Look Both Ways

by Carol J. Perry

  Stop it! I told myself. He’s with you every chance he gets. And she’s no more his type than Tripp Hamilton is yours.

  I pushed the thought away and served Pete a big slice of angel food cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

  The way to a man’s heart . . .

  CHAPTER 27

  The next day at the Tabby started out really well. I worked up my courage enough to phone Jenny and ask her if she’d check with Gary Campbell and see how he felt about lending us the cash register. She called me back within minutes and said that he’d be happy to, and that all he asked for in return was a mention of Tolliver’s Antiques and Uniques in the program. He’d decided to keep the name of the shop as it was, in honor of Shea.

  I hurried to Mr. Pennington’s office to deliver the good news. “Now the set will look the way I’ve pictured it from the beginning,” I told him. “I can pick up the cobbler’s bench this evening, that is, if it’s all right with you that I use the truck after hours.”

  “Certainly, my dear Ms. Barrett.” He came around the desk and clasped my hand in a hearty handshake. “I want you to know how very pleased I and the entire board of directors are with your attention to detail in each of our plays. The cobbler’s bench and the authentic shoe forms for Hobson’s Choice, and the minks, the vintage bar, and the gilded telephone for Born Yesterday—they are sheer perfection.”

  “We still have away to go for Born, sir,” I said, “and I haven’t done a thing for Our Town yet, but I’m glad you’re satisfied so far. I’m new at this, you know, but I’m really enjoying it.”

  “I’m very sorry about the unpleasant disruption you experienced yesterday morning,” he said. “I trust that the young man involved has apologized to you for his bad behavior, as he assured me that he would.”

  “Um . . . no. Haven’t heard from him. Frankly, I’d rather he just kept his distance from me.” That was an understatement. It would suit me just fine if I never saw Tommy Trent’s mean face again.

  “Sometimes we just have to let bygones be bygones,” he chided gently. “Tell me, my dear, how is the truck running? Any problems with it?”

  “Not at all,” I said, glad of the change of subject. “As a matter of fact, I really enjoy driving it. It handles quite easily, and I like having all that room to carry stuff. My own car is pretty short on extra space.”

  “I know. That big engine takes up a lot of room. I was quite fond of fast cars myself back in my youth. Used to love the auto races.”

  “I do, too,” I said, remembering Pete’s recent invitation. “I’m planning to go up to New Hampshire later this month for the Sprint Cup.”

  “Ahh, youth!” he said. “These days my social life is quieter, but still satisfying. Well, then. I must be off to Costume to settle a squabble over wigs. Carry on.”

  Thus dismissed, I headed for my office. I needed to straighten out my accounts. I had spent some of my own money at yard sales but had charged almost everything else to the card Mr. Pennington had given me. It was time to balance my meager books and see what, if anything, I had left to spend on props. I still needed to visit a Home Depot to gather boards and ladders to form the spare scenery for Our Town, and I still needed some incidentals for Born Yesterday.

  I was surprised to see one of those pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT telephone message slips on my desk. The school switchboard had taken a call for me from, of all people, Gar y Campbell. I sat down to read the scribbled note.

  I’ll be in your area this afternoon and would be glad to deliver the cash register.

  Please call to confirm.

  His name and telephone number followed.

  Now what? I’d be glad to have the cash register delivered. That way I didn’t have to worry about damaging the pricey artifact in transit. But would Gar y Campbell and I continue to pretend we’d never seen each other before? It promised to be an awkward situation. Nevertheless, I was determined to have the vintage beauty. I crossed my fingers and punched in the number.

  “Hello. Tolliver’s Antiques and Uniques. Gar y speaking. How may I help you?”

  So he’s already taken over as manager of Shea’s shop.

  “Good morning. This is Lee Barrett at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. I received your message about the loan of a cash register.”

  Let’s keep this thing on a formal, businesslike basis.

  “Well, good morning to you, Lee Barrett. Thanks for returning my call. Jenny tells me that you’d like to use the old register on the set of Hobson’s Choice. Most appropriate.”

  His tone of voice was warm, friendly, and he sounded as though he was smiling. I decided to tr y to match his tone. “You’re familiar with the play? Not too many people are. It’s sort of an old-timer.”

  “Had to read it for an English course I once took at BU,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing it performed. I presume you’ll arrange for tickets for me, along with a mention in the program.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr. Campbell,” I said. “What time would you like to meet?”

  “I can be there at around one o’clock. Where will you be?”

  “Come around to the back of the building. You’ll see a pair of large doors marked ‘warehouse.’ Just ring the bell, and I’ll open them. We can take the freight elevator right up to the theater.” That sounded a little bossy. I tried to soften it. “Thanks very much for letting us use it. It plays into the script perfectly.”

  “The part where Hobson reaches into the register to steal some drinking money?”

  “Exactly,” I said, still surprised by his familiarity with the story. “The ringing of the register giving the old man’s theft away is just the touch I wanted.”

  “Stealing a little here and there to get drinking money is something I understand,” he said, the smile gone from his voice. “But that was a long time ago. One o’clock it is, then. I’ll look forward to seeing you, Ms. Barrett.” A click, and he was gone.

  I sat there for a moment, just staring at the phone. What was all that about stealing to get drinking money? Was that what had become of two thousand dollars of the antique shop’s cash?

  I certainly wasn’t going to discuss that topic with Mr. Campbell. I looked at my watch. It was already noon. I had just about enough time to grab a bite of lunch and then find a dolly to move the heavy cash register into the freight elevator and then to the stage in the student theater.

  The diner was expectedly crowded at that time of day, but I was lucky enough to find a seat at the counter. Even luckier, I sat down right next to Herb Wilkins.

  “Herb,” I said, “I’m going to need a dolly to move a heavy stage prop. Do you know where they’re kept?”

  “Sure. But I’ll move it for you if you want. Where is it?”

  “It isn’t here yet,” I told him. “A guy is going to deliver it to the warehouse later today. I’m sure between us, we can manage it.”

  “Okay. There are a couple of dollies in a big closet just to the left of the elevator. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks, Herb.”

  I gulped down my egg salad on whole wheat, drank most of a glass of milk, and headed for the warehouse. He was right about the location of the dollies. The closet yielded several, all probably left over from the long-ago days when the building was a department store. I selected the sturdiest-looking one and wheeled it over to the wide double doors. I’d hardly arrived there when the bell jingled, announcing that someone was outside. If it was Gar y Campbell, he was ten minutes early.

  It was, and he was. He stood there, smiling, with the cash register in his arms. It was clearly too heavy to carr y, and I hurried to push the dolly in his direction.

  “Oh, Mr. Campbell. That thing must weigh a ton. Put it down here, please.”

  “Thanks.” He stooped and lowered his weighty bronze burden onto the dolly, then stood wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “If I’d tried lifting it up before I agreed to this, I might have had second thoughts.”


  “I’m sorr y,” I said. “I would have sent a couple of our stagehands over to get it if I’d known it was a problem.”

  “Just kidding,” he said. “No problem at all. Glad to help out. Where do we go from here?”

  “Just wheel it into the freight elevator.” I opened the screened metal door and stood aside as he silently did as I’d directed. Then I stepped inside the elevator. “Hang on to something,” I said as I pushed the button marked ONE. “I’m new to this, and sometimes she stops with a jolt.”

  We clanked our way upward, landed with the promised jolt, and both remained on our feet.

  “Where to now?” he asked, pushing the dolly out onto the school’s spacious main floor.

  “I’ll call for the stagehands to take it inside the theater,” I said, gesturing toward the student theater entrance on the opposite side of the building. The theater had been built to resemble an old-time movie house, and the marquee overhead already displayed COMING SOON. HOBSON’S CHOICE in lights. I pulled my phone from my jeans pocket, called Mr. Pennington, and asked for one or two men to come down and help with the cash register.

  “They’ll be here in a minute,” I told Gary Campbell. “The director says that the cast is rehearsing onstage right now. Would you like to go inside and see how it looks so far?”

  “I’d like to very much,” he said.

  I pointed to the side door marked STUDENT ENTRANCE. “Just go ahead in. I’ll wait for the stagehands, and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Again, he silently did as I’d asked, turning to give me a brief wave before he headed down the carpeted ramp to the theater. I watched his retreating back and wondered how long we were supposed to keep pretending we didn’t recognize each other. I was sure that the moment we collided on Shea Tolliver’s front steps was as firmly and permanently etched on his memory as it was on mine.

  CHAPTER 28

  I made my way slowly along the center walkway of the nearly empty theater, aided by the tiny, downward-focused lamps at the end of each row of seats. Ahead, stage lights illuminated what looked remarkably like an early twentieth-century cobbler’s shop. Onstage, the action had ceased while the cash register was being carefully, almost reverently, put into place on one of Trumbull’s Department Store’s old oak counters. As my eyes adjusted to the darkened interior, I spotted the blond head in aisle ten. The man knew how to choose a good seat, I thought as I slid in beside him.

  “It’s going to look perfect, don’t you think?” I whispered.

  “Huh? What’s going to look perfect?” The low tone was gruff, and I knew even before I turned to look at him that I wasn’t sitting beside Gar y Campbell. I started to get up, but Tommy Trent grasped my wrist. “Wait a minute. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Me? Why?” I squeaked.

  His whisper was harsh. “The old man said I should apologize. So I apologize. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I snatched my wrist away and stood up. “Apology accepted,” I muttered and hurried toward the comparative safety of the stage, where I could at least see lights and people.

  Gar y Campbell was in the aisle seat in the first row, his attention riveted on the placement of his cash register. It took a moment for him to notice me standing there, but he quickly moved over one seat and motioned for me to join him. He pointed to the stage. “You were so right. It really completes the set, doesn’t it?”

  “It looks perfect,” I said for the second time—but this time to the right blond.

  The actors resumed their places, and the rehearsal continued. After a few minutes I told the antiques dealer that I had to get back to work, invited him to stay and watch the performance, thanked him again, and then hurried out via the student entrance. I didn’t want to encounter Tommy Trent again if I could help it.

  I went straight up to my office, this time leaving the door that separated me from the rest of the Theater Arts Department wide open. It was a little bit noisy out there, but I was content to sacrifice silence for security.

  I didn’t like this feeling of—might as well call it what it was—fear. I’d almost always felt safe at the Tabby—even when some pretty creepy things were going on. But now I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder, avoiding the old store’s still-vacant stockrooms, and trying to stay within sight of other people. I wanted to tell somebody about Tommy Trent. But what could I say? That I’d sat next to the man by mistake and he’d apologized for frightening me the day before? Big deal.

  I tried to concentrate on my bookkeeping project. It wasn’t all that complicated. I added up the credit card slips and made out an invoice for the things I’d paid for with cash. Amazingly, I still had nearly a hundred dollars left in my budget. I tucked the copy of Our Town into my purse and headed for Mr. Pennington’s office. His door was always open, but I knocked, anyway.

  “Just checking on what we’ll need for the Thornton Wilder play,” I said after entering. “As I remember it from college, the set consisted of mostly boards and sawhorses, some artificial flowers, and a couple of tables and chairs. I think you said you viewed it that way too. I’m planning to take a spin down to the Home Depot to see what I can find.”

  “I see it as a simple set, just as you do,” Mr. Pennington said. “You might check with Scenery and see if they have measurements for you.”

  I did as he suggested, and although the Scenery people hadn’t prepared any useful measurements, they had raided the old store’s window-display department and had come up with a couple of arched trellises, complete with plastic vines and flowers. I was sure I could round up some tables and chairs, including the ones I’d recently borrowed from my aunt. Herb Wilkins had scrounged some weathered-looking boards and a Roman pillar of sorts, all of which might work for the Tabby’s version of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire.

  I drove the truck to the Home Depot on Traders Way and picked up a few likely looking pine boards and a couple of closeout wooden window frames, which might come in handy, and, amazingly, returned to the Tabby with a small balance still remaining on the credit card.

  I off-loaded my day’s gatherings, pulled the Corvette into the warehouse, and headed for Winter Street in the Ford. I planned to check in with my aunt to see if my mirror had arrived, change into something more presentable, and get to Tripp Hampton’s before it got dark. The mirror was in Aunt Ibby’s front hall, looking as beautiful as I remembered it. We carried it upstairs, one of us on each side, and positioned it in the bedroom. I tilted the mirror so that it reflected the kitchen door instead of the bed, hoping River would deem it proper bagua, and pulled on clean jeans and a white cotton sweater.

  “I’m off to get the cobbler’s bench,” I called to my aunt as I headed out the back way to the truck. “I’ll be right back. Want me to pick up something for supper?”

  “No. You brought the food last night. My turn,” she said.

  As I backed out of the driveway, I heard a soft meowing coming from the garden. The two cats were back, and this time they’d brought along a friend—a black cat wearing a collar. They looked cute, sitting there on the fence all in a row.

  Looks like O’R yan has himself a little fan club going on.

  I followed the route Daphne had shown me earlier and arrived at the mansion at about 6:45. A tad early, but I took a chance that Tripp wouldn’t mind. I figured I had a couple of hours before sunset, and I’d already decided that I didn’t want to be there after dark. The gray-stone mansion—Rockport granite probably—loomed ahead as I drove slowly along the curving driveway. I parked the truck in front of a massive dark brown door, its hinges, doorknob, and shield-shaped knocker of bright polished brass. That sounds as though the place was intimidating or even scar y, but it wasn’t at all. Lilac bushes, heavy with fragrant blossoms, crowded around tall, narrow windows, and yellow forsythia vied for attention with puffy pussy willows surrounding an artfully constructed koi pond, complete with waterfall. The whole effect was totally charming.

  I pushed t
he doorbell, expecting to hear some chiming melody similar to those at the house on Winter Street. Instead, a sound something like a Chinese gong issued from inside the mansion, and within a minute or so, Tripp Hampton opened the door. He wore swim trunks and had a striped towel slung across his shoulders. His blond hair was wet, and he was barefoot.

  “Lee. You’re early.” He smiled, but the tone was vaguely accusator y. “Daphne and I were just taking a swim. Come on back to the pool, and she can entertain you while I change.”

  He turned and walked swiftly along a maroon carpeted hall that led past several beautifully furnished rooms. I followed his wet footprints on the soft, deep-piled rug until we emerged in a glass-enclosed room with an Olympic-sized pool at its center. I felt my hair frizzing in the steamy, chlorine-scented humidity, and the long-sleeved cotton sweater began sticking to my skin.

  “Hey, Daph,” he called to the girl in the pool. “Lee’s here early. Get her a glass of wine or something while I change!”

  Daphne swam with strong, easy strokes from the far end of the pool and lifted her bikini-clad self onto the edge closest to me. “Hi, Lee. Tripp should have told you to bring a bathing suit. Great pool, isn’t it?”

  “Great pool,” I echoed.

  “Helena had it built. Takes up the whole back of the house. This used to be some kind of a ballroom, but she had them make it all out of glass.” She pointed upward. “Even the ceiling.”

  “It’s amazing,” I said. “But, Daphne, I’ve got to get out of here. My clothes are sticking to me.”

  “Oh yeah. Come on. I’ll get you a glass of wine, like Tripp said.”

  I followed her small wet footprints into an adjoining room that looked like an ice cream parlor. White hairpin-backed metal chairs with pink- and white-striped cushions surrounded small pink tables. I sat, glad of the air-conditioning, while Daphne positioned herself behind a long white counter, a wine bottle in each hand.