Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  I winked away an unexpected tear. “I admired her, too.”

  “Have you learned anything about the print?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How about her murder? Have you heard whether the police are close to catching the killer?”

  “No, but I think they’re following up on some leads.”

  “Like what?”

  “I wish I knew. Have you heard anything?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Do you know Cal Lewis?”

  “I’ve met him a couple of times at book club meetings.”

  “Somehow I just can’t picture Cal participating in a book club.”

  Nora laughed. “I see you know him. He comes for the cocktails and nibblies. He likes to correct our wrong opinions.”

  “I can hear him now. If you saw the Seacoast Star, you must have read that Cal is missing.”

  “I did. The whole situation is so upsetting and confusing. What do you think is going on?”

  I leaned back, resting my head on a side wing. “I think Cal is in trouble.”

  Nora leaned forward. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I have no idea, not specifically. It’s possible that Cal went missing on purpose, which suggests that he has some involvement with the print he doesn’t want to acknowledge, or maybe even that he knows what happened to Mo. The only other possibility is that something happened to him and he’s unable to communicate with his employer or his girlfriend or the police. Either way—the way I see it, he’s in trouble.”

  “Maybe he just got fed up with the day-to-day and decided to start over somewhere else. I feel like that sometimes.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m an accountant. I love numbers. It’s people I struggle with. If they don’t like the results, they blame the messenger. Some days I wish I’d gone into construction like my husband. Nails and hammers don’t talk back.”

  “But the people who hire the contractors do. I’m not sure you can ever get away from people, with all their foibles, unless you go off the grid completely.” I laughed. “Somehow I can’t picture Cal living off the land, and if all he wanted was to start over somewhere new, why hasn’t he used his credit cards or withdrawn money from his bank account?”

  “Because he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose. Unusual, but not unheard-of. A guy goes out for a pack of cigarettes and just keeps on truckin’. It’s harder nowadays to disappear, though.”

  “Whatever is going on, Lydia must be beside herself.”

  I heard the familiar click-clack of Gretchen’s heels as she walked across the concrete floor and came up the stairs. She lowered a black-velvet-covered tray to the butler’s table. Each fountain pen rested on its own black velvet pillow beside the lap desk.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Gretchen asked. “Coffee?”

  Nora still didn’t want anything to drink.

  I thanked Gretchen, and as her steps receded, I picked up the Parker pen. “This pen works perfectly, from accepting a full supply of ink to writing evenly, without sputtering.”

  Nora leaned forward. I moved the pen a bit to catch the light, and the ornate gold filigree barrel and mother-of-pearl insets glimmered.

  “Because of its scarcity and superb condition, this one is pricey—two thousand dollars.” I laid it down and picked up the Conklin. “This one has an uncommonly large black hard-rubber crescent-filler and a gold trefoil filigree overlay. It works, too, and it’s also rare. It’s priced at a thousand dollars.”

  “I had no idea. Thousands of dollars for a pen?”

  “I know. It’s amazing. They’ll probably sell to collectors, not users. Which is why I think this lap desk might be exactly right for your dad. It’s only ninety dollars, because it has no pedigree. It’s handmade of oak.” I lifted the lid. “There’s room inside for papers, or your dad’s current journal. It’s simple, and I think it’s gorgeous, but that’s an issue of taste and opinion. Go ahead and pick it up. Place it on your lap and see what you think.”

  She used two hands to lift it. “Oh! It’s light. It looks so substantial, I thought it would be much heavier.” She lifted the lid and lowered it. “I think my dad would love it. You said the price is ninety dollars? Is there any way you can do better?”

  “I’m sorry, no. We work hard to price our objects properly, and we never discount them.”

  “Ninety dollars seems fair … It’s just that it’s more than we typically spend on birthday gifts.” She returned the lap desk to the tray. “The pens are fabulous, too.” She stood. “I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to show me these. I’m going to talk to my sister about the lap desk and see what she thinks.”

  I stood, too. “Good idea.”

  I walked Nora downstairs and opened the front door. Puddles dotted the asphalt. Water dripped from the eaves and trees. The sky remained leaden. I watched her walk to her car, sidestepping to avoid pools of water.

  A puff of exhaust caught my eye. A black sedan, mostly hidden by chest-high brush, was idling on the shoulder of Ellerton, just beyond our parking lot. Nora got behind the wheel of her white Chevrolet Cruze, and three seconds later, prisms appeared in the puddles as light glinted off the metal parts of her phone. She rested it against the steering wheel. The black car was hard to spot. Evidently, Nora hadn’t noticed it.

  It looked like someone was following Nora. Why? She had asked a lot of questions about Cal, but still …

  She backed out of the space and drove up to the exit, her left-turn light flashing, waiting for a break in the traffic. The black car edged forward.

  I was too far away and the foliage was too thick to see who was in the black car, but one thing was clear—someone actually was following Nora, and it looked like she didn’t know it.

  I ran for the warehouse door, sprinted across the open area, charged up the steps to my office, grabbed my tote bag, and raced downstairs.

  “I’ll see you all later!” I called as I dashed out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the time I got to my car, both Nora’s Chevy and the black sedan were gone. I turned left, toward the interstate, and on a long stretch of straightaway, I spotted the black car. I sped up. At a curve in the road half a mile farther down the road, I recognized Nora’s Chevy, four cars in front of the black vehicle, a Lexus, which was now three cars ahead of mine.

  We sailed past the entry ramp for the interstate. Nora turned right onto Main Street, the most direct route to Rocky Point’s central business district. She parked in front of Sweet Treats bakery. The black sedan and I continued on.

  As we circled the village green, I tried to read the Lexus’s license plate, but it was streaked with mud, no surprise on this rainy day. I could see two men, one behind the wheel and one in the rear, but I couldn’t discern enough of their faces to identify individual features.

  When the Lexus rolled to the curb, I did, too, keeping my distance.

  Five minutes later, Nora, carrying a white box tied with red string, got back into her car.

  Nora headed toward the ocean, making what seemed like random turns. The Lexus closed up. I hung back.

  A few minutes later, Nora turned onto Old Mill Pond Road, then spun into the entry road of the Pond View condominium complex, a gated community overlooking the pond.

  The Lexus continued down Old Mill Pond Road. So did I. As I passed the entry, I slowed to a crawl so I could see what Nora was doing. She’d reached the ornate black iron gate, and the two sections were moving sideways. I was in time to see her raise her visor—she’d used a remote clipped to it to open the gate.

  The Lexus was far ahead now. It turned onto Market Street, which led back to Rocky Point’s town center. I turned, too. A half mile farther along, it turned left onto a short road called Langley Lane. I’d passed it a hundred times, but I’d never been on it. I thought it probably connected to Main Street, which ran parallel to Market. Only after I followed the Lexus o
nto Langley did I discover my mistake. Langley was a curvy road that ended at a dense thicket. The Lexus had already turned around and was driving back the way we’d come. I U-turned at the dead end. Around the first curve on my way back, I gasped and slammed on the brakes—the Lexus sat sideways across the road, trapping me. I plunged forward, then, thanks to my seat belt, jerked back. My head whacked into the headrest.

  The driver got out of the car and stood for a moment, facing me. I pushed the door-lock button and felt around in my tote bag for my phone, keeping my eyes on his long, bony face. I took two photos in quick succession, one of the man, the other of the vehicle, then tapped 9-1-1, keeping my hand on the SEND CALL button, but not pushing it.

  The driver wore a gray suit that needed pressing. His hair was brown and cut short. He had deep-set eyes that even from this distance seemed hard enough to crack the windshield. The back passenger window lowered, and the occupant turned to watch. At this distance, I could only discern that it was a man.

  The driver said something to the passenger, then walked toward me. My pulse speeded up, and my mouth went dry.

  I lowered my window two inches as he approached.

  The air was thick, damp, and cold. I shivered.

  He leaned down to meet my eyes. “You’re following us.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “If you’re not following us, you’re following Nora Burke. Why?”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  He spun toward the thicket as if he’d heard something. I kept my eyes on his face. He exuded power. After a minute, he turned back to me.

  “My boss wants to talk to you. Come sit in his car.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Chester Randall.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “He knows you. You’re Josie Prescott, a local businesswoman. He’s a local businessman. He thinks you might have a lot in common.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Entertainment.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Mr. Randall’s driver.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Come on. Mr. Randall’s waiting.”

  “Why were you following Nora?”

  “Ask Mr. Randall.”

  “I’m not comfortable getting into his car, but if he wants to meet at Rocky Point Diner, I’ll be glad to talk to him there. I have time now.”

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  He tried to open my door. When he couldn’t, his brows drew together and he stared at me. I was glad the glass separated us. I couldn’t tell if his eyes were super-dark brown or black. They were cold and emotionless. I didn’t reply.

  “I’ll ask.”

  He walked back to the car, opened the driver’s side door, and leaned in. Entertainment covered a vast spectrum of activities. Somehow I didn’t think Chester Randall owned Pirate’s Cove Miniature Golf. A minute later the driver returned.

  “Okay. We’ll follow you.”

  I exhaled, and only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath.

  I drove directly to Rocky Point Diner. The parking lot was half full, and since I was a regular, I knew that most of the people inside would be older folks out for the early bird special and families taking advantage of the weekday kids-eat-free offer. I parked as close to the front door as I could.

  I grabbed my iPad, brought up a browser, and Googled “Chester Randall Rocky Point NH.”

  Chester Randall owned the Colonial Twist, some kind of restaurant, on Ocean Terrace, a short street that ran between Ocean Avenue and Warren, forming a T at both ends, serving as a nifty shortcut from the beach to the village. His signage must be minuscule and his building undistinguished. His photo showed a portly man in his sixties, with a welcoming smile and a full head of brown hair. I checked for restaurant reviews and didn’t find any, but at least I knew that Chester Randall was for real. I got out of my car, wishing I’d grabbed my coat when I’d left the office. It was get-in-your-bones cold, more like November than September.

  I stood near the hostess stand, watching Chester Randall walk toward the door. He was tall and broad, and big all over.

  He stepped inside and extended his hand for a shake. “You run a good business, Josie Prescott. I’m glad to know you.”

  I shook his hand. He had a firm grip. “Thanks.”

  He took charge, asking the hostess for a quiet booth in the back, then stepping aside, so I could follow her. The hostess dropped two menus on the table and told us our server would be with us soon. I slid onto the banquette.

  Chester took off his raincoat, hung it neatly on a hook by our booth, and sat across from me. He wore a brown suit, a yellow shirt, and a tan tie with fine brown stripes.

  He picked up a menu. “I tend to eat late, so maybe I should have a little snack, just to hold me over. How about you?”

  “I’ll just have coffee. Thanks. You want to tell me why you blocked the road, trapping me?”

  “In a minute … Let me order first.”

  The waitress came over. Her name tag read PHYL. She wore a pink uniform with a white frilly apron and sensible white tie-up shoes.

  Chester looked up from the menu. “Is the chicken soup any good, Phyl?”

  “People seem to like it.”

  “Not for nothing, Chester, but I love it.”

  “Good. The lady will have a coffee. I’ll have a Coke and a bowl of chicken noodle soup, with extra crackers.”

  Phyl took the menus away.

  Chester shook his head. “You’re not wearing a coat.” I could almost hear him tut-tut. “This weather … You’re going to catch cold.”

  “My mother always said you catch a cold from germs, not bad weather.”

  “Yes, but in bad weather, germs have an easier time getting in, so you wear a coat to help keep them out.”

  “Chester, you’re very persuasive.” For some reason, his concern touched me. As the only child of only children, I’d grown up without an extended family. I had a fleeting thought: If I’d been lucky enough to know one of my grandfathers, I bet he would have been a lot like Chester. “And very sweet.”

  “Shhh. That’s the kind of thing you don’t want getting around.”

  Phyl came back with our drinks. She dropped a paper-covered straw next to Chester’s Coke and set down a shallow bowl filled with tubs of half-and-half. I took one, gave it a little shake, and poured it in. Chester picked up his straw and examined it as if he’d never seen one before. He began to pick at the end with a fingernail. I was a ripper, tearing into Christmas gifts—and paper-covered straws—with abandon. When he’d separated the end bits, he scooched the wrapper down enough to extract the straw. Chester was a patient and meticulous man.

  We each took a sip of our drinks. Chester smoothed out his straw wrapper. When he raised his eyes to mine, his manner had changed from grandpa to all business.

  “So, why I blocked the road.” He folded his fingers on the table. “Do you know Cal Lewis?”

  “Why?”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “That’s the only answer you’ll get until you tell me why you want to know.”

  “I need to talk to him about a business thing. How well do you know him?”

  “What is this, Chester? The third degree?”

  “You’re a little cagey, huh?”

  “Circumspect.”

  “Careful. I like that.”

  Phyl brought Chester’s soup and a saucer piled high with cellophane-wrapped packages of saltines.

  Chester thanked her. He shook some pepper onto his soup. “So where’s Cal?”

  “I don’t know. Does Nora?”

  “I think so. I think they’re an item.”

  “Get out of town.”

  He blew on a spoonful of soup. “For real.”

  Ideas and contradictions ricocheted through my brain. Cal was with Lydia. Nora was married. Chester was following Nora, who had nothing to do with Cal. Except maybe s
he did. Maybe that was why Mo had asked if I knew her—Mo had resented her so-called friends for passing along sightings of Steve with another woman, and here she was facing the same dilemma, debating whether to tell Lydia that she’d seen Cal with Nora. Chester probably read the Seacoast Star, like everyone else in Rocky Point, so he knew I was interested in Cal. Nothing made any sense. Unless Nora really was involved with Cal, or Chester genuinely thought she was. There was only one reason I could think of why Chester would care if Nora and Cal were an item.

  I drank some coffee. “You’re involved with Nora. You’re following her because you think she’s two-timing you with Cal. Three-timing, really, since she’s married.”

  “You were right. This is delicious.” He tore open a packet of crackers. “I’ve been happily married to the love of my life for forty-two years. I’m not involved with Nora. I’m pretty sure she’s involved with Cal, though.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Business.”

  “What business?”

  “Mine. What’s Cal to you?”

  “Nothing. Cal is Lydia’s boyfriend. Lydia is Mo’s sister. Mo Shannon. I’m sure you’ve read about her … She was murdered. Mo was my friend.”

  Chester blew on another spoonful of soup. “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is Cal involved in Mo’s death?”

  “I don’t know. He’s MIA, that’s for sure.”

  “I assumed he went missing to avoid me.”

  “Why would he want to avoid you?”

  “He owes me money.”

  I lowered my cup so quickly it clattered on the saucer. “He does?”

  “Do you know my restaurant, the Colonial Twist?”

  “I didn’t even know there was such a place until I Googled you just now. You don’t have any Yelp reviews.”

  “My customers prefer it that way.”

  “You let Cal run a tab?”

  Chester placed his spoon on a napkin beside the bowl, lining it up. “Do you have a few more minutes? I want to show you the Colonial Twist. I think you’ll be interested.”