served a scattering of diners seated at tables under a scalloped blue-and-yellow awning. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasted chicken wafted across the road, reminding Paisley of the unappetizing canned chili that had been her breakfast.
Then her eyes fell on a used-book store across from the café.
It featuring a hand-painted sign (of course) bearing the store's name: "Chapter Two." Underneath it, a plump, bespectacled copper-haired woman sat reading a paperback. Nearby, a bright-red wheelbarrow stood crammed with out-of-print books and former best sellers. A torn-off scrap of lined notebook paper had been scotch-taped to the front and hand-lettered "Half off."
Lunch could wait. Paisley could never pass up a book store. She crossed the street, and rummaged through the wheelbarrow. A trade paperback caught her eye: Prominent Residents of Solano County, Northern California. The cheaply printed cover, uninspired title, and crooked letters made it look as if it had been published by a vanity press. Idly turning the pages, she looked for information about the Perleman family. It was possible that they would be included. Jonathan was one of the region's most successful citizens, and his family had lived here a long time.
The shopkeeper looked up and smiled a greeting. A baggy hand-knitted sweater appliquéd with sunflowers covered her generous curves, and her short hair was inexpertly trimmed, giving her a rag-tag look that matched that of the used books surrounding her. A pair of enormous plastic-framed glasses rested on her short nose.
"Hi there," she called out. "You interested in local history?"
"My husband was from the area." Paisley held up the volume. "Do you know if this book contains information about this town?"
The red-haired woman glanced at the title. "Not as far as I know. But you might find something in the back of the store, if you're interested. Got a whole shelf of books on Northern California history: gold mines, haunted houses, old speakeasies...." The proprietor jerked her thumb toward the back of the shadowed shop. "Feel free to take a look."
"Maybe some other time." Tempting as the offer was, Paisley didn't want to get trapped into spending her afternoon in a bookshop. "How much is this?"
"Two bucks, hon. Everything's half off today. See the sign?"
Normally, Paisley would have bridled at the 'hon.' Standing five feet three inches in heels, and weighing a hundred and five pounds, she looked younger than her actual age of twenty-five. Still, there was no taking offense at the other woman's friendly, open gaze.
"May I pick it up later?" Paisley asked. "I have some other business to take care of, and I'm on foot."
"Sure." The woman slapped a yellow Post-it on the volume, then paused, pen in hand. "What's your name?"
"Paisley. Paisley Perleman."
"Paisley?" The shopkeeper scribbled on the note. "Cute name." Then her big head turned around, and her eyes opened wide, revealing hazel irises behind the lenses of her glasses. "Did you say Perleman?"
Being married to a semi-celebrity had made Paisley used to such open curiosity. "That's right," she mumbled. Before the woman could ask any more questions, Paisley thanked her and turned to go. Then, remembering one of her errands, she swiveled back. "By the way, do you know where there's a bank around here? And a car rental agency?"
"The bank is closed today. It’s Memorial Day, remember?”
“No, I didn’t know.” Paisley had been so unaware of what was going on in the world that she had forgotten the holiday completely. She felt a pang of annoyance. Well, she’d just have to go to the bank another day.
“As for a car rental,” the woman continued, “I’m sorry, hon, River Bend is too small to have one. You’ll find the closest place in Davis."
Paisley's heart sank even further. River Bend was probably too small to provide bus service, either, or even a taxi. Then she remembered Ray Henderson's glossy black Suburban. Maybe the real estate agent would give her a ride, if she asked nicely. She hoped she hadn't offended him yesterday by refusing to sell the house. He had looked upset, although he seemed to have softened later.
One way or another, however, she must find transportation. Her bad leg was already throbbing from the short walk. She asked the shopkeeper where the nearest grocery store was, and the woman pointed down the street.
As she walked away, Paisley was conscious of the woman's curious eyes between her shoulder-blades. Why had she imagined River Bend would be a good place to hide away while her body and spirit healed? In a small town, everything she did was bound to be noticed and discussed. Although Paisley knew it was unlikely, she imagined the local diners in the cafe were watching her as well, wondering who she was and why she was there. She raised her chin high, as if she were on stage, wishing she knew the answer to that question.
#
Lugging a heavy paper grocery bag in her arms, Paisley stopped at the used-book shop, puffing. The red-haired proprietor looked up from the same paperback she had been reading earlier, pushed up her heavy-rimmed glasses, and gave her a pleased smile.
"Ready to pick up that book now?"
"Yes, thanks," Paisley said, setting down the bag and pushing back a lock of damp hair from her forehead.
As she paid, the woman commented, "I couldn't help noticing you looking at that banner across the street when you came by before."
"It's hard to miss," Paisley admitted. "There are Jolly Roger flags plastered all over town."
The woman eyed her hopefully. "Interested in seeing the show? Curtain goes up in eight weeks, and it's a sure crowd-pleaser."
"I may check it out if I'm still around." Paisley crossed her fingers behind her back. She probably wouldn't be here by then, and even if she was, she'd be doing something else.
The woman looked pleased. "How long do you plan to stay in River Bend, then?"
Paisley hesitated, then shrugged. It wouldn't hurt to tell the truth about her plans, such as they were. It wasn't as if this woman was a reporter for The National Enquirer, after all ... as if that rag were interested in the doings of an obscure opera singer whose career had ended before it even launched.
"I'm staying at Esther Perleman's place for a few weeks. I'm not sure how long, exactly." Until she recovered or ran out of money, whichever came first, although the shopkeeper didn't need to know that.
The other woman set down her dog-eared paperback novel, and her sparse eyebrows soared above the frames of her glasses. "You must be Jonathan's widow! I'd heard Esther had left her house to you. I'm so sorry, my dear." Her slightly protruding hazel eyes, enlarged by the lenses, looked sympathetic. "I ought to introduce myself." She held out a large, chapped hand. "I'm Shirley Zacarias. I had a huge crush on Jonathan in high school. All that dark, lean intensity. But I guess you'd understand, huh?" She smiled warmly.
Paisley shook the offered hand and picked up her bag of groceries, ready to be on her way. She didn't really want to talk about young girls with crushes on Jonathan.
"No, stay and rest a while," Shirley urged, heaving herself out of her seat. "It's a long walk, and you look tired. Let me get you a chair."
"Thank you, but…."
Shirley pulled up a metal folding chair and set it next to hers. "Sit. I've got some lemonade in the back. It'll be good for your throat."
To her own surprise, Paisley obeyed while the shopkeeper disappeared into the dark shop, emerging a few moments later with a glass pitcher clinking with ice cubes. Shirley must have had a little kitchenette in the back, Paisley thought, or maybe she lived upstairs.
"It gets lonely sitting here all day by myself," the bookshop keeper said breathlessly as she plopped back into her own seat. "As you can see, we don't get many customers. Sometimes I wonder why I bother opening the store on weekdays."
Paisley found herself sitting on the folding chair, a cold glass of lemonade in her hand. It felt good to rest her leg, and the beverage did sooth her throat.
Shirley watched with approval. "Fresh squeezed. I made it myself from lemons off my brother's tree. We've all been wondering what was going to happen to the Perlemans' place," she added. "Such a shame, seeing it vacant, deteriorating day after day. Those old houses have so much character, don't they? And there aren't many of them left."
Paisley felt a pang of guilt. It was her fault the house had been neglected for so long. She should have appointed a caretaker or rente
d it, but she'd been so busy with other things that she'd forgotten its very existence until Barry had reminded her.
Shirley didn't seem to notice her visitor's chagrin. "So what do you plan to do with the place now?" she said, with her usual blunt curiosity.
The question was a reasonable one, but Paisley shied away from responding. The fact was, she still didn't know. So many decisions hanging in the air. Just thinking of them brought back her headaches.
"We'll see," she said, and changed the subject. "Tell me, are you involved with the Pirates of Penzance? It seems you know a lot about the production."
"Involved?" Shirley snorted, leaping to the bait. "I'm running the whole darned thing. Esther's to blame; she started the community theater when she moved here after retiring. Recruited a group of actors and even directed the plays herself. She dragged me in to help with the backstage stuff: lighting, costumes, those kind of things. When she died, I couldn't bear to see it all disappear, so I sort of took over. It's not the same, though."
"Sounds like a lot of work," Paisley said sympathetically. She knew how much time and effort went into pulling off the simplest production, even the ones she had sneered at earlier.
Shirley's plump face lit up. "The work's turned out to be more challenging than I expected, but it'll come together in the end. It always does. I guess you'd know, with your background, right? Come see a rehearsal, why don't you. That way if you leave before opening night, you'll get an idea of what it's like."
"I might," said Paisley politely, although she had no more intention of doing that than she had of attending opening night. She drained her lemonade and stood. "Thanks. I appreciate the drink."
Shirley waved her thanks away. "Are you sure you can make it home? I'd be happy to close down the shop for a few minutes and give you a lift."
Paisley had almost forgotten her limp and the long red scar down her left calf, neater than the jagged one on her neck. Her lips clamped together and her tone grew frosty. "I'll be fine."
Shirley seemed oblivious that she had offended Paisley. "You really do need a car, you know. Out here in the country, it's a necessity. Try Craigslist. In the meantime, I'll keep my ear open; if I hear of anything that's available, I'll let you know."
The Jewelry Case Page 5