“Great. O’Ryan will love it.”
I let my friend out through the living room door and watched as she headed down the stairs to the backyard.
CHAPTER 15
After River had left, and I’d cleaned up the kitchen, I went back into the sweet-smelling bedroom and stood silently, just looking at the things spread out on the white bedspread. Helena’s things. After a moment O’Ryan strolled into the room, put his front paws on the edge of the bed, and appeared to be studying each item.
“Well, boy, what do you think? Is it just a random collection of odds and ends, or does it all mean something?”
He jumped onto the bed, so carefully that nothing was disturbed, and picked his way between the coin and the license, the book and the jewelry box, the envelope and the picture frame, sniffing at each item without actually touching any of them. Then, with barely a backward glance in my direction, he hopped down to the floor and left me alone with my jumbled thoughts and erstwhile treasures. A slight creaking sound from the kitchen let me know that he’d deigned to use the new cat door, after all.
I gathered up all the things we’d found, and put them carefully into the top drawer, along with the tissue paper. In the flickering candlelight, I glanced at my watch. Time for the evening news. I reluctantly blew out the candle, choosing safety over bagua, and left the bedroom.
I sat at the kitchen table, poured myself another glass of wine, and clicked on WICH-TV. The familiar face of the station’s longtime anchorman, Phil Archer, filled the screen. “Antique dealer Shea Tolliver, whose lifeless body was found two days ago in her Bridge Street shop, was the victim of a robbery. Ms. Tolliver sustained a fatal head wound. The cash register was found open and empty. An attempt had been made to break into a locked display case, but the perpetrator apparently fled the scene without gaining access to the contents. Police have determined that the killer may have entered and left the store through an unlocked back door. The shop had been open for only a few weeks, and although video surveillance equipment had been installed, it had not as yet been activated. The public is asked to call the Salem Police Department with information about any unusual activity two days ago in the area of Tolliver’s Antiques and Uniques shop.”
A phone number flashed on the screen. There was no mention at all of Gar y Campbell. I wondered why.
I wondered, too, whether I ought to call Pete and tell him about the things River and I had found. O’Ryan wasn’t around to give an opinion, so I decided all by myself. I turned off the TV, grabbed my phone, and punched in Pete’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Lee? You okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine. Just came across something you might want to know about, that’s all. Got a minute?”
“For you? Always.”
Oh, that warm, sexy voice.
“River and I opened the rest of the compartments in the bureau.”
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for that, babe. Chief’s got us hopping around here, between the Tolliver murder and an old case. Anything good turn up in the secret hiding places?”
“It looks as though the bureau must have belonged to Helena Trent,” I told him, “and we found a jewelr y box with only a card from Helena’s husband in it. The first one.”
“What else was in the bureau?”
Warm and sexy gone. Cop voice activated.
“Just an old picture of somebody’s grandfather holding a fish, and a kid’s composition book. Oh, and another picture. One of a little gray dog. A schnauzer, I think,” I said. “But I thought the jewelry box might be important.”
“Might be,” he agreed. “The old case the chief’s dug out of the files is the Trent murder. He still thinks Tommy Trent and his girlfriend have that diamond stashed somewhere. Trent’s out of jail, you know.”
“I know. Saw him on TV.”
Saw you with the blond girlfriend, too.
“I should be out of here in a couple of hours,” he said. “Would it be too late for me to come over and take a look at that jewelry box? Chief might want to see it, too.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll be here. Just come up the back way.” I wanted Pete to get into the habit of using my private entrance. I’d even fantasized quite a bit about giving him the extra key.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Want me to bring anything?”
“I don’t think so. I still have a couple of slices of leftover apple pie,” I said, “and I know where there are some great molasses cookies.”
“Sounds good. See you soon.”
“Okay. See you.” I put the phone on the table and turned the TV back on. Phil Archer was still there, the same video I’d seen before of Tommy Trent leaving prison playing as Archer intoned the same information I’d heard on the previous broadcast. This time I paid more attention to the vehicle picking him up. It was a black Mercedes, and a blond woman was driving it.
Daphne Trent? But she doesn’t have a car. Or is she driving Tommy Trent’s Mercedes? The one where they’d found the murder weapon ?
I had at least an hour to kill before Pete would arrive, maybe more. It might be a good idea to take a shower and put on some clean clothes. I’d had the same faded jeans and school T-shirt on all day. I headed down to my old room, picked out some newer jeans and a much more attractive T-shirt, showered, and washed my hair. Within a half hour, feeling refreshed and looking pretty good, I ran down to the first floor, with the intention of grabbing a few cookies, in case Pete was really hungry. Aunt Ibby had already gone to her concert, but she’d left the big brown glazed cookie jar on the kitchen table. I returned to my apartment with a plate full of Joe Froggers and with O’Ryan tagging along behind me.
I didn’t feel like watching TV anymore, and I hadn’t brought any books upstairs yet. I felt like kicking myself because I’d left the dream book on my desk at the school. Bored, I looked around the room for something to do. I put fresh water in the vase for the roses and daisies, cleaned the already clean countertops, then wandered into the bedroom and turned on the overhead light.
Note to self. Get some soft, subtle lighting in here. That thing works like a spotlight on the bed!
I smoothed out the white bedspread, centered the bolster against the headboard, then stood in front of the bureau, just looking at it. I moved the candle to the edge of the top and lifted the center panel—not all the way, but enough to peek in. The new mirror looked like exactly what it was. A new mirror. I lifted the panel all the way and moved closer, not so much inspecting my own reflection as trying to look past myself, expecting to see . . . what?
I knew from the fairly extensive reading I’d done about scrying ever since I learned that I had been blessed—or cursed—with this “gift” that scryers throughout the centuries had used all kinds of reflective surfaces to see the kinds of things I’d been seeing. Nostradamus had used a bowl of water. Jean Dixon had used a crystal ball. My “magic mirrors” had always been black, shiny objects—first my little Mary Janes when I was a child and later a black obsidian ball I’d found on the set of Nightshades. When I’d started work at the Tabby, it had been a giant patent-leather pump in a vintage shoe display; and most recently, the tarnished mirror in Helena’s bureau.
Will a shiny, brand-new beveled-edge mirror in a murdered woman’s two-hundred-year-old bureau work just as well?
I got an answer immediately. My reflection was still there, but it looked like a pale, floating etching of my face superimposed on another picture. I saw the sandy beach and the crumbling wall, too, but this time there was a cottage in the background. I moved even closer to the mirror and squinted, trying to focus better, to see more details in the scene. As I did so, the cottage door swung open and a white-haired man stepped out onto a flagstone path.
At that moment the back door chimes rang out, and the vision—if that was what it was—blinked away. Nothing there but a reflection of me. I smoothed my hair, closed the hinged panel and hurried to let Pete in.
It was clear that he’d come stra
ight from work. His suit coat and tie looked professional, but not too comfortable for a warm summer evening.
“Hi. Missed you,” I said.
“Missed you, too. A lot.”
We shared a lovely, long, luxurious kiss; then, with arms around each other’s waist, we walked through the empty living room into the comparatively well-furnished kitchen.
“Hey, I like the new table and chairs,” Pete said. “That’s Lucite, isn’t it? My grandmother had a coffee table made out of it.”
“Glad you like it. O’Ryan likes the chairs. Not sure how he feels about the see-through table yet. But look. He has a cat door.” I pointed to the new addition to the front hall entrance.
“Thanks for remembering that,” he said, pulling me close once again. “No more cat interruptions.”
I felt bad enough about taking credit for the pie, so I ducked his kiss and told him the truth about the cat door. “I was going to get it done, but Aunt Ibby beat me to it,” I admitted. “It was all installed when I got home from work today.”
“Good for Aunt Ibby.” He laughed, and his kiss landed on my forehead. “Smells good in here. You been cooking?”
“Afraid not. It’s just a nice-smelling candle.” I decided against telling him about River’s cleansing spell.
“Smells good,” he said again. “But tell me about the job. Do you like it so far? And what’s up with the old truck?”
Surprised, I took a step backward. “You saw the truck? I mean, you knew it was me?”
“Sure. Can’t miss that red hair. Didn’t you see me?”
“Uh, yes, I did,” I said. “I just haven’t figured out where the horn is. I would have beeped at you.”
The part about the horn is true. But would I have beeped it? Not a chance.
“So why the truck? I know you haven’t traded the ’Vette.”
“Part of the job,” I said, glad to be back on solid ground, telling the truth. “The Tabby provided it. I’m supposed to be rounding up props for the three plays they’ll be doing this summer. A lot of it involves furniture.”
“Well, speaking of furniture, want to show me what the bureau yielded? Especially that jewelry box. I told the chief about it, and he’s real interested.” He pulled a pair of rubber gloves and a plastic bag from his pocket. “See? Evidence bag. He’s serious about looking for that missing diamond.”
“Come on.” I led the way to the bedroom and clicked on the glaring overhead light. “Do you think it could have been in the bureau all these years? And that somebody found it there? Shea Tolliver maybe?”
“I think that’s a possibility. But the chief still thinks that Tommy Trent and his girlfriend have it stashed somewhere, and that now that Trent’s out of prison, they’ll go get it.”
I pulled open the top bureau drawer, and Pete reached across, pointing to the slim blue velvet case. “That it?”
“That’s it.”
He pulled on the gloves, picked up the case, and opened it carefully. “Did you pull up the insides of the case, look underneath?”
“No. Never thought of doing that. You mean the diamond could have been hidden under there?”
“It’s a possibility. But it doesn’t look as though it’s been tampered with.” He snapped the case shut and deposited it in the plastic bag. He pulled out a Sharpie pen, scribbled on the bag. He put the pen back into his breast pocket, and slid the plastic-bagged case into an inside pocket of the jacket. It must be handy, having all those nice pockets. If girls had them, we wouldn’t need our big handbags.
“There,” he said. “Mission accomplished. Now want to show me the rest of the loot? And what’s the little pile of tissue paper for?”
“Just the tissue paper the things were wrapped in. I’m not sure why I saved it.”
He pointed to the notebook. “Anything interesting in the book?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Looks like a kid’s notebook. Maybe a journal of some kind. Some of it looks like poetr y.”
He nodded and touched the picture frame. “Who’s the old gent? Any ID on that?”
“Just ‘Grandpa.’”
“Pleasant-looking fellow,” Pete said.
I picked up the frame and examined the photo. Was this the same old man I’d seen in the doorway of the cottage?
CHAPTER 16
“Did you say something about apple pie?” Pete asked as I replaced everything in the top drawer.
“Sure did,” I said. “And there’re a couple of slices of leftover pizza, too, and samples of Aunt Ibby’s newest cookie offering from Tabitha Trumbull’s recipe collection. I’ll put the coffee on.”
O’Ryan was waiting by the refrigerator when we came back to the kitchen. “He must have heard me say there’s pizza. River slipped him a few pieces of pepperoni, and he’s probably hinting for more.”
Pete took off his suit coat, hung it on the back of a chair, and loosened his tie. “He may have to fight me for it. Chief had us working right through dinner.”
“Sorry. This is pretty slim pickin’s. Haven’t had much time to cook.” I started the coffee, then popped the leftover pizza under the broiler until the cheese began to bubble. “How about a glass of wine with the pizza? And coffee with pie and cookies for dessert?”
“Sounds great. If there’s still some vanilla ice cream left, I think that’ll cover all the food groups.” Pete leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “I feel as though I should get up and help, but to tell the truth, I love watching you.”
“Now that I know you’re watching, I’ll probably drop something,” I said. “And yes, there’s plenty of ice cream.”
“Lee, can I ask you something?” His tone of voice had changed. He sounded serious.
I slid the hot pizza onto one of my new plates and poured a glass of wine. “Of course,” I said, hoping his question would be one I could answer completely honestly. The half-truths were wearing on my conscience. I put the plate and the glass on the table and took the seat opposite him. “What would you like to know?”
“It’s about last night,” he said, reaching across the table and taking my hands. “When I opened the top of that bureau and you got so upset. You actually turned pale. I was afraid you might be about to faint. I thought at first it was because of finding Shea. You know, all the questioning and identifying Campbell. But I’ve been thinking about it all day. It was something else, wasn’t it?”
I’m not ready for this. No. Pete’s not ready for this. But I don’t want to lie to him.
I couldn’t meet his gaze. I looked down through the clear tabletop A pair of golden eyes looked up into mine. O’Ryan, the witch’s cat, almost imperceptibly shook his head. No.
Pete spoke again, his voice soft. “It has something to do with that bureau, doesn’t it? I’m only asking because I care about you. My God, Lee. Helena Trent owned that thing, and she’s dead. Murdered. Then Shea Tolliver owned it. Now she’s dead. Murdered. Now you own it. Is it any wonder that I’m worried about you?”
I hadn’t ever considered the bureau’s history in quite that way. When Pete connected it to two murders, I had to rethink my own situation. “I’ve never thought about it,” I admitted. “But you’re right. The two women who owned it before me were both murdered. But they were killed years apart. You think my bureau is connected to those murders, and now it’s connected to me?”
“I think they were connected by a pink diamond on a gold chain.” He held my hands more tightly. “There’s something about the bureau that you haven’t told me. It may be important in solving one of the murders. Maybe even both of them. Mostly, though, I want to be sure nothing happens to you.” His voice broke. “Will you tell me what frightened you last night, when you saw me looking into the top of your bureau? Was there something in there I wasn’t supposed to see? Do you think you know where the damned diamond is?”
I pulled my hands away. “Is that what you think? That I’m hiding a stolen diamond
? That I’m mixed up somehow in a couple of murders?”
“Of course I don’t think that. I’m just afraid that someone . . . someone out there somewhere . . .” He waved toward the open window. “Someone else might think that. After all, you were the first person on the scene at the antique store. You ID’d Shea’s partner. And now you have the bureau and everything that was in it.”
His words were chilling. I looked down through the table top again, but the cat had moved back over to Pete’s side of the table, probably hoping for pepperoni. No help there. “Pete,” I said, meeting his eyes. “There was something about the bureau that scared me last night. But please believe me, it has nothing at all to do with Helena or Shea or the diamond. It’s something about the piece of furniture itself. Something that goes all the way back to when I was a little girl and . . . something bad happened. The tarnished mirror behind the top panel reminded me of it. I hated looking at it. That’s all. And Aunt Ibby had the mirror repaired today, so I’m not afraid anymore. Okay?”
The tiniest flicker of doubt crossed his face before he smiled. “Okay. I guess you’re not ready to tell me what it was that happened when you were a child. But remember, Lee, I’m always here to listen whenever you feel like talking to me about anything. Anything at all.”
“Thanks for understanding,” I said.
“I didn’t say I understand.” His smile was tender. “But I believe you. And if you don’t mind, I’ll be keeping a very close eye on you, anyway.”
I returned his smile. “How could I ever mind that?”
“Okay then. If we’re through with the serious stuff, how about that pie and ice cream?”
Relieved, I heated what was left of the pie, added a hefty blob of ice cream, put a couple of Aunt Ibby’s cookies on the side, and served it with a flourish—along with a cup of coffee and a dash of Baileys.
Pete wasn’t kidding about being hungry. He polished off that sugar-laden dessert with obvious pleasure. O’Ryan, who apparently had no interest in apple pie or molasses cookies, returned to my side of the table, curled up and went to sleep at my feet. On my feet, actually. I sipped my coffee, enjoying the company of both cat and detective.
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