Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Jullison lives now?”

  “No. As far as I know, though, he’s still teaching at Rice Dixon Elementary School.”

  Ellis extracted a notebook from his pocket and flipped to an empty page. He wrote something, then asked, “He didn’t want the divorce?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it. If they got divorced, the hottie would expect Stevie to marry her, and he was chronically responsibility averse. Also, Mo supplemented their modest incomes by drawing from her trust fund. Stevie wouldn’t like the idea of having to live on his own income. The divorce was her idea, but she took it hard. She was heartbroken.”

  “Was she depressed?”

  “Sure. Isn’t that a symptom of heartbreak? That and feeling like a rusty used car in a new-car lot.”

  “How did the depression manifest itself?”

  “She cried a lot.”

  I felt a stab of sadness. Poor Mo.

  “Would you say that she was beginning to find her footing, or was she still running low to the ground?”

  “What are you suggesting? That Mo killed herself?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. Was she beginning to be more like her old self?”

  “Not noticeably.”

  “What did Mo do for work?”

  “She was a teacher, too. Third grade.”

  “At the same school?”

  “Yes.” Lydia pointed at the low stone wall. “Look at that wall. I told Daddy to make it higher, but Mom liked the view.”

  “You think it was an accident.”

  “Mo always was a little klutzy. She had two left feet.”

  “Who were her best friends?”

  “I don’t think she had best friends, not in the way you mean. She didn’t do a lot of girly things, like go shopping or have spa days or anything like that. She spent a lot of time at New Hampshire Children First!, volunteering.” She glanced around and walked to one of the tables. “I’m okay to keep talking, but I need to sit.”

  Ellis pulled out the chair opposite her. I stepped back from the lilac bush and took a few careful steps toward a boxwood hedge. By separating some eye-level branches, I could keep them both in view.

  “How did she and Cal get along?” Ellis asked.

  Lydia stiffened. “Mo could be a complete bitch, excuse my French.”

  I was so appalled at Lydia’s heartlessness, I stumbled into the hedge. A twig scraped my ear, a small scratch.

  “She didn’t like him?” Ellis asked.

  I righted myself and resumed my observation. Lydia was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap. I wondered if she truly believed what she was saying or if she had a secret motive for bad-mouthing her just-dead sister.

  “She couldn’t stand him. She acted like she was the grown-up and I was just a little kid.”

  “That sounds annoying.”

  “And then some.”

  “Were the hostilities open?”

  “Cal wasn’t hostile. Mo tried hard to bring out his bad side, thinking I’d wise up, but he doesn’t have a bad side. He’s a good guy, funny and witty. Ask anyone—he’s charming and smart.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Mo didn’t want to believe that he was good to me or good for me. She thought his sarcasm was just mean.”

  “How did you get that shiner?”

  Lydia touched her bruised cheek. “I fell. I guess clumsiness runs in the family.”

  “It sounds like Mo was out to derail your relationship. How come?”

  “Jealousy, maybe.”

  “What can you tell me about the Japanese woodblock print?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I don’t know much about art. Mo was thrilled with the purchase.”

  “Thank you.” Ellis closed his notebook. “Can you think of anyone else I should talk to?”

  “Josie Prescott. Mo thought the world of her.”

  Tears welled when she spoke my name.

  “Her colleagues at her school,” Lydia continued. “The people she volunteered with. I don’t know who else.”

  Ellis thanked her again and slipped the notebook into his pocket. A uniformed officer waited on the grass. I knew him. Griff was close to retirement, and laid-back. The other officer, Daryl, who was still in with the family, was younger, in his early thirties, and earnest. Ellis caught Griff’s eye, and the older man hurried toward him.

  “Walk Ms. Shannon inside, Griff, and stay with the family. If anyone thinks of anything that might help, call me immediately. Send Daryl out.”

  Lydia walked into the house without saying another word, and Griff followed.

  I came out from behind the bush.

  Ellis spotted me and took a few steps in my direction. “Let’s walk to the wall.” When we reached it, he asked, “Were you able to hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did everything gel with what you know?”

  “Mostly.”

  “What’s off?”

  “Mo introduced her ex to me as Steve, not Stevie, and that’s what she called him every time I was with them. And Mo wasn’t the least bit klutzy.” I blinked away tears. “I’ve seen her ride horses a dozen times. She was graceful and confident, a natural athlete. Why would Lydia lie about those things?”

  “What do you think happened to Mo?” Ellis asked, pretending he hadn’t heard my question.

  “She grew up here. She wouldn’t have misjudged the wall.”

  “Was she a drinker?”

  “No. I’ve never seen her have more than a glass of something, wine or beer, usually.”

  “What does ‘usually’ mean?”

  I smiled. “I saw her down half a margarita once.”

  “Did she do drugs?”

  “Not that I ever saw.”

  Ellis’s phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the display. “It’s the medical examiner. Thank you, Josie. You don’t need to stay. I’ll be in touch later.” He called to Daryl, waiting on the patio. “Make sure Josie gets to her car without being overrun by reporters.” He turned away and answered his phone with a crisp “Hunter.”

  I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to know what the medical examiner was telling Ellis, what other questions he’d ask Mo’s family, and whether Cal would finally show up as Lydia expected, and if not, how Ellis planned to track him down. I scanned the ocean starting from the south, my eyes moving slowly north, wanting to capture one last mental picture of the crime scene. I felt queasy, imagining Mo’s terror as she plummeted onto the boulders. Shivers of fear and upset pricked at me. Mo hadn’t tumbled off the wall. She hadn’t killed herself. That left murder. The second police boat turned on its side lamps, and streaks of white light shimmied across the midnight-blue water. Twilight was closing in. Where was Cal? Had he witnessed Mo’s fall and slunk away like a coward? That sounded like Cal. He was a bully, all bluster and no action. The medical examiner sat in the dinghy, her back to me, her phone to her ear. The police officer rowed her back to the mother boat, his oars cleaving the water as if it took no effort at all.

  Daryl cleared his throat. “Josie?”

  I stood for a moment longer, fighting tears, staring at the ocean, watching the remaining sliver of orange sun disappear below the horizon.

  I turned toward Daryl. “I’m ready.”

  Yellow-and-black police tape separated the driveway from the street. Daryl raised it for me, then followed me to the road.

  Reporters, some new to me, others I’d seen on TV or in person, called out questions, asking what I’d seen and what I knew. I ignored them all. Wes Smith, a reporter for Rocky Point’s hometown newspaper, the Seacoast Star, stood apart from the group, near his newish red Ford Focus, surveying the scene with unrelenting intensity. Three women and one man stood off to the side, talking quietly among themselves. I recognized two of them, a stately woman Trish’s age named Abby Young and the redhead who’d organized croquet at Mo’s garden party. Abby was a frequent visitor a
t the tag sale, cruising the aisles seeking out objects that featured the letter Y. A petite blonde in her early thirties nodded in agreement to whatever Abby was saying. One of the men kept his hand on the blonde’s shoulder. He was tall and lanky with bushy brown hair, a thick mustache, and a pointy chin. I gathered that members of the book club had arrived and didn’t want to leave.

  Daryl walked me to my car. He opened my door. “You okay?”

  “Not really. Mo was my friend.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  I tilted my head toward Abby and the others. “Those folks are all in the book club.”

  Daryl half turned to see whom I was referring to. “Yes.”

  I slid behind the wheel.

  “Would you like an escort home?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Daryl. I’ll be all right.”

  He shut my door and stepped back.

  I’m good in a crisis—rational, methodical, and careful. It’s after the crisis has passed that I fall apart. Oh, Mo, I thought, fighting more tears. I didn’t want to cry. My phone vibrated. It was a text from Wes: Meet me in Tiller’s lot. Now. Since Wes’s web of contacts was legendary, remarkable in both depth and breadth, there was a chance he had already garnered facts I could use in trying to understand what had happened to Mo. Wes ran a tight ship, though: If I wanted information, I’d have to give information. And I would. I glanced at the rearview mirror. Daryl hadn’t moved, and when he caught my eye, he semisaluted. I raised a hand in response. Wes’s car was nowhere in sight.

  I turned onto Main Street, drove into Tiller’s Shopping Plaza’s parking lot about three miles down the road, and parked facing the street next to Wes’s Focus.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded. “All I know is what I heard on my police scanner—that someone is dead. Who is it?”

  “Oh, God, Wes … it’s Mo. Did you know her? Mo Shannon?”

  “No. Did she fall? Or was she pushed?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She’s a friend. We volunteered together for years.”

  “Why were you there today?”

  “An antiques thing.” My eyes filled again, and I gulped.

  Wes peppered me with questions I couldn’t answer, until finally he gave up. His tone turned stern. “You hear something … you call me.”

  “You, too, Wes. Please. Mo was a good friend.”

  I watched him zip away, back in the direction of the Shannon house.

  Ty had left me a voice mail about an hour earlier. “I just got called down to Washington, God only knows why. Urgent, but no details. I’m at my house right now, packing. I’m hoping to make the eight o’clock shuttle so I can be at the office first thing in the morning. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”

  I called him back and got him in the car.

  “Traffic is horrendous,” he said, “so I shouldn’t stay on the line long.”

  “That’s okay. We can talk later.” I gave him a thirty-second rundown on Mo. “I’m stunned and so, so sad, and completely confused about what could have happened to her. And now you’re leaving town. Do you know when you’ll be back?”

  “No. I don’t even know why I’m going. I’m so sorry, babe. I know how much you liked Mo. Me, too. Let me pull over and check—maybe I can delay going down there for a day or two.”

  “No … you take care of business.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

  “You should call Zoë and see if she’s around.”

  “Good idea. Do you think you’re in trouble?”

  “Why would I be in trouble?”

  “What else could it be if it’s urgent, without information?”

  “I can think of four thousand two hundred and twelve reasons, and that’s just offhand. I better go … I’ll call you at bedtime.”

  We said our good-byes, and I slid my phone into my tote bag.

  I sat for a minute, watching nothing in particular, allowing the anguish I’d been quelling to sweep over me, and then the tears came. I leaned against my steering wheel and sobbed. I cried until I ran out of tears. I patted my eyes dry with another tissue and blew my nose. I sat until I felt less shaky, then tapped the radio button. I wanted to listen to something so I wouldn’t have to think. The radio was set to the Hitchens University station, which played classical music and broadcast professors’ lectures.

  I recognized the student host. His name was Greg Lindsay, and he was a regular.

  “According to a tweet just sent by Wes Smith, a reporter with the Seacoast Star, a source within Rocky Point’s medical examiner’s office says that it looks like Mo Shannon’s death was a homicide. We’ve reached out to Wes for more details, and will bring you updates about this shocking development as soon as we get them.”

  My throat closed. Someone killed Mo. I’d known it, yet somehow I simply couldn’t comprehend it. I coughed, choking, then sipped some water. Mo had spent her life doing the right thing, and all it got her was killed. Crisis-calm descended on me yet again. My throat opened, and in one savage surge, anger supplanted sorrow. Anger was easier to deal with than grief. Anger inspired action. Grief was debilitating. My hands curled into fists.

  I had no doubt that if Mo’s print could talk, we’d learn who murdered her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Zoë, my landlady, neighbor, and friend, was the soup queen. She could take any mélange of fresh or leftover ingredients and make a delicious soup. I’d never been in her house when soup wasn’t in the fridge or simmering on the stove.

  It was almost eight when I called to tell her about Mo and ask if I could come over for dinner. “I know it’s late. We can order pizza. My treat.”

  “I’m so sorry, Josie. What a terrible thing. Of course come over. We’ve already eaten, but I can offer you leftover roast chicken and just-made chicken soup.”

  “Even better. I’ll bring the fixings for martinis.”

  “Good. Come whenever.”

  After a hot bath and a cold martini, I walked across our shared driveway. As soon as I opened the door, I was enveloped by the aroma of bay leaves and thyme. Zoë’s chicken noodle soup. My favorite.

  Zoë was tall, close to six feet, and willowy. She had short near-black hair and big brown expressive eyes. She wore a white fitted T-shirt and low-cut jeans. She could have just walked off the pages of a trendy fashion magazine.

  As Zoë served up a portion of salad, I poured martinis from my silver bullet-shaped shaker—gin, of course, the good stuff, Bombay Sapphire, which I kept in the freezer, shaken with a capful of Limoncello, a concoction of my dad’s creation. I used an atomizer to spray vermouth inside chilled glasses, another trick I learned from my dad. I filled them nearly to the top with the frozen liquor. I rimmed the lip of my glass with a curlicue of lemon rind, then tossed it in. I slid two oversized green olives into Zoë’s drink. They spiraled to the bottom.

  Zoë sipped her martini. “Yum.” She stirred the soup. “Ellis called. He hopes to be home by nine.”

  I glanced at the wall clock. It read 8:50. “Home?”

  Zoë’s olive skin took on a rosy hue. “It’s official. He’s moving in this weekend.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “Thanks.”

  I wanted to ask why she’d changed her mind about living with Ellis, but I didn’t. Yes, she’d worried for years that her kids would grow attached to him, and then he’d leave, but her announcement had a flavor of celebration, and I didn’t want to say anything or ask anything that smacked of criticism.

  As if she could read my mind, she said, “The kids adore him. They’re older now, and he’s been in their lives for as long as they can remember.”

  “Are you thinking of getting married?”

  “Not now. You know I’m seriously gun-shy. I married a man everyone but me knew was a loser, which to this day makes me question my judgment. Ellis comes with his own b
aggage. He gave his heart and soul to his wife. When she died, he lost more than the love of his life. He lost his footing. Our solution is to proceed by baby steps.”

  “You’re so sensible.”

  “And I make a mean chicken soup.” She stirred the pot. “How are you doing?”

  “Not good. You met Mo—you know.”

  “Lots of times. She was lovely.”

  “I just can’t—” I broke off as Ellis walked in through the back door. He looked all in.

  “Hey, Josie.”

  “Hey.”

  He turned to Zoë and opened his arms. She slipped into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment.

  She smoothed his hair. “Hungry?”

  “Starving. First, though, a beer.”

  He kissed her and walked to the fridge. Zoë got a bowl from the cupboard.

  “Any news?” I asked Ellis.

  He found a Redhook pale ale and took a long draw before he answered. “I don’t know about news, but I know who I want to talk to. Cal Lewis. He hasn’t surfaced. You haven’t had a callback, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Neither has Lydia.”

  “Why not ask Wes to run an article about the situation?”

  He drank some more. “Too risky. If Cal saw his name in the paper associated with murder, he might panic.”

  “I heard the headline that it was murder, but I didn’t really think … I mean, I knew … I just can’t fathom…” I stopped speaking and closed my eyes for a moment. I couldn’t speak for several seconds, and when I did, my voice sounded harsh, unlike my own. “Is it official?”

  “Not yet, but it will be by morning. The ME found contusions on Mo’s neck that aren’t consistent with a fall.”

  My anger bubbled just below the surface. “Cal’s not stupid. Once he hears that Mo is dead, he’ll know I told you he was supposed to meet us.”

  He finished his beer and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin. “As far as I know, Cal is a family friend who might have insights into what happened to Mo, nothing more.”

  “In other words, he’s a person of interest, but you don’t want him to know it.”

  Ellis smiled. “Wes will hear from someone, not me, that Cal is a family friend who might have insights into what happened to Mo.”