The older woman sitting next to Louisa spoke up. “I volunteer on a suicide hotline. Hardly anyone commits suicide by drowning. It’s an agonizing way to die. Suicidal people look for fast and easy methods.”
Louisa nodded. “Like guns. I heard gun suicides are more common than gun murders.”
Val wiped the counter. “That doesn’t mean Otto committed suicide.”
Louisa gave her a sharp look. “So you think he was murdered? Are the police treating his death as a murder?”
Val shrugged. “They haven’t said.”
* * *
On the way home from the café, Val stopped at the Warbecks’ house, a nice but ordinary two-story neo-Colonial.
Cheyenne answered the doorbell. “Val, I’m so glad you came by. I was planning to get in touch with you.” She opened the door wide and beckoned Val into the hallway with a staircase to the upper floor.
An enthusiastic welcome, considering Cheyenne hadn’t even seen the chocolate chip cookies Val had brought. Had she really intended to contact Val, or did she just say that out of politeness? “I stopped by to say how sorry I am for your loss. And I brought you some cookies.”
Cheyenne took the tin Val held out. “Aw. Thank you. You are so nice, like everyone else in this town.”
“Bayport has lots of friendly people. It’s a good place to get your bearings.”
“I’d have been happy to live here with Otto. Now, without him, I doubt I’ll stay. Come in and sit down.” She led the way into the living room and put the cookie tin on the coffee table next to her phone. “I’ll get us some iced tea.” She bustled through the dining room to the kitchen.
Val nearly tripped on the fringe of a Persian rug as she crossed the room, which looked like a Titanic museum. The decor recalled the opulence of a bygone era—Tiffany lamps, claw-foot chairs and sofas upholstered in velvet and brocade, marble-topped side tables with carved wood bases. A painting over the sofa depicted the majestic ship leaving port. Val glanced at the newspaper front pages framed and displayed on the walls. The Boston Globe with the headline “Titanic Sinks, 1500 Die” hung next to the Evening Sun reporting “All Titanic Passengers Are Safe.” News and false hope, side by side. A curio cabinet held a wood model of the ship and antique silver serving pieces—things that would catch dust and need polishing.
Poor Cheyenne. She was stuck in a house full of century-old objects related to a disaster with a huge death toll. No wonder she wanted to leave.
She came back from the kitchen with two iced teas and put them on the glass-topped coffee table. Val sat down on a pink velvet love seat.
Cheyenne sank into a brocade-covered sofa at right angles to the love seat. “How long have you lived in Bayport?”
“I moved here a little over a year ago, after professional and personal setbacks. Now I feel like it’s the home I always wanted and didn’t have most of my life.”
“You’re lucky. I don’t know where home for me is yet.” The widow sipped her iced tea. “Bethany told me you’ve looked into some mysterious deaths here and found evidence of what happened. Can you prove that my husband didn’t commit suicide?” When Val hesitated, Cheyenne added, “I’ll pay you.”
“I won’t take any money.” Val was glad Granddad didn’t hear her say that. Money always came with strings attached to the person who was paying. “To prove something didn’t happen, you have to find out what did happen.”
“That’s what I want you to do. Find out who shot Otto.” She set her iced tea glass on the table. “Otto had a secret agenda for that dinner party. I don’t know if it had anything to do with his death, but I’ll share with you what he told me about his guests.”
Chapter 12
Cheyenne opened the tin with the cookies. “Some small things disappeared from Otto’s Titanic collection around the time when he was breaking up with Stacy. He suspected Trey of stealing them, but he couldn’t prove it. A few months ago, before we moved here, he saw one of them in the antique shop Homer owns.”
Val glanced at the curio shelves full of small things, easy to swipe. “What was it?”
“A silver bud vase with the emblem of the White Star Line. It came from a sister ship, not the Titanic. They both had vases like that.”
The White Star Line must have ordered those vases by the cartload, but if few existed a hundred years later, a single vase might be worth a lot. “How did Otto know that the one in Homer’s shop came from his collection?”
“Otto said the vase had scratches identical to the ones on his vase. Homer asked for proof of ownership. Otto had to search for the paperwork because we were in the process of moving. By the time he went back to the shop, the vase was gone. Homer said the consigner had taken it back. He wouldn’t give Otto the name of the person who brought in the vase. He said anonymity was part of the consignment agreement.”
Val could understand Homer’s reluctance to get in the middle of a dispute about ownership. “I guess there was nothing Otto could do to get the vase back.”
“He tried. He thought Homer was keeping it to sell under the table. Otto sent me to the antique shop. I used my maiden name and told Homer I was looking for Titanic collectibles for my husband. He showed me all kinds of things, but nothing on Otto’s list of stolen items. My husband sent me to the shop twice more. I even asked to see vases from other ocean liners. No luck.”
The antique dealer had either acted aboveboard or suspected a trap. “Did Homer have any idea who you were?” Val said.
“I don’t think so. When he boarded the yacht on Saturday, he told me I looked like someone he once knew.” Cheyenne laughed.
Val sipped her iced tea. “With Otto’s suspicions about the stolen vase, it’s strange he invited Homer to the dinner party.”
“He said he had unfinished business with Homer. When I found out Trey was invited too, I realized what Otto had in mind. He wanted to see if Trey and Homer gave any sign of knowing each other.”
Knowing each other wouldn’t prove that they conspired to sell stolen items. Val came up with another possible reason for Otto’s invitation. He wanted them to squirm during the mystery game while the other guests served as his mouthpiece. Though Val had been distracted during the game, she’d heard insinuations that Trey was a jewel thief and Homer a shady dealer.
Cheyenne’s phone played a tune. She picked it up and glanced at the display. “Excuse me. I’ll have to get this.” She went into the hall.
Val stood up and took a cookie. Better to eat it on her feet rather than risk dropping a tiny bit of chocolate on the pink velvet upholstery. She noticed some framed pictures of Otto and stacks of photos on the dining room table. She couldn’t resist a peek at them.
Cheyenne joined her. “I’m trying to decide which pictures of Otto to include in the video at the memorial service. Just by looking at them, I found out things I never knew about him. Look, he played baseball.” She picked up a stack of photos and extracted one of a boy about nine or ten, posing with a bat. Then she showed Val some pictures of Otto on his college baseball team—batting, fielding, and posing with his teammates. “We weren’t married long enough for me to get to know him.” She bit her lip, holding back tears.
Val leafed through the photos, giving Cheyenne time to handle her onslaught of grief.
The college player looked like a younger version of the Otto Val had met, but the child in the photo didn’t. His baseball hat was too big for his small head, as were his ears. His teeth protruded. Either he’d changed a lot during puberty or the boy with the bat was someone else, possibly a brother or a friend. There were piles of pictures for Cheyenne to sift through.
When she looked composed, Val said, “Does Otto have relatives who can help you select photos?”
“Not really. His sister died when he was in his twenties, and his parents are dead too. His closest relatives are second cousins in California. They didn’t even bother to come to our wedding, but I heard from them today. Ha.” Cheyenne’s mock laugh sounded as if she
was spitting out something bitter. “One of them even had the nerve to ask about Otto’s will. I’d just heard from his lawyer that Otto left me everything, except for the Titanic stuff, which goes to different museums. I made that perfectly clear to the California clan. Now that they know they’ll get nothing, I’d be surprised if they show up for the memorial service.”
“Don’t rule it out,” Val said. “They may become your new best friends.”
Cheyenne groaned. “When you grow up cash-strapped like I did, you imagine that having money will solve all your problems. That’s not true. You just have different problems. From now on, I won’t know whether people like me for myself or for my money. Not a worry I had with Otto or anybody else, until now.” She rubbed her temples, as if the prospect of being rich gave her a throbbing headache. Her phone rang again. “Excuse me.” She slipped into the kitchen to take the call.
Val shuffled through the photos on the table. A picture of Otto as a child caught her eye. He looked a lot like the boy with the baseball bat, small-faced with prominent teeth and ears. He had a baby girl on his lap. Was she the sister who’d died young?
Cheyenne came back into the dining room. “I’ve just lost my husband and I get self-serving phone calls from second cousins, people I used to work with, and even total strangers. They start with condolences and end with schemes they want me to invest in or donations they say Otto intended to make. Let’s sit down again. I want to try your cookies. I haven’t eaten much since Sunday night. What were we talking about?”
“Otto’s suspicions about Trey and Homer.” Val followed Cheyenne into the living room.
Cheyenne perched on the sofa and bit into a cookie. “Mmm. This is heavenly.” She gobbled it up. “I couldn’t understand why Otto was so convinced Trey was the thief when Stacy could have stolen the stuff just as easily.”
A touch of resentment against wife number one? Maybe everything Cheyenne had said previously had been leading up to an accusation against Stacy. “Did it bother you that Otto invited his former wife to the party?”
“Yes, it bothered me. Especially because he didn’t tell me until half an hour before the party started. I couldn’t do anything to change his mind then.”
Except complain loudly. As Cheyenne reached for another cookie, Val remembered hearing the raised voices of Otto and his wife as they argued on the lower deck, possibly about his former wife. Could he have decided to turn back the clock, divorce his new wife, and try again with Stacy? If so, Cheyenne would have had a reason to kill him before he could do that. She also had a reason to suggest the theft of Titanic artifacts as the motive for his murder.
Val decided to push the issue. “Do you think Otto’s pursuit of the stolen artifacts had something to do with his death?”
Cheyenne fidgeted. “Stacy and Trey wouldn’t want the theft to come out. Draw your own conclusion.”
Val preferred probing to accepting Cheyenne’s implications. “If Otto didn’t have proof that Trey stole the item when the theft occurred, he certainly wouldn’t have found it now.”
“But people don’t think things through when they feel threatened. Trey must have known Otto suspected him after Otto gave him the part of a thief in the mystery game.”
Val seized her chance to bring up the reason for her visit. “Speaking of the game, is there a copy of it on Otto’s computer?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t check. The police took his electronic equipment, the computer, the printer, and the cell phone.” Cheyenne tilted her head sideways, scrutinizing Val. “Bethany told me you’d collected the booklets from the table Saturday and left them on the yacht. She said you were going to pick them up along with the leftover food. Didn’t you find them?”
“All except Homer’s. I hoped you could get it from Otto’s computer.” Val felt she had to justify her interest in the booklets. “I enjoy solving mysteries, as Bethany told you. To solve the one in the game, I need to know what comes out in the last scenes.”
“You and Homer. He called me yesterday and asked for the game booklets. I told him they were on the yacht.”
Val’s heart sped up. Could Homer have been the figure in black lurking on the dock? Though on the far side of sixty, he looked strong, tall, and broad-shouldered. He’d have no trouble shoving a small woman into a trunk. “Did you mention that Bethany and I were going to the yacht for the leftover food and the booklets?”
Cheyenne looked up at the ceiling as if someone up there knew the answer. “Uh-huh. I’d just gotten off the phone with Bethany. She told me you expected to go there later on.”
Val warned herself not to jump to conclusions. Homer might have seen them go aboard the yacht, waited until they left, and then followed her all the way home. But would he have assaulted her on the off chance that her bag contained the mystery game booklets? And why would he want them? She could think of one reason—to limit any damage to his reputation if the similarity between his character and the role he played as a crooked dealer came out. He had more to lose than Stacy or Trey if Otto went public with his suspicions about the stolen Titanic artifacts. His business would decline if customers couldn’t rely on his honesty.
Cheyenne took another cookie. “I expected the Titanic mystery game to bomb, but I was really grateful for it that night. It was the cocktail hour that bombed. Stacy lectured Damian, and Louisa lit into her. Trey was rude, and Homer was boring. I was glad we had scripts to follow at the table. Then I didn’t have to make conversation with those horrible people. Damian was the only tolerable guest.”
“Was that the first time you met him and Louisa?”
“I talked to them briefly at the Protect the Bay Barbecue two weeks ago. Damian and Otto played golf together a few days after that.”
“They must have gotten along well for Otto to invite him and his wife to the dinner.”
“When he first mentioned the Titanic party, I suggested inviting a lawyer from his old firm, Jerry Kindell, and his wife. They’d asked us to dinner when we got engaged and come to our wedding. They couldn’t make it, so Otto invited Damian and Louisa instead. He needed another couple for his mystery game to work.”
Cheyenne’s phone summoned her again.
“Hello . . . Yes.” She listened and said, “Funny you should call. Give me a second.” She turned to Val. “I’ll be right back.”
Val watched her leave for the kitchen. Otto’s wife had talked freely, but not because Val had brought cookies or expertly coaxed information from her. Cheyenne had revealed what she’d wanted others to know and probably concealed at least as much. Unless she was a very good actress, she hadn’t faked her deep unhappiness. She could be grieving even if she’d murdered Otto—grieving for a marriage that didn’t work out.
Cheyenne didn’t sit down when she returned to the living room. Instead she moved toward the foyer. “Thank you so much for the cookies. It was good to talk to you.”
Reluctantly, Val stood up. “Have you told the police what Otto suspected about the stolen Titanic artifacts?”
Cheyenne shook her head. “What if he was wrong? I’d hate to denounce anyone to the police without any evidence. If you find some evidence, you could bring it to their attention. It would be more believable if it came from you. You’re someone they know.”
With Cheyenne moving closer to the front door, Val could no longer ignore the hints to leave. Thanks to the widow, she knew where to go next. “What’s the name of Homer’s antique shop?”
“Timeless Treasures. More trinkets than treasures in that place. Thank you again for coming by. I’d appreciate anything you can do to put a lid on the idea that Otto committed suicide.”
Back in the car Val checked for the shop’s address and phone number. Barring an accident on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Val had enough time to get to the shop and back before dinner. She called the shop to make sure Homer would be there and then drove toward Annapolis.
Chapter 13
A sixtyish woman with henna hair and foot-long fea
ther earrings smiled from behind the counter at Homer’s antique shop. Vintage jewelry hung from her neck and encircled her arms.
“Welcome to Timeless Treasures,” she said in a Southern drawl. “We specialize in itty-bitty things. Our shop is full of unique, exquisite pieces small enough to fit in your purse or under your arm. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”
Homer, but he was far from small. Val spotted him with a customer at the other end of the long, narrow shop. “I’ll browse a bit.” Several thousand items stood between her and Homer.
“You poke around all you like, hon.” The woman took a sip from a crystal water glass near the checkout counter. “Smalls are big in the world of antiques these days—tiny collectibles with lots of personality and fascinating histories. People make groupings of little treasures. They’re so economical you can replace them frequently and have something new for your friends to admire each time they visit. And they make such nice gifts too.”
Val surveyed the room. The smalls rested on shelves and glass cases along the side walls and on tables that stretched like a chain of islands from the front to the back of the shop. The table nearest the checkout counter held brass horse irons, glass ink bottles, crystal salt cellars, china cups, silver candle snuffers, wood bowls, and enamel boxes of myriad sizes and shapes. She knew little about antiques, but she would have expected groupings by function or material. “Do you have the smalls organized by their origin or historical period?”
“Nothing like that. You can focus on a treasure better if it’s not surrounded by similar things.” The woman joined Val at the table, carrying her glass with her. “We do have some special sections toward the back, one for nautical collectibles—mostly things from ocean liners. Along the far wall, where you see my husband, we have vintage jewelry and Titanic treasures.”
Startled that the woman was married to Homer, Val thought of the old quip about England and America as countries divided by a common language. The Huxbys were similarly divided, the husband with clipped British tones, the wife with elongated syllables like molasses slowly spreading. “I met Homer for the first time last weekend. I didn’t realize he was your husband. I’m Val Deniston.”
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