by Mark McNease
“That’s perfectly fine, I’m happy to listen. Just do me a favor …”
“What’s that?” Maggie asked as she stepped into the hallway.
“Tell me you’re coming the next time. And get your locks replaced.”
“Done,” said Maggie. “The locksmith came first thing this morning.”
“Good. Don’t hand keys out to anyone you don’t trust, and you should be fine.”
This time he smiled.
Maggie thanked him and shook his hand, then headed up the hallway toward the reception area. The next time she came to him with something, she would have to bring proof.
CHAPTER Twenty-One
FOR A STORE THAT HADN’T opened yet, Dahl House Jams and Specialties was bustling. Maggie arrived there after her interview with Sergeant Hoyt, finding the small storefront crowded with her own staff. Peter Stapley had come over with Sybil to deliver three cases of jams they’d prepared the night before, leaving Sybil’s cousin Gloria to tend to the factory by herself for an hour or so. Janice was there, too, going over invoices and paperwork. The opening of a store, as Maggie had discovered since David’s death, required a Herculean effort and all the help she could get.
To Maggie’s surprise, Gerri had come over from the house, checking shelves and displays, moving jars and custom items a quarter inch or so as she tried to line everything up in her version of perfection.
“So how did it go with Tom Brightmore?” Maggie asked her sister when she got settled in.
“Well enough for a repeat,” Gerri replied. Glancing at the others, she added, “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Oh, sure,” said Maggie, understanding her sister’s need for privacy when it came to discussing something so personal.
“Everything’s paid,” Janice said from behind the front counter. She had a stack of invoices in her hand. She was frowning.
Seeing her expression, Maggie asked “Is that a bad thing?”
Janice sighed. She’d run a business before. More than one, in fact, having been a freelance bookkeeper for several years as well as managing the finances for her husband’s catering company. (She wasn’t a “food person” herself, as she’d explained to Maggie; she was happy to do the books for Joe but she had no interest in cooking for a living—that was his ambition, and one he’d done successfully for the past six years).
“Pay on the terms, Maggie, I’ve told you that before. If it’s Net 30, you pay in thirty days. There’s no reason to pay them sooner, and you need the cash flow.”
“But I’ve never carried debt in my life,” Maggie said, defending her approach to debt. “David and I paid everything immediately. We didn’t even have a mortgage, Janice.”
“You didn’t have a business then, either,” said the resolute and indispensable assistant. “You have to be prepared to lose money the first six months. That means you need the money you have on hand. People juggle finances all the time, it’s the way the world works. It’s certainly the way the business world works. So get used to it, and stop paying invoices the minute you lay eyes on them.”
“Fine,” Maggie said. She trusted Janice. David had trusted her, too, and he would surely have taken her advice. It was just hard for Maggie to change habits she’d had for so many years.
“What else can we do for you, Boss?”
Maggie turned around, startled. The voice was Peter’s. He was standing behind her, hands on hips, wiping sweat from his forehead. Maggie could see Sybil sweeping the floor in the small office area where she’d put a desk, computer and two filing cabinets.
“Tell me you’re not cleaning this place, Peter,” Maggie said, nodding toward Sybil in the background.
“Just a little.”
“No, that’s not your job and I don’t want you bothering with it. You and the ladies are my chefs, my master jam and jelly crew. I need you doing that, not mopping floors or sweeping offices.”
“We clean the factory, Boss.”
“That’s not the same. I never asked you to take on work at the store and I won’t. If you or Gloria or Sybil want to work here part time, we can discuss it, but I won’t burden you with work I didn’t hire you for. I wouldn’t ask you to pick up my dry cleaning, either.”
“She has me for that!” Janice piped up, smiling from the cash register.
“She’s being clever,” said Maggie. “I’ve never asked Janice to run errands and I never will. Now please, you and Sybil go back to the factory and do what you do best.”
“Sure thing, Boss,” Peter said. He waved at Sybil. She set her broom against the office doorframe and followed him toward the door.
“We’ll see you later,” Sybil said to Maggie. When Peter had gone outside before her, she turned to Maggie and said in a lowered voice, “Anything that keeps him busy, Mrs. Dahl. Remember that. Even mopping floors.”
Maggie was surprised by the comment and felt foolish for not having thought of it herself. Peter had been in a fragile state for a long time and might remain that way for years to come. She knew something about fragile states, having survived David’s death with a diminished will to continue, but survive she had. Peter, too, had managed to keep going, but as Sybil had just gently reminded her, he still needed help. He needed to be busy.
“Thank you for reminding me,” Maggie said to Sybil. “I’ll see you at the factory later.”
Sybil gave them all a wave and headed out to Peter’s truck where he was already waiting behind the steering wheel.
The three women spent the next hour getting the store ready, with Janice focusing on paperwork and an ad Maggie wanted placed for part-time help. She knew she could count on Janice juggling jobs between the factory and working at the store, but she’d wanted to find someone outside her immediate circle who would be content helping out on a part-time schedule. Janice Cleary had greater ambitions, that was evident.
The more Maggie had anticipated running Dahl House Jams and Specialties, the closer she’d become to Janice as both a friend and a working partner. She’d even considered offering Janice a share of the business. She knew the Clearys weren’t well off. Joe’s catering business was successful, but not wildly so. Maggie had hired him to cater the store opening. She knew from talking to Janice that he had three employees who worked other jobs as well, and that his plans to expand had been put on hold until business picked up—never a certainty. She wouldn’t ask Janice to pay her any substantial amount of money, but instead had thought of offering a stake in the company in exchange for Janice’s time and labor. It was something she planned to talk to Janice about once they got through the store opening.
Her thoughts about Gerri were a different matter. Gerri had asked Maggie about working at the store, at least until she got acclimated to her new life in Lambertville. Maggie was still not sure living together was a good idea, and working together might be a huge mistake. She’d even had fears about it with David. Being married to someone is not the same as running a business with them, and Maggie had known at least one couple in New York whose decision to undertake a business venture together spelled the end of their marriage. Apparently spending twenty-four hours a day with your spouse was not a recipe for a successful relationship.
“What are you thinking about?” Gerri asked. She’d been setting up the jams Peter and Sybil had delivered.
“How much I like those shelves,” Maggie said. She was not going to get into a discussion about living arrangements or hiring decisions.
“I think they’re great,” Janice said. She was in the office now but could see into the main room. “You picked those out with David, yes?”
“That’s correct,” said Maggie. She and David had found the two shelves at a giant flea market outside of Lambertville. David had refinished them himself. They stood chest high on Maggie and each had five available shelves, perfect for displaying jams, jellies, and smaller custom tableware.
“I’ve been thinking about the walls,” Maggie said, looking around the store.
“
The walls?” asked Gerri. “What about the walls?”
“Decorating them, of course,” Maggie replied. “There’s nothing on them! We need paintings or photographs.”
Janice had gotten up from the desk and was standing in the doorway. “How about old-timey ads, like from the 1950s, but selling jams and bread and that sort of thing?”
Maggie kept looking around at the room, thinking. “I’m not sure about that. I like the idea, but we’re not, I don’t know …”
“Backward looking,” offered Gerri.
“Yes, that’s one way to put it. Those would be more appropriate to a vintage store or something like that. Dahl House Jams is comfortable, for sure, with a kind of Grandma vibe to it, but we have our eyes on the future.”
“We have to,” Janice said, nodding. “You’re right. Old ads are great—for someone else.”
“There’s a gallery in town I’ve been wanting to visit,” Maggie said. “Maybe there’s something I can pick up there, a few pictures.”
“Gallery as in ‘art gallery’?” Janice asked. “Isn’t that kind of expensive?”
“Let me guess,” Gerri said. “You’re talking about Valley Visions.”
Maggie had told Gerri about Heather McGill and her art gallery the morning after her encounter with Dahlia Getty.
“That’s the place,” Maggie said.
“How about the flea market?” Janice said. “It’s huge. We could get some real bargains there, nice things, too—paintings, or photographs.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion,” said Maggie. “But I still want to take a look at Valley Visions. I’d like to support local artists if I can.”
Maggie went behind the counter and got her purse from under the cash register. “As a matter of fact, let’s walk over there now,” she said to Gerri. “Janice can finish up here and we can grab some lunch after we stop at the gallery.”
“Would you like me to come with you?” Janice offered.
Maggie knew Janice was thinking about budgets, account balances, and saving Maggie from her own spending impulses. What she did not know was that Maggie had no intention of buying artwork. She was going to have a conversation with Heather McGill. She’d been thinking about how to start that conversation and decided today was as good a time as any.
“No, Janice, but thank you,” she said. “I promise not to buy anything without showing you first!”
“Hey, it’s your business. If you want a Picasso on the wall, go for it.”
“If I had a Picasso I’d be retired,” Maggie said. “Have some faith in me, Janice, I’m as money conscious as you are. We have to be. Dahl House Jams and Specialties will not fail, at least not from bad money management.”
“We won’t fail at all.”
Maggie smiled. She knew she’d gotten lucky finding Janice, and she needed the comfort of her assistant’s steady hand more than ever.
“Let’s go,” said Maggie, leading the way as she and Gerri left the store.
CHAPTER Twenty-Two
ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS Maggie and David had noticed about Lambertville was its artistic sensibility. It wasn’t artsy, really, not in an artificial, pretentious way so evident in places like SoHo or small towns where painters and writers outnumbered regular people. Lambertville was creative without being forced about it. From the restaurants to the coffee shops, to the antique stores and art galleries, it all felt accessible, as if the artist on display was your aunt or the author signing books was your best friend from high school.
Maggie had been to the Valley Visions gallery, named for the Delaware River Valley they all lived in, without ever realizing who owned it. Valley Visions specialized in local artists, and the small storefront it was housed in offered paintings from names that might be familiar in the nearest diner or dress shop.
“Have you ever spoken to her?” Gerri asked. They were walking up Bridge Street from the car. Maggie had parked where there were no meters. An abundance of free parking was one of the advantages Lambertville had over New Hope.
“No,” said Maggie. “I hadn’t even connected the two until my conversation with Dahlia Getty. I don’t know what Heather McGill looks like … at least not to put a name to her, but I’m sure I’ve seen her around.”
“Does she know we’re coming?”
“No, and I want it that way. An element of surprise might help. She won’t be expecting anyone to ask her about Alice Drapier’s debt.”
“Debt she now owns and will never recover.”
“It makes her an unlikely suspect, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Gerri, as they approached the gallery entrance. “If she was willing to buy Alice’s debt from a loan shark, she might just be willing to bury a hammer in her skull.”
Maggie thought that was improbable but didn’t say anything. They’d arrived at the gallery and it was time to compose herself. She was about to attempt a conversation with a woman who may not be in a talkative mood.
The front of the gallery, like most storefronts, was composed of tall windows and an awning. Several paintings were on easels facing the street, so pedestrians and potential buyers could view them when they were strolling by.
“I like that,” Gerri said, pointing at a landscape depicting the same bridge they could see two blocks away.
“The entire area lends itself to being painted and photographed,” Maggie said. “I wouldn’t call it breathtaking, to be honest, but it’s very beautiful.”
Maggie led them inside. Like most businesses of its kind, Valley Visions was quiet, as if talking above a whisper would offend the muses. There was classical music playing softly over a speaker mounted in one corner, but nothing else that might be considered noise.
A dozen paintings were displayed throughout the main area and in a second room they could see beyond the front desk. Behind the desk sat a tall, thin woman Maggie assumed was Heather McGill. She had seen her around, but had never asked anyone who she was. She had not seen her with her father, Chip, and she wondered why that was. Were they estranged? Or did they simply travel in different circles, given Heather’s position as an art gallery owner and Chip’s as a handyman with a drinking problem?
“Good morning, ladies,” Heather said. She stood up from the chair, stepping around the small desk.
She would be called statuesque if people still used that word. Her hair was light brown and exceptionally long, pulled back and expertly braided in a tail that fell over her shoulder, down past her breast. She wore reading glasses she removed when she got up from the chair.
“Good morning,” Maggie said. “I’m looking for Heather McGill.”
“That would be me,” Heather said. “I recognize you, by the way. I don’t think we’ve met.” She extended her hand.
Maggie returned the gesture, gently shaking hands, and said, “Maggie Dahl, and this is my sister Gerri.”
Heather cocked her head a moment, thinking. “Yes, I remember now. You’re the jam lady. I’m sorry about your husband.”
“And I’m sorry we haven’t met. Lambertville’s not a big place.”
“Big enough that we could pass each other on the street many times and never speak.”
“Yes.”
It was time to steer the conversation into riskier territory. Maggie had no idea how Heather would react but she had to find out.
“I’m the one who discovered Alice Drapier’s body,” Maggie said.
She saw a flicker in Heather’s eyes, accompanied by a small twitch of the mouth.
Gerri, meanwhile, had left the two women alone, casually looking at the other paintings on display.
“That must have been terrible,” Heather said. “But what does this have to do with me, or the gallery?”
Maggie decided it was best to just come out with it. Either Heather would tell her something, or she would go silent and ask them to leave.
“I was told by someone I believe that Alice was deeply in debt to a … how can I say this? …”
“Loan shark.”
It was Maggie’s turn to be surprised. “Yes, for lack of a better term.”
“There is no other term, Mrs. Dahl. Alice owed money to someone, and I purchased the note. We can cut the nonsense and say that. That’s why you’re here, it must be.”
Maggie was unable to tell if the McGill woman was expressing dislike for her or just being blunt.
“Yes, it is why I’m here. I’m trying to find out who killed Alice, or at least who would want to kill her, and that’s led me to you.”
Heather laughed, a sound that included a certain acidity. “And you think it was me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you implied it.”
“Actually, I didn’t. But your father has done a lot of work for me and my late husband. You purchased Alice’s debt. Father, daughter … I’m just wondering if there’s more than a familial connection there, something that needs to be looked at.”
“Try the newspaper archives,” Heather said. “Go back ten years. A girl disappeared here.”
This was not at all what Maggie had expected. Suddenly Alice’s murder, her debt, and the purchase of that debt were being connected to the disappearance of Lilly Stapley. Maggie knew exactly who Heather was talking about.
“The Stapley girl,” she said. “Her father works for me.”
“Small world,” Heather said, this time with distinct bitterness.
“Small town. But what does Lilly Stapley’s disappearance have to do with Alice Drapier?”
“Wrong question, Mrs. Dahl. You should ask what Lilly’s disappearance has to do with my father.”
Maggie’s head was spinning.
“I’ll ask it now, then,” she said. The room suddenly seemed even more quiet. She sensed Gerri inching closer to them, pretending to look at a painting while eavesdropping on their conversation.
Heather stared at her and said, “Alice Drapier, who you seem to think was a good person, was the main source of a whisper campaign against my father.”