Body in the Bookcase ff-9

by Katherine Hall Page

  Which reminded her that she hadn’t called Tom’s mother with an update. She’d be terribly pleased at the recovery of the fish-serving pieces, though Great-Aunt Phoebe’s ring was still missing.

  Still missing.

  After the fifth book, the pictures were beginning to swim in front of Faith’s eyes. She stood up and walked around the room. Charley said Stackpole was coming by at four o’clock and he wanted her out long before. Faith had no wish to meet the man face-to-face. Stackpole had been extremely cooperative over the phone, Charley reported, and was bringing receipts for the items the chief described that the Fairchilds had recovered. Faith was beginning to get a sinking feeling about the whole thing. Maybe she should have called John Dunne from the VFW hall instead of Charley, but he would have passed it all on to MacIsaac, she figured. This wasn’t a homicide, at least not in so many words. Manslaughter? How would Sarah’s death be characterized legally? Morally, Faith had no trouble finding the right word.

  She opened the next book, and then the next. If it hadn’t been for the gold chains, she would have looked right past him, but apparently they were a permanent part of the man’s fashion statement.

  “Charley!” She ran excitedly into the chief’s office. “Charley, I found one of them!”

  “Terrific! Who is he?”

  She placed her finger on the man’s forehead.

  “James Green,” Charley read out loud, “and his last address was in Revere. I’ll run a check and get in touch with the police down there.”

  “Sounds like an alias.”

  “Go home, Faith. Get some rest. You’re looking a little peaked these days.”

  “Thanks, Charley.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know what I find out from this Mr. Stackpole.”

  Charley was as good as his word, calling late that afternoon, as soon as the dealer left the station.

  “He had receipts for the gold watch and some silver things. He says he buys at yard sales often and they don’t give receipts. He has no idea why your things have turned up in his booths, but he says this can happen. He suggests you keep checking the big co-ops and something called Brimfield.”

  “It’s a huge outdoor antiques sale a couple of times a year in Brimfield, Massachusetts—hundreds of dealers. I went once. It was a mad-house.”

  “He’s an old guy, Faith. Took this up in retirement, he says. Doesn’t make a whole lot. Very cooperative and pleasant.”

  Faith was afraid of this. George, shaved and pressed, but not too much, had pulled the wool over Chief MacIsaac’s eyes.

  Of course, she hadn’t told him what had happened Thursday night in Framingham. Hadn’t told anybody.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t worry.” Charley seemed to be saying this with some frequency to Faith lately and it was making her worry all the more. The phrase joined the others whose constant repetition brought her close to screaming. Charley was amplifying his remarks.

  “I know you saw the man at work and how he was when he was selling. Now today was different. He was putting his best foot forward with me.

  I’m sure he makes more than a nice little living from all this, but one he’d rather keep from Uncle Sam, so that’s one lie for starters. You also said he’s been in this business a long time, and that’s easy enough to check, so maybe lie number two.

  Anyway, I’m going to be keeping tabs on him and he knows it. He said he had some more receipts and he’s coming back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks. Any word from the police in Revere?”

  “They know Green. And by the way, it’s not an alias. Nothing big-time; penny-ante thug. We sent them the prints we lifted from your house and Sarah’s. We should know more tomorrow.” Tomorrow is going to be a big day, Faith thought.

  George Stackpole called in sick on Monday, much to Faith’s disgust. “How can you let him get away with that? He was perfectly fine when I saw him on Friday and I’m sure he was all right yesterday, wasn’t he?”

  Charley replied patiently, “We’re not arresting the man. He can come when he wants. This is the United States, remember? And he did look a little under the weather.”

  “That’s how he always looks,” Faith snapped back. “He probably has a prior engagement—breaking into some houses in Concord.” Charley hadn’t heard anything more about Green from the Revere police. So far, Monday was a washout.

  She groused some more at work to Niki. The day’s only notable event was the absence of a single call or visit from any of the Bullocks.

  “Come by and see my table. It’s glorious!” It was Patsy Avery. The phone had been ringing as Faith walked in the door with the kids late in the afternoon and she lunged for it, expecting MacIsaac.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t come now. You’d have little handprints all over that nice shiny surface.

  It’s the children’s hour. Tom’s in Chicago until tomorrow night and I’m operating as a single parent.”

  Patsy laughed. “I must be getting maternal.

  The idea of the paw prints is appealing—but definitely not single parenthood. I want all the help I can get. You could bring the kids, you know, but we’ll make it another time if you’d rather. Did Tom like the sideboard?”

  “He loved it as much as I did. Now we have to figure things out with the insurance company. Julian’s holding it for us.”

  “He’s a good guy. Stuck on himself, of course, but a lot of that is Harvard. Still, I enjoy doing business with him.”

  “You’ve never heard that he might be picking up items of dubious origin?” Faith asked.

  “I wouldn’t imagine he’d do anything like that knowingly. He has too much to lose. Not just his business but his TV appearances, too. You know he’s a regular on PBS and his expertise has made him a kind of celebrity nationally, although only in the uppermost echelons, my dear. He sells to museums and the stars.”

  They made a date for lunch and table viewing the following week. As she hung up, Faith wondered what Julian had put in place of Patsy’s table. She desperately hoped it was the same size as the one that had been there or there would be hell to pay. Courtney was spending a fortune, and her own, she’d pointed out, on the star-covered tablecloth. The rehearsal dinner was only four days away and Faith didn’t want anything to go wrong. But she knew in the pit of her stomach there was bound to be something. In fact, the tablecloth would be manageable. It was the fear of the unknown that gnawed at her, like those monsters under the bed in childhood, just waiting to grab your ankle.

  She didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad sign that Charley was putting in a personal appearance late Tuesday afternoon, tapping on the glass at her kitchen door. It meant he had something to tell her that he didn’t want to communi-cate on the phone. Of course it could also mean he was hungry, was in the neighborhood, and wouldn’t mind the spare crumb or two.

  “What’s up? News?”

  “A couple of things, and I thought I’d drop by and tell you myself.”

  “I have some of those sour cream brownies [see recipe on page 341] you like. Why don’t we sit in the kitchen.”

  “Maybe later,” he answered, walking straight through the kitchen into the living room. He sat down in one of the wing chairs, kinder to his ample frame than the spindly Windsor chairs that had spread throughout the parsonage over the years like topsy. “I’m not hungry now. Tom still in Chicago?”

  Charley MacIsaac turning down brownies. Not hungry. Faith steeled herself.

  “He’ll be back late tonight. Let me make sure the kids are okay and you can fill me in on what’s been happening. I take it Mr. Stackpole is enjoying good health again?”

  “Yes, he came by this afternoon—with his lawyer.”

  Faith dashed into the den, made sure Amy was still in her playpen and Ben still enthralled with the Tintin tape. All was well, and if Amy’s vocabulary was being supplemented by Captain Haddock’s colorful phrases—“blistering blue barnacles”—

  Faith wo
uld have no one to blame but herself.

  “Why did he bring his lawyer?”

  “A lot of people do when they come to a police station. I was a little surprised he didn’t have one the other day. We live in a very legalistic society, you know.”

  Faith was surprised to hear Charley wax philosophical—and political. It was completely out of character.

  “But before I go into all this, you’ll be happy to know James Green’s prints matched the ones we found in your house and in Sarah Winslow’s. An arrest warrant has been issued and we’ve informed the police in New Hampshire and Rhode Island as well. We’ll get him.”

  Faith was stunned—and nauseated. She’d been sitting next to the man who broke into her house, the man who tied Sarah up, the man who killed Sarah.

  “It was a great break, Faith. You did a good job.

  I know how much Sarah meant to you, meant to us all.”

  “The Revere police didn’t have any leads about where he might be?”

  “He left his apartment early Sunday morning, according to the landlord, and hasn’t been back.

  They’re staking it out anyway, also a sister’s place up in Billerica. He’s not going to get far. They never do, the dumb ones. He’ll come back to see his girlfriend or get some clothes.”

  “What about Stackpole? Maybe that’s why he brought a lawyer. Because he thought you could connect him to Green.”

  “He said he’d never heard of the man. We have no reason to believe otherwise. Okay—I know you’re not going to like this . . .” Here it comes, thought Faith.

  “But I don’t see the guy as guilty of anything more than lousy bookkeeping and maybe in-come-tax evasion. He brought some shoe boxes full of receipts and his lawyer made the point that a lot of your things look like other items from the same period. I showed him the pictures and they agreed some of the things were the same, but apparently the guy has been to several auctions since your break-in and that’s where he claims to have bought your silver and jewelry. Obviously, Green sold what he stole to somebody, but not to Stackpole, according to him. I gave the lawyer the list of your missing items and they’re going to go over Stackpole’s inventory and see what else he might have.”

  “What!” Faith shrieked. “I can’t believe you did this! Why didn’t I just give the man a key to the place initially and let him come in and take what he wanted!”

  “Now, Faith. He’s cooperating with our investigation. This is not an unusual thing for the police to do.”

  “Cooperating! He’s probably digging holes in his backyard, burying everything this very minute! Why couldn’t you simply ask if we could look at his stock?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “No, instead you give him a detailed list and photographs!”

  “I didn’t give him the photographs.” Charley stood up. He knew he could kiss the sour cream brownies good-bye.

  “I’m very disappointed in you,” Faith said in her best schoolmarmish voice.

  “You’ll get over it,” Charley said, and patted her on the shoulder as he let himself out the front door.

  “Jeez, Faith, don’t you know anybody else?” Scott Phelan was complaining even as he drove north toward the New Hampshire border.

  Faith ignored the comment. He had come as soon as she called and that was all she cared about. Samantha Miller had come to baby-sit, too.

  She was punting the rest of senior year, she’d told Faith a week ago, and was taking it easy for the first time since kindergarten. Next fall at Wellesley, she’d pick up the load again.

  After Chief MacIsaac had left, Faith went into the den and watched the tape with the kids for a while until she calmed down enough to think clearly. And one thought was clear: George Stackpole, now armed with the list, would clean out all his outlets of anything remotely resembling Fairchild loot. She reasoned he’d go to the co-ops nearest Aleford first, figuring she’d head for them, too, so her best bet was to go to the Old Oaken Bucket. It was open until eight o’clock, but even with Scott driving as fast as he dared, Faith was beginning to realize they wouldn’t make it in time.

  Which was why she’d called him in the first place. True, after Saturday night, she wasn’t eager to venture out solo into antiques land—a place that had become fraught with danger even in the most secure places. She wanted company, particularly company who had a better left hook than, say, Pix, although Faith had a feeling the athletic Mrs. Miller’s might not be so bad.

  But should the Bucket be closed, Scott was the only person Faith knew who might be able to disarm an alarm system—not so she could break into Stackpole’s case, but so she could have a look, she told herself. The idea that everything was fast disappearing down the drain obsessed her and she was firmly suppressing any felonious thoughts. She wasn’t breaking and entering herself. Fair was fair. She was tracking her own possessions. What’s hers was hers. It would stand up in any court of law, she told herself. And besides, this was her last chance.

  “You’re awfully quiet—and it’s making me nervous. What’s going on in that screwy little head of yours, boss?”

  “If it’s closed when we get there, we may have to do something to the alarm so I can go in and have a peek at what’s in Stackpole’s case. You don’t have to come. I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble.”

  “Good, because I’m not going to. If it’s closed, we turn around and go home. When I said

  ‘screwy little head,’ I wasn’t kidding.” Faith kept her mouth shut.

  The Old Oaken Bucket was closed and it was dark by the time Scott pulled his precious Mustang into the empty parking lot.

  “Okay, we tried. I’m sorry. First thing in the morning, we’ll come back.”

  “Maybe they just have signs. Maybe they don’t set the alarm. Lots of people put the stickers up and don’t bother with the expense of a system.

  Why don’t we pull around the back and have a look?”

  Scott pulled around the back. It would be easier in the long run. Besides, she looked so pathetic.

  She’d told him about James Green—the auction and the prints matching the ones in her house and Miss Winslow’s. He wished he could have a few minutes alone with the guy before the cops got him.

  They had gotten out of the car and were approaching the back door when they heard another car stop in front of the building.

  “George! I bet it’s George!” Faith whispered.

  She darted around to the corner and was in time to see the dealer, flashlight in hand, unlock the front door and go in, closing it behind him.

  “Come on.” She grabbed Scott’s sleeve, yanked him behind her, and crept toward the door.

  Stackpole didn’t turn any lights on. Faith could see the flashlight beam through the glass on the door. He’d known how to disarm the alarm—if there had been one set. Despite her words to Scott, she was pretty sure there was. With all the security the Oaken Bucket displayed when open, they’d be even more cautious when closed.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” Scott hissed at her. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I’m going inside. I want to see what he’s taking out of the case. And you can be my witness.

  He’ll never see us. We’ll slip behind the counter and down the other aisle across from his booth.” She had the door open and was inside before Scott could object further. On the drive up, she’d told him about going to Framingham and seeing Stackpole with a gun—and told him he was the only person who knew. Scott wasn’t about to let her go into the building alone knowing this.

  The interior of the Old Oaken Bucket was pitch-dark and it was easy to crawl under the counter and position themselves behind one of the booths in the aisle opposite the one Stackpole rented. The only problem was getting a clear view. If Faith had thought she’d have a front-row seat, she was mistaken. The flashlight darted up and down like a firefly. He was putting things into a bag at his feet, but it was impossible to see what these things were except for an occasional
flash of silver.

  “I’m going to try to get closer,” Faith whispered in Scott’s ear. He put his arm out in front of her.

  “Don’t be crazy, Faith. The man packs a rod, remember?”

  Faith did, but she’d been trying not to. She paused, then tried to push Scott’s arm out of the way. At that instant, the lights came on—bright, garish fluorescents flooding the vast interior, turning the booths into a sudden riot of sparkling color. Then as soon as they went on, they went off, leaving a series of images like smoke trails before Faith’s eyes. They must be on a timer, she thought.

  She started to try to move forward again, but now it was a sound that stopped her. Crash! The sound of breaking glass. Crash! George destroy-ing his booth and maybe one or two others to make the break-in look legitimate. The noise stopped abruptly. Soon she heard the front door open and close. He was leaving with her things—

  and he’d get some insurance money, too, she bet!

  They were too late. She was close to tears.

  It wasn’t the things—well, it was a little—but this had been her chance to nail him. To catch him with their stolen property. And then maybe this James Green would rat on his partner or employer, whatever George was. Sarah’s murderers.

  And all the pain they’d caused the group of people that had met in the Fairchilds’ living room.

  Lost class rings, lost lockets, lost links to loved ones.

  But she’d blown it. They should have confronted him. Pretended to have a gun. They should have called the police as soon as they saw George go in. There was a pay phone in the parking lot. They should have . . . She heard the car speed out of the parking lot, sending a spray of gravel against the outside wall.

  “Let’s get going. We don’t want to hang around.” Scott was speaking normally and it sounded now as if he was shouting, after the tense silence of the last quarter hour. “He wants the cops to find his B and E, so he’ll call in an anonymous tip and they’ll be swarming all over the place soon. I’ve never been in trouble in New Hampshire and I plan to keep it that way. Besides, Tricia would kill me.” Scott took Faith by the arm, firmly steering her toward the door.