“It looks just perfect there, Maralee,” she said. “Now, with some bedside tables and lamps and maybe a chaise longue, this could be quite a pleasant room.”
“Maybe its previous home wasn’t so pleasant,” I said. “Tell me about Helena Trent and how she came to be murdered.”
“Poor Helena,” my aunt began. “Her husband was quite an unsavory character, it turns out. Everyone thought he married her for her money in the first place.”
“Money? She was wealthy, then?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Helena came from a prominent North Shore family. Then she married into an even wealthier Salem family. United two old fortunes, so to speak. Her first husband, John David Hampton, Jr., died.... He was quite a bit older than she was. But everyone said they were a truly devoted couple.”
“So she married Mr. Trent after that?”
“Not right away, of course. But Helena was quite beautiful, and nobody expected that she’d stay single for long. She had no children of her own, just her husband’s grown son from his first marriage.”
“A confusing family tree.”
“It is. And it got even more so after she married Tommy Trent. Tommy brought a woman named Daphne—who, he said, was his sister—to live with them, and Helena befriended her. Bought her expensive clothes, included her on trips. But it turned out that Daphne was really Tommy’s girlfriend.”
“What a rat!”
“I know. Anyway, Tommy was really the only suspect in Helena’s death. He copped some kind of a plea, and a judge found him guilty of voluntary manslaughter. Ten years in prison. I think that means he can get out in five or six, if he behaves himself in jail.” She shook her head. “Of course, he still claims he’s innocent. Says some intruder did it.”
“Sure. Don’t they all say something like that?”
She spread several sheets of copier paper across the bedspread. “Look. Here are a few articles about the trial from the Salem News. I’ll make us a pot of coffee while you read them.”
I chose one of the articles at random. The headline read SOCIALITE DIED FROM SINGLE GUNSHOT WOUND. The accompanying photo showed a pretty woman in jeans and a turtleneck, standing in what looked like a vegetable garden. According to the paper, Helena Trent’s body was discovered by her stepson, John David Hampton III, known to his associates at one of Salem’s most prestigious investment firms as Tripp Hampton. The article said that he found his stepmother dead in her bedroom when she didn’t appear as usual for lunch. She’d been shot in the back of the head at a fairly close range with a nine-millimeter projectile. I shuddered at the thought. When her stepson found her, Helena surely wasn’t pretty anymore. Burglary was given as a possible motive. Her jewelry box was found open and empty, and her bureau drawers and her closet had been ransacked.
I put the article down when Aunt Ibby reappeared, a new ironstone coffee mug in each hand. “Here you go,” she said, handing me one. “Did you get to the part about the girlfriend yet?”
“Nope. Sill trying to get past the gunshot wound in her head.”
My aunt nodded and sat next to me. “I know. Messy business, wasn’t it? Poor Tripp must have had nightmares for months.”
“You know him?”
“Oh, yes. He’s on the board of directors of the library. So was Helena. Very civic minded, the whole family. Helena was president of the garden club, too, and one of the founders of Friends of Strays. The list goes on and on.”
“What about the husband? Tommy?”
“Not so much, although he was somewhat involved in Helena’s fund-raising efforts for her various charities.”
I took a sip of coffee. The handle of the white mug fit perfectly in my hand, and the thick rim was smooth against my lips. “Mmm. Good,” I murmured, picking up another article. MURDER WEAPON FOUND IN HUSBAND’S MERCEDES. The photo on that page was of Tommy Trent—a handsome, smiling man in tennis wear, holding a trophy. “Guess finding the gun in his car must have been pretty convincing to the jury.” I looked again at Helena’s photo, then back at Tommy’s. “They must have been a beautiful couple. I wonder what went wrong. Seems as if they had it all.”
“Everybody wondered that at first. A gorgeous home, fine cars, a yacht, the best country clubs, fabulous jewelry.”
“So why did he kill her? Why not just a divorce if they were having trouble?”
She pulled a sheet of paper from those scattered on the bed. “Here. Read this one.”
The headline read MONEY PROBLEMS BESET “GOLDEN COUPLE.” The article went on to detail unpaid taxes, maxed-out credit cards, canceled club memberships because of unpaid dues, a repossessed automobile.... The list went on.
“Wow. What a mess.” I put the paper down. “‘Follow the money,’ they always say. Guess that’s true in this case. But still, how would Tommy benefit from Helena’s death?”
She shrugged. “That’s a puzzle. Helena’s stepson had control of whatever’s left of the family fortune, and there was a prenup, so it doesn’t seem as though Tommy would actually benefit financially from her death.” She lowered her voice and looked around the sparsely furnished room, as though someone might be listening. “But, of course, there’s the pink diamond.”
At that moment, O’Ryan strolled into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed, scattering papers in every direction. Stretching a big yellow paw next to one of the pillows, he rescued a page from sliding to the floor. Then, tilting his head and fixing those golden eyes on my green ones, he uttered, “Mmrrup,” which the way he does it, always sounds as though there’s a question mark at the end.
Aunt Ibby and I had each lifted our mug out of harm’s way just as O’Ryan had made his perfect soft landing, so the new bedspread was spared coffee stains.
“What was that all about?” my aunt asked, reaching for the paper still under the cat’s paw. “You think we should read this one, boy?”
I could see the headline from where I sat on the edge of the bed. “How does he do that?” I asked before reading it aloud. WHERE IS HELENA’S PINK DIAMOND? queried the bold print. “Whoever heard of a cat who could read?”
My aunt shrugged. “Nothing about this cat surprises me anymore.”
She was right. The cat, who’d once belonged to Ariel Constellation, my ill-fated predecessor on the Nightshades show, had shown unusual behavior from the first day he arrived at our house.
Aunt Ibby passed the paper to me. “As I was saying, there’s the missing pink diamond.”
I scanned the article. Apparently, Helena Trent’s first husband had given her an enormous pale pink–colored diamond pendant. I’m pretty sure ten carats qualifies as enormous in the diamond world. Anyway, the report said that until John Hampton’s death, the necklace was locked in a safe, and Helena wore it only on special formal occasions. But after his passing, she began to wear it quite casually. The reporter noted that some of the members of the garden club were astonished to see Helena wearing the precious gem on a simple leather thong around her neck while digging up tulip bulbs. Others said that she often wore it that way, usually with jeans and a black turtleneck.
My aunt had picked up the scattered papers, and I took another look at the photo of Helena. “She’s wearing some kind of necklace in this picture. Do you suppose it’s the diamond?” I asked.
“Quite likely,” she said.
“What’s it worth, anyway?”
“The paper said several million dollars.”
“Insured?” I asked.
“Sure. The insurance company is still looking for it.”
“If they had money problems, I wonder why she didn’t just sell it.”
“They say Tommy wanted her to. But her friends said she just loved wearing it. Her thought was, ‘Why have beautiful things locked away in a safe? It makes more sense to just enjoy them every day.’”
“Can’t say I disagree with the philosophy,” I said.
“It’s generally a good one,” Aunt Ibby said. “I’m heading for the library in a few minutes. You sure yo
u don’t need anything else for your dinner date with Pete?”
“I’m almost all set, I think. Except for dishes. I never got a chance to pick any out today.”
“Please help yourself to any of my china,” she said. “You know I have extra place settings.”
“Thanks. May I use the ivy pattern ones?”
“The Franciscan Ware? Of course. It was always your favorite when you were little.”
“Thanks. I still love it.”
“All right then. I’ll see you later.”
I followed her downstairs, picked up two place settings of the green-and-white dishes and a couple of serving pieces, and hurried back to my apartment. There were several more newspaper articles I wanted to look at, but I decided to put them away until I had more time. I looked around the room. Put them where? Aha! I now had a bureau. I pulled open the top drawer. Just as Shea had promised, there was an envelope marked DIRECTIONS TO SECRET COMPARTMENTS. It made me sad to think that putting the envelope in my bureau drawer might have been one of Shea’s last actions. I closed the drawer and lifted the center panel on the bureau’s top.
If this one is just like my old one, there should be a mirror under here.
There was a mirror, all right. But what I saw there made me slam the panel shut in a hurry. Oxidation or moisture or something had turned the glass almost entirely black—and shiny black surfaces meant bad news for me.
CHAPTER 4
I’m apparently what’s known in paranormal circles as a “scryer.” My friend River North calls me a “gazer.” River happens to be a witch, and she knows all about such things. Anyway, I’d found out fairly recently that I have the weird ability to see things in shiny black objects—things that have happened or are happening, and even things that could happen in the future. River calls it a “gift.” I don’t think of it that way. It had come in handy a couple of times, but mostly all it had ever shown me was death and dying. I’d learned a little bit about controlling a vision once it started, but I much preferred that it didn’t start at all. River and Aunt Ibby were the only people who knew about the gazing thing. I hadn’t even mentioned it to Pete yet. Didn’t know how to without sounding crazy and scaring him away.
I ran down the stairs to my old second-floor bedroom and grabbed a white lace runner from the top of a maple dresser. I hadn’t meant to use anything from that room, pretty as it was; I wanted a totally different look for the apartment. But covering the mirrored panel with the runner would make it go away, and that was all I wanted just then.
Enough pots and pans had come with the new kitchen, so I was well prepared for dinner in that area. I planned to broil a great big sirloin steak, bake the Idaho potatoes in the microwave, and serve them with sour cream and fresh chives from Aunt Ibby’s herb garden. A healthy salad with fresh greens and homegrown tomatoes would round out the meal, and dessert would be hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream, both from the grocer’s frozen dessert department.
I double-checked the items I’d bought for dinner, then, satisfied with the menu, poured another cup of coffee and turned on the TV. WICH-TV was showing a roundup of local news stories. Field reporter Scott Palmer stood in front of Tolliver’s Antiques and Uniques, speaking in hushed tones. “This morning, Shea Tolliver, the owner and manager of the shop behind me, was found dead, apparently the victim of a robbery. Ms. Tolliver suffered a fatal blow to the head. Police are looking for a man who may have information about the matter.” The sketch artist’s rendering of the man who’d bumped into me filled the screen. “Police chief Tom Whaley has released a statement saying this man is a person of interest in this case. If you can identify him, please contact the Salem Police Department.” A phone number in bright green appeared above the drawing.
“I hope my description is good enough for someone to recognize him,” I told the cat, who’d found a pleasant square of sunshine on the hardwood floor and was busily grooming his whiskers. The rest of the news broadcast consisted of a rundown of recent happenings at city hall, the local weather, a feature on kids’ summer camps, and some footage of a sidewalk sale on Essex Street. No more than twenty minutes had passed before my cell phone buzzed. Caller ID showed Pete Mondello’s name.
I hope he doesn’t have to work tonight and cancel our dinner.
“Hi, Pete,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to tell you that your description of that blond guy was so good, we had an ID on him right after the drawing aired on TV.”
“No kidding? Who is he?”
“Name’s Gary Campbell. Seems he was Shea Tolliver’s ex-business partner. We’ve already picked him up. He admits to being in the store. His fingerprints were on the doorknob and on the counter. Shea had a restraining order on him, so we’re holding him right now on a violation. Can’t charge him with anything else yet.”
“A restraining order? Did he abuse her?”
“Verbal threats. Serious enough for a judge to grant one.”
“Poor Shea.”
“I know.” His tone was sympathetic. “Gotta go, babe. Just wanted to tell you how that ID worked out. See you tonight.”
“See you,” I said, but he was gone.
I checked my watch. Now would be a good time to pop the frozen apple pie into the oven, and it was late enough in the day to call River North. She’d taken over the time slot of my canceled show, Nightshades.... Now it was Tarot Time with River North. Being on camera until two in the morning meant sleeping in the daytime, so I never phoned her until the afternoon.
Pie centered in the spotless new oven, timer set, I dialed River’s number. She sounded just a tad sleepy when she answered. “Oh, hi, Lee. I’ve been thinking about you. You okay?”
That’s usually an easy question for me to answer, but today . . . not so much. “Ummm. I guess so,” I said. “It’s been an unusual day.”
That woke her up. “What’s happening? Wait a minute. Let me get my cards. I’ll read you while you tell me all about it.” There was a short pause. “Okay. Shoot.”
“That was fast. Do you sleep with the tarot cards under your pillow?”
“Sure do. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
“All right, but first, have you watched the news today?”
“Of course not. You know I never do. Too depressing.”
“Well, then, it’s going to be a long story.” I began with how we’d seen the bureau on TV and how I’d hurried to Shea’s shop before someone else could grab it. I told her about having one just like it when I was a kid.
“I know you got the bureau. I can see it here,” River interrupted. “The Six of Cups. It’s right here beside the Queen of Wands. That’s you. But listen, Lee. You’d better let me come over and check on where the bureau is. Proper feng shui, you know.”
“What?”
“Feng shui.” She pronounced the words carefully. “F-u-n-g S-h-w-a-y balance and harmony. Furniture placement is important.”
“I’ve heard of it,” I said. “And you know you can come over anytime. But what about the Six of Cups? What does it mean?”
“Enjoyment and pleasant memories coming from the past.”
“You’re exactly right,” I said. That bureau did remind me of happy childhood days. River’s accuracy with her cards used to amaze me every time. But I was beginning to get used to it. “Pleasant memories, for sure, and I’m going to enjoy having someplace to put my clothes.”
“Still not enough furniture, huh? Go on. Tell me more.”
“The rest of it is not good news,” I said and described how I’d gone back to Tolliver’s to look for china and how the blond man had bumped into me. Once again, she interrupted.
“I see him. The Seven of Pentacles reversed. He’s impatient for success. He’s anxious about money he owes to someone.”
“You’re probably right about that, too,” I said. I told her how I’d found Shea dead and called 911, how Pete had come to the store, and how I’d worked with the sketch artist and helped to capture Shea’s
ex-partner.
She didn’t comment right away, and I could hear the swish of the cards. “I’m sorry you were the one who found that woman. The Nine of Pentacles reversed. Danger from thieves. Was she robbed?”
“It looks that way. The cash register drawer was open.”
“She felt safe among her possessions.” River sounded sad. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I liked her.”
“I can see Pete, too,” she said, her voice brightening “He’s the Knight of Swords. His card moves closer to yours every time I read you. How’s that going?”
“He’s coming over tonight. I’m cooking him dinner.”
“Uh-huh. Get a bed yet?”
“River, you’re terrible!” I felt my face coloring.
“No, I’m not. You know you’re thinking about it.”
She was right about that. I’d been thinking about it for quite a while. Had even refilled my birth control prescription, just in case.
“To answer your question, yes. I have a bed. King size, pillow top, Egyptian cotton sheets.”
“Sounds nice. Be sure the bed doesn’t face an open door. Bad feng shui.”
“It doesn’t,” I told her.
I could hear the smile in her voice. “Good. Have a really pleasant evening, then. Talk to you later. Bye.”
CHAPTER 5
The oven timer buzzed, and I took the perfectly browned pie from the oven. The apartment was filled with a delicious smell—if not much else. I’d exchanged shorts and a T-shirt for my favorite Hawaiian-print halter dress and strappy sandals. There wasn’t too much I could do with my red hair—humidity made it too curly—so I just pulled it back with a silver barrette and hoped for the best.
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