“He doesn’t love you as much as I do yet, but you’re his first choice as a sidekick for this secret mission.”
She explained what he needed to do and, as she expected, he peppered her with questions. She ended up telling him about Granddad’s impersonation and his new friendship with Rick Usher.
“So that’s why you thought Emmett had impersonated Usher—because your grandfather did it too. I hope you warned him to avoid looking like Rick Usher from now on.”
“Yes, and I may have even convinced him. Can you meet him here at nine tomorrow morning? This shouldn’t take more than an hour, including the trip to and from the Usher house.”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what we find.”
“Thanks, Gunnar.”
Val went upstairs, got ready for bed, and opened Poe Revisited to “The Cask of Amontillado.” Poe’s story, delving into the mind of a murderer executing an elaborate revenge, riveted her. She was too tired to tackle the companion story by Rick Usher, “The Case of Amontillado.”
* * *
When she arrived in the café Wednesday morning, Val tuned the TV mounted on the wall to the local news, anxious to hear the latest about Emmett Flint’s murder. If there was any news, she missed it while making and serving breakfast to customers.
Monique phoned to say she’d finished aging the photos of the three men and would drop them off at the café later in the morning. Val asked her to stop at the printer’s shop to pick up the flyers and surveys.
Gunnar called at ten fifteen. “Hey, Val. I’m back from the Usher place. I thought you’d want to know I didn’t find what Usher was looking for.”
“What was it?”
“An old book of poetry. Tamerlane and Other Poems by a writer identified as A Bostonian.”
The title and nameless author tickled a memory from Val’s trivia nights at a pub. “That was the first book Poe ever published.”
“Usher wanted me to keep searching. He was upset that I didn’t find it. I ended up taking photos of the books on each shelf so he could see for himself that it wasn’t there.”
“It must be a rare book or one that has sentimental value.” Val saw that a couple who’d come in five minutes earlier looked ready to order. “I have to get back to work, Gunnar. One quick question. Did Granddad stay behind at the Usher house?”
“No. Usher told us when we arrived that we’d have to finish by ten. He had a meeting scheduled with the guy who works with him on his books. Good luck with your dinner tonight.”
“Thanks.” Val tucked her phone away and helped her customers.
She’d just delivered their order when Monique arrived. She gave Val the digitally aged photos.
Val was surprised by Emmett’s picture. He resembled Rick Usher and looked like a healthier version of the man Val had tried to revive with CPR. She studied the photos of her former fiancé and of Gunnar side by side. In the originals she’d sent Monique, Tony was far more handsome. Forty years from now, though, no one would say one man looked any more attractive than the other. “Wrinkles level the playing field.”
Monique nodded. “Up to a point. You’d never mistake Gunnar for either of the others.”
Val looked again at the photos. With gray hair, a beard, and dark glasses, Tony could have passed for Usher as easily as Emmett had. Gunnar, though, had a squarer face and a larger mouth. “You’re right.”
“I want to know what you’re going to do with those pictures, but first tell me about these.” Monique pointed to the print jobs she’d picked up for Val. “You’re delivering lunches now and surveying the club members about their dinner preferences? What’s going on?”
Val explained her plan to increase the café revenue and hire Irene Pritchard to help. “If I don’t, or possibly even if I do, the manager will put a sportswear boutique here in place of the café.”
“That guy’s clueless. No one’s going to buy clothes here. It’s not like anybody at this club is a fashion plate.”
“Except a few tennis players. Remember Chatty.” Their former tennis teammate had comforted herself after losing a match by buying a new outfit for the courts, though her closet already contained one in every hue and style.
“Even she didn’t buy clothes every day. I’m going to start a petition to save the café from clothes horses.” Monique flounced out, bent on a mission.
She’d be even more incensed if Val told her about the manager’s flirtation with the clothes horse who wanted to run the boutique. By the time Monique poked her head into the café again, the tables were full and Val was too busy to talk to her cousin.
Irene came into the café after the crowd thinned and gave Val two handwritten pages. “Here are my proposals for afternoon tea and evening menus.”
“Thank you.” Val hadn’t planned to offer a teatime menu or to cede control of the evening menu to Irene. “I want to get the survey results before finalizing the evening menu.”
Irene’s face turned stony. “I thought you wanted to move fast. Waiting for survey results will just delay you, but that’s your choice.” She glanced at a menu. “Where does your bread come from?”
“The baker in Treadwell. It’s delivered fresh each morning. I usually have three types—sourdough, rye or pumpernickel, and whole grain. If the baker has a special bread on sale, I’ll order that too.”
“I make sandwiches with white bread. Then you can taste what’s on the sandwich, not the bread itself.”
Val had more misgivings than ever about hiring Irene. “The bread and the filling work together. They don’t cancel each other out.”
She’d kept one eye on the TV all morning. Now, as Irene explained why spongy bread was better than grainy bread, a picture of Emmett Flint flashed on the screen. “Excuse me, Irene.” Val turned up the sound on the TV.
The sheriff’s department and the Bayport police had issued a statement that they were making progress in the investigation of the actor’s death. Val marveled at the ability of TV anchors to make much of no news.
Irene pointed to the screen. “I’ve seen that man at my tea shop.”
Now that was a piece of news worth having. Val didn’t even try to hide her surprise. She lowered the volume on the TV. “I always picture women in tea shops. Now I hear that Clancy and that man”—Val pointed at the TV though Emmett’s picture wasn’t on it anymore—“both went to your tea shop. Did they know each other?”
Irene looked up as if she had a memory stored on the ceiling. “I only saw them together once, about a month before the shop closed. The other tables were all taken. Clancy had his usual spot to himself, typing into his computer. The other man went over to him, sat at the table, and started talking. I could see Clancy didn’t like being interrupted. He packed up and left when he finished his tea.”
A chance encounter wasn’t what Val had hoped for. Collusion between the two men would have added a new wrinkle to the intrigue surrounding Rick Usher.
As another wave of customers arrived, Val cut off further discussion with Irene. “Thank you for the menu ideas and the pricing.” She gave Irene the flyers. “These are for Jeremy to distribute to businesses in Treadwell and Bayport. Remind him to keep track of the hours he spends so I can pay him for his time.”
While Val served her last customers of the day, she planned the rest of her afternoon. Before leaving for the Usher house to make dinner, she would talk to Simone and, if time allowed, visit Chief Yardley. She took snacks to give each of them.
* * *
Simone lived in a town house development on the outer edges of Treadwell. The straggly trees in the green strip along the curb suggested the houses had gone up in the last ten years on converted farmland. Val drove slowly along the street lined by two-story houses clad with vinyl siding, searching for Simone’s address. From inside the car on this dreary day, she could barely make out the brass house numbers.
She parked her Saturn in front of a house with a FOR SALE sign on it, tucked the snack contai
ner into her shoulder tote, and walked half a block before finding Simone’s house. The Suzuki motorcycle parked in front of the house surprised Val. She had trouble imagining the fiftyish Professor Simone, elegant in high-heeled boots and a narrow skirt, commuting to work on a motorcycle in the dead of winter. The Suzuki must belong to a neighbor. Val rang the bell. No one opened the door. Not surprising, since she was fifteen minutes early.
Back on the sidewalk, she surveyed the small house. No room upstairs for more than two bedrooms or possibly three tiny ones. A curtain covering the upstairs window parted slightly. Val couldn’t see who had moved the curtain aside. Maybe Simone hadn’t heard the bell. Val went back and banged the knocker hard against the front door. Again, no response. Had Simone changed her mind about the meeting? Or did another person live in the house too, someone unable or unwilling to open the door?
A neighbor might know. The SUV parked outside the house two doors away suggested Val might find someone home there. According to the mailbox, the Smiths lived in the house.
She knocked on the door. A twenty-something woman with a toddler on her hip answered the knock. She had dark circles under curious eyes.
Val hoped the woman would welcome adult conversation. “Hi! I saw the FOR SALE sign on the house down the street. The house is a perfect size for me, but I’m not familiar with the neighborhood. Can you tell me anything about it?”
The young mother smiled. “I’d be happy to. We’ve been here about six years. We like it a lot, but we’re going to put our house on the market in the spring because our family’s growing.” She jiggled the baby. “Please, come in. I don’t want this little guy to get chilled.”
“Thank you.” Val closed the door behind her.
“What did you want to know about the neighborhood?”
Val came up with a question a would-be buyer her age might ask. “Do any singles and young adults live on this street, or are there mostly families?”
“It’s a mix of couples, families, and singles, in different age groups. The neighbors are all friendly without being nosy.”
Val smiled. “I was more concerned about noisy than nosy after seeing the motorcycle parked two doors down.”
“That belongs to Raven. He lives there with his mother. We hear the motorcycle only when he starts it up to go to work. It’s not like he’s in and out all the time, so I wouldn’t call it noisy here.”
Val hoped the woman could tell her more about Simone’s son. “Does he work a night shift? Is that why the motorcycle’s there now?”
“He works at the supermarket pharmacy. I think they’re open from nine to nine. He might have the late shift today.” Mrs. Smith put the toddler down. “Raven keeps to himself. He’s nearly thirty. If he ever had wild parties, he’s past that stage. No one his age even comes to visit.”
Hardly surprising if Raven never opened the door to any visitors. “Good to hear. That answers all my questions for now. Thank you for your help.”
“If you’re not in a hurry to buy a house, this one will be up for sale soon.” She grabbed the toddler by the hand as he took tentative steps toward the living room. “Wave bye-bye to the nice lady.”
The little boy smiled and waved. Val did the same.
As the door closed behind her, a postal truck crept away from the mailbox in front of Simone’s house. A lean man with longish dark hair and a mustache dashed out of the house. He collected the mail and shuffled through it. Val saw his face clearly for a second, and her heart skipped a beat. He looked like the guy in the front row at Rick Usher’s last public appearance. Was he the young Poe look-alike who’d followed Usher out of the room?
She huddled near a holly in the Smiths’ front yard, hoping he didn’t notice her staring at him. Just because he had the same build, haircut, and mustache as the man at Usher’s talk didn’t mean he was the same person. If she’d glimpsed him anywhere else, she would have walked right by him without noting the resemblance. But she couldn’t avoid the obvious conclusion once she’d seen him emerge from Simone’s house—he was her son, Raven, named for Poe’s most famous poem. Her interest in Poe and Rick Usher might have rubbed off on him, explaining his presence at the Usher talk. Or did an even closer connection exist between the young man and Rick Usher? Could Raven be the son he was looking for?
Raven took the mail into the house and emerged seconds later, wearing a helmet. He climbed on the motorcycle, revved up the engine, and drove off with a roar.
She checked her watch. Ten minutes to go until her appointment with his mother. Val went back to her car to stay warm while waiting. Based on what Mrs. Smith had said about Raven’s age, he could have born around the time or shortly after Simone had studied and Usher taught at Boston University. Val kept herself from leaping to the conclusion that Raven was Usher’s son. Instead, she’d call it a working hypothesis. Nothing she knew so far contradicted it. One person could confirm it—the woman she was about to meet. But Val wouldn’t ask her anything so personal.
A red Toyota passed by Val’s parked car and pulled into the space where the motorcycle had been. A dark-haired woman climbed out. Simone. She wore boots, as she had to the book club, but with lower heels, and skinny pants instead of the narrow skirt she’d worn Sunday night. She slung a bulging tote bag, large enough for a laptop computer, over her shoulder and went inside the house.
Val waited five minutes and then retraced her steps to Simone’s front door.
Chapter 18
Simone opened the door and peered at Val over reading glasses. “I vaguely remember seeing you at the book club. Come in.”
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee pervaded the house. Val inhaled deeply. “The coffee smells wonderful.”
“I combine coffee beans from different regions to make it.” Simone pointed to a clothes tree in the foyer. “Hang your jacket there.”
She led Val to a dining el off the living room and slid aside a pile of books on the table. “Sit here. I’ll be right back.”
Val obeyed, feeling like a student on the first day of class.
She glanced at the living room with its spare and square Swedish furniture—black and white and red all over. Crimson throw pillows on the black sofa matched the drapes that hung from the ceiling to the white-carpeted floor. Along the wall opposite the sofa, a tall white bookcase held an assortment of red vases, bowls, and pitchers, and a couple of photos of a dark-haired young man, probably Raven. The bookcase was sandwiched between two red shelving units full of books. Simone matched the décor in her white sweater, black pants, and red scarf.
She came back from the kitchen with a tray holding two mugs of coffee, a sugar bowl, and a creamer, all red. She set them on the table and sat down across from Val.
“Thank you.” Val took the snack container from her shoulder bag, unsnapped the lid, and put it in the center of the table. “Spiced pecans, oatmeal cookies, and dark chocolate turtles to go with the coffee.”
Simone glanced at the sweets and looked away. “You came to show me something about Rick Usher. How do you know him?”
“I never met him.” Spotting him while looking for a cadaver in his yard didn’t count. “I know him only by association. Don Myer is my grandfather. He’s—”
“The imposter at the book club! So you were in on that hoax.” Simone pointed an accusing finger at Val.
“No. I was shocked to see my grandfather. He was equally surprised to see me there.” Val sipped her coffee, a rich dark roast that tasted as strong as it smelled. “I have something to show you related to the other man you saw pretending to be Rick Usher. Do you happen to know his real name?”
Simone shook her head. “He was at a book signing in Salisbury the weekend before last. I was going to follow him when he left the Barnes & Noble, but he lost me.”
If she didn’t know the impersonator’s name, she had no reason to connect him to a murdered actor who was twenty years younger. Good. Val would just as soon not bring up Emmett’s murder if she could avoid it.
She reached into her bag for the photos her cousin had touched up. “Could any of these be the man you saw at the bookstore?” She handed the pictures to Simone.
Simone looked at each picture for about three seconds, her face as unchanged as a mask. “The three of them are trying to look like Rick Usher. Did they all pretend to be him?”
Val shook her head. “Two of them didn’t. One of them might have.”
“So this is why you came? To give me a multiple-choice test. A. B. C.” She put one photo on the table as she spoke each letter, lining them up in a column. “Or D—none of the above. Why do you care who impersonated Rick Usher?”
Professor Simone wouldn’t respond to the multiple-choice question until Val passed an oral exam. She’d flunk if her answer wasn’t convincing. She’d better stick close to the truth. “One of those men filed a false report to the police about somebody I love. I want to convince them not to trust what he told them.”
Simone held up her hand like a traffic cop. “What makes you think that same man posed as Rick?”
Val chose her words carefully. “The last time I saw that man, he resembled Rick Usher in his publicity photo.” Val cradled her coffee mug. “If he posed as Usher, it’s proof of dishonesty that I can take to the police.”
“Your grandfather was similarly dishonest.”
“Once. He won’t do it again.” Val sipped her coffee. Maybe she needed to sweeten the pot with more than the snacks she’d brought to coax Simone into picking out the impersonator. Give information to get information. “My grandfather took you seriously when you said Rick Usher might be dead. He dropped in at the Usher house early in the morning and managed to speak with Rick in private for two hours. They exchanged stories about Korea in the 1950s. Hard to believe that another eighty-year-old with the same looks and background as Rick Usher has taken up permanent residence in that house.”
Simone raised one eyebrow until it went halfway to her hairline. “If he’s fine, why isn’t he at book signings? I’ll believe he’s alive and well when I see him in person.” She selected a chocolate turtle from the snack collection.
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