Callie set down her fork and drew a deep breath. “A lot.”
She described her visit to the Foxwood Inn, checking out Clifford Ashby’s office and the rooms with oddly shortened closets. She took a bite of her seafood platter, which was delicious, then told about her conversations with Dorothy and Jane. Another bite prefaced her appalling news about the book order cancellation and Lyssa’s jump into action to salvage the book event. She considered mentioning Hank’s dunning letter but took a long sip of her water instead.
“Wow,” Brian said. “You’ve been busy.”
“A bit,” she agreed. “So, what do you think of Dorothy’s explanation?”
“About Vernon Parks? It makes sense, and, knowing Dorothy, it’s totally credible. I’ve seen her stand up for people like she did for Parks’s employee.”
“You have?”
“Uh-huh. At association meetings, before you came here. Not on the scale of getting someone slapped with a lawsuit, but I felt it revealed her character. One situation involved a shop owner who’d been putting up sidewalk-sale stands that spread farther and farther onto his neighbor’s sidewalk. With the crowds that gathered to pick through the items, access to the next-door shop was blocked. When his neighbor spoke up meekly, the space hog took no action until Dorothy stepped in.”
“Good for her. I gather she developed that kind of assertiveness relatively late. Jane blames Dorothy’s bad marriage in part on her habit of swallowing Renata’s harassment in school.”
“Could be,” Brian said. “But let’s hope Jane didn’t say that to the police. I can imagine it being interpreted as pent-up anger leading to murder.”
“I thought of that, too, but only later, and it was disturbing. I just wish the police, if they do think that way, would know Dorothy as we do, and not pick out negative-sounding things that could help their case.”
“Well, it’s their job. And they’re human. For pretty much anyone who’s already leaning a certain way, something that supports that lean is likely to be believed. It happened to me once, though in a different kind of situation.”
“Oh?”
Brian paused, as though weighing if he wanted to talk about it, then said, “It was back when I was engaged.”
That was news to Callie, who hadn’t heard about any engagement. She waited.
“We’d met in college, and everything was good while we were there and away from her family. But once we graduated and moved back home, Jessica’s sister started working on her.”
Had Annie ever mentioned a Jessica, Callie wondered? She didn’t think so.
“Her sister,” Brian said, “had just had a bad break-up with a boyfriend who’d cheated on her. So, to her mind, every guy was a potential cheater. She put Jessica on edge believing I shouldn’t be trusted, which I’d never given her reason to doubt before.” He grimaced. “Maybe I should be glad that it showed up before we got married. But we had a great relationship before, and if we’d had time, without interference, to mature a little, things might have actually worked out. Anyway, my new job called for working closely with a girl who was fairly attractive—also good at her job, but that didn’t seem to matter to Jessica. Her sister’s constant dire predictions had wormed their way into her head, and when I refused to withdraw from a work-related trip that included this coworker—and a bunch of other people, I might add—Jessica took that as confirmation of her worst fears and broke the engagement.”
“I’m sorry.”
Brian smiled. “No need. It’s all in the past.”
Was it, or was that smile forced?
“And I certainly didn’t have anything like Dorothy’s situation to deal with. But I think it kind of shows how confirmation can be found for any preconceived conclusion if you try hard enough.”
“It does,” Callie agreed, though she wondered if that had been Brian’s primary intention in telling her that story. Was it, perhaps, something deeply personal he wanted her to know? She hadn’t said much about Hank, partly because it was embarrassing to admit that she’d been that naïve for so long. But perhaps it was time?
“How’re you doing here?” their ever-helpful waiter asked, having silently slipped over. “Ready for dessert?” He held out two dessert menus to them, which Brian automatically took but Callie waved off.
“Just coffee for me,” she said.
“Yeah, same here,” Brian said, handing the menu back.
That seemed simple enough, but their server then launched into a mind-boggling number of choices, including flavored coffees, espressos, lattes, café macchiato, and a latte macchiato. As the list went on, Brian caught Callie’s eye with a look of mock horror, and she had to struggle to keep a straight face. They eventually were able to request, or beg for, two plain black coffees, to the obvious disappointment of the waiter, who returned within moments with their coffees as well as a small pitcher of cream, “Just in case.”
The moment for sharing confidences had passed, along with the mood, as they joked about if and when they’d be allowed to actually leave the restaurant and whether or not Brian was being remiss in his attention to his café customers.
When they eventually did leave—with multiple thanks and expressions of hope for their swift return—Callie breathed a sigh of relief, then inhaled the crisp, autumn air. She was glad Brian had had to park a distance away, which let them enjoy a stroll.
Before they’d gone more than a block, she spotted a familiar face heading toward them. Orlena Martin, proprietor of Treasured Boxes, a shop not far from the Keepsake Café, was out with her husband. Dressed as usual in colorful garb that included more than one flowing scarf, her broad, dark face lit up as she recognized the two.
“How wonderful to see you!” she cried as though it had been weeks instead of days since they’d talked, quickly engulfing each of them in hugs. Orlena’s husband, Randal, while of similar imposing size and stature, was his wife’s opposite in temperament and simply gave Callie and Brian a quiet nod and smile.
“We have had the most wonderful day,” Orlena said, launching into a detailed description of the dinner they’d just enjoyed. “But before that, a visit to the Harriet Tubman Museum!”
“Not the museum,” Randal gently corrected. “We went to the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad Visitor Center.”
“Yes, but that is such a mouthful, is it not?” Orlena said, laughing. “‘Museum’ is easier. Whatever you want to call it, you should go to see it.”
“Where is it?” Callie asked. She’d only managed to explore the Eastern Shore in short bursts since taking possession of House of Melody.
“Cambridge, isn’t it?” Brian asked.
“Yes, Cambridge. Exactly.”
Randal shook his head. “The Tubman Museum and Educational Center is in Cambridge. The Tubman Visitor Center is at the Blackwater Wildlife Refuge outside of Cambridge.”
“Well, they are not far from each other,” Orlena insisted. “Go to see both. We intend to do an Underground Railroad driving tour. Randal has promised me.”
“How interesting!” Callie said. “On the Eastern Shore?”
“All through the Eastern Shore, wherever runaways knew they would find refuge on their way north. Harriet Tubman was born in Dorchester County, did you know? It was all farms and plantations then. And no Bay Bridge in those days!” Orlena said it lightly, but Callie saw the gravity behind her comment. Traveling long distances on foot in the nineteenth century was no easy task.
“I’d like to see that museum, um, visitor center,” Brian said, correcting himself with a glance at Randal. “We could take bikes with us and ride through the wildlife refuge, too. What do you think?” he asked Callie.
“Definitely. After things get settled,” she added.
“Oh, yes,” Orlena said. “The book event will be soon, of course. But there is that terrible mess still circling around Dorothy. Rena
ta Moore does her best—I should say her worst—to keep it spinning.”
“So you’ve heard that?”
“I hear it from customers who come to my place after shopping at The Collectible Cook. I try my best to show what they tell me for what it is, baseless, malicious gossip. But Renata has convincing ways about her, does she not? The stories, I fear, have grown and spread .”
Seeing Callie’s troubled look, Orlena reached for her hand, covering it with both of hers. “It will end,” she said with grave seriousness. “Do not worry too much. I am very good at feeling what is to come, as you know. I cannot always say how, and that is the way it is with me now. But I am very sure that this terrible talk will end.”
Randal cleared his throat. “We should go, sugar,” he said quietly.
Callie saw the intensity leave Orlena’s face as she looked over at her husband. “Yes, it is time.” She turned back to Callie and Brian and smiled with the same cheerful delight she’d first greeted them with. “Good night, my dear ones!” She adjusted the scarf at her neck, took her husband’s arm, and walked off, leaving her younger friends to stare after her.
“Wow,” Brian said. “What was that?”
“That,” Callie began, then stopped. She searched for any sort of explanation and finally gave up. “That,” she said, “was Orlena.”
Sixteen
Sunday morning, Callie’s phone rang as she was cleaning up her breakfast dishes. It was Lyssa.
“We’re good to go,” she said. “I think. My publisher will FedEx books. Don’t ask how I managed to reach someone on the weekend. These are people who disappear from the face of the earth at five o’clock on Fridays. But they promised to have the books at Keepsake Cove by Tuesday afternoon, at the latest.”
“Wonderful!”
“I’m bringing back the ones I have at my house, too, just in case. And I can’t wait to get away from here. The mess from the remodeling is horrendous. It’s total luck that I found my book boxes buried behind it all.”
Callie wished her safe driving, relieved that one crisis had passed. She looked out her window to see a mild sunny day and prayed it would continue that way until Tuesday night. Gazebos and tents were fine, as far as they went. But lightning and driving rain could destroy an outdoor event pretty fast. She’d been checking the weather predictions online regularly. So far so good, but she didn’t totally believe the forecasts, remembering countless outdoor plans that had been ruined when a sunny day had been predicted.
To take her mind off such concerns, she stepped out into her little yard for some fresh air, grabbing a sweater from the front closet on the way. Aunt Mel’s mums graced each side of her door in beautiful golds and ambers, though the summer blossoms had long since faded. Callie remembered her first encounter with Karl, at the time those flowers were in full bloom. How different things had been then.
She heard scratching noises coming from Delia’s side of the shrubbery and strolled over to peek through an opening in the branches. Delia had been raking leaves and now stood upright, rake in hand, beside a small mound, catching her breath.
“Need a second pair of hands?” Callie called.
Delia’s head swiveled toward her. “I do! Come on over and hold this leaf bag for me, if you will.”
Callie pushed through the greenery and picked up the environmentally friendly paper leaf bag that Cove residents put out at the curb for pickup. She’d already cleaned up her own leaves, the few that settled in her small yard having mostly blown over from trees at the back of the cottage, which Aunt Mel had left uncultivated. Callie liked the slightly wild look in that area as well and was happy to leave it that way. Delia, on the other hand, in addition to having trees behind her cottage, had one spreading oak in her front yard, which provided her with lovely shade during the summer and piles of leaves in autumn. Callie held the leaf bag open for her as she scooped her latest bunch into it.
“Thanks!” Delia said. She looked around her yard. “That’ll do it for now. Come in for coffee?”
Callie shook her head, suspecting Delia could use a bit of rest before opening Shake It Up! at the standard Sunday start time of noon. “Thanks, but I just finished a big breakfast. How’s Pete doing?” she asked, noting that Delia had moved her parakeet’s Victorian-style cage outside.
“Sassy as ever,” Delia said, strolling over to slip a finger fondly between the wires. She turned to Callie. “Oh, I forgot to mention that I checked with Dave about Ashby’s pay-to-promote-or-else scheme, and he said that Ashby hadn’t approached his shop.”
“Good to know, thanks.” Callie smiled as Pete hopped over to nuzzle Delia’s fingertip.
“I ran into Jane last evening, by the way,” Delia said.
“Oh? Where?”
“At the supermarket. Dorothy is so fortunate to have her. There was someone with her, a man I didn’t recognize.”
“You didn’t get to speak with them?”
“No, she was checking out as I walked in, and the place was pretty busy. I just waved.”
“You’re sure this man was with her, not just in line?”
“Yes, they were unloading from the same basket. Definitely together. A man about her age, slim, gray-haired, wearing a blue windbreaker.”
“That sounds like George Cole.” Seeing Delia’s puzzled look, Callie explained about the other current guest at the Foxwood Inn besides Lyssa. “Jane told me he stopped in at Stitches Thru Time the other day to say how sorry he was about Dorothy’s situation. I thought it was very nice of him, and she obviously thought so too.”
“Well, he seems to have started offering more than just moral support. What do you know about him? Is he trustworthy? I’d hate to see either Jane or Dorothy taken in by a con man during a vulnerable time.”
Callie’s brows shot up at the startling thought. She’d never thought to question Cole’s motives. He’d always been perfectly nice and polite. But he would be, wouldn’t he, if he’d had some sort of personal gain in mind?
“He told me he was a widower when he came into my shop to order a music box.”
“Are you on Facebook?” Delia asked.
“Um, yes. Why?”
“Ever get one of those fake friend requests? They’re always widowed. Or divorced. And have an adorable little daughter.”
“George was buying the music box for his daughter.”
“Uh-oh.”
“That doesn’t prove anything! It could just be coincidence.”
Delia gave her a stern look. “I think we should keep a sharp eye on Mr. Cole.” She glanced at her watch. “Oops. But first I’d better get this little guy back in the house and get myself cleaned up.”
Callie held her friend’s door as she carried Pete’s cage into the cottage, then headed back over to her own place. Could George Cole not be who and what he had presented himself to be? It was hard to believe, with his mild, ever-courteous manner. But all they really knew about him was what he’d told them. It would be a good idea—and she scolded herself for not thinking of it earlier—to see what she could find out about him from more neutral sources.
Callie got her chance that afternoon, after happily seeing off her latest customers. The family had walked in with small children who were promptly set free to wander throughout the shop, opening each and every music box they could get their little hands on as the parents dithered over what to buy for a mother-in-law. The quiet once the family left—sans purchase—was wonderful, along with the relief that nothing had been damaged, though the you break it, you bought it rule would have been enforced. After a quick glance outdoors to reassure herself that they weren’t returning, Callie went into the office and opened up her laptop.
An online search for George Cole, she soon found, wasn’t going to be easy. All she had was the name, without even a middle initial to narrow the field, along with an approximate age of sixty. She didn’t
remember him mentioning his home town or even a state, which meant having to scroll though endless George Coles who lived all over.
Had he mentioned his wife’s name? Callie thought hard until it came to her: Margaret! Typing that in, however, didn’t prove any more useful. He’d said he was in the area for business meetings, and the suit he’d worn that first day jibed with that. But she was sure he hadn’t given any details on the type of business.
Had he told Lyssa at some point? Callie knew they’d shared at least one dinner together at the Foxwood Inn and possibly several breakfasts. Surely the topic would have come up? She could wait to ask Lyssa until she got back. Or she could call Paula. Paula might have information on Cole, taken when he checked in. But Callie hesitated to approach her. Paula had been reluctant to share information about anything that she or Lyssa had asked her about. Callie could imagine her refusing to talk about George Cole on some sort of hotel confidentiality grounds. Plus, there was the possibility of Cole overhearing the conversation. She would wait to speak to Lyssa.
“No, George didn’t give me any details about his work or his location,” Lyssa said when Callie reached her later that evening. “At least not that I remember. Seems to me we mostly talked about my books.” She laughed. “No surprise there, since it’s my favorite subject! Want me to probe? Too late to do it now. Got held up trying to reach my contractor. Harder to do than finding an editor on a Sunday. Turns out Saffron Spice is not a paint color I can live with in my master bath. It has to go, and I needed to tell him before he moves the new vanity in tomorrow. Creamy Latte is the color I can deal with before coffee. Who comes up with these names? Anyway, I’m sure I’ll see George in the morning.”
“Yes, please see what you can get out of him, discreetly, of course. I think we need to understand exactly who he is, since he seems to be getting close to Jane and possibly Dorothy.”
“Consider it done. Now I’ve got to crash. It’s been a long day.”
A Vintage Death Page 11