It’s hard to surprise Lance, but I’d managed. “You mean that someone might have been masquerading as Chadwick?” His eyes danced when he said “masquerading.” Lance kind of enjoyed being drawn into an old-fashioned caper.
“Looks that way.”
Lance lowered his voice and leaned closer. “And you think that’s the guy who was murdered?”
“So far, there’s no way to know if it was the real Chadwick or the imposter.”
A tall seventy-something woman with great silver hair stepped forward, frowning. “Excuse me, but I was at the head of this line, young woman. You can’t push yourself in like that.”
Lance turned and touched her forearm lightly. He said soothingly, “Family emergency.” He then returned his attention and the full wattage of his gaze to me. Lance and I will never be an item, but up close he can still make my knees go weak.
A round little lady in a hand-knit pink sweater said, “I’m in a hurry too! People have to take their turns.” Everyone needed their Lance fix.
Lance ignored them and steered me over to the bay of shelves with the encyclopedias, where we’d probably be unpestered.
I said, “And we can’t forget the other two.”
“The other two?”
“His alleged assistant, a Miss Troy, and the butler, Thomas, have vanished, and according to the police, he never had a butler and his assistant was not called Miss Troy.”
“Nothing’s like it seems, like that old film, Gaslight.”
“Exactly, and then Chadwick or someone else was murdered. He was alive when we left him with two witnesses, but now our witnesses do not appear to exist. So I need to know if the person who we met as Chadwick really was Chadwick. I cannot find this guy’s image anywhere, but I understand that Chadwick doesn’t seek the camera.”
“I’m on it. What a weird setup.”
“Yes, and I think that’s exactly what it was. A setup for murder. But who set it up? And why would they have picked Vera as a target?”
“Did they seek her out? Or did Vera find out about the collection?” He stopped and stared. “Did you?”
“Chadwick Kauffman contacted us. Or at least his people did. Anyway, you can see how much I need your help.”
“I sure can. Give me a bit of time and I’ll find what you need. I may have to deal with the clamoring hordes first.”
“I appreciate it, Lance.”
“I’ll send you links to whatever I find.”
I headed out of the library, ignoring the dirty looks from the posse and hoping that the police wouldn’t be through the door before I got away.
Thinking about the police reminded me that I hadn’t yet thanked Tyler for his help. I tried to call him again. I wanted to hear his voice too. Again, straight to message.
I checked my own voice mails, but nothing from him.
My phone pinged again. Speak of the devil, Officer Dekker, texting.
Jordan, I think we need to step back from this relationship. Between your work and mine, we’re just not compatible. I know if you really think about it you’ll feel the same way. You are beautiful inside and out. It’s not you. It’s the situation. Let’s try to still be friends. xo Tyler
I had been so wrong about Smiley’s reasons for getting me a lawyer. He wasn’t looking after my wellbeing. He didn’t want a guilty conscience about the woman he’d just dumped by text. Still be friends? My Aunt Fanny.
I stiffened my back and kept my lower lip from wobbling. I was, after all, half Kelly, and we hold ourselves together when the emotional weather gets stormy. From what little I knew about the Binghams, they were no pushovers either. I reminded myself that I’d been an idiot to let myself fall for Tyler Dekker. He was, first of all, a police officer, and that had been tempting fate. Still, I’d thought he was willing to work at things regardless of our differences. What a fool I’d been.
Now that I was being questioned by his colleagues, he had to put distance between the two of us. He was ambitious, and how would it look to be in a relationship with an accused killer?
And in the unlikely event that he ever attempted to get back together again after this, he’d be really sorry he tried. I was really going to miss his dog, Cobain. Good thing I had Walter on a semi-permanent basis.
I still had Tyler’s house key in the pocket of my deep-orange purse. I liked the idea of flinging the key in his face. But that could wait.
“Who needs a cop hanging around ruining things, anyway,” I muttered, and made a new plan. Time to get into and out of Van Alst House quickly.
* * *
PING! LANCE HAD done it again. Somehow he’d found photos of the late Chadwick Kauffman. I clicked on the attachments.
I got that old sinking feeling. Not one of the photos was of a lean, dark man with a gecko-like gaze. Instead, a stocky man with a shy smile and reddish-blond hair was the subject. I recognized him from my online search for Chadwick Kauffman. His face had shown up in many of the images. He was alone in each of the photos that Lance had sent, so no chance to see if one of the others was with him.
Lance confirmed the images. “I talked to people who’ve met him at cultural events and fund-raisers. My patrons came to the rescue.”
I wasn’t a fan of Lance’s posse, but I had to admit they’d come in handy this time. A lot of thoughts whirled in my brain. The man who’d met us at Summerlea was not who he said he was.
The big question was: Which of them was dead?
How to find out?
Normally, I would have asked Smiley, but that wasn’t going to happen.
I shot the images of the shy-looking man with the reddish-blond hair to Sammy.
“This isn’t the man we met at Summerlea. But it seems he’s the real Chadwick. Can you confirm and find out if this is the man who died?”
I called Lance instead of texting. I guess I wanted to hear his voice.
“Thanks, Lance.”
“All part of the service.”
“So, that’s not the guy I met at Summerlea.”
“I trust my sources.”
“Oh, I’d never doubt you. Sammy will try to find out if the man in the pix was the victim.”
“Who else would it be?”
“No idea. But no one at Summerlea was who they said they were, so who knows if the real Chadwick was involved with any of it.”
“This just gets weirder and weirder.”
“Yes.”
“What can I do, beautiful lady?”
That saved me asking him for more help, and to be honest, I needed the flowery compliment too. “I appreciate it, Lance. Can you keep looking for any other photos of Chadwick?”
“He was pretty elusive. It took a while to unearth these. Most people are all over the Internet with no good reason, but not this guy, even though he’s the heir to a fortune and a descendent of an influential family.”
“Now we need you to look for a woman, light brown hair, tall, slender, nicely put together, with a slight overbite. She’s the woman who met us at Summerlea, and I believe she’s an accomplice. See if you can find anything that links her to Chadwick.”
“Right. I’ll hunt for photos of Chadwick with female associates. How old?”
“Somewhere in her late twenties, I think. She was supposed to be the assistant, Lisa Troy. And we really need to identify a tall man, around forty, give or take. Dark hair. Thin face. Cold eyes. Looks a bit like an iguana. That’s the man who introduced himself as Chadwick.”
“Got it.”
“The third person was the so-called butler, Thomas. He was large, but pear-shaped, dark hair too. His hair was dyed black. He had heavy, hairy hands and a couple of chins. Five-o’clock shadow, even at noon.”
“I’m on it.”
I left Lance to his hunt, knowing he’d do whatever was possible.
* * *
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I WAS FULLY installed back in my garret and having a really hard time distracting myself. I was so down I barely remembered eating although usually every bite makes such a happy impression. But tonight, there was no escaping reminders of the crummy things piling up around me. “Somebody That I Used to Know” and “Rolling in the Deep” crept onto my random playlist, as if to taunt my heart. Usually a bit of music could lift my mood, but it only led to further wallowing. Dumped, again, by a cop, and by text, no less. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” Mick would say. And I sure didn’t need to hear that right now. I’d finally let my walls down for Tyler, and I guess he didn’t like what he saw back there. I was hurt. And angry at both of us.
Tiff was unreachable. Usually, she’d be my go-to for this kind of thing. She was always able to find the right words or vintage wine to ease the pain. I didn’t really want to get into relationship stuff with Lance, because . . . well . . . just plain awkward. Pulling out my earbuds, I opted for a bit of mindless TV but found Law & Order, a Cops marathon, The Bachelor and The War of the Roses. Sometimes it’s like the universe is pointing and laughing. Why, I’d almost forgotten the dead flowers I’d received and their sickly scent. Who hated me enough to go to that effort? On the plus side, though, if I went to jail for murder, I’d probably be safe from the wacko who sent them. Off with the television.
Walter sighed heavily, sensing this was a rough time for me. He ground his soft, furry face into my side in a show of commiseration and support.
“Let’s go to bed with a book, Walter.” I helped him into my fluffy feather bed and cuddled up with another Marsh, as I’d already whipped through A Man Lay Dead. This time I picked Final Curtain, another setup in a grand house with a bit of theater and a large group of suspects who weren’t quite what they seemed. Sleep did not come quickly.
* * *
YOU CAN PICK your friends, they say, but you can’t pick your relatives. My relatives proved a challenge on a daily basis, but the good news was that the skills I learned from them came in handy this morning.
I didn’t have much from the Kelly gene pool, aside from what I like to think is a strategic mind. No ginger hair, no red cheeks, no fifth-generation-removed Irish blarney. But I did have the family knack with changing one’s appearance on occasions when being oneself might prove awkward, mostly if the police were watching. In this case, I figured they would be.
A second benefit of my relatives was wheels. My uncles maintain an ever-changing fleet of anonymous-looking older compact cars, Civics, Fiestas, Accords, that kind of thing. The cars were always in beige, burgundy or dulled silver. Never in what Tyler used to call “Arrest Me Red.” I knew the registrations would be in order as would the insurance. The vehicles would be part of the rolling stock of shell companies within shell companies within . . . well, you get the idea. I would be listed as an occasional driver on all of them. I’d needed these vehicles before, but I’d always hoped I’d never need one again.
Oh well, when life gives you lemons, time to slap on a wig and drive off.
I left Van Alst House wearing highly noticeable clothing, a great swirling vintage cape in crimson being the centerpiece of that outfit. I was accompanied by Walter in a fetching little plaid jacket. Walter kept a much better pace when he was dressed. I guess my love of fashion was rubbing off on him. He pranced around proudly as we headed for the car.
I popped Walter into the passenger seat and then got behind the wheel of the Saab with what I hoped was a flourish and not a nervous twitch and spun down the long driveway. I waved to the police officer who was keeping an eye on the house. The drive to Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques is only about ten minutes, but it takes you from the bucolic country setting of Van Alst House to the center of Harrison Falls. I pulled up in front of the family business and parked the Saab in the most conspicuous spot possible. There wasn’t too much going on in that little part of the downtown, as Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky seemed to have bought up most of the adjoining properties, using some convenient corporation. Better I didn’t know how or why.
A dark Crown Victoria, obviously an unmarked police car, pulled in behind me and waited, idling.
Not surprising, but not good either.
Walter and I stepped up to the shop briskly, and I used my keys to open the door. Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques (By Appointment Only) is run by Uncle Mick, when he’s in the mood. Lately that hadn’t been all that often. Uncle Lucky had always been there, but only in spirit. I grew up in the rooms behind and above the shop. Some of my happiest memories were of the shop: the dim lights, the wide, dark plank floors, the full shelves and, of course, the dusty smell that hinted at other people’s fascinating stories. I’d loved the glow and glimmer of possible treasures of glass, brass or silver set up by Uncle Mick. The gleam of the locked glass cases near the cash registers always made me happy. So many treasures so close to my old home.
I rummaged through the excellent supply of wigs that resided in a large drawer, marked “WIGS—NEVER WORN.” Uncle Mick seemed to have an unending source. They were undeniably useful for certain activities. I had purchased several of the wigs myself for fun, for costumes, for emergencies. This was an emergency.
There wasn’t a lot I could do about my blue eyes, dark brows and eyelashes, but I could ditch my dark hair. If, as my uncles claim, the Kelly legacy is from Olaf the Viking, then I must owe mine to some Spanish sailor who washed ashore half alive when the Armada had that awkwardness with the English fleet. Whoever he was, he and others like him left a genetic legacy around rocky coasts. Black Irish, some people say.
Changing my hair was the easiest thing to prepare for my bit of reconnaissance. People can gauge your age by your build, posture, ways of moving. It’s very hard to disguise. But hair color makes a huge difference. My favorite bright red wig was familiar to many in the police department after last fall, but it wasn’t the only game in town. I searched for and found an amazing little short and tightly curled honey blond number. It added at least fifteen years to my age and subtracted any cool factor whatsoever. Excellent. Next, I hunted for a pair of glasses in the jumbled glasses section. Mixed in with the vintage and collectible frames was a pair of horn-rimmed specs with clear glass lenses. All I needed was a severe suit and a briefcase and I’d be in business.
Upstairs in my old closet I found the perfect suit, a charcoal worsted vintage jacket and skirt, bought for a funeral a few years back, but too somber for anything else. My plan was perfect. Under my swirly cape, I had on a crisp white blouse, which looked exceptionally uptight under the suit. Back in the shop, I topped it all off with some supersized pearls—necklace and clip-on earrings—and a black leather briefcase. I was going to cover the KRR monogram using a washable black marker but decided not to. Usually, I’d wonder who KRR had been, that he had a gold monogram, but no time for fanciful imaginings today. Today, I would make use of it.
In front of the shop mirror, I thickened up my eyebrows and added an unflattering shade of coral lipstick, and I was ready to go.
In the apartment, I left the lights on and turned on the television set.
Next I found the newly added recess behind the kitchen cupboard and fished out a burner phone. I left my iPhone on the kitchen table and pocketed the burner. I didn’t have a plan for it, but I was well aware that it’s often advisable to make an untraceable call. That’s part of being careful and planning to avoid trouble.
I trotted upstairs again to check myself in the only decent full-length mirror. I turned and twirled. The shoes were wrong, but I had no choice. I would have to do.
Walter looked at me with worry in his huge googly eyes.
“Don’t worry, Walter,” I said. “You’ll be taken care of. Too bad you don’t have Cobain for company, but it can’t be helped.”
Back in the kitchen with the bare wall as a backdrop, I managed an excellent selfie with my iPhone and uploaded the im
age. With Uncle Mick’s first-rate equipment, printer and lamination machine, I soon had myself a driver’s license and a very good ID tag for a well-known firm of auditors: Jackson and Dogherty.
I thought I looked like everyone’s stereotype of an auditor. Stereotypes are our friends when we need disguises. I’d learned that from the best.
I took ten more minutes to look up a few phrases used by auditors, memorized ten of them and was ready to depart. First, I needed to give Walter the few little treats he expects if I am leaving without him. We definitely didn’t want to have any separation anxiety.
I tossed the treats, and Walter scampered after them. My departure was no longer a concern.
Kathryn Risley Rolland was on her way, with her monogrammed leather briefcase and a plan.
Minutes later I was out the back door heading for my ride of the day. To my surprise, I found a shiny black Infiniti parked in Uncle Mick’s spare garage two doors down. I could have taken the dreary old Civic or that washed out Mazda6, but this looked so much better. It was about three years old and exactly the kind of car Kathryn Risley Rolland would drive. I hoped that my uncles didn’t have big plans for it that day and made a phone call from the burner to check.
With all systems go, I slipped behind the wheel and exited. Without an apparent glance and with chin held high, I drove past my Saab, which was patiently parked in front of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques. I didn’t acknowledge the officer in the unmarked police car, who was obviously tasked with keeping an eye on me.
CHAPTER NINE
THE COUNTRY CLUB and Spa was worth the drive. I sped along the access road, noting the number of Beamers, Mercedes and glossy Caddies parked near the entrance. The Infiniti fit in.
I used my most businesslike stride to arrive at the front door. A fresh-faced teenage boy was stationed at the door for security. His sandy hair had natural highlights from the sun, and he stood well over six feet with a build that indicated time in the gym. He was pretty enough for any movie screen. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was discovered here one of these days. If I read his tag correctly, his name was Braydon. I approached him for what I assumed was an entirely normal and appropriate member’s ID check. I resisted straightening my tightly curled blond wig—which would only draw attention to it—and donned the look I remember from my third grade teacher, Miss Dagenham. It could stop your blood cold and could not be withstood.
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