Look Both Ways

by Carol J. Perry

  I put the open book facedown on the table and looked out the window facing the street. I recognized Daphne Trent as soon as she stepped out of the cab. Blond curls bobbing, she tugged at her denim miniskirt and adjusted the hot pink crop top. She arranged a huge white handbag over her shoulder and walked toward the diner with the easy confidence of a woman who probably wore those four-inch heels every day without ever tripping or tottering. Not many of us can pull that off. Chalk up a point for Daphne.

  She stepped inside, spotted me right away, and gave a little pinkie wave as she approached the booth. “Hi, Ms. Barrett. Can I call you Lee?” She slid onto the seat opposite me and flashed a smile so sincere that I couldn’t help liking her at once.

  I returned the smile and told her that Lee was fine with me. “Shall we order lunch now,” I asked, “and discuss whatever it is you called about while we eat?”

  “Sure thing,” she said, adding dimples to the smile. “I’m starving. Have you eaten here before? What’s good?” She picked up the laminated menu but didn’t look at it.

  “I eat here pretty regularly,” I said. “Work right next door, at the school. I usually get a salad, but the burgers are great, too.”

  “I guess I’ll try a cheeseburger, then, with a Dr Pepper. You work at the school, huh? You a teacher?”

  I gave the waitress our orders—a burger and a Dr Pepper for her, chicken salad for me—and asked for one check. “I’m a teacher during the school year,” I said. “Television production. But right now I’m working with the summer theater program.”

  “Wow. I’d love to go to that school. I heard it’s kind of expensive.”

  “Kind of,” I agreed. “You interested in television? What sort of work are you doing now?”

  “I’m collecting unemployment right now.” She looked down at the table, smile gone. “The restaurant I was working in let me go. When Tommy got out of jail and my picture was in the papers again, they said I was attracting too much ‘negative attention.’ That’s what they called it. ‘Negative attention.’” The blond curls bobbed as she shook her head. “Can you beat that?”

  Our lunches arrived, and Daphne attacked her burger. “You’re right. This is great.”

  “Glad you like it,” I said. “Maybe you can use this time off to find something you’d like better than restaurant work.” I tried to sound encouraging.

  “Maybe.” Her expression brightened. “Anyway, the summer restaurants are hiring. I’ll find something soon. But listen, Lee. I know you want to hear why I called you.”

  “Why did you?”

  “It’s about Tommy.”

  “Tommy Trent? What about him?”

  “Well, the thing is . . . I need to know. Have you got something going on with him?”

  I nearly laughed out loud. “Me? With Tommy Trent? What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “I was snooping around in his stuff. I know I shouldn’t do that. It isn’t nice.” She shrugged and reached for the white handbag. “But I found something. A card with your name and address on it. So I guess you know him, right?”

  I’m not speechless very often, but I was at that moment. Maybe Daphne took my silence for assent, because she started talking again, her tone urgent. “It’s okay if you are. Seeing him, I mean. I know how he can sweep a girl off her feet. But I just wanted to warn you. He’s . . . he’s not as nice as he seems to be. Especially if you’ve got money.” She leaned closer, giving me an appraising look. “And you look like money to me.”

  I glanced down at my yellow T-shirt and generic-brand jeans.

  “Oh, it’s not the clothes. When you hang around rich people as much as I have, you get so you can spot money a mile away. And Tommy likes money.”

  I started to interrupt, to deny this crazy idea that I was somehow involved with Tommy Trent, but then I remembered Pete’s admonition: Let her do all the talking.

  “I found this at the bottom of his sock drawer,” she said, pulling a white card from her bag. I recognized it right away. It was the card I’d filled out with my name and address at Shea Tolliver’s shop the day she was murdered.

  CHAPTER 20

  I tried hard not to change my expression, not to betray the feelings of shock and, yes, fear that welled up inside me then.

  How did Tommy Trent, convicted murderer, get the card I’d filled out in Shea Tolliver’s shop, unless he’d taken it from the shop on the day Shea was murdered?

  Daphne kept speaking, but I barely heard what she said. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what she’d already told me. Focus.

  “So I just want you to know. I’m not jealous or mad at you. But I think you need to know he’s bad news when it comes to women, even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t really kill Helena.” She paused, looked at me, clearly expecting some kind of response.

  It took a moment, but I finally found some words. “But he admitted it, didn’t he?”

  “Had to. This is a death penalty state, you know. His lawyer said he didn’t stand a chance with a jur y. Everybody knows Helena was an angel. Everybody loved her. Even me.” She sipped on her drink and shrugged. “Nobody really likes Tommy. He’s a con man. He’d already spent most of Helena’s money, anyhow. So he lied. Said he did it. Better than death row.”

  “Daphne, I’ve never even met Tommy Trent,” I said, some common sense returning. “So you don’t need to worry about that. But I’d like to know how he got my name and address, and why he’d even want it.”

  Again, she shrugged, a slight lift of one shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe I could find out for you.”

  “I don’t want to get you into trouble over this,” I said. “Especially if he’s as, um, unpleasant as you seem to think he is.”

  “Unpleasant.” She laughed softly. “That’s funny. That’s what a rich girl would say. You’re so polite. He’s a rat, no doubt. But he’d never hurt me. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Thanks for telling me about this. I really appreciate it.” I reached for the card, but Daphne snatched it away.

  “Uh-uh. I have to put it back where I found it,” she said. “Can’t let him know I’ve been snooping in his stuff.”

  We both fell silent then, concentrating on our lunches. My thoughts were spinning. I wanted to pull out my phone and call Pete right away. He needed to know that the card I’d filled out for Shea had somehow wound up in Tommy Trent’s sock drawer. I was so involved in my thoughts, as disagreeable as they were, that I didn’t notice Mr. Pennington as he approached our booth. I was startled when he spoke my name.

  “My dear Ms. Barrett,” he said. “I had no idea! However did you manage this? When you said I’d be pleased with what you’d found for our Born Yesterday presentation, I didn’t dream of this treasure! I am overwhelmed!”

  He stood beside the table, a folded newspaper under his arm, hands clasped, smile beaming, his voice fairly shaking with emotion. Had he been to the warehouse and inspected the contents of the truck already? Were my morning’s bargains deserving of so much adulation?

  “I’m g-glad you’re pleased,” I stammered. “I hoped you’d agree with my selection.”

  “Agree?” His voice rose, so that nearby diner patrons turned to look in our direction. “Agree? How could I not? She’s perfect! How can I thank you enough?”

  “She? Who?” I followed the director’s gaze. He was looking straight at Daphne Trent.

  “My dear. You are Billie Dawn incarnate!” He reached for Daphne’s hand. “What is your experience? Surely you’ve played her before. You must read something for me.” He pushed the newspaper in her direction. “Speak, my dear. I must hear your voice.”

  Daphne pulled her hand away, cocked her head to one side, those Shirley Temple curls quivering, pouted prettily, and said, “I don’t read papers.”

  “Fabulous,” sighed Mr. Pennington. “‘I don’t read papers.’ The last scene at the end of act one, when Billie is talking to Paul Verrall. Am I correct?”

  Daphne looked at me, je
rked a thumb in Rupert Pennington’s direction, and stage-whispered, “Who’s this dude? And who’s Billie? And what the hell is he talking about?”

  “Uh, Daphne, this is Mr. Pennington. He’s director of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. Mr. Pennington, please meet my, uh, friend Daphne Trent.” I hadn’t thought about it before, but just then I could see what he meant about Daphne playing Billie Dawn. Although I hadn’t yet seen the 1950 film, I’d checked out the black-and-white trailer for it online, and Daphne’s blond good looks and baby voice would surely work for the part.

  “I am honored,” the director said.

  “Howdjado?” Daphne said, sticking out her hand. “You’re the head of the school, huh?”

  “I am. May I sit down, Ms. Barrett?”

  I slid aside, making room on the red vinyl–covered seat. “Of course. But I don’t think you understand. Miss Trent—Daphne—isn’t an actress.”

  Daphne glared in my direction. “Who says so? I could be an actress if I wanted to. Tommy always says that. How do you think I made Helena think I was . . . you know . . . his sister, for God’s sake?”

  It was Mr. Pennington’s turn to look confused. He hadn’t let go of Daphne’s hand. “You aren’t here to audition for the lead in Born Yesterday, Miss Trent?” He shot an accusing look in my direction. “This adorable child is not the amazing find you spoke of ?” His downcast expression was worthy of Hamlet. “I am devastated, distressed, totally and utterly shattered. She is perfection. I must have her. The play must have her.”

  Daphne hadn’t pulled away from his grasp this time. Instead, with her other hand, she patted his and leaned forward. “Don’t be so sad,” she said. “I’m kind of between jobs right now. I could tr y acting. What’s the pay?”

  I knew that there was no pay involved, at least for me and the cast, though the lighting crew guys surely were being compensated for their work. The stagehands and the ticket-sales people, too. I sat back and watched, wondering how Mr. Pennington would handle the situation, pretty darned sure he’d figure out how to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was Daphne Trent to play Billie Dawn.

  With his free hand, the director waved away all doubts. His expression brightened, and he gazed into Daphne’s eyes. “Have no fear, my dear,” he said. “There are significant scholarship grants at my disposal, as well as a sizable budget designated for miscellaneous production costs. Shall we repair to my office and get down to business? We begin rehearsals next week.” He nodded in my direction. “Ms. Barrett? You’ll excuse us?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  By the time I stood up, the two of them were halfway across the diner, arm in arm, headed for the school entrance. Daphne turned and gave me a nod and a wink over her shoulder. I nodded back, then paid the check, left a tip, and walked outdoors.

  I crossed Washington Street and found a vacant bench in the little park on the corner, right in front of the life-size statue of Samantha of Bewitched fame. There, with a bronzed and smiling Elizabeth Montgomery looking over my shoulder, I called Pete’s number. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hi. What did she have to say?” he asked. “Did you find out why she was worried about you?”

  “I did,” I said. “And now I’m worried about me, too.”

  “Why? What did she say?”

  “Well, first, she wanted to know if I had something going on with Tommy Trent. Can you beat that? Me? With Tommy Trent? Anyway, she wanted to warn me that if I was seeing him, I should know that he isn’t really a nice guy.”

  “I guess you convinced her she didn’t have to worry on that score.”

  “I did. But, Pete, here’s the thing. She thought I was involved because of what she found at the bottom of his sock drawer.”

  “Which was?”

  “A card with my name and address on it. In my handwriting.”

  I could almost see his cop face frown. “Where did that come from?”

  “I filled out that card in Shea Tolliver’s shop when I bought the bureau. The last time I saw it, Shea was tucking it into her cash register drawer on the day she was killed.”

  “You didn’t tell Daphne that, did you?”

  “No. I told her I had no idea how he got it.”

  “Good. Do you have the card now?”

  “No. Daphne said she had to put it back in his sock drawer. So he wouldn’t know she’d been snooping.”

  “Too bad. I can talk to the chief about getting a search warrant and just going over there and grabbing it, but that won’t prove how the thing got there in the first place. Trent will just say that Daphne planted it on him. Maybe she did. Did she say anything else?”

  “She did, but it doesn’t have anything to do with murder, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “Want to hear about it?”

  “Of course I do. Sometimes the tiniest bit of information, something that seems unimportant, turns out to be huge. So tell me.”

  “Okay. This was so strange. You know I told you I was shopping for props for the plays. Well, I found some really good stuff, especially for the set for Born Yesterday. Did you ever see it?”

  “Sure. American Movie Classics. Judy Holliday. Dumb blonde turns out to be not so dumb, right?”

  “Right. That’s more than I knew about it until I read it and watched the movie trailer,” I admitted. “Anyway, I phoned Mr. Pennington when I got back from shopping and told him I thought he’d be happy about what I’d found for Born Yesterday. So who came wandering into the diner while Daphne and I were having lunch but Pennington himself.”

  “And was he happy about what you’d found?”

  “Oh, he was happy, all right. He was ecstatic.” I smiled at the memory. “But he thought I’d been talking about something other than furniture. He thought—”

  “Let me guess. It was Daphne. He thought you’d found him the perfect dumb blonde for the part!”

  “Boy, you’re good. Did anyone ever tell you you’d make a great detective?”

  “Nope. Never.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “What did she have to say about being in a play?”

  “She said she could do it. Even mentioned how she and Tommy had fooled Helena with the brother and sister act. She asked how much the gig paid, and she and Mr. Pennington walked off arm in arm.”

  He laughed. “Good for her. You’re right. That probably doesn’t have anything to do with murder. But I don’t like the idea that Tommy Trent has your name and address. And I haven’t forgotten that somebody else might have it, too, from Bob’s missing paper work.”

  I hadn’t forgotten any of that, either. “How scared should I be about all this? Tell me the truth.”

  “I can tell you this much,” Pete said. “I’m going to get in touch with Tommy Trent’s probation officer and ask him to keep close tabs on Tommy—which I’m sure he’s doing, anyway. Tommy won’t move an inch without my knowing about it.”

  “I don’t want Daphne to get into trouble,” I said. “Tommy isn’t a man you’d want to tick off.”

  “I’ll keep her out of it,” Pete promised. “And maybe you shouldn’t mention the card with your address on it to your aunt just yet. Okay? It’s her address, too, you know, so we’ll be watching the house. And I want you to let me know exactly what your schedule is. We’ll be keeping an eye on you, too.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get back to you right away with that schedule, and I’ll try to stop worrying about all this. Bye.”

  I feel a little better. But I’m still scared.

  CHAPTER 21

  Keeping Pete informed about my schedule wasn’t as easy as it had sounded at first. I could give him a general idea of what I was doing and where I’d be, but a minute-by-minute rundown of my day was impossible. We settled on a general outline. In the morning I’d tell him what time I’d leave the house for the Tabby and what time I’d pick up the truck to go on my daily “prop hunt.” I’d check with him at lunchtime and let him know what time I expected to get home after work. I found time to
do some serious furniture shopping for the apartment, and between a few of the traditional furniture stores, Jenny’s shop, and the occasional yard sale, I began to fill up the empty spaces quite nicely.

  The collection of properties for the plays was growing, too. By the time rehearsals for Hobson’s Choice were in full swing, nearly all the necessary paraphernalia for an old-time cobbler’s shop was in place on the third-floor rehearsal stage. Mr. Pennington and I stood together at the rear of the darkened space and listened as the players spoke their lines.

  “It’s coming along swimmingly, don’t you agree, Ms. Barrett?” he whispered. Then, not waiting for an answer, he continued, “We open in less than a week, you know. The carpenters have the backdrop in the downstairs theater nearly ready to receive the final stage setting. Do you anticipate adding any more items? The shop looks quite complete to me.”

  “We need a cobbler’s bench. They were quite popular as coffee tables at one time, so I’m hopeful I’ll find one. I’m still looking for an antique cash register to complete the picture, you know, one that will make a nice loud ringing sound when Hobson reaches into the drawer to steal some drinking money.”

  “Of course. One of those wonderful old ones with the handle on the side and numbers that pop up. Capital idea, Ms. Barrett. Any leads on such a treasure?”

  “Buying one is out of the question given our budget constraints. But I know where there is one,” I said, picturing the great-looking brass machine I’d seen in Shea’s shop when I bought my bureau. “It’s possible that we might be able to borrow it, but just now there’s a question about who the actual owner is.”

  “Just do your best, Ms. Barrett. I have every confidence in you.”

  I’d already asked Jenny about the status of Shea’s inventor y, and the possibility of the school borrowing the cash register for the seven-day run of the play. She was weeks away from finishing her appraisal, so the shop would remain closed for the time being. Unfortunately, though, there was a strong possibility that the owner of the cash register and everything else in the shop—“lock, stock, and Wedgwood,” as Jenny had put it—was Gar y Campbell. It seemed pretty unlikely to me that he’d want to do any favors for the woman who’d identified him as “a person of interest” in Shea’s murder, whether he was guilty or not. According to the Salem News, and to some tiny tidbits of information Pete had shared with me, it was beginning to look as though Campbell had walked into the shop after the murder, just as I had. With the opening of Hobson’s Choice only a few days away, I needed to know if it was okay for me to talk to Gar y Campbell or not. I went into my office, closed the door, and called Pete.