“She caught them at it,” Poppy said.
“Seriously?” I winced, thinking how horrible that must’ve been for Allison, remembering her giddy excitement in the videos as she talked about the new man in her life, how much she was coming to care for Nick. How sweet he was to her, how understanding of her grief and her need for time to come to terms with it. Well, not too much time as it turned out. Sweet, sensitive Nick had managed to snag a very wealthy wife when she was still reeling from the loss of a man she truly loved, a man who, despite the age difference, had by all accounts been her soulmate.
“Allison came home early from one of her adventure trips.” Poppy sipped her tea, which was a pale straw color and smelled like perfume. “She’d wanted to surprise him. She’s the one who got the surprise. They were out on the back porch, in the hot tub. Really going at it.”
“What did they do once their coitus was interruptus?” I asked.
“Oh, they never knew she was there. She saw them through the kitchen window. She quietly left the house and came back when he was expecting her.”
“Well, I give her credit for self-restraint,” I said. “No way would I have been that calm and collected.”
“That was her way,” Poppy said. “She saw the big picture. Confronting them right then and there might have felt good at the moment, but it would’ve tipped her hand.”
“And given him time to regroup, to try to turn things around.” I imitated a whiny wayward spouse. “‘She means nothing to me, honey. It’ll never happen again.’”
Poppy nodded. “Allison was a chess player. She had an organized mind. To her it made more sense to work behind the scenes and quickly do what needed to be done—a kind of surgical strike—than to let the whole thing blow up with drama and accusations and pleading and all that messy stuff.”
Okay, maybe Allison and I weren’t as similar as I had thought. Messy stuff is my bread and butter. Messy stuff has a way of tracking me down, bitch-slapping the heck out of me, and forcing me to play by its rules.
“Come on.” I rose. “Let’s go say hi to Norman.”
As we approached the front of the store I heard the old man say, in his strong, patrician voice, “Sarah likes to drink things out of tiny cups. Espresso, sake, that sort of thing.”
“Well,” Beau said, “we have plenty of things like that, or we can make something to her specifications.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. Perhaps a gift certificate, then?” Norman noticed me and we hugged. I lifted Sexy Beast so he could pet him. I knew what his next words would be. I’d heard them countless times, though I’m sure he didn’t realize he was repeating himself.
“This isn’t a dog,” he said in his teasing way. “Father had a dog back in the late thirties that would have put this little fellow to shame. Her name was Candy. Splendid English setter, white with liver ticking. Best gun dog I ever knew. And so sweet-tempered. Well, I doubt the grouse thought so.”
SB, accustomed to being unfavorably compared to “real” dogs, emitted a resigned grumble.
Poppy turned to Norman. “Would you like some tea and cookies?”
“No, thank you, dear,” he said. “I can’t stay long.”
“I can bring a chair over for you,” she said.
He waved away the suggestion. “Not necessary, but I appreciate the offer.”
“So,” she said, “you want to buy a gift certificate.”
He looked surprised. “I do?”
“That’s what you said,” I reminded him.
“Oh, yes, of course. I recall now,” he lied.
“How much?” Beau asked.
“Five hundred should do it,” Norman said.
The Battles shot each other wide-eyed looks. “Wow. Okay,” Poppy said.
“You must really love your granddaughter,” Beau observed.
“Who?”
“Your granddaughter?” he said. “You’re here to get her a birthday present? She likes pottery? And, uh, drinking things out of little cups?”
Norman frowned in concentration, and I could almost hear Beau wondering if he’d just blown a five-hundred-dollar sale. The old man produced his cell from the breast pocket of a tweed sport jacket that had probably been custom-made for him half a century before smart phones were invented.
He jabbed at the screen with a gnarled forefinger. “My great-grandson Jason put a note-taking ‘app’ on this gadget.” And yes, he gave “app” air quotes. “No, I stand corrected. It was Evan who did that. Jason put that evil-clown game on it. Terribly clever. One battles the clowns with shotguns, grenade launchers, what have you. The higher one’s ranking, the more bizarre and deadly the weaponry.” He pointed his finger at SB and made pew-pew-pew shooting noises. The dog yawned. “I must admit I’m quite addicted. Ah, here it is.”
The rest of us exchanged guarded glances. Was Norman going to stand there all afternoon slaying evil clowns? I snuck a peek at his phone’s screen. Happily, I saw the note-taking app, set to a list of names and dates.
“What is today’s date?” he asked.
“January thirteenth,” I said.
“Yes, then it’s Sarah’s birthday coming up.” He pocketed the phone and slid a credit card out of his wallet. “She loves handmade ceramics. And drinking out of tiny cups.”
“I’ll fill in the gift certificate.” Poppy took his credit card and started toward the back of the store. “Five hundred, you said, right?”
“Make it a thousand,” Norman said.
She skidded to a halt. “Are you sure?”
Beau gave his wife a pointed look. The man wants a thousand-dollar gift certificate, his look said. We do not question thousand-dollar gift certificates.
“Why?” Norman asked. “Too stingy, you think?”
Poppy made a strangled sound as she groped for a response.
“It sounds perfect to me,” I said, and made shooing motions to Poppy. As heir to the KrunchWorks snack-food empire, Norman was worth tens of millions. And he was expert at managing his fortune, a skill acquired long ago at his daddy’s knee and unaffected by any lapse in short-term memory.
While waiting for Poppy to return, we chatted about Norman’s artwork, which was currently on display at the local library. The old man was a gifted painter. His landscapes were in high demand.
“Are you into the barter economy at all?” Beau asked him.
“I’m not familiar with that concept,” Norman said, “but it sounds most intriguing.”
“It’s basically what it sounds like. You barter with someone for goods and services and leave the green stuff out of it. I’m totally into bartering—like maybe one of your paintings for some of my pottery?”
Norman thought about that a moment. “But then, how does one calculate sales tax and income tax on such a transaction? The IRS must have some opinions on this barter economy.”
“Uh...” Beau had no ready answer for that. I happened to know from experience that the IRS did indeed want their cut when you exchanged, say, a professional-mourner gig—don’t judge me!—for a half-dozen mani-pedis.
“Okay, well,” Beau said, “it’s just something to, uh, keep in mind for the future.”
Poppy returned with a gift box, beautifully wrapped. “I tucked the gift certificate in with a set of demitasse cups that I think your granddaughter will like. I hope that’s all right.”
Norman paused in the act of signing the credit card receipt. “Well, let me pay you for the cups, dear.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said. “Do let her know we’d be happy to make her something special.”
We said our goodbyes and Beau held the door open for the old man. It was snowing in earnest now. Fortunately, Norman’s driver had managed to park right outside the store. We watched as he ushered his employer into the nice warm vehicle and drove off.
“That’s the way to get around.” Poppy turned to her husband. “Where’s my chauffeur?”
“Keep those thousand-dollar sales coming,” he
said, “and who knows what’s in our future?”
I said, “Maybe you can barter pottery for driving.”
“We bartered with Allison,” Poppy said. “We needed someone to take pictures of our pieces, someone who really knew what they were doing.”
“For our portfolio,” Beau added, “and our website. She was our official photographer, I guess you’d say.”
“I’ve been to your site,” I said. “The photography is outstanding. Which isn’t surprising. I saw some of Allison’s pictures in her home. She was extremely talented.”
“She never went anywhere without a camera,” he said. “I mean, a real one, not just her phone. She had a bunch of them.”
Poppy said, “We never could have afforded a photographer of Allison’s caliber, and she loved our work, so the swap was a win-win.”
So that’s how Allison ended up with all that pottery—through bartering with the Battles. “And I’m sure the IRS got a piece of the action,” I teased.
Beau winked. “There’s a mug set with your name on it if you promise not to squeal on us.”
The brass bells tinkled and we turned to see Joleen Gleason enter the store. “It’s really starting to come down out there,” she said in her homey Texas accent before exchanging greetings with us. I was still holding Sexy Beast. Joleen went through the motions of patting his fuzzy little cap of hair, but you can tell when someone’s not a dog person. She was just doing it to be polite. She accepted Poppy’s offer of tea and we all settled around the table in back. I reached into my tote bag for a dog biscuit, which SB happily gnawed while Beau brought out more cookies for the rest of us.
“You look very nice today,” Poppy told Allison’s mother, who’d removed her snow-dusted coat to reveal a businesslike gray dress and pumps. Not the most practical footwear, considering the weather.
“We were at the lawyer’s earlier,” Joleen said.
“Sten Jakobsen?” I asked.
She nodded and sipped her tea—regular black tea with lemon and sugar. “To discuss Allison’s will.”
“Oh,” Poppy said. “I hope that... went all right.”
“She left two-thirds of her estate to me and Doug, in the event she predeceased us.” Joleen said this matter-of-factly, but I detected tension in her speech, her bearing, as if the effort to control her emotions was costing her. “She left nothing to my son-in-law,” she added.
Apparently the Gleasons had inherited the portion that was originally earmarked for Nick, the result of Allison’s last-minute alterations to her will.
Beau said, “I guess he’ll have to move out of the house.”
“We’ll give him a decent amount of time to find a new place,” Joleen said. “I wanted to offer him, well, something, some money, but Doug won’t hear of it.”
Can you blame him? I thought, but managed to hold my tongue. Looking at Poppy and Beau, I could tell they agreed with Allison’s father. Nick was a selfish loser. He’d betrayed his wife, and with someone who was supposed to be her friend. More than enough reason, in my book, to let him slink off with nothing.
I was dying to know who had inherited the other third. I didn’t expect Joleen to assuage my curiosity. She and her husband both seem to be reserved, private people. I figured I’d find out soon enough, considering how fast news spread in Crystal Harbor.
Joleen set down her tea mug. “This isn’t a purely social visit. I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” Beau said. “Like we told you the other day, we’re here for whatever you need.”
Joleen’s eyes welled. “And I appreciate that more than you can know. So does Doug.” She reached into her purse and produced a small leather box. It appeared old and somewhat battered. “I was going to ask you and Poppy to do this, but now that I’ve run into Jane, I’m thinking this would be right up her alley.”
“Of course,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Gleason?”
Joleen undid the little latch on the box and opened the lid, revealing an antique gold pocket watch. We all admired it, especially Beau, who lifted it out and examined it closely.
“This is awesome,” he announced. “Family heirloom?”
“Yes,” Joleen said, “but not my family. This watch was Mitchell’s. It belonged to his great-grandfather.”
We passed the watch around from hand to hand. The gold case and the glass face were a little scratched from long use, but it was magnificent.
“Well, it’s yours now,” Beau said. “Would you like us to help sell it for you?”
“Oh no,” Joleen said. “It wouldn’t be right for us to keep it. This belongs to the Zaleski family. Mitchell has a daughter, Brenda. I want her to have it.”
None of us stated what we all had to know, that Allison’s late first husband and his daughter had been estranged and that he’d disinherited her. I admired Allison’s parents for wanting to get this family keepsake to her despite that.
I asked, “Would you like me to deliver this to her?”
“I’d be so grateful if you would,” she said. “Allison and Brenda didn’t get along, and it would be, well, awkward for Doug and me to give her this. But I’m thinking a third party...”
“I’m happy to do it,” I said.
“Just add it to your invoice,” Joleen said, referring to the work I’d done on the day of her daughter’s funeral.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking payment for this,” I said. When Joleen started to object, I held up my palm. “Please, Mrs. Gleason. Let me do you this small favor.”
In truth, I felt guilty about Allison’s video diaries. No one but me knew I had them. I doubted anyone else even knew they existed. By rights they belonged to Joleen and her husband. Someday I’d get that little flash drive to them, in the not-too-distant future when I suddenly “discovered” it in the salt shaker. But first I had to finish viewing all the videos. It was like a compulsion, an addiction. I wasn’t proud, but that’s how it was.
“Thank you so much, Jane.” Joleen replaced the watch in its box and handed it to me. “That’s a burden off my mind.”
5
Losing Her Head
BRENDA GOT RIGHT down to business. “You said my father left me something?”
We were sitting in her living room, which was decorated in a bland contemporary style. Plenty of pale leather and chrome. Even the framed painting over the white mantel was boring: an abstract seascape in pale tones that echoed both the room’s furnishings and the crystal sailboat that perched in front of it, as if to complete the nautical scene. The only hint of warmth was a scattering of children’s toys in the corner.
It was the following morning. I’d phoned Brenda shortly after leaving the Battles’ pottery studio.
“Actually,” I said, “this is a gift from Allison’s parents.” I wanted to make that clear. If Brenda thought I was delivering something bequeathed to her by her father, she’d assume Allison had withheld it during the seven months since his death. “They thought you should have it.”
I handed over the little leather box. I watched Brenda open it, watched her wary expression soften. She lifted the watch out and examined it, much as Beau had done yesterday. “This is my great-grandfather’s watch,” she breathed.
“Your great-great-grandfather’s, I believe,” I said.
She considered a moment. “You’re right, I was off by a generation.” She replaced the watch in its box and set it on the mirror-topped coffee table. “Please thank the Gleasons for me. No, I really should do that myself. Do you have their address?”
An old-fashioned snail-mail thank-you note. Let it never be said that Brenda Zaleski Yates neglected the social niceties. She’d politely offered me coffee when I got there, and I’d declined. It was clear neither of us wished to prolong this meeting.
“Sure, I’ll give it to you.” I took my phone out of my purse and located the Gleasons in my contacts. She produced a notepad and pen, and I jotted the address.
Brenda stared at it, thinking. Something wa
s troubling her. Then again, I had the sense that something was always troubling this woman. Brenda Yates was not a happy person.
“This was very generous of Allison’s parents,” she said, “considering... well, considering the terms of the will. They couldn’t be very happy about that.”
I didn’t know how to interpret her words. How could the Gleasons be unhappy about becoming instant multimillionaires? Granted, they would have preferred that their daughter had lived and that they hadn’t inherited a thing from her. But displeased by the terms of the will? Why would Brenda assume that? Unless she was unaware of Allison’s bequest to her parents, in which case it was not my place to enlighten her.
Brenda was studying my face. “Do you know that Allison left two thirds of her assets to her parents?” she asked.
I nodded. “That’s all I know.”
“She left the other third in trust to my children,” she said. “I just found out yesterday.”
I couldn’t conceal my surprise. Brenda looked away. Spots of color stained her cheeks. “Also, she took out a million-dollar life insurance policy,” she said, “naming me as beneficiary.”
“That was very generous of her,” I said. “How old are your children?”
“Lou Junior is eight, Meghan is six, and Ethan is three,” she said. “Yesterday when I met with Mr. Jakobsen, he told me that she’d done all this—the trusts and the insurance policy—right after Dad died. Because that’s what Dad would have wanted, supposedly. But I know better. She was trying to find a way to live with her guilty conscience.”
Okay, I couldn’t just sit there and listen to this. I said, “You can’t really believe that Allison was responsible for your father’s death.”
She looked at me sharply. “How do you know about that?”
Oops. I’d learned about Brenda’s crazy accusation from Allison’s secret video diary. “Word gets around.”
Icing Allison Page 6