He smiled at me. “Wherever you are.”
I skewed around and reached up to touch his cheek. “I feel the same.”
* * *
The morning of Gretchen’s shower, I woke up early, filled with pleasurable anticipation. I showered and dressed and tiptoed out of the house, not wanting to wake Ty, then ran across to Zoë’s.
Jake, age ten, and Emma, age seven, were seated at the farmer’s table by the window with plates of French toast in front of them. Jake, as blond as Zoë’s ex-husband, was tall for his age and lean, like a runner. Emma, who shared her mom’s coloring and delicate features, had grown three inches in the last few months, without gaining any weight; her baby fat was disappearing almost in front of our eyes. A large box of cornflakes lay on its side in the middle of the table. The French toast was smothered in the maple syrup Zoë put up from the ancient maples that ringed the property, and it smelled wonderful.
“I’m here!” I said.
“I’m so excited!” Zoë said. “Gretchen is going to be so surprised!”
I grinned. “I sure hope so.”
“Ellis will be here at eleven to take over babysitting duty. Are you still okay to hang for ten minutes while I grab a shower?”
“You bet! Take fifteen.”
She shot me a grin and ran for the stairs.
“How’s school?” I asked the kids.
“Good,” Jake said.
“Good,” Emma said.
“How’s Mary-Rose?” I asked Emma. The monkey sat on the chair next to her.
“Good.”
“Watch this,” Jake said.
He tiddlywinked a cornflake, using a spoon as a catapult device, into a bowl perched on the window ledge about seven feet from where he sat. He landed one, a money shot, and air-pumped his accomplishment.
“Good job!” I said. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to watch.
His next attempt banked off the window, sprinkling crumbs onto the floor.
“Too bad,” I said.
“My turn!” Emma called.
Wielding the spoon with unsure hands, she sent her cornflake straight up three feet, then twirling onto the table near her plate. Her second try flew to the right and landed on the floor. She pursed her lips. From the set of her jaw I could tell she was mad. She took her time, aimed, and shot the cornflake. This time she hit the bowl’s rim.
“That was good,” Jake said kindly.
“No, it wasn’t,” Emma replied.
She tried again, and again she missed, her cornflake spiraling toward the corner of the room, ten feet from the bowl. She slapped her spoon down in frustration and resumed eating her French toast.
“Shooting cornflakes is too hard,” Emma complained to me. “Can you do it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try.” I balanced a cornflake in the spoon and let ’er rip. I missed by a mile, my flake slamming into the kitchen door a good two feet to the right of the bowl. “Oops.”
Emma giggled.
I tried a second time and hit the door again.
I turned to Emma. “You don’t feel so bad now, do you?”
She giggled again. “No.”
I gave it one more try. This time, I even missed the door.
“Well, what do you know!” Zoë said, stepping into the room. “You’re worse than I am, Josie, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“I’m a novice,” I replied. “Give me practice time and I’ll leave you all in the dust.”
“Even me?” Jake asked.
“Well, maybe not you.” Zoë went for coffee, and I added, “FYI, some crumbs hit the floor. I’ll clean them up.”
“Don’t bother. Cleaning them up is part of my morning routine.”
I smiled. “You’re such a good mom.”
A soft pink flush colored her cheeks. “Thanks … I try.”
* * *
Wes called as Zoë and I were driving to the restaurant. I slipped in my earpiece and took the call.
“Darleen’s filed for divorce,” he said.
“I’m not surprised. It can’t be any fun being married to a criminal. Randall’s going to have a terrible time in jail.”
“That’s the whole idea of jail, Josie,” Wes said. He didn’t add “Duh,” but it was in his voice.
“True,” I said. “What about Lenny?”
“He insists he was acting under duress. My police source says they expect it to go to trial, and he may get off. A working man doing what the boss man tells him, you can hear the lawyer now, right?”
“I’m not so sure he’s wrong,” I said. “He was in what must have felt to him like an impossible situation.”
“Maybe. Or he just lacked character.” He paused. “Got anything else?”
“No,” I said.
“Today’s Gretchen’s shower, huh?”
“Yeah. I’m en route now.”
“Say hey for me to her, okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
As I hung up, I wondered how he knew Gretchen well enough to want to say hey to her, then realized with a jolt that Gretchen might well be one of Wes’s sources. Wes’s reach was growing by the day.
* * *
As soon as Gretchen stepped onto the Bow Street Bar & Grill’s porch, we all yelled, “Surprise!” and she shrieked. Her hands flew to her cheeks; then she spun toward Jack, who stood in back of her, grinning.
“You knew about this!” she said.
“Yup. We all did. It’s called collusion.”
She laughed and ran to me. She hugged me, then hugged me again, whispering, “Thank you, Josie.” She turned back to face the crowd. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! This is so wonderful of you all.”
“Aloha, everybody!” I called. “It’s time for a luau!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ty and I stood on the deck of the Azura as we sailed through a craggy glacier-carved inlet, a fjord near Oslo. To my right, water cascaded from a rocky cliff. To my left, emerald green grass and yellow, blue, violet, pink, and white wildflowers transformed the jutting rock formation into a heavenly garden.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”
Ty reached his arm around my waist and drew me close, and we stood that way, my back against his chest, his arms around me, for a long, long time.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks go to Leslie Hindman, who, with her team at Leslie Hindman Auctioneers, continues to appraise antiques for me to write about. Please note that any errors are mine alone.
Thanks to Christopher Kerezsi for helping me sort through the legal implications of finders-keepers, to Sheila York for listening to my early plans for the book, and to Katie Longhurst for her careful reading of the manuscript.
As a former Mystery Writers of America/New York chapter president and the chair of the Wolfe Pack’s literary awards, I’ve been fortunate to meet and work alongside dozens of talented writers and dedicated readers. Thank you all for your support. For my pals in the Wolfe Pack and fans of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe stories everywhere, I’ve added my usual allotment of Wolfean trivia to this book.
Thank you to Jo-Ann Maude, Christine and Al de los Reyes, and Carol Novak. Thank you also to Dan and Linda Chessman, Marci and James Gleason, John and Mona Gleason, Linda and Ren Plastina, Rona and Ken Foster, Liz Weiner and Bob Farrar, Meredith Anthony and Larry Light, and Wendy Corsi Staub and Mark Staub. Thanks also to Harry Rinker for his invaluable assistance about antiques.
Independent booksellers have been invaluable in helping me introduce Josie to their customers—thank you all. I want to acknowledge my special friends at these independent bookshops: Partners and Crime, Front Street Books, The Poisoned Pen, Well Red Coyote, Clues Unlimited, Mostly Books, Mysteries to Die For, Book’em Mysteries, Legends, Book Carnival, Mysterious Galaxy, M is for Mystery, Murder by the Book in Houston, where David Thompson will be forever missed. Manhattan’s Black Orchid Bookstore is
also still sorely missed; I remain grateful to Bonnie Claeson and Joe Guglielmelli for helping launch Josie. Thanks also to Murder by the Book in Denver, Murder by the Book in Portland, Schuler Books, The Regulator, McIntyre’s, Quail Ridge Books, Book Cove, Remember the Alibi Mystery Bookstore, Centuries & Sleuths, Mystery Lovers Bookshop, The Mystery Company, The Mysterious Bookshop, Booked for Murder, Aunt Agatha’s, Foul Play, Windows a Bookshop, Murder by the Beach, Books & Books, Moore Books, The Bookstore in the Grove, Uncle Edgar’s Mystery Bookstore, Seattle Mystery Bookstore, Park Road Books, and Once Upon a Crime. Thanks again to Linda and Bobby from the now-gone Mystery Bookstore in Los Angeles. Many chain bookstores have been incredibly supportive as well—thank you to those many booksellers who’ve gone out of their way to become familiar with Josie.
Thanks also to the Jane Austen Society of North America, Linda Landigran of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Barbara Floyd of The Country Register, and Wilda W. Williams of Library Journal. Special thanks also to Molly Weston and Jen Forbus. Thank you as well to The Samaritans of New York, a wonderful organization dedicated to suicide prevention with whom I’ve been affliated for more than fifteen years.
Special thanks to my librarian friends David S. Ferriero, Doris Ann Norris, Sally Fellows, Mary Russell, Denise Van Zanten, Mary Callahan Boone, with whom I share a love of theater, Cynde Bloom Lahey, Cyndi Rademacher, Eleanor Ratterman, Jane Murphy, Eileen Sheridan, Jennifer Vido, Judith Abner, Karen Kiley, Lesa Holstine, Monique Flasch, Susie Schachte, Virginia Sanchez, Maxine Bleiweis, Cindy Clark, Linda Avellar, Heidi Fowler, Georgia Owens, Eva Perry, Mary J. Etter, Paul Schroeder, Tracy J. Wright, Kristi Calhoun Belesca, Paulette Sullivan, Frances Mendelsohn, Deborah Hirsch, Sharon Redfern, and Heather Caines.
Thank you to my literary agent emerita, Denise Marcil. I remain grateful for her support and encouragement. Special thanks go to my fabulous literary agent, Cristina Concepcion of Don Congdon Associates, Inc. Thank you to Michael Congdon, Katie Kotchman, and Katie Grimm as well.
My editor, Minotaur Books’ executive editor, Hope Dellon, continues to provide insightful feedback about the manuscript. Special thanks also go to Silissa Kenney, editorial assistant, for her thoughtful comments. I’m indebted to them, and to the entire Minotaur Books’ team. Thank you also to those I work with most often, Andy Martin, Hector DeJean, Sarah Melnyk, and Talia Ross, as well as those behind the scene, including my copy editor, India Cooper, and my cover designer, David Baldeosingh Rotstein.
OTHER JOSIE PRESCOTT ANTIQUES MYSTERIES BY JANE K. CLELAND
Deadly Threads
Silent Auction
Killer Keepsakes
Antiques to Die For
Deadly Appraisal
Consigned to Death
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DOLLED UP FOR MURDER. Copyright © 2012 by Jane K. Cleland. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Cleland, Jane K.
Dolled up for murder / Jane K. Cleland.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-00184-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-4250-8 (e-book)
1. Prescott Josie (Fictitious Character)—Fiction. 2. Kidnapping—Fiction. 3. Appraisers—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. New Hampshire—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.L4555D65 2012
813'.6—dc23
2011045374
e-ISBN 9781429942508
First Edition: April 2012
Dolled Up for Murder Page 26