I hated to admit it, but she was right.
“I’ll go along with it,” I said, “as long as you let me know when he’s coming over. I want to be sure I’m home when he’s there.”
She didn’t answer.
“Aunt Tress?”
“I know, I heard you. I was just thinking that Lou’s birthday was coming up next week. I’d originally planned to bake him a coconut cake, but then …” She shook her head.
I reached over and squeezed her arm, and for a while we drove in silence. Since we were running early—it was only eight thirty-five—I decided to swing by the Dwardene place to see if anything was happening.
Minutes later, I pulled alongside the curb in front of the mansion, just as a large white truck was swinging out of the driveway. The truck merged into the morning traffic and headed toward the center of town. What I didn’t see was any logo or banner on its side panel. Was it a state police crime scene van, traveling incognito?
I slid my gearshift into Park and sat for a moment, staring at the house. As mansions go, the Dwardene residence was actually fairly small. Built over a century ago in the Second Empire style, it had a central portico with two paired columns supporting a shallow balcony. On either side of the entrance was a tall shuttered window with a horizontal hood. The mansard roof, gracefully sloped and topped by a lantern-like structure, lent the dwelling the look of a fancy wedding cake, albeit one long abandoned by a loveless bride and groom. The facade, once showy and dramatic, now drooped like a tired old woman propped up by a pair of canes. A huge mound of snow had blown onto the front steps, giving the house a neglected look.
Behind the mansion was a two-car garage that was only partially visible from the road. Squat and plain, it bore no resemblance to the dwelling. Clearly it had been built for functionality and not for style. Another truck—this one a rugged-looking flatbed—was backed up to one of the bays.
“That looks like a tow truck,” Aunt Tressa said, stepping out of the car. “Let’s check it out.”
A feeling of gloom crept over me as I trudged up the paved drive behind my aunt. Thankfully the driveway had been plowed, but it was slippery in spots. I warned Aunt Tressa to watch out for icy patches.
On the hood of the flatbed, two large foam cups sat alongside a white paper bag. As we drew closer, I caught a glimpse of a vehicle inside the garage, but couldn’t discern any particular make or model.
A tousled head of bright orange hair popped up like a jackin-the-box from behind the truck, giving my heart a jump-start. Dressed in work blues and sporting grime-covered canvas gloves, the man speared us with a suspicious glare, then came around to the side of the truck where we were standing. “Help you ladies with something?” he barked.
“Um, no, we were just—” What were we doing, other than being outrageously nosy?
“Never mind, Chet, I know these two,” came an exasperated voice from around the other side. Josh Baker, who’d apparently been stooped behind the tow truck, stood and glowered at us— his usual cordial greeting of late.
“Hey, Josh,” I said brightly. “We were driving by on the way to work and wondered what was happening. We noticed a white truck pulling out of the driveway.”
Pulling off his leather gloves, Josh strode toward us. “Yeah, that was a moving truck. They loaded up as much of Edgar’s furniture and stuff as they could fit. They’ll have to make at least two more trips to get the rest of it out of here. Good ol’ Blake used his influence with the chief to get the crime scene released in a hurry, didn’t he?” he added with a sneer.
I wondered if Josh was imagining that, or if Blake was really that tight with Chief Fenton.
Squinting against the bright sun, I peered into the garage. A single overhead bulb shone over a huge, cream-colored vehicle that looked straight out of a forties’ gangster film. “Wow,” I said. “Was that Edgar’s car?”
Josh turned his back on me and walked into the garage, where Aunt Tressa was already peeking through the windows of the mammoth vehicle.
“Technically, yes, but originally it belonged to Frederic Dwardene, Edgar’s uncle.”
Frederic Dwardene. I knew the name from the title search I’d done on Edgar’s property. If I remembered correctly, Frederic died in the early fifties. Since he’d been a widower with no living children, his entire estate went to his brother Mason—Blake’s grandfather.
“What is it, a Nash?” Aunt Tressa’s designer sunglasses were pressed to the passenger-side window.
Josh stroked his hand lovingly over the car’s curved front bumper. “Of course not. This stunning creation is a nineteen forty-seven Hudson Commodore Six sedan. Isn’t she the most spectacular thing you’ve ever seen?”
Maybe not the most spectacular, but I couldn’t help admiring the gargantuan hunk of Detroit metal, only a foot or two shorter than a cruise ship. “It’s a beautiful car, but does it run?”
“Not yet,” Josh said, “but I’ve been working on the restoration. I’ve already sunk several hundred bucks into it, and that’s only on minor parts.”
I peered at the horizontal slats of chrome that formed the impressive grille work. “The grille has a bit of rust, but the body’s in decent shape. It doesn’t look as if it’s had much exposure to the elements.”
“It hasn’t. It was only four years old when Frederic died. No one really drove it much after that, which is part of the problem. Cars need to run. Their engines need regular lubrication. Anyway, Edgar told me he’d never liked this car. Fortunately for me, he never bothered to get rid of it.” His voice broke. “He told me that it was mine, no strings attached.”
Aunt Tressa opened the Hudson’s passenger-side door, and I saw one leg swing up behind her. For a moment I thought Josh would have a bird, but instead he said sharply, “What are you doing?”
Bending over the passenger seat, Aunt Tressa called out, “Wait a minute.” Seconds later she emerged clutching a scrap of yellow cloth. “When I was peeking through the window I noticed something stuck under the seat. I wanted to see what it was.”
Josh and I both leaned in for a closer look. It appeared to be a woman’s hair bow.
“How did you even spot that?” Josh said, irritation threading his tone.
My aunt grinned. “I have eagle eyes.” She held it up for a better look. Attached to a rusted metal clip, the threadbare bow appeared to be made of satin—very old and faded satin. Aunt Tressa got a wicked gleam in her eye. “Looks like Frederic might have been entertaining a lady friend back in the day.”
“Just toss it,” Josh said. “There’s a waste can in the back of the garage.”
Aunt Tressa slipped it into her coat pocket. “I’ll throw it away when I get to my office. So where’re you working these days, Josh?”
Josh observed her silently for a moment, then said, “I’m in the IT department at Diamond Crown Insurance. Actually, I am the IT department.” He turned his gaze on me. “Can I talk to you for a second, Apple?” He shot a glance at my aunt. “Privately.”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
In truth, I was grateful for the opportunity to chat with him alone. I had a few questions of my own for him.
We moved away from the garage, toward the front of the flatbed truck. Chet, the tow truck operator, was leaning against the driver’s-side door, slurping coffee from one of the foam cups. He appeared content to have a few minutes of downtime.
Josh flipped off the top of the other cup and took a sip. Then he opened the white bag and pulled out the oddest-looking pastry I’d ever seen. Long like a cruller, it had one thick end that bulged with thousands of chocolate sprinkles. Josh shoved the chocolate end into his mouth and tore off a huge wedge, reminding me of how he’d loved chocolate anything as a kid.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “I didn’t have breakfast and I’m starving.” He stuck the pastry back in the bag and set the coffee down on the hood. “Let’s go over here,” he said, ambling away from the truck.
I followed
until he stopped short in the driveway. Josh lowered his voice. “Is it true your law firm’s handling the closing of Edgar’s house?”
“It is. Sam Ingle’s been Edgar’s lawyer for years.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Look Apple, I wanna know something. Did Edgar really die without a will?”
I nodded. “Yes, he did. Sam had been prodding him for years about doing a will, but Edgar kept putting him off.”
Josh kicked at a chunk of ice with the toe of his boot. “That’s what I heard, but I didn’t believe it.”
“It’s not that unusual,” I said. “Lots of people put off making a will. They think there’s plenty of time. Then when the unthinkable happens … well, unfortunately it’s too late.”
“I never figured he’d take a fall down the stairs the way he did. For an old guy, Edgar was in pretty decent shape.” Josh shook his head, and his eyes turned shiny. “I was the one who found him, you know, when I got home from work that day. God, it was awful. His eyes were open …” He looked away, and my heart ached for him.
“He wasn’t just a landlord. He was a friend, wasn’t he?” I said quietly.
Josh heaved out a breath. “Yeah, he was. Truth be told, Edgar was more like a father to me than my real father was. We talked about a lot of stuff, you know? I know Blake thought I was just taking advantage of the old guy, but it wasn’t like that. I helped out a lot around here. Picked up Edgar’s groceries for him, kept the lawn mowed in the summer. Even planted those girly pink impatiens he was so nutty over.”
“At least they weren’t tulips.”
Josh gave me a crooked smirk. “No, they weren’t tulips.”
Josh had been an exuberant seven-year-old the day he sneaked into Aunt Tressa’s flower bed and snapped eight red tulips off their stems. Larceny accomplished, he skipped happily home, waving his purloined bouquet like a Fourth of July sparkler. My aunt, who never missed much, spotted him running down the sidewalk. Josh’s mom later apologized, confessing that her darling boy had picked them for her birthday. Aunt Tressa grudgingly forgave the rascal, but she never forgot it. Those tulips were the only things she’d ever been able to grow.
“Why did you ask about the will, Josh?”
“Because no one believes Edgar gave me the Hudson. It’s my car, and now I’m stuck paying for it. It isn’t fair!”
“Edgar never put anything in writing?”
“No. And the car was too old to have a certificate of title.” Josh chewed at his lower lip. “I keep thinking about something. What if Edgar had written his own homemade will? Would it be legal?”
“Depends,” I said, wondering where he was headed with this line of questioning. “If the will was witnessed, the witnesses would have to come forward and confirm that Edgar was in his right mind and not under any duress when he signed it. After that, it would be up to the probate court judge to either allow it or disallow it. Why, Josh? Where are you going with this?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It just seems weird that a guy who was so successful in business wouldn’t have been savvy enough to leave a will. I keep wondering … look, I know this is going to sound paranoid. But what if Blake—or his lackey, Lou Marshall—found a homemade will when they were going through Edgar’s papers? And what if Blake didn’t like what the will said and destroyed it?”
“I’m sure Blake wouldn’t do that,” I said. “And Lou Marshall was a reputable appraiser. I’ve never heard anyone say a word against him.”
Josh scowled. “I should’ve known you’d defend Blake. You two are old high school buddies, aren’t you?”
“That has nothing to do with it.” I was getting testy myself.
“Never mind, then. Sorry I even asked.”
He started to stalk away, but I wasn’t through with him. I caught the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him backward. “Wait a minute, Josh. I have a question for you, too. Why did you crash Celeste and Blake’s party yesterday? That was a very embarrassing scene you created.”
Josh flushed. “Yeah, well, I intended it to be. I wanted to shame Blake into admitting that the Hudson was mine. I thought if I did it in front of a crowd, he’d tell me to just keep the flipping car and get out of his life. And I’d have a room full of witnesses to hear him say it. Instead, he pulled me into another room, where he proceeded to chew me up one side and down the other. Greedy little weasel.”
I shook my head. Josh had always been rash, with emotions that ran hot and cold. But he was brainy, as well—far too smart to think that such a childish act would result in any real satisfaction.
“Even if you had a beef with Blake,” I said, “you should’ve taken Celeste’s feelings into consideration.”
Josh remained silent.
After a few moments I said, “I gather you agreed to pay for the car.”
He glared at me. “I had no choice.”
“Where are you going to live now?”
“I found an apartment in Hooksett. After spending the past two nights at my mother’s, it’ll seem like a resort. She freaked when she saw Zorba. But at least she’s letting me garage the Hudson at her place.” He stared over my shoulder. “Hey, your aunt is giving you the evil eye.”
I looked at my watch—it was eight fifty-two. “Yikes. I have to get to work. One more question. What do you know about Darby?”
“Jack Darby? He built all the custom display cases for Edgar’s dagger collection. He finished them right before Edgar died.” Josh shook his head soberly. “Poor old guy didn’t get to enjoy them for very long. Why are you asking about Darby?”
“Um, he promised to build something for a friend of mine. I wanted to be sure he was reliable.”
“I don’t know the guy personally,” Josh said, “but he’s a fantastic carpenter. Not the speediest, but definitely the best I’ve ever seen. The man works magic with wood.”
Aunt Tressa was tromping toward us now. As her own boss, she could pretty much set her hours, but she knew I had to answer to Sam Ingle.
“You’re going to be late if we don’t get our butts in the car,” she said, gliding past Josh and me like an oversized flying squirrel. “Nice seeing you again, Josh. Don’t be a stranger.”
When she was out of earshot, Josh looked at me. “Your aunt’s atrip.”
My aunt is actually a journey—of fun, frivolity, and most important, of love. She was always there when I needed her, and as a kid I was needy a lot.
But the hint of derision in Josh’s tone irked me.
“The same trip,” I said, “who washed and dried your corduroy pants the day you fell in that scummy pond behind our house? The one your mom was always warning you to stay away from?”
Josh flushed pink, then gave out a strangled laugh. “Geez, I’d forgotten about that. What was I—eight, nine? I was trying to catch tadpoles in a jar that day. I panicked when my foot slipped and I stumbled backward and fell. Your aunt came to the rescue with her trusty washer and dryer. She definitely saved me from a major scene with my mom.”
Mission accomplished. I waggled my fingers. “I have to go,
Josh. Thanks for chatting with me.” “Yeah, likewise.” I heard his boots crunch over the frozen driveway as he retreated toward the garage. In the back of my head a nagging voice whispered.
Could the hyperactive little kid I once babysat be a murderer?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
From the journal of Frederic Dwardene, Friday, November 10, 1950:
Today I looked up the record on Dora’s savings account. She has an accrued balance of exactly $229.48. Once we are married, she can spend her money buying trinkets and other luxuries for herself. For I will see that she has all the necessities of life. She shall want for nothing …
The law firm where I worked, Quinto and Ingle Professional Association, was located in an old but well-maintained brick building on Center Street—Hazleton’s main drag. Dating back to the early nineteen hundreds, it boasted a pair of mini-gargoyles above the red-painted wooden door and a
brass doorknocker that evoked eerie images of a tortured Jacob Marley.
Sam’s one-time partner, Felix Quinto, retired two years ago— exactly one week after we’d celebrated his eightieth birthday. A kindly man, he’d always enjoyed doling out big Christmas bonuses whenever the firm had had a good year. For the past year or so, Sam had been half-heartedly looking for an associate to help him with the estate-planning portion of the practice. So far, none of the resumés that crossed his desk had managed to excite him, so for now he continued to fly solo, shouldering the workload himself. With the economy in a rut, it was do-able.
I climbed the worn marble steps at exactly one minute before nine and swooped through the front door. Heidi Smith, the receptionist, was already waving a yellow slip of paper at me. “Mrs. Shepard wants you to call her the second you get in,” she droned. “She’s, like, going nuts about her closing.”
I took the slip from her as I unbuttoned my coat. “I’ll call her,” I said. “Have a good weekend?”
“Not really.” She adjusted the almost life-sized plastic reindeer that was attached to her black sweater above her collarbone. “My mom got this, like, awful flu, and I had to practically wait on her hand and foot. Not to mention clean throw-up off the bathroom floor. I mean, it was like, puke city all weekend. I thought I’d gag my guts out.” She rolled her eyes, the lashes of which had enough mascara to form two new Zorbas.
“That’s too bad,” I sympathized, feeling my breakfast starting to meander in a northerly direction. “I hope she’s better.”
“Not much,” Heidi said. She coughed violently into her only free hand, the other being wrapped around a huge powdered doughnut. “I think I’m getting it now, too.”
Great. Thank you for coming in today to share it with us. “Sam in yet?” I asked, backing away as politely as I could.
“Yeah, and he doesn’t look happy.” She bit off a wad of the doughnut and slugged it down with a mouthful of coffee. “Not that he ever does.”
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