I tamped down a smile. Sam was a dear, but he tended to be moody. I had a feeling this was going to be one of those days.
Directly behind Heidi’s curved reception desk, a carpeted hallway with two offices on either side extended toward the back of the building. The first office on the right belonged to Vicki Pomeroy, Sam’s administrative assistant. Tall and pencil-thin, Vicki was somewhere in her forties—exactly where, no one had ever been sure. She wore her ginger-colored hair styled in the shape of an upside down fishbowl, and her eyeglasses had tiny wings sprouting from each corner. Since the day Sam decided she should have her own office instead of a cubicle in the reception area, Vicki had elevated herself to the position of associate without ever attending law school.
“Hey, Vick.” I poked my head into her office and gave her a little wave. On the wall behind her was a large, framed photograph of a great blue heron soaring low over a sun-speckled pond. She’d taken it herself with her fancy digital camera and was immensely proud of the result.
Vicki glanced up at me, her fingers tapping her keyboard at a steady, efficient pace. I thought she looked a little haggard, not her usual energetic self. “Morning, Apollonia. Running a bit late, are we?”
Technically I’d arrived on time, but Vicki had a way of making me feel I should apologize for just about everything. And for some reason, her manner toward me had cooled over the past several weeks. Why, I had no idea. If I’d done something to offend her, I couldn’t imagine what it was.
“I had to drop off my aunt at the car dealership this morning,” I murmured, bumbling out a half-hearted excuse. “You know how the traffic is on—”
“Did you hear all that hacking that girl is doing out there?” she interrupted. “I’ve told her at least a thousand times to take zinc, but does she listen? No. I take two zinc tablets a day and I’m never out sick. Never.”
Two zincs a day? That sounded like an awful lot of heavy metal to me.
I waited for a break in her tirade and then slunk into my office, which was directly opposite hers. I hung my coat on the funky purple coat rack I’d picked up a few years ago at a flea market in Exeter. After logging on to my computer, I headed for the tiny kitchen at the end of the hallway. I was making myself a single-serving cup of vanilla-nut coffee when Sam came in, his mug clutched to his chest like a shield.
“Morning, Sam.” I sipped the delicious brew in my cup, my taste buds reveling in the flavor.
“Morning.” His eyes looked saggy as he prepared himself a mug of our coffee supplier’s “double-trouble” blend. “Got a minute?” he said.
“For you, two minutes.” I was trying to lighten the mood, but his solemn expression didn’t change as he turned and trudged out of the kitchen.
Sam’s office was at the end of the short corridor that led back from the reception area. His pale green walls bore evidence of his undergrad degree from UConn and his law degree from Franklin Pierce. His bookshelves—lined with legal volumes, including the New Hampshire statutes—held a myriad of framed family photos. Sam had an adorable family, something I occasionally found myself envying. His wife, Mary, was a first-class sweetheart, and their nine-year old twins, Sarah and Sophia, were as cute as they come.
Sam closed the door behind me. A shaft of sunlight streaming through the window played over the debris on his paper-strewn desk.
“Terrible about Lou Marshall,” he said quietly.
“Yes, awful. He and my aunt were good friends.”
“How’s she taking it?”
“Okay. It hit her hard at first, but she’s a tough lady. They hadn’t been dating all that long, but still …”
“She go to work today?”
“Oh, yes. We dropped off her car for inspection this morning at the dealership where she gets it serviced. In fact, do you mind if I leave a few minutes early this afternoon? I need to get her back there by five-thirty, and the rush-hour traffic on Route 121 is brutal.”
“Of course.” He waved a hand. “You don’t even need to ask.”
“Thanks, Sam.” I waited, knowing there had to be a reason for the summons into his office.
Finally, he said, “Apple, did you talk to Lou at all? On Saturday, I mean.”
I shook my head. “No, I never got the chance. Aunt Tressa spoke to him briefly, but she said he seemed distracted. In fact—” I slapped my forehead with my palm. “Great gobs of gobbledygook, I never paid for the John Jakes books I bought! Or didn’t buy. Or—oh, you know what I mean.”
“I wouldn’t worry about a few books,” Sam said.
“But technically I pinched them. I’ll settle up with Blake or Celeste before they leave for New York.”
“Go back to what you said about your aunt. She thought Lou seemed distracted?”
I nodded. “That’s what she told me. She only spoke to him for a few minutes. It wasn’t long after that we heard a scream and—”
Sam’s face paled. He looked away. Something was clearly troubling him. Whatever it was, he was having a devil of a time spilling it. Had he realized that we’d seen him leaving the mansion after the murder? Had he been trying to keep his presence there a secret?
In fact, when did Sam arrive at the mansion that afternoon? Prior to when we spotted him scraping snow off his car, I didn’t recall seeing him at all. Had he been in the cellar with Blake, sorting through Edgar Dwardene’s dusty artifacts? Considering how fussy Sam was about dirt, I couldn’t picture it.
Hoping to ease his pain a bit and maybe loosen his tongue, I steered the conversation sideways. “Sam, did Lou always handle his estate sales that way, letting strangers traipse all over the house like that? It seemed, well, a little odd to me.”
Sam scrubbed a hand over his left eye. “That’s the way Lou liked to handle those open house sales. Blake wasn’t happy about it, but Lou told him it would be done his way or no way at all. He could be a stickler when he wanted to be.”
Interesting. Could that be the little spat Celeste had referred to on Saturday?
“So Blake objected to the way Lou was doing it,” I said.
Sam swallowed a mouthful of coffee and nodded. “Blake figured people would rob him blind. Slip little trinkets into their pockets and such. I think that’s why he asked Paul Fenton to be there. He figured folks would be less likely to pilfer with the police chief strolling around.” Sam set his mug on his desk, then reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone. He raised it up, his finger poised over one of the buttons.
For a second, my heart rate spiked. Why was he holding his phone that way? Was he going to take my picture?
Holding my breath, I waited. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His shoulders slumping, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“Sam, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Never mind, it’s nothing,” he said, his words suddenly clipped, his expression tight.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Go back to work.”
“Okay, I’d better call Mrs. Shepard anyway. Heidi said she wanted to talk to me the moment I got in. If you think of anything I can help you with, let me know.”
Sam nodded at me and smiled, but what I saw in his gaze was unmistakable: fear.
CHAPTER TWELVE
From the journal of Frederic Dwardene, Sunday, November 12, 1950:
A magnificent musical opened last year on Broadway. Though I haven’t seen the play, I have heard the music, and it is marvelous. As I write these words, I am playing my favorite song—“Some Enchanted Evening”—on my phonograph. Powerful and beautifully sung by Ezio Pinza, the words resonate. For yesterday I saw a stranger, a beautiful, captivating stranger. And now that I’ve found her, I will never let her go …
Celeste called mid-morning and asked if I could have the seller’s closing documents ready for Blake to sign by Tuesday morning. He was planning to leave for Manhattan that same afternoon, as long as another snowstorm didn’t threaten to roll in.
For a t
ypical closing, the buyer has approximately four thousand documents to sign, give or take a few affidavits. Mortgage loans come with an enormous amount of paperwork. In the hour or so normally allotted for a closing, it all has to be signed, initialed, and notarized, and then photocopied for the buyer.
The seller, fortunately, has only a few affidavits and tax forms to sign, along with a statement of the settlement figures. And, of course, a deed. Since Blake had been appointed administrator of his uncle’s estate, he would be the one signing the deed. And since Sam represented the estate, it was the firm’s responsibility
to prepare it for Blake’s signature.
I promised Celeste I would have the seller docs ready for Blake to sign Tuesday morning. She also asked if she could stop by the office in the afternoon to deliver a tasty surprise. I assured her it would be a welcome distraction.
The Dwardene file sat amid the pile of other file folders stacked on the corner of my desk. I snatched it out of the heap.
The file was divided into two sections—one for the probate, the other for the title search and sale of the mansion. I was flipping through the probate file, refreshing my memory, when a name leaped up at me like a frog off a lily pad.
Darby Repairs & Renovations.
That’s where I’d seen it before—in Edgar Dwardene’s probate file!
When Darby built the custom display cases for Edgar’s dagger collection, he apparently sent an invoice to Edgar to the tune of almost three thousand dollars. Before Edgar had the chance to pay the bill, he fell and broke his neck.
After the estate was opened in the Rockingham County Probate Court, Darby sent his invoice to Sam, who represented Edgar’s estate. Blake was appointed administrator, and after the inventory was filed the bill was paid from the assets of the estate.
Strangely, Edgar Dwardene hadn’t died with a whole lot of liquid assets. For a man who’d once owned a successful insurance business, his savings account had been puny. He’d also owned a number of speculative stocks, but in the recent economy those had taken a serious dive.
The mansion—the real property—was the estate’s primary asset.
A disturbing thought struck me. By now the news of Lou’s murder must have reached the buyers. Would they still want to go through with the closing? Or would they try to renege?
If they pulled out of the deal, it would be a crushing blow to Aunt Tressa, who would lose a sizeable commission. And for Blake and Celeste it would be devastating.
I made a mental note to ask Celeste about it when she stopped by.
With everything I had to do, the morning passed quickly. I tried calling Lillian several times, to no avail. My stomach felt sick as I imagined all the things that could have happened to her.
Around eleven thirty, Aunt Tressa called me. “How about lunch at Rosie’s?” she said. Something in her tone suggested she had news to share. “I have two things to tell you. Well, three if you count my new listing.”
“A new listing? That’s great, Aunt Tress!” Another house sale would be a boon for her, since real estate sales had slowed in recent months to the pace of evolution. “Can’t you tell me the other two things now? The suspense is killing me.”
“Nah. It’ll give us something to talk about over lunch. I’ll walk down to your place and meet you around ten to twelve. We can scoot over to Rosie’s from there.”
“Be careful on the sidewalks. They’re not cleared everywhere. Oh, and a word of warning. Your BFF Heidi might be coming down with a flu bug. If I were you, I’d refrain from doing your usual huggie-pie dance with her.”
From the day Heidi first met my aunt, she’d bonded to her like a blob of gum that won’t come off your shoe. Now, any time Aunt Tressa walks through the door, Heidi leaps off her chair and embraces her as if she’d just returned from a ten-year expedition to the South Pole.
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll try to keep my distance. Even though I never get the flu.”
Predictably, Miss Punctuality whizzed through the front door at eleven forty-nine. I’d waited in the reception area for her, hoping I could head off Heidi at Contagion Pass, but she wasn’t to be deterred.
“Mrs. Krichner!” Heidi bolted from her chair, nearly trampling me in the process, as she galloped around the reception desk to throw her arms around my aunt.
Aunt Tressa was ready for her. Before Heidi could complete her end run, my aunt coughed vociferously into an eggplant-colored cocktail napkin. “Hi, Heidi,” she said wanly. “Better not get too close. I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Heidi encircled Aunt Tressa in a hug that would have put a polar bear to shame. “My mom, like, puked her brains out all weekend, so I’ve probably already got it!”
On that appetizing note, we bade Heidi good-bye and fled as graciously as we could.
“A purple napkin?” I said dryly as we walked toward Rosie’s.
Aunt Tressa crumpled the napkin and tossed it into a nearby trash receptacle. “It was all I could come up with on short notice. Would you have preferred toilet paper?”
I laughed as I opened the glass front door to Rosie’s, which was a short walk from my office. The café, a popular lunch place, shared a building with an old-fashioned shop that specialized in penny candy and other sugary delights, including my secret faves—gummy snakes. The tinkle of a tiny cow bell announced our arrival as we stepped inside the café.
Rosie, the café’s Ecuadorian owner, was a lover of all things cowboy, or rather, cowgirl. Greeting us warmly, a braided leather headband holding her dark springy curls at bay, she escorted Aunt Tressa and me to our favorite table near the window. Multiple circles of turquoise-studded silver marched along each arm as she handed us a list of the daily specials. From the kitchen came the luscious aroma of deep-fried empanadas and tangy salsa, tantalizing my taste buds and firing up my appetite.
“Good special today, Tressa.” Rosie’s snow white teeth beamed a grin. “No fish. Just nice melted cheddar and ham in a giant flour tortilla, exactly how you like it.”
“Sold!” my aunt said. “With extra cheese, a large order of seasoned chips, and a cinnamon coffee.”
“I’ll have a fish taco, Rosie, and a side of slaw. And spring water will be fine.” Rosie’s chef—her brother Pedro—was known for his scrumptious fish tacos. Prepared with delicate chunks of cod baked in a light cracker coating, they were one of my favorites as well.
“You got it.” Rosie scooped up the specials cards and hurried off, the clump of her azure cowgirl boots reverberating off the black-and-white linoleum.
I shot a glance out the window. The sky was thickening into a mass of dense clouds. Next to the one-armed statue of Ezekiel Hazleton—the town’s founder—a lone man sat huddled on a bench reading a newspaper.
About thirty years ago, the story goes, an elderly gent was bickering with his wife as they drove through town. The man lost control of his car, which jumped the curb and slammed into poor old Ezekiel. Ezekiel toppled, amputating one outstretched granite arm as he hit the concrete pad below. Since then, he’d been known as the onesy.
“So tell me,” I said, shrugging off my coat. “What’s your news?”
Aunt Tressa slung her faux mink over the brass hook above the booth. “First of all,” she said, plopping back into her seat, “I have an appointment this evening with one Jack Darby.”
“Darby? He’s coming to your place? Tonight?”
“Yep. I told him my dishwasher was leaking, and oh, dear me, I simply didn’t know what to do or whom to call! And then I remembered his business card! What a lifesaver!” Her voice had morphed into her damsel-in-distress flutter, a tone she used quite effectively when she wanted to.
“I see you’ve already forgotten,” I pointed out, “that tonight is my reading night at the nursing home. I don’t want Darby coming over when I’m not there.”
Aunt Tressa waved a multiringed hand at me. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need a protector. I can ha
ndle myself perfectly fine.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. “Didn’t we talk about this? Didn’t we agree that Darby might be dangerous?”
We paused as Rosie delivered my water and Aunt Tressa’s coffee. The scent of cinnamon wafted around us, making me hungrier.
Aunt Tressa took a sip from her steaming mug. She was trying to ignore me, but I didn’t intend to let her off the hook.
“What time is he coming?” I said.
“Um, around seven, I think.”
“You don’t know?”
“Okay, seven.”
Why was this turning into a grilling session?
My Monday night reading group at the Hazleton Convalescent Home always starts promptly at six, and I’m usually out of there by seven.
“That might be okay, then. I shouldn’t get back much later than seven fifteen or so. We should devise some kind of signal in case you get into trouble.”
Rosie came along with our lunch platters. “Here you go, ladies. Enjoy!”
“Thanks,” we both chirped.
“What kind of a signal?” Aunt Tressa grabbed her fork and sheared off a chunk of oozing tortilla.
“How about a sharp knock on the wall?”
Aunt Tressa rolled her eyes. “And how do I discreetly achieve that? Pretend to trip over a lamp cord so I can body slam the wall?”
“It doesn’t have to be that dramatic. You’re very creative when you want to be, so just think of a way to signal if you need me.”
“Okay,” she agreed, a bit too easily. She popped a seasoned chip into her mouth.
I sampled my fish taco, which was warm and spicy and over-the-rainbow delicious. “What was your other news? You said you had three things.”
“Oh. Right. I got bad news about the Deville. The service manager from the dealership called. He said my uptake manifest has leaky caskets. It’s going to cost over a thousand to fix.”
“Leaky caskets?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.”
I’m far from a mechanic, but I was almost sure they’d told her that the intake manifold had leaky gaskets.
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