No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7

by Barton, Sara M.

  “How can you say that?” Tom looked utterly shocked, and for a fleeting second, I almost fell for it. But then he gave himself away. “I was in pain! I was suffering! I gave you what I could, under the circumstances!”

  “Well, that wasn’t what I needed and it’s still not, so let’s end this conversation here. I really don’t want to see you again.” I turned to the door and that’s when it happened. Tom’s left hand gripped my shoulder and propelled me forward, while his right turned the door handle, gaining access to my world. I felt myself stumbling as I crossed the threshold.

  “That has to be the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me!” he yelled. “You are a very cold-hearted woman, Kimberly Sheffield!”

  “Get out!” I shouted back. My heart pounded hard inside my chest as my voice climbed several octaves. “Get out of my house right now!”

  I shook myself free of his grasp, pulled myself up to my full height, and prepared myself for battle. Tom seemed to recognize the futility of waging war with me. He took a deep breath as his demeanor deflated, and he sat himself down in Adelaide’s favorite wing chair.

  “Wow,” he sighed. “Am I really that awful? Was I really such a bad guy when we were together?”

  I stood out of reach, wary of trusting him. A sense of genuine remorse seemed to come over him. He kept his eyes on the fringe of Adelaide’s Aubusson rug as it sat on the polished wood floor. As the minutes ticked on, he showed no signs of leaving.

  “Tom?” I said his name and he looked up hopefully. “It’s time for you to go. I mean it.”

  “Okay, you win. I give up.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll go.”

  He got as far as the front door before he turned back to me. For a moment, I thought I saw the flash of a diabolical gleam in those eyes of his, but then it was gone. He gave me a sad smile.

  “If we’re really over, Kim, can I have something of mine back?”

  “What?” Maybe this was the real reason he came to see me. Now it was beginning to make sense.

  “Do you remember that silver chicken spice box I brought you back from Germany?”

  “The spice box?” I did a quick inventory of the gifts he had given me while we were together. The spice box was something he had made a big fuss over when he presented it to me. Done in 800 French silver, it was unique and charming. I had fallen in love with it the moment I saw it. Why was Tom asking about it now?

  “If it’s really over between us,” he said, “really over, I’d like that back. It has great sentimental value for me.”

  “I thought you bought it at a flea market in Frankfurt just before you gave it to me.” He had some nerve asking for that back. It’s not like it was an engagement ring.

  “I did,” he agreed, nodding. “But it was just like one my grandmother had when I was a child. I’d like it back.”

  “It was a gift, not a loan,” I pointed out curtly.

  “Still, I’d like it back.” He moved towards me, and for a moment, I felt a menacing chill. How serious was he about the chicken spice box? “It’s very important that I have it.”

  “You can’t have it right now. I’m in the middle of having my things shipped up here.” Don’t ask me why, but I flat out lied. I’m not normally given to deception, but something about Tom’s manner urged me on. That chicken was sitting in my bedroom, on a shelf with some other trinkets. Part of me wanted to keep that silver chicken spice box just because he had given it to me. It was a consolation gift for the pain he caused me when he left. And part of me also wanted to keep it from him, to pay him back for coming back and playing on my emotions. But most of all, I wanted to know why that silver chicken spice box was so important to him. Until I had the answer to that, I was holding onto it.

  “When will you get it for me?” Tom said, a tone of urgency slipping into his voice.

  “My tenant is making arrangements for me. When my things arrive, I’ll send it to you. Just write down your address.” I took a note pad and a pen off the kitchen counter and handed it to Tom.

  “Thanks,” he said, jotting the information on the paper. “You’re sure there’s nothing for us to rekindle?”

  “Positive,” I responded.

  “Too bad,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I still find you irresistible.”

  Before I could do anything, Tom reached out and kissed my lips, holding my face in his hands. Memories flooded my head as I felt the familiar lips, the last lips I had kissed, moving over mine with a penetrating hunger. I pulled away, feeling overwhelmed.

  “Whoa!” I put my hand out, to prevent Tom from coming after me. “No!”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?” There was a small smirk on those deceitful lips. He seemed quite proud of himself. “See you.”

  With that, he was out the door in a few giant steps, bounding to his car with a spring in his stride. What had happened that made him so happy? I didn’t think it was the kiss. Was it that I promised to return the chicken spice box to him?

  Even after all this time, I still didn’t understand Tom. He always seemed to have a hidden agenda. Now, with the passing years, it was easier for me to see just how manipulative Tom really was. Thank goodness I didn’t marry him, as we had planned. It would have been a complete disaster. We never really clicked as a couple. It was pure animal attraction driving that relationship. How did it start? What stopped me from seeing him for what he really was?

  As Tom drove away, I pulled the drapes in every room, feeling incredibly vulnerable. I didn’t trust him not to double-back. Something had changed between us. Any semblance of trust had vaporized when Tom forced his way into Adelaide’s house.

  I waited a good half hour before I went to my bedroom and reached up to the shelf where that silver chicken spice box sat. I held it in my hands, trying to determine why it was so important. It didn’t seem different to my untrained eye. When Tom first gave it to me, I had had it appraised. The written estimate for replacement value was under two thousand dollars. Maybe it was more valuable now. Maybe that’s why he wanted it back.

  This weighed on my mind well into the next day. I forced myself to think about our relationship. Tom was the one man in my life who didn’t fit into my world. I always was expected to fit into his. He was never an easy man to love. A little too dangerous. A little too daring. A little too selfish. What had drawn us together? In and out of the hours, tiny snippets of memories came sneaking back into my mind. We were guests at Delia and Bennie’s wedding. He begged me to dance. My reluctance only seemed to feed the fire, making me even more attractive. He would not take no for an answer. He kept asking me if I knew how attractive and irresistible I was to men like him. Unfortunately, he forgot to inform me he was still very much married. I found out six months into our relationship, when he announced that he was finally legally separated. By then, our relationship had progressed to the point where Tom wanted to move in. I hesitated, in part due to the shock of finding out he had deceived me.

  I passed the morning working on my cookbook outlines. At eleven, the phone rang. It was Barry.

  “Kim!” He sounded like he was crying. “Something terrible happened!”

  “What?” I gave him my full attention. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s horrible! Jim was assaulted! He’s in the hospital!”

  “What happened?” I asked, dreading the details.

  “Jim got your key in the mail this morning, so he decided he was going to go over to your storage unit and take a look. The guy from the moving company was supposed to meet him there, so they could talk about what size truck was needed for your stuff and to sign a contract.”

  There was a long pause. I could hear Barry sobbing in the background. How bad was it? Would Jim survive?

  “Sorry,” he apologized, trying to catch his breath. He cleared his throat and steadied himself before going on. “The moving man found him on the floor. He was…very bloody. The police said that he had been assaulted with a stun gun and beaten with so
me kind of club. He has a concussion, a couple of broken ribs, a broken arm, and a fractured jaw.”

  “Oh, Barry,” I cried. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “The police said it looked deliberate. They have the surveillance tapes. Kim, three guys went right up to your unit and went in. They were in there for almost twenty minutes. They didn’t leave with anything, so the police don’t think robbery was a motive. They were dressed in black masks.”

  I thought about what I kept in the unit. There were a few family heirlooms and some decorator knock-offs I paid an arm and a leg for, but most of the items had only sentimental value to me. Hardly anything that would appeal to a gang of thieves, especially a violent one.

  There was shock and disbelief in Barry’s voice. I understood why. Jim wasn’t the kind of man who made enemies. The thought that three men would intentionally brutalize him was overwhelming.

  “This is unbelievable,” I said, feeling completely and utterly helpless.

  “Tell me about it! The police need to talk to him. They will if…if he ever wakes up again.” The thought of losing Jim this way was frightening to me. I could only imagine what it was like for Barry.

  “Call me. It doesn’t matter what time of day or night. Anything you need.” I could hear Barry sighing on the other end and my heart ached for him. This catastrophe had shaken him down to his soul.

  “Kim,” he said softly, “what am I going to do if he doesn’t make it? He’s my best friend.”

  “He’s going to be okay,” I insisted. “You have to believe that. And the police will catch the creeps who did this.”

  “I know you’re just saying that, but thanks. I need to believe you’re right.”

  “Me, too,” I admitted.

  Chapter Six —

  After lunch, I decided to get a new appraisal for the silver chicken spice box. I carefully packed it in my oversized purse and drove a couple of miles to Ranly, to a little antique store I had visited more than a few times. The owner was a helpful woman in her sixties, with a passion for the unusual and a penchant for doing her research.

  “Amanda,” I greeted her as she came out from behind the counter, “is there any chance you can tell me something about this little piece?”

  Holding the silver figurine in my hand, I offered it up to her trained eye. Her eyes grew narrow as she looked it over quickly. I watched her brow curl into a frown. She took out a magnifier and gave it another examination.

  “Lovely,” she decided. “Nice casting. French. Late eighteen ninety, maybe nineteen hundred.”

  “So?” I was confused. “What’s the problem?”

  “Here,” her long, polished fingernail tapped the bottom of the bird, “we have all the normal marks of the maker. Everything matches the catalog listings.”

  “What’s the but?” I demanded.

  “There are extra numbers here. See? One-one-four,” she recited. I followed her finger to the tiny engraving on the base of the bird. “That’s not normal for this silversmith.”

  Gazing at the spot she indicated, I could barely see the microscopic numbers, even with her jeweler’s loop. To my untrained eye, they just looked like strokes of feathers. What did all this mean?

  “My best guess? These were added by someone else.”

  “How strange,” I replied. “Why would someone do that?”

  “If you look closely, you can see someone tried to mimic the maker’s marks, but they aren’t quite as deep. Same script style, though. Fancy a cup of Earl Grey?”

  Amanda led me to the back room, where she had a small microwave. We had tea together in colorful mugs. It was just after three when I left the shop.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into Adelaide’s driveway, collected the mail from the box, and walked up the path to the front door. As I slipped my key into the lock, I thought I heard a sound inside. Peeking through the front window, I saw a furtive flash of movement in the hallway, heading towards the bedrooms. Jim popped into my mind and I suddenly wondered if I was walking into a trap, facing a similar fate to my tenant in Belle Haven. With my heart pounding its way out of my chest, I stepped away, intending to get back into my car and phone the police.

  The blow struck me without warning as I was accosted from behind. Strange hands gripped me roughly. I tried to scream, kicking wildly, trying to land a blow. A car horn blared. Just as suddenly, I was released, shoved to the ground, landing face first in a bed of fuschia-colored petunias. I heard voices, heading my way.

  “Are you okay?” Mrs. Patel, the next-door neighbor, came running. “I saw what happened to you. I called the police. They’re on their way.”

  “Thank you,” I said, accepting her help to get me back on my feet. I was very wobbly. Looking down at my slacks, I was also pretty filthy. There were two rather large grass stains on my knees. Mr. Monroe and his son, Bobby, came running up.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” I said. My elbows were skinned, but I was otherwise uninjured.

  “He wasn’t alone, you know,” Bobby said. “Another guy took off across the backyard. They had stockings over their heads.”

  “Weird,” his father exclaimed. “Imagine that, in broad daylight!”

  Less than ten minutes later, escorted by two officers, I put my key in the front door and went in to find a house torn upside down. The cushions of the sofa and wing chair were sliced open. Every drawer in the nineteenth century secretary that belonged to my dad’s family was upended onto a pile in the middle of the room. Even the kitchen was ravaged. Cabinet doors and drawers were left open. Food packages were opened and the contents were dumped in the sink.

  “What in God’s name were they looking for?” I stood in the middle of the mess, baffled.

  “Do you keep a lot of valuables in the house?” the first officer wondered.

  “No,” I shook my head. “In fact, I’m getting ready to move, so I’ve been trying to pack. Oh, the boxes in my mother’s bedroom!”

  I led the police down the hall. Every box stacked up against the wall had been slashed open and the contents were strewn across the floor. I sunk down on my mother’s double bed, stunned.

  “Why would someone do this?”

  “Can you tell if anything is missing?” another cop wanted to know. I looked around, baffled.

  “Not just by looking at the boxes,” I admitted. “It will take me a while. I have to go through everything.

  “Is the house on the market?” the first cop wanted to know.

  “No. I was planning to move out before I started having the real estate agent show it, because it’s so small.”

  “You’ve been here for awhile?”

  “Yes, I’ve lived here for the last few years,” I explained. “My mother died a few months ago. I’m in the middle of relocating.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “To Jenkins Beach,” I explained. “I was going to go back to my condo in Belle Haven, but a family friend asked me to help care for his elderly mother. I’m in the middle of having my possessions shipped up to the new place.”

  “Can you give us a description of either man?”

  “Not really.” It was true. All I saw was a man in street clothes, fleeing the scene with a stocking over his head.

  Just then, a uniformed officer showed up in the bedroom, accompanied by a pair of plain clothes detectives, one female, one male.

  “I’m Wallinski,” the woman said, with a quick flash of her badge, “and this is my partner, Zoros.”

  “Ms. Sheffield, do you have any enemies?” Detective Zoros asked. The question took me by surprise.

  “I’m a cookbook author. Why would I have enemies?”

  “Any unusual interactions lately?” The older detective was taking notes. He looked at me over his glasses. “Any relationships turned ugly?”

  “Why?” I wondered.

  “Either someone was looking for something specific here or was interested in sending you a message. They left behind a lot of very valua
ble things. I think we can rule out robbery.”

  “There is something you should know. My tenant down in Belle Haven was attacked when he went to my storage unit the other day. Three men in black masks beat him up.”

  “Why don’t you give us the information and we’ll coordinate with the police department down there?” The detective’s radio crackled.

  “Back to the question,” a female detective asked, pen in hand as she paused to take notes. “Any relationships that went bad?”

  “Tom came to see me. My ex-boyfriend.” I went through the short version of the story.

  “Do you have the item he wanted?”

  “As a matter of fact, I took it with me to have it appraised.” I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to the male detective. “It was with me when those men broke in. But why would they want it?

  “What’s something like this worth?” he asked.

  “According to the antiques dealer I know, about two thousand dollars.”

  “For this?” He studied it more closely. “What makes it worth so much?”

  “It’s French, late 1890’s, maybe early 1900’s,” I recited what my appraiser told me. I also showed them the unusual numbers on the spice box.

  “We’ll get some photos of this. Do you know why your ex-boyfriend wants it back?”

  “He said it has sentimental value,” I said, skepticism in my voice.

  “Why don’t you believe him?” Detective Wallinski was holding the spice box in her left hand, tracing the marks with her right. She looked up, her eyes alert.

  “He bought it on a trip to Frankfurt,” I said, “when he was there on business. There’s something about it that’s important to him. I just haven’t figured out what it is.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because he started out trying to convince me that we should get back together, and when that failed, he asked for it back.”