by Price, Cate
“Do you know the name of the company?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Don’t think Jimmy knew either. He was only ever contacted by this one guy, who said they’d be in touch after the auction.”
“So he planned to bid on a collection of very expensive fountain pens, with his own money, risking thousands of dollars for someone he never met and had no idea how to contact?” My voice rose as I finished the question. I didn’t know Jimmy that well, but he didn’t sound too bright to me.
“Oh no, they said they’d give him the money to bid with—the night before. He was supposed to get paid a flat fee for doing the job. Seemed like he was getting nervous about the whole thing, though. He’d be on the phone and then hang up whenever I came in the room.”
Reenie picked at the label on her beer bottle. “Maybe he got cold feet. Or he got greedy and decided to do a double cross. Maybe Jimmy realized how much they were really worth from talking with Angus, and somehow these people figured out he was going to screw them.”
“Did you tell the police any of this?”
“No. I got no faith in the cops to take care of things. I’m still not sure what Jimmy was up to. Or if it was even illegal.”
“But you could save Angus!”
“I don’t want to get in trouble. Who would look after the kids if I was locked up?” She started crying again. “I’m afraid of the police. What if they thought I had something to do with it? I can’t prove I didn’t. I’m Jimmy’s wife after all.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t want to push too hard. I had to keep the lines of communication open if I was going to help Angus. But hey, I was an expert at treading on eggshells, thanks to Sarah.
“Reenie, it’s okay. I’ll try to figure things out. At some point we may need to talk to the police . . .” I held up a hand as she started to protest. Quiet in the classroom. “But let me see what I can come up with first.”
She wiped a hand across her eyes, and stubbed out her second cigarette.
“Look, why don’t you go take a nice shower?” I suggested. “Sarah and I will watch the kids. It’ll make you feel better.”
She started to protest and then nodded in weary agreement, and headed upstairs. I tipped the rest of my beer into the sink, and put the remaining bottles in the refrigerator, together with the fruit and yogurt. I noted with a pang how empty the shelves were, apart from some lovely big brown eggs in a blue-striped bowl.
I wandered outside and followed the sound of childish laughter to find Sarah and the kids over by the henhouse. My daughter smiled at me, the sunlight behind turning her blond hair into a hazy golden cloud.
I smiled back. “What are you doing?”
“Taking pictures of rug rats.”
She held up her camera so I could see, and scrolled through shots she’d taken of the children. Swinging on a tire swing, feeding the chickens, chasing each other round the big oak tree. She’d captured their wild laughter, the sweet softness of their rosy cheeks, and also the fleeting haunted look behind their eyes.
They laughed even more when Sarah mock screamed as the rooster came toward her.
“That’s Fancy Pants.” The boy bent and grabbed a chicken running by and clutched it to his chest, like he was holding an overweight cat. “And this is Miss Penny.” When he set it down, the chicken took off in a squawking hurry, and they both chased it, squealing, skinny arms and legs flying.
I quickly gave Sarah the CliffsNotes version of my conversation with their mother.
Sarah frowned. “Sounds kind of sketch to trust some guy out in the country that you don’t know to be part of such a scheme.”
“I was thinking the same thing. And I suppose it’s not completely illegal, but it’s not particularly ethical either.”
“But if Jimmy did figure out what the pens were worth, it might have been a good enough reason to risk keeping them. Look at this place, Mom. It must have been tempting.”
I nodded. “Good point. Of course, whoever it is was also taking a gamble that no one would outbid Jimmy. But at a Saturday night auction in Sheepville, who would have that kind of ready money? Only a specific collector who would be willing to cough up the big bucks.”
Sarah shuddered as she stared at the decrepit farmhouse. “I’d be freaked out about living here on my own with a killer on the loose.”
“Well, I guess there’s no reason for whoever did it to stick around now.”
As we shepherded the children back into the kitchen, and I was encouraging them to wash their hands and faces at the sink, Reenie came hurtling down the wooden stairs, carrying a suitcase.
“I found this in the spare bedroom. That bastard!”
I glanced at Sarah, and she quickly hurried the kids outside again.
“That son of a bitch was all packed and ready to leave his wife and family for some cash and a dozen old pens?” She paced through the kitchen, heaving for breath. “When I think about what I had to put up with, Daisy. The drinking every night, spending what little money we had at the bar, and now he does this to me? How dare he leave me in such a mess?”
She suddenly dropped the suitcase with a crash on the floor and hung her head, her wet hair covering her face.
I had no words, so I went over and hugged her. She clung to me like a child, crying noisily, her tears soaking through my shirt.
*
“After we left Reenie’s, I made a stop to see Betty, but the house was locked up tight with no lights on. She must have gone to visit her brother.
Sarah leaned back against the car’s headrest. “Can we go home now, please? Why are you taking care of all these people anyway, Mom?”
“It’s what I do, Sarah.”
“Yes, but it’s not your problem.”
“I promised Angus I’d do whatever I could to help.”
Silence reigned in the car as we drove the few miles back to Millbury. When we walked into the house, Joe wasn’t around, so we went out to the garden to find him tinkering with his latest find from Cyril’s salvage yard—a rusty Schwinn Orange Krate Stingray bicycle.
A young dog bounded up to us from around the corner of the shed.
“Hey, Buddy.” Sarah ruffled the dog’s ears as he jumped up and planted his huge paws against her chest.
“Do you know this dog? Is he yours?” I asked faintly, surveying the exuberant yellow Lab or retriever-type mix.
“He showed up on the set one day. He didn’t have a collar and no one came to claim him, so I kept him.”
I exhaled slowly. Her condo in the city, which Joe and I sold her for way below market value when we moved to Millbury for good, did not allow pets. Typical of Sarah and her impulsive nature—always doing things without thinking them through.
“You shouldn’t let him jump up on you like that.” When the puppy came over to me, I gently pushed him back down to the ground. I only petted him when he was sitting, his tail wagging furiously.
The pup gazed up at Joe, who had obviously accepted him right away. Joe never met a man, woman, or animal he didn’t like, and who didn’t instantly adore him in return.
He met my exasperated gaze, as if to say, Take a deep breath, Daisy. “Come on inside, girls, and see what I have planned for dinner.”
Sometimes over the years I’d thought that our personalities seemed better suited for the other’s job. Joe was more careful and patient than me, sterling qualities in a teacher, but as head negotiator for his electricians’ union, it seemed as though more of a fiery personality was required. Like mine. Joe said that he had always played good cop in negotiations. Seemed like I was stuck forever in the role of bad cop, at least where Sarah was concerned.
I sighed. The dog looked as though he needed a great deal of training, which my laid-back daughter would probably not provide.
As we ate our perfectly grilled filet mignon and succulent lobster tails, Sarah regaled us with tales of the city and a rundown of her latest film. She had graduated from NYU in the film studies program, and now worked in
continuity as a script supervisor. I sipped my wine, trying to ignore the puppy’s head resting on my knee and hopeful glances toward my steak.
I still missed New York. The hustle and bustle and endless hours of window-shopping. When I was younger, I’d catch a bus from the Lower East Side up to the Garment District and lose myself for the day, gazing in the dusty storefront windows, fascinated with the endless displays of French ribbons, braided trim, velvet and satin passementerie.
In fact, like Sarah, I’d been a bit bored when I first moved to Millbury. Opening the store had been my salvation. And Joe’s.
“How’s the condo, Sarah?” Joe asked as he speared a bite of asparagus.
“Great! You guys wouldn’t recognize the place. I had it painted an eggshell white throughout and completely gutted the kitchen and powder room. The cabinets are absolutely gorgeous. Natural maple, with stainless steel appliances. I even have a wine cooler!”
Joe grinned and they clinked wineglasses.
I raised my glass a little too late. “Did you end up keeping any of the furniture?”
“No, sorry, Mom. I sold it. I needed every penny for the reconstruction and the new living room set.”
I told myself not to be upset. It was her condo now after all, but it would have been nice if she was sentimental about at least one of her parents’ old possessions.
After dinner, Sarah took a phone call, and when she came back to the table, she was fighting back tears.
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” I asked.
“That was Peter. Trying to tell me I should give us another chance. That I walked away from a great relationship.”
I was confused. “But I thought he broke up with you.”
“Only after I broke up with him first. I don’t know why he doesn’t get the message.”
“Well, maybe you should give him another chance.” Sarah was completely focused on her career, which was fine, but I worried that she would never let anyone in sufficiently to share her life.
Sarah exhaled. Impressive how she could convey such a large amount of irritation and disdain in one simple breath.
“I didn’t come here to be lectured. God, Mom, it would be nice to get a little understanding or sympathy for a change.”
Didn’t I always give her that?
Our earlier rapport at Reenie’s had drifted away like the evening breeze that was swaying the hanging baskets of white petunias and blue trailing lobelia out on the back porch.
Joe and Sarah went outside with the dog while I started doing the dishes. I could hear the easy murmur of their voices, but not what they were saying.
I poured another glass of wine and wondered how long she would stay.
At the store, I was in my element. I was funny, welcoming, talkative, knowledgeable—a great businesswoman dealing with top designers and wealthy collectors.
When my daughter was around, it seemed like I always said the wrong thing. A little older, a little dowdier, a little less confident.
I wished she shared my passion for my precious antique stock, and wondered how I could have given birth to a child who was so utterly different from me. I’d also wanted to raise a daughter who could stand on her own two feet and not rely on anyone to take care of her. Boy, had I achieved that goal, and then some. Sarah was fiercely independent and brutally opinionated.
Okay, well, maybe in some ways we were alike. As the old saying goes, be careful what you wish for.
Through the kitchen window I could see Joe out on the glider, talking to her. The moon above was a pale lemon slice in a lilac sky.
Dear Joe. Thirty-four years of marriage. Sure we’d had our fights. Times when I wanted to choke him, or times I’d threatened to sleep in the spare bedroom, but somehow we’d always worked it out. One of us had apologized first, and then of course, there was the lovemaking to make up.
I grinned to myself. Sarah would probably not want to believe that her parents ever had sex. But we did, even at our age. And very good sex, too, I might add.
The night was breezy and cool, and I sighed in relief when I was finally nestled in Joe’s arms in our bed. Sarah had gone to her room, and the puppy was crated in the kitchen.
Joe kissed me, and I melted into him, relaxing for the first time all day. Things were starting to get interesting when suddenly mournful howls erupted from downstairs. After a few excruciating minutes of this racket that Sarah was obviously able to sleep through, Joe got up and went downstairs to soothe the pup. I fell asleep before he came back to bed.
*
“I left the house early the next morning. Sarah was asleep, Joe was taking care of the dog, and I had lots I wanted to do before opening the store. Number one on the list was to check on Betty, scout out the auction building, and dig up any information on those missing fountain pens.
Mist still clung in wisps to the low stone walls and rolled over the tops of the fields as I rode my bicycle toward Sheepville. It was so quiet, it was easy to think I was the only person up and alive at this hour, until I heard the rumble of a tractor in the distance. A purple, blue, and yellow checkered hot air balloon drifted over the tops of the trees, and I pedaled hard, trying to keep it in sight.
River Road was cool and peaceful, too, the musty damp of the moss and undergrowth replacing the manure smell of the fields. Steep hillsides with rock formations and dense undergrowth mixed with rhododendrons and vines towered up above me on the side farthest from the water. The incline pushed my muscles to work hard as I navigated the twists and turns, but it was a relief to feel the blood coursing through my veins, washing away some of the tension of the past few days.
The lights were on in the auction building when I rode up, so I parked the bike near the double doors, and walked inside.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Betty came out of the office, an anxious look on her face.
“How are you, Betty? How’s the hip?”
“Improving. I get a bit better each day.” She hugged me. “Thanks for coming, Daisy. I just made some tea. Would you like some?”
“Tea would be great.” I’d only had one cup of coffee at home, and until I got to the store, I would be running seriously low on caffeine.
I followed her into the office and she pulled another mug down from the shelf.
“I’m worried about keeping this place going until Angus gets back. There’s a lot of merchandise that needs to be sold. I know how to do it, from watching him all these years, but the thing is . . .”
“What?”
“I can’t see myself getting up on the stage and shouting out the numbers. I’d be scared to death.” She twisted the ends of her shawl-like sweater.
“Well, let’s think. Maybe you could hire someone to do it. How about Patsy?”
“From the diner?”
“Yeah. She’d get a kick out of it. She has the right personality and her voice is certainly loud enough. Plus, I’m sure she could use some extra money.”
Betty brightened. “Yes. That’s a good idea.”
I was about to broach the subject of hiring a decent attorney, when suddenly the office door banged open with a crash.
The woman standing in the doorway was tall and thin, with black hair pulled back into a chignon that enhanced an extremely long, but elegant, neck. She wore a simple wrap dress that looked like it cost a teacher’s salary for a month, and was so gaunt her hipbones showed through the silky fabric.
“Have the pens been found yet?” she demanded. “How the hell could you people have been so careless?”
I stepped closer to Betty. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
“She thought I wouldn’t find out about her little scheme, but I did!” Her smile was triumphant. “That bimbo took great delight in telling me she was selling them, but wouldn’t tell me where out of spite. I heard through my connections that some valuable pens were up for auction out in the boondocks. And so here I am!”
“The bimbo?” I asked, feeling as though I’d tuned in on a movi
e that was already halfway through.
“My father’s new wife.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Those pens belonged to my father, David Adams, an avid collector. He recently passed away. Knowing how much I wanted them, knowing how important Daddy’s pens were to me, she put them up for auction. God, I hate that bitch.”
Betty’s mouth hung open, her tea untouched.
“I was even willing to buy them back, which is why I came all the way from New York, only to find out they had been stolen.”
I held up a hand. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
“Fiona Adams,” she snapped, impatient with the interruption.
“Well, I’m Daisy Buchanan, and this is—”
“This would never have happened at a reputable auction house like Sotheby’s or Christie’s. I have no idea why she would let important collectibles be sold at such a podunk place. It’s not as if we’re selling boxes of National Geographic magazines, for Christ’s sake.”
“Why do you think she sent them here?” My pulse accelerated. Was this the connection to the crooked estate liquidation company?
Fiona snorted. “Because she’s a stupid twit.”
“If she did put them up at Sotheby’s or Christie’s, you’d have had to pay a lot more to get them back.”
“That’s not the point,” she snarled.
Now that I studied her more closely, I saw that the elegance was tainted by the fact that her nose was rather hooked, and her teeth stuck out a shade too much, but in spite of that, she was still strangely attractive.
And how could she be so sure that the pens were hers?
She must have been thinking along the same lines as me when she turned to Betty. “I need to see the photos,” she demanded. “The full catalog description of the items.”
“I’m sorry,” Betty stammered. “But there aren’t any. Angus must have forgotten to do it. He used to be so meticulous.”
Normally auction items were cataloged, assigned a lot number, and photographed, but not this time, in yet another example of Angus’s recent absentminded behavior. Or was he involved in the shady scheme, too? I shook my head. I wasn’t going to let myself go down that road.