“About you and Derek?”
That wasn’t exactly what I’d meant, but when he started dragging out pieces of paper, my jaw dropped and I reached for them. “What the…what is all this?”
“I’m gonna say everything she could dig up on the two of you on short notice,” Derek said. “Obviously, there was a lot more information available on Derek than on you.”
Obviously. She had a copy of the newspaper announcement that ran when he came back to Waterfield to join his dad’s medical practice some eleven years ago now, plus a couple of clippings of him with Melissa on his arm during the time they were still married. Then there was Melissa on Ray Stenham’s arm, and Melissa when she received her award as Maine Realtor of the Year a couple years ago. There was the announcement the paper had run when Derek opened Waterfield R&R, and so on and so forth. She also had copies of the property records for both Derek and Melissa, and although there were no notations on them, I wondered if she’d realized the fact that they were directly across the street from one another and that if Derek didn’t keep his curtains closed, Melissa could look straight into his loft.
And vice versa, of course, but I knew Derek wouldn’t be looking to sneak a peek at Melissa. She, I wasn’t so sure about.
As Josh had pointed out, there was less dirt about me, probably because I’d only been in Waterfield for a year. There was a copy of the announcement that had run in the Waterfield Clarion just a few weeks ago, after Derek and I had gotten engaged, as well as a newspaper clipping from the spring, after we helped the police in Boothbay Harbor, up the coast a bit, break up a human trafficking ring. There was the newspaper coverage from last fall, when we were renovating the house on Becklea Drive, when we found the skeleton in the crawl space, and from even longer ago, there was a small news article about my aunt Inga, who had been Waterfield’s oldest resident—almost ninety-nine—when she died. That article also included the information that her second cousin a few times removed, Avery Marie Baker, textile designer from New York, had inherited her house. Miss Shaw had scribbled the words “Murder?” and “Inheritance?” in the margin.
She’d been right about the first, but not about the second. Aunt Inga had indeed been murdered, but it certainly hadn’t been me pushing her down the stairs. I’d been in New York when she fell, and at that time I’d had no idea she was planning to leave me her house. I hadn’t seen her since I was five.
I sniffed, insulted, and lowered the clipping to my lap. “I can’t believe it. Why would she do something like that?”
“Believe it,” Josh said. “There’s more like it in here.” He tapped the envelope with a fingernail.
“Does the rest of it have as much basis in fact?”
Josh shrugged. “Some of it has more. Miss Shaw had computer pictures of Jamie at work; people take them sometimes, and upload them to their social networking profiles. I have a Google alert on her name, and I take ’em down whenever I come across them, but I don’t catch everything. They say her name’s Jamaica Lee, but anyone who knows her can tell it’s Jamie. Good thing her family thinks the Internet is evil and they stay away from it.”
Guess so. We were sitting in front of a computer, and my fingers itched to do a Google search on Jamaica Lee, but I contained myself.
“She also had Jamie’s parents’ address in Mississippi,” Josh added, “so I don’t think Jamie was exaggerating when she was afraid that Miss Shaw would contact her parents. It looked like Miss Shaw had thought about it. Or at least she was prepared.”
So it seemed.
“A lot of what’s here is stuff that’s more or less commonly known,” Josh added. “No huge secrets. Even Jamie’s job is a secret only from her parents, really. Gregg and Mariano are gay, and Mariano is an illegal alien working without a permit. I’m sure everyone at the hotel knows it, and probably everyone in the building, too. Bruce has a police record from when he was a juvenile. Underage drinking and joy-riding. Half of Waterfield remembers that. Robin’s been married before, and Benjamin isn’t Bruce’s kid. Big surprise there; he doesn’t look anything like Bruce, and Robin had him when she moved in here last year. I can’t imagine why Miss Shaw thought any of that was newsworthy.”
I couldn’t, either. “Who was Robin married to? Anyone interesting?”
Josh shook his head. “Someone named Guy Quinn. In Alabama. I’ve never heard of him. And if he was somebody, I’m sure Miss Shaw would have had a newspaper article about him.”
I nodded. “Hard to see how that’s anyone’s business but Robin’s. Obviously she left him and married Bruce instead. And I’m sure he told Robin about his misspent youth. If you know about it, there’s no reason why he wouldn’t share it with her. As for Gregg and Mariano, it’s not like they’re trying to hide, is it?”
Josh shook his head. “She even had a picture of a picture—or I should say a copy of a painting—that William Maurits’s insurance company paid out on a few years back. Here.”
He dove into the envelope; obviously the picture of the picture—or copy of the painting—was something he felt he could share with me.
I took the computer printout he handed me and stared at it. An off-white oval with a slash of red across it, crowned by a half circle in orange and gold on a purplish-black background. There was something compelling about it, although I couldn’t have told you why. I tilted my head. “What is it?”
“It’s called Madonna,” Josh said, “so I assume that’s what it is. Or was. Although I’m not sure whether it’s supposed to be the religious figure or the singer.”
I could see his point. The painting didn’t look like either of them. Nor did it look like anyone else, really. It certainly didn’t look like something I’d want to hang on my wall. However, the accompanying article said it was valued at a cool half-million dollars, and that it had perished when the gallery where it hung had burned to the ground. This was only one of the pieces that had gone up in smoke, and not even the most valuable. The article noted that since the cause of the fire was undetermined, the insurance company had tried to claim arson, probably so they wouldn’t have to pay out the six million dollars on the claim. However, there was no proof that the gallery owners had had anything to do with the fire, so eventually the insurance company had to bite the bullet.
“Maurits couldn’t have been happy,” I said.
Josh shook his head. “I have no idea why she’d focus on this painting. There were at least a dozen of them that were lost, some of them more valuable. But I guess she had a reason.”
“Probably.” I did a quick tally of neighbors in my head. Maurits and Miss Shaw herself on the first floor; Derek and I and Mariano and Gregg on the second; Josh and Candy and Jamie on the third; and Robin and Bruce along with Amelia Easton on the top floor. “What about Professor Easton? Did Miss Shaw dig up any dirt on her?”
“Not apart from that old story that everyone knows,” Josh said.
Old story that everyone knew? “What old story?”
“Haven’t you heard about that? It’s not a secret, either. All of Barnham was talking about it last year.”
“I was still trying to settle in last year,” I said. “Tell me.” So sue me, I’m as interested in good gossip as the next person. And if everyone at Barnham knew about it already, it wasn’t like it was private, was it?
Josh shifted on the chair, getting more comfortable now that we were far off the subject of him and Jamie. “It happened about twenty years ago or so, when Professor Easton was in college herself. Apparently her roommate died mysteriously.”
My ears pricked up. “How mysteriously?”
“Not as mysteriously as you’re thinking,” Josh said. “Suicide.”
“Why?”
“You should probably just read the newspaper articles.” He tapped the computer open and then keyed in a search for Amelia Easton and Southern Mennonite University. It took the computer only a few seconds to pull up thousands of matches.
“Knock yourself out,” he said, getti
ng up from the chair. “I’m gonna go get a cup of coffee.”
I slipped into the chair he’d vacated, my eyes already scanning the available links.
“You want one?”
“No thanks.” I picked a link and clicked on it. “I’m on my way to Cora and Dr. Ben’s house for dinner after this.” And I should probably hurry. Derek would be waiting. But what I was reading was too interesting to leave quite yet.
“Suit yourself,” Josh said, and strolled out, taking the manila envelope with him. A part of me had hoped he might forget and leave it, since that part wanted to dig in and see what else was inside; but the other part was relieved, since I didn’t really want to turn out like Miss Shaw, too interested in other people’s business. All in all, just having Josh’s word for what the envelope contained was enough.
I turned back to the screen, to what turned out to be an official interview on the Barnham College website, most likely in response to the unrestrained gossip when Professor Easton was hired last year.
The article wasn’t long, and as Josh had said, the crime wasn’t all that mysterious, either. Twenty years ago or so, while Amelia Easton had attended Southern Mennonite University, her roommate, Nanette Barbour, had been found dead, hanging from the ceiling fan in the bathroom. It was no wonder Amelia had been so pale while she and I were standing outside the door that day when Miss Shaw died. It must have brought back memories of Nanette.
The two girls had come to SMU together, from what was essentially a closed religious community. It was their first experience with the outside world: Up until then they had spent their time entirely within the commune. College was a whole new world to them. Nanette was the one who had wanted to go, and Amelia had agreed to accompany her. But Nanette had gotten into trouble almost immediately. Amelia had caught her talking to a boy, alone. She had phoned the elders, who had made immediate plans to fetch both girls and bring them home. Amelia had told Nanette what was coming down, and the next morning, Nanette was dead.
It seemed pretty open and closed to me, and obviously it had seemed equally simple to the local police, who had determined that Nanette self-terminated rather than allow herself to be brought home in disgrace.
With the gossip settled, the article went on to detail Amelia Easton’s accomplishments after Nanette’s death. Instead of returning to the commune, the way one might expect that she would, she had changed her major from home economics to history—in honor of Nan, who had wanted to study history—and had settled in to become a scholar. From Southern Mennonite University, she’d gone on to postgraduate work elsewhere, had become a professor, and had eventually ended up at Barnham, taking over as history professor when Martin Wentworth died. If she’d ever gone back to the commune, even to visit, the article didn’t say anything about it.
“I can’t imagine why Miss Shaw would be interested in this,” I told Josh when he came back into the lab, coffee in hand but without the manila envelope. “It seems pretty cut-and-dried.”
He nodded. “I can’t understand why Miss Shaw would be interested in any of it. It’s none of her business that Robin’s been married twice, or that Gregg and Mariano are gay, or that Jamie’s a stripper. Or that Candy’s sleeping with her boss.”
His face sobered as he remembered Candy and what had happened. Mine did the same.
“What did you do with the envelope?” I asked after a minute.
“Put it in my locker,” Josh answered. “Shannon won’t find it there.”
“Why don’t you just get rid of it?”
He shot me a look as if he suspected I’d lost my mind. “I stole it. Took it out of someone else’s condo. Someone who just died. I can’t do that.”
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. More than a year ago, when I’d first moved to Waterfield, Josh, Shannon, and their friend Paige had been withholding evidence then, too. Specifically, they’d been hiding Professor Martin Wentworth’s daytimer, with all his appointments in it. They hadn’t been able to bring themselves to destroy it then, either. Thankfully, since the information it had contained had helped the police—and me—figure out what had happened to Professor Wentworth.
“Couldn’t you give it to your dad? And explain? Wayne would understand about Jamie not wanting her parents to find out, wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe,” Josh said. “I’m not sure he’d understand about Mariano, though. Or about me taking the stuff out of Miss Shaw’s condo.”
I opened my mouth to continue arguing, but he shook his head. “I’m gonna hold on to it for now. If I think there’s anything in it that Dad might need to know, I’ll give it to him.”
I nodded. “I should go. Derek’s expecting me. Thanks for sharing what you know.”
“My pleasure,” Josh said politely, although I hadn’t given him much of a choice in the matter. He glanced at the computer screen. “I’m gonna stay here, get some work done.”
I nodded. “I’ll see you later.”
—15—
By the time I made it to the small green Folk Victorian on Chandler Street, dinner was but a distant memory. The table was cleared and everyone had settled into the family room to play Chinese checkers.
Everyone except Derek, who seemed to be watching the door and the game alternately. When I walked into the room, apology on my lips, he jumped up. “Are you OK?”
“Of course I’m OK,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You know how he worries,” Cora said with a smile. “There’s a plate for you on the counter, Avery. It should still be warm, but if not, you can put it in the microwave for thirty seconds.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Thank you.” I headed in the direction of the kitchen with Derek on my heels, my stomach rumbling. I hadn’t felt all that hungry while I’d been talking to Josh and driving back here, but now that I was inside the house, still redolent of tomato sauce and Italian spices, I found I was ravenous.
The plate was right where Cora said it would be, covered with aluminum foil. I removed the foil and stared greedily at a generous piece of lasagna, dripping with tomato sauce and cheese. My stomach signaled approval, and Derek grinned as he reached past me to the silverware drawer for a fork. “Here.”
“Thank you.” I plunged the fork into the lasagna, which was still plenty warm enough.
“Breadstick?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said around the first bite of lasagna. It tasted even better than it looked and smelled.
“Coming right up.” He slipped on an oven mitt, yellow with orange stripes, and pulled a tray out of the cooling oven. “Careful. They’re still hot.”
I waved the warning away as I reached for a breadstick, and burned my fingers as a reward for being careless. “Ow!”
“Told you,” Derek said, and put the tray back in the oven. He slipped the oven mitt off and continued, “You said you’d be here in thirty minutes. What took so long?”
“I swear I didn’t do it on purpose. I was on my way back, just coming out of Wellhaven, when—”
I stopped, narrowly escaping choking to death on a piece of pasta when I realized what I’d said. Derek’s eyes narrowed. “You went back there?”
I blinked as I looked for a rational explanation, something that wouldn’t make me sound like I was a weird stalker. “Someone had to tell him his girlfriend was in the hospital. I didn’t think Jamie would remember to call.”
I did my best to sound virtuous, for all the good that it did me.
“One of these days, Avery…” Derek said, and stopped. He shook his head in exasperation, and that hank of hair that tends to fall into his eyes whenever he moves, fell into his eyes. My hands were full, so I resisted the temptation to reach out and brush it away. Didn’t want to risk gouging his eye out with either fork or breadstick.
“I know. But I’m fine. And when I was leaving Wellhaven, I saw Josh driving in the opposite direction, like a bat out of hell. So I followed.”
“Let me guess,” Derek said. “Barnham College was
burning.”
“Of course not.” I popped another bite of lasagna in my mouth and chewed. “He was going to Barnham, but not because anything was burning.”
“So you spent the past hour with Josh?”
I nodded as I dug the fork back into the lasagna. “Remember the other morning, after Miss Shaw died, when Brandon swore up and down that someone had been in her condo during the night?”
Derek nodded. “Josh said he’d locked up.”
“He did. What he neglected to mention was that he unlocked the place again, too, at four o’clock in the morning. And that he and Jamie Livingston tore it apart looking for pictures Miss Shaw had of Jamie.”
Derek’s eyebrows disappeared behind his hair. “Josh and Jamie?”
“Just so. Apparently they had a one-night stand sometime last fall. Jamie threatened to tell Shannon about it unless Josh let her into Miss Shaw’s condo.”
“That wasn’t very nice of Jamie,” Derek said judiciously.
I shook my head. “In justice to her, she was pretty freaked out. Miss Shaw had figured out about the Pompeii Gentleman’s Club—it was Jamie you saw on Friday—and she was threatening to tell Jamie’s parents. Jamie’s under twenty-one, so by Mississippi law she’s still a minor, and she’s afraid her folks are going to come and drag her back home.”
“If she has left home and is supporting herself, her age doesn’t matter,” Derek said. “She’d be considered an independent minor. And anyway, she’s in Maine now. Legal age here is eighteen.”
“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear that. But when Miss Shaw died, Jamie was afraid the police were going to find the information Miss Shaw had, and that they would call her parents. So she made Josh help her search for it.”
“Did they find it?”
“Behind the books in the living room, Josh said. But by then it was morning, and they didn’t have time to clean up. Anyway, the pictures of Jamie weren’t all they found. Miss Shaw had dug up little tidbits of information about everyone in the building. Even you and me.”
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