“Maybe the tool was adequate,” I said, turning to look at him, “but the user wasn’t strong enough because he was a she. Maybe this is the work of a woman.”
“Who?”
“I have no idea.”
He thought about it for several seconds. “It’s possible.”
“I don’t suppose the tool was found tossed into the bushes or something?” I asked.
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t think it—just if it were me, and I’d done that,” I said, pointing to the lid, “after breaking and entering, I wouldn’t want to be caught with the hatchet in my possession.”
“Interesting,” he said, avoiding answering my question. “What do you say? You ready to call it a day?”
“Heck, yes,” I said. “Ty tells me a fire and food await.”
I waited in the corridor while he locked the door, then tugged on the handle to be certain the bolt had turned. He thanked me again as we headed toward the lobby.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, “but I wish I could help more.”
“You will,” he said as if he hadn’t a doubt in the world.
“I hope so.”
When we reached the lobby he said, “Wait here a sec,” and approached the counter. He said something I couldn’t hear to Darren. When he rejoined me, his gravitas arrested my attention. His demeanor had shifted from friendly to solemn. “One last thing.”
“What?” I asked.
He opened the heavy front door before he answered. We stepped outside and stood under the overhang. It was rainy and raw, the kind of wet cold that gets in your bones and chills you from the inside out. I shivered and hugged myself, waiting for him to speak. He stared out over the parking lot toward the dunes, then turned to me, his eyes caring and concerned.
“When you tell people what happened, you shouldn’t mention that you saw a silver car,” he said.
My eyes remained fixed on his face. I nodded but didn’t speak.
“You going to Ty’s?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
A patrol car crawled to a stop in front of the building. Officer Meade, a tall, thin Scandinavian-looking blonde I’d met last fall, was behind the wheel. She nodded at me. I turned to Ellis.
“I’ve asked Officer Meade to see you get home safely.”
“No one knows I saw the car,” I said.
“Still.”
“You’re scaring me,” I said, trying for a light tone, wondering whether Wes had already learned that I had seen the getaway car from one of his omnipresent sources.
“Prudence is good. Prudence is smart.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “Thank you.”
The rain slanted under my umbrella, so I ran for my car, and when I was safely inside, latching my seat belt, I started shivering uncontrollably. I looked through the rearview mirror. Quinn Steiner was just turning into the lot, driving a dark blue BMW. As he passed under a high-mounted light, I saw that his expression was sober. When the heat came on, I held my hands to the vent, but it didn’t help. I was chilled more from Ellis’s words than the weather.
* * *
While I’d been talking with Detective Brownley and Chief Hunter, Wes had called three times.
“We gotta talk,” he said in his last message. “Call me as soon as you’re done at the police station.”
Tomorrow, I thought. Before I talked to him, I needed to process all that had happened. By morning, I hoped, I’d regain my usual composure, but right now I felt all trembly inside, and confused and fretful.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said aloud, but then an idea took root, and within seconds, I changed my mind. It’s all in the emphasis, I thought. I didn’t want to lie, and I didn’t think I’d have to. I slipped in my earpiece and called him.
“So, did you get a look at the intruder?” he asked as soon as he heard my voice.
“No,” I replied, aiming to sound a bit awkward and embarrassed, as if I didn’t want to talk about it, as if I were still scared. “It was so frightening, Wes.”
“Tell me what happened from the beginning,” said Wes.
“I heard breaking glass and footsteps,” I said, “and I pushed the panic button. Five minutes later, I’m being interviewed by the police.”
“So you heard footsteps … where from?”
“On the steps to the second floor, I thought.”
“What did it sound like? Heavy boots? Regular shoes?”
“I don’t know, Wes. It sounded terrifying is how it sounded.”
Wes sighed. “You’re describing how you felt, Josie, not what you heard or saw.”
“That’s all I can do, because in my memory the footsteps sounded like a monster.”
“What about the silver car?”
“What silver car?”
“I spoke to one of the Jordans’ neighbors who said the police asked her whether she’d seen a silver car.”
“That’s even scarier. It sounds like they’re checking whether whoever might have been inside was driving the same car as that one Gretchen saw.”
“Yeah, that’s my point. Why would they go around and ask the neighbors about a silver car if they didn’t have a reason to?”
“An excess of caution?”
“Maybe. Fill me in about Gretchen. Is she okay?”
“Yes, thank God. Apparently, the bullet just grazed her shoulder.”
“Good. Say hey for me, okay?”
“I will, thanks, Wes,” I said, touched.
“Where were you standing when she was shot?”
“Too close. It was horrific, Wes. Petrifying.”
“Are you saying you froze?”
I opened my mouth to answer, to recount what it had been like to hear the shots and see bewilderment on Gretchen’s face, to tear her sweater so I could press my hand against her bloody flesh. Wes’s question was designed to put me on the defensive. It was an effective technique, and I resented it.
“No, I didn’t freeze, but I can’t talk about that now, Wes. I’m sorry, but I’m too upset. I wasn’t going to call you at all until tomorrow, but I wanted to save you from spinning your wheels on what may be a false alarm.”
“That’s great, Josie, and I appreciate it, but you’ve got to give me something about Gretchen. I’m on deadline.”
“I already gave you something, Wes. You can quote me as saying it was horrific and petrifying. I’ll call you tomorrow. ’Bye.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, I thought, as I tossed my phone into my tote bag, is how you do that.
* * *
I stayed on Ocean Avenue until I came to Main Street, then turned inland and drove through the still-busy town center.
I loved the little village with its well-tended central green and its neat brick-faced shops, businesses, and restaurants. I loved the forsythia and lilac bushes that surrounded the white-washed gazebo where bands played familiar tunes on summer evenings. Across from the central fountain was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that always stocked my favorite flavor, black cherry. I loved Ellie’s, too, a narrow slip of a restaurant tucked between the penny candy shop and an independent bookstore. Zoë and I often met for lunch there. Ellie made a chicken and asparagus crepe with a Mornay sauce that was delicate and rich, and better by far than anything I could make at home.
According to the dashboard clock, it was two minutes to eight. Not too late, I thought, to call Jack and ask about Gretchen. I slipped in my earpiece and got him on his cell phone.
“She’s fine,” he said. “They didn’t even have to put in any stitches.”
“What a relief. Is she in pain?”
“No. They gave her something. She says it’s no worse than when we were in Hawaii and she tripped on the lava and scraped her knee.”
“Was she able to give the police any information about who might have done it?”
“No,” he said. He lowered his voice as if Gretchen were nearby and he didn’t want her to hear
him. “They’ve assigned a police guard. He’s outside right now.”
“That’s good,” I said, thinking it was also terrifying. “Give her my love, will you? Tell her I’ll check in tomorrow.”
“Will do.” He lowered his voice again. “I was going to call you—thanks for recommending Blackmore’s. Mr. Blackmore was great. I’ve picked out the ring.”
“Way to go, Jack! I can’t wait to see it on her finger.” I grinned. “Have you decided when to ask her?”
“The ring’s being sized now. It should be done in a few days. I think I’ll ask her as soon as I get it.”
We ended on a merry note. I couldn’t stop smiling. Gretchen was going to be on top of the world. I couldn’t wait to begin planning her bridal shower.
As I pulled into Ty’s driveway, the question that I’d posed at the police station came back to me like an itch I couldn’t reach to scratch. Questions flooded my brain: Why had the intruder tried so desperately to get into the trunk? What was there amid the scrapbooks and souvenirs that he or she was so frantic to get hold of? Had the intruder known that the alarm would be off, or had he or she expected to be able to get into the trunk and out of the house before the police arrived? To me, the most perplexing question of all was, why was the Claire McCardell coat the only garment in the trunk?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ty opened the door and stepped onto the stoop before I rolled to a stop in the driveway. He stood under the porch light watching as I got out of the car.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he called.
I smiled. “Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes.”
“Come on in out of the cold.” He watched me for a moment. “How’s Gretchen? Any news?”
“Yeah, she’s okay. I just spoke to Jack.”
He nodded. “Good. I have news, too.”
“You do?” I said. I turned and waved good-bye to Officer Meade as I climbed the steps.
“I made a few calls.”
“That sounds mysterious,” I said, trying to read his face. I stepped inside. “Yum—I can smell the apple wood.”
An old crabapple tree had fallen during a nor’easter last spring, and Ty had spent a lot of last summer splitting logs.
“I’ll meet you by the fire,” he said as he disappeared into the kitchen.
I shed my coat and boots and slipped on the pink fuzzy slippers I kept under the hall table. In the great room, I sank into the sofa and closed my eyes for a moment, absorbing the fire’s warmth and listening to the snaps and cracks as sap erupted. When I opened my eyes, I fell into a kind of stupor. Watching the fire spit pepper-red sparks against the screen was hypnotic. A sense of calmness gradually began to counter the fear and anger and anxiety that had overtaken me from the first moment I’d realized Gretchen had been shot.
Ty entered from the kitchen carrying a brass tray. Two martini glasses and a pitcher filled with frothy Cherry Blossoms sat next to a turkey sandwich.
As soon as he poured, before my first sip, I clinked his glass. “Here’s to silver light in the dark of night,” I said, quoting my dad’s favorite toast.
“To silver light,” he said, touching my glass. He turned to face me. “I called in a favor. I wanted to know whether the shooter was aiming at you.”
I stared at him, unable to think of what to say.
“From the trajectory, the technicians have no doubt that all three bullets were intended for Gretchen, not you. The police are operating on the theory that the murderer is freaking out because Gretchen’s memory seems to be coming back.” He shook his head. “Seemingly there’s something distinctive about that car.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or possibly Gretchen’s seen the car before and the killer knows it.” Ty’s deep brown eyes held steady on mine. “I was in the office when she talked about it—Becka and Kenna were there.”
Ty took my hand and squeezed. “The police know that, right?”
“Right.”
“Good. Then we don’t need to worry about it.”
“I don’t think I can stop worrying about it.”
“Probably not—but in the meantime, you should eat.”
“You’re so wonderful,” I said, touching his cheek.
“If you think I’m wonderful because I made you a turkey sandwich, wait ’til you taste my fresh-made salad. Want some?”
* * *
The next day, Saturday, I didn’t go into work. With the tag sale canceled, there was no point. I couldn’t recall the last Saturday I’d taken off.
The rain had stopped overnight, and the sun was warmer than I’d come to expect. At ten, Ty and I were sitting on his deck sipping coffee and reading the paper when I decided to call Gretchen.
“She’s still asleep,” Jack said. “She’s not in much pain, but she’s really tired.”
“Poor Gretchen. I’m not surprised, though. Getting shot is a real shock to the system. Tell her I called, will you?”
He said he would, and I hung up wishing I could have spoken to her. Maybe tomorrow, I thought.
I picked up the newspaper again. Wes’s article was perfect. He reported that I hadn’t seen the intruder, and he made no mention of a silver car at all. I felt the weight of fear lighten, just a little. I lowered the paper and stared into the woods. Near the middle of the clearing, a gray rabbit paused as if he could tell I was watching him, then hopped into the forest, disappearing behind a thicket of Boston fern.
“What do you want to do today?” Ty asked.
“Hang out, I guess. Read. Watch a movie. Cook.”
“What am I having for dinner?”
I smiled. “Fritz’s Glazed Lamb Chops.”
“Gotta love Lily!”
In the weeks before my mother’s death, she’d written out all her recipes in a leather journal that was my most cherished possession. She’d annotated the recipes with little pen-and-ink illustrations, side comments, and instructions. I recalled the comment in the margin of the page containing this recipe. “This dish came to me through my old friend Lily Rowan who somehow sweet-talked a private chef named Fritz Brenner into giving it to her. Cherish it, Josie!”
“Sounds great,” Ty said, breaking into my reverie. “Let’s add brunch to the list.”
“Great idea!” I said. “I’ll take you to Ellie’s. You’ve never been. They make great crepes.”
“Sold.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll grill you those steaks I got from Alexander’s.”
“A perfect weekend,” I said.
* * *
Ty parked on the edge of downtown so we’d have an excuse to stroll through the village. As we walked, we admired the just-blossoming deep red azaleas; noticed that the town had already whitewashed the band shell, readying it for the season; and chatted for a while with a man named Noah, a regular customer always in the market for rare wooden planes.
Ty agreed that Ellie’s crepes were the best ever, and after we were finished, as I was paying the check, I realized that we hadn’t talked about Riley once. He’d filled me in on where he was with his training initiatives—he was on a team charged with designing new curriculum, a huge honor for a relative newcomer—and he was almost done with his annual region-wide checkup on compliance issues. His enthusiasm was exhilarating. He loved his job, and it showed.
Walking to his SUV, I wondered whether Gretchen was ready for another promotion. If she oversaw the tag sales, I could take more Saturdays off. Food for thought, I realized, as Ty reached for my hand and smiled down at me.
* * *
Just before five, I was driving along Route One on my way to the grocery store when Wes called. I pulled into a strip mall parking lot so I could concentrate.
“You didn’t call me back,” he said as soon as I picked up.
“I’m fine, Wes. How are you?”
“Good, good, but you need to call me, Josie.”
“I was going to,” I said. “I’ve been pretty upset.”
“So who do you think shot Gretchen?”
“I ha
ve no idea.”
“Do you know why she was shot?”
I stared out the window at the passing traffic. Yes, I thought, and I’m scared for her. “You can’t quote this, Wes, even if you get independent confirmation.”
“Tell me.”
“It looks like Gretchen’s starting to remember more about the silver car.”
“Really?” he exclaimed. “That’s killer news, Josie. Fill me in.”
Killer, I thought. I repeated what I’d told the police about Becka and Kenna overhearing Gretchen’s comment, then added, “It’s a nonlead, though, Wes. Either of them could have told other people.”
“Like Bobby.”
“Yes,” I acknowledged, “like Bobby.”
“Or Quinn.”
“Or anybody.” I glanced at the dash clock. I wanted to get to the store so I could get home and start cooking. I loved to cook, and it always relaxed me. “You said you had news—what?”
“Not on the phone,” he said, lowering his voice. “At our dune in fifteen minutes?”
“I’m on my way to Shaw’s in Rocky Point. Can you meet me there?”
“Ten minutes, by the front door,” he said and hung up.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“The bullets were intended for Gretchen,” Wes said, thinking he was delivering a bombshell.
“So I heard.”
“You did? Who from?”
“I have confidential sources, too.”
He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “Good to know. What else did your source tell you?”
I laughed. “You’re incorrigible, Wes!”
“Thanks,” he said, grinning. He pulled out his ratty notepaper. “So … do you still think Bobby killed Riley?”
My smile faded. I looked around. We stood by my car midway down a close-in row by the main entrance to Shaw’s. The parking lot was nearly full. A harassed-looking young mother hurried by, wheeling twins in a tandem stroller. One of the babies was crying. An older couple, holding hands, walked past. A young man, college age, I guessed, jogged into the store.
“I don’t know what to think, Wes.” I turned to face him. “Have you learned anything more about his playing around?”
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