I texted Ty: You can split logs tomorrow morning. At noon, I’m kidnapping you.
Hank appeared with sleepy eyes and mewed, clearly wanting to know why I hadn’t let him know I was back.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said. I held out my arm toward him and rubbed my thumb and fingers together. “Come here, little boy.”
He walked toward me as if he might or might not be interested in a cuddle. He sniffed my hand with studied indifference, then deigned to leap into my lap. I kissed his head and thought about kidnapping Ty.
* * *
Ty texted: What should I pack?
I replied: Winter wear. One sport coat/slacks outfit. Two nights. A bathing suit.
He answered: Done. Do you realize this is my first kidnapping?
I wrote: Me, too.
I gave Hank a final pet-pet and picked up the phone. I reached Ellis on his cell phone.
“So was Ethan telling the truth about his revised alibi?”
“Yes. He got to Frank’s at eleven, just as they were opening, took over a booth in the back, and didn’t leave until after seven. The waitress said the table was covered with books and magazines and papers and she doesn’t know what else. They didn’t try to nudge him away because he kept ordering food and drinks and he tips big.”
“I didn’t think he was my attacker,” I said. “As fit as he is, he would have crushed me.”
“Eliminating someone as a suspect is progress.”
“I understand. And just because he didn’t ambush me doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Thomas. Have you made any progress on that front?”
“We have several viable leads,” he said, saying nothing.
He might not, but I did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
At four Friday afternoon, I twirled in front of the full-length mirror, trying to check my rear view. I was wearing a black sheath with a black sweater dotted with red sparkly bits and black knee-high boots.
“What do you think? I asked Ty. “Is this dress too fancy for these boots?”
Ty finished knotting his tie and looked at me. “You look gorgeous.”
“What about the boots?”
His eyes lowered to my feet. “They look like nice boots.”
I laughed. “Never mind.”
Reggie had somehow gotten us in on an otherwise sold-out weekend. The White Birch Inn was a renovated mansion ten minutes out of town and fifteen minutes from the ski resort bar where we were scheduled to meet Reggie at five thirty. Our room had a king-sized bed, a gas fireplace, and a Jacuzzi tub. The hotel had a twenty-four-hour outdoor hot tub. I was a happy girl.
We left the inn at ten past four. I wanted to stop in the village to try to find a tote bag I liked. I hadn’t given up hope on getting my other one back, but I needed to face the fact that for now, at least, it was gone. I found a black leather beauty in the first boutique we tried. It was big, with cubbyholes for my phone and tablet, two zippered compartments, and a built-in latch for my key ring.
We walked into Après Ski, the bar attached to the main chalet at the White Mountain Ridge Resort, at five twenty-five. The place was packed and loud. I stood in the entryway, uncertain where to go. There were no open seats.
“Now what?” I asked Ty.
“What does Reggie look like?”
“I have no idea. I forgot to ask.”
“Maybe she’ll recognize you. Look—there.”
I followed his gaze. A woman with kinky red hair was standing near a club chair to the right of the fireplace, her eyes on my face, her arms high above her head, crisscrossing back and forth, like an aircraft marshaler signaling a pilot to make an emergency stop. Her grin was huge. The flames shooting off the six-foot logs leapt high and hot, and the gold and amber light glinted on her hair.
Ty and I hurried in her direction.
“Reggie?” I asked when we reached her.
“Josie! Welcome!”
I introduced Ty, and she turned to a college-age couple sitting on a love seat at right angles to her chair, their heads together, deep in conversation.
“Scoot,” she said to them. “I told you I was holding it.”
“Sure, Reggie,” the man said.
The young woman gave her a hug, and they disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd surging toward the bar.
A waitress in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, wearing a white hash-slinger apron, appeared out of nowhere to take our order. I ordered champagne. Ty got his usual, Smuttynose. Reggie asked for another cognac.
“You must have some pull around here,” Ty said as we got situated on the couch.
Reggie laughed but didn’t respond to his unspoken question. Instead, she said, “It’s so nice to meet you. Wes is such a cutie-pie, isn’t he?”
I stopped myself laughing. Not once had I ever thought of Wes as a cutie-pie. “He is. Totally adorable. I can’t thank you enough for helping me.”
“This is about an antiques appraisal?”
“Right. Some seventeenth-century paintings.”
“Wicked cool.” She stretched her hand behind her chair and brought out a black leather portfolio box. “Here you go!”
I took the box, raising and lowering it an inch or two several times, indicating its heft. “When you said a dossier, I expected you to hand me a manila envelope.”
Reggie grinned again. “We do it up right around here.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a quick look through this.”
She fluttered a hand. “Sure. I’ll talk to the boyfriend.” She smiled radiantly at Ty. “That’s you, right?”
Ty smiled back at her and said, “That’s me.”
“So talk to me. What do you do?”
I opened the lid and found two inches’ worth of documentation about Cheryl Morrishein and Thomas Lewis and anyone connected to them. There were bios of Cheryl and her husband, Rupert; his partner, Thomas Lewis; and Thomas’s wife, Rebecca. One page was a list of magazines and blogs where Thomas Lewis had published articles and essays on cross-country skiing—according to his bio, he was a leading proponent of the sport. Newspaper clippings went back to 2010, shortly after Thomas and Becca moved to North Conway.
I tilted the first clipping I picked up toward the sconce, trying to find an angle where I could read it. The overall illumination was dim, appropriate for a bar but not helpful to a reader. The flickering fire didn’t help.
As I perused the dossier, I half-listened to Reggie and Ty’s conversation and wished I could participate. It sounded fun. Ty didn’t like downhill skiing, and they were hot on the pros and cons of downhill versus cross-country as I got lost in scanning the contents of the box. One article discussed Thomas and Rupert’s enthusiasm about their new venture; another looked at how their relationship degenerated while their partnership struggled to find traction; and several others analyzed the accusations and countercharges they’d flung at one another. Also in the box was the first announcement of Rupert’s lawsuit; an update about Rebecca’s work at the Rocky Point Oceanographic Institute; Rupert’s obituary; and a follow-up article focusing on his widow’s determination to pursue the case. I flipped through the remaining articles, impressed.
“I’ll read these later. I can’t thank you enough, Reggie. Any chance you have last known addresses for everyone?”
“Would a dossier be complete without them? Look at the bottom sheet.”
I eased out the last sheet of paper and found a contact list.
“You’re fabulous,” I said. “Tell me about these places.”
Reggie leaned forward. She pointed at Cheryl’s address. “That’s your neck of the woods.”
“So it is,” I said. “Those are yawner condos. Small, uninspired, builder grade.”
She read the next name, Thomas, and address, local. “I bet Thomas decided to stay here in North Conway because of the cross-country skiing.” She gave me a saucy look. “We’re known for our adventurous trails. I’ve given you his London address, too. He owned a flat there. My
preliminary research indicated it’s mortgaged to the hilt.” She tapped the paper again and handed it back to me. “Since you’re not going to follow up on any of these addresses tonight, may I suggest that we retire to G’s Steakhouse, a restaurant where they make killer steaks, natch, and to-die-for shrimp, flown in fresh from the Gulf, and where I took the liberty of making us a reservation.”
Ty stood up. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
“Food, baby,” Reggie said.
I watched them fuss about who would pay the bill. Ty won. I followed them out of the lodge and half-listened to their banter as we waited for the valet to bring up our cars. I was with them, but I wasn’t. It was the same through dinner.
I answered when I was asked a question, made such comments as occurred to me, and ate every bit of my meal, but my mind was in a whirl. I was more than distracted. I was deeply disturbed, and I wasn’t liking the dark thoughts that loomed in front of me like an abyss.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ty and I sat in the hot tub under a canopy of twinkling stars. A single spotlight mounted near the roof at the far end of the deck facing the woods provided the only illumination, a faint golden glow, enough to discern objects but not enough to differentiate subtle variations in color or texture. I slouched down so the water came up to my chin. It was deliciously sultry. I pressed my back against the jet, allowing the pulsating water to massage my spine. The night was clear and silent and cold. We could have been the only two people on earth.
“Did you have a good time tonight?” Ty asked.
“Not really. I’m preoccupied.”
“You missed some fun.”
“I know. I liked Reggie.”
“Me, too.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
“Do you want to go cross-country skiing tomorrow?” Ty asked.
“No. I want to track down Thomas and Becca’s former neighbors.”
“You sure know how to show a guy you kidnap a good time.”
I opened my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I was joking,” Ty said.
“I know. Still, I’m sorry.”
“You’re tired.”
“Very.”
“Let’s go to bed,” he said.
“You go. I’ll sleep here.”
“You’ll drown.”
“You’ll rescue me,” I said.
“No, I won’t, ’cause I’ll drown, too.”
“Then I guess we have to go upstairs. You go first and hold my robe for me.”
“I thought you’d go first.”
The jets timed out and shut off. “I guess we both have to go.”
Ty climbed out and put on one of the terrycloth robes we’d found in the closet, then held mine up, ready for me. I followed suit and dashed inside, letting my feet drip on the sisal mat.
“That was sensational,” I said, drying my feet and slipping on flip-flops for the trek back to the room.
“We like a hot tub.”
“Why don’t we put one in at home?”
“Good question.”
“You should go cross-country skiing in the morning while I’m tracking down information about Becca. We can connect for lunch.”
“You sure? I could keep you company while you search.”
“No.” I tucked my hand in the crook of his arm, and we walked side by side to the grand staircase. “You ski.”
He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “I love you.”
I head-bumped his arm. “I love you, too.”
* * *
I knocked on Thomas Lewis’s front door in case his neighbor was watching, waited a few seconds, and knocked again. I spotted a doorbell and pushed it. The chimes sounded. I looked around as if I were uncertain what to do, then walked to the condo next door and rang the bell.
“I’m Josie Prescott,” I said to the woman who answered. “I have a quick question.”
“I’m Bitsy Mayeaux, who may or may not have a quick answer.”
She was in her late twenties and a little heavy, what my mother used to call pleasingly plump. She had straight shoulder-length brown hair, hazel eyes, a lot of freckles, and an open, friendly expression. A toddler dressed in pink corduroy overalls, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, and white socks with pink bows on the ankles stood next to her, hiding behind her leg, curious but not wanting to engage. Her eyes were cornflower blue. Her hair was short, an adorable mass of platinum blond ringlets. She was sucking her thumb.
I smiled. “I was hoping you might know where your next-door neighbor, Thomas Lewis, is.”
Her expression shifted from affable to reticent. “Do you know him?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, thinking it was true. Just because you’ve met someone doesn’t mean you know them.
“I’m afraid I have bad news. He’s dead.”
“Oh, my,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back to stave off the bad karma that came from fibbing. “I had no idea.”
I shifted my gaze to the condo next door, scanning the forest beyond, as if I needed to gather my thoughts. Shards of yellow sunlight striped the deck and dappled the woods. Most of the condos were decorated for the holidays. Some had windows framed in lights; others sparkled with merry window art, like candy canes and Santa’s sleigh; almost everyone had a wreath.
I turned back to Bitsy. “I’m an antiques appraiser, and in connection with an important appraisal, I needed to talk to him or his wife—I guess I should say his widow—Rebecca. Do you know where she is?”
“Becca? She hasn’t lived here in years.”
“Oh! I didn’t know. Are they divorced?”
“Probably. Not that it matters now that Thomas is dead.”
“True. So they moved into the complex together?”
“That’s right. They moved here from England. Becca left within a few months, six or eight months, maybe. I don’t remember exactly. What’s the appraisal you’re working on?”
“A seventeenth-century antique,” I said. “British, like them. Why did Becca leave?”
The little girl tugged on Bitsy’s sweater, and Bitsy looked down, smoothing her daughter’s curly blond hair with such devotion, I felt myself smile with vicarious pleasure. Bitsy looked back at me.
“All I know is they fought a lot, and apparently didn’t care who heard them. Not that you can avoid hearing everything; the walls in this place are like paper. I actually called the cops once. Things were being thrown and breaking—” She paused and glanced at her daughter. When she spoke again, her eyes meeting mine, her tone was muted. “I was worried about Becca.”
“What were they fighting about?” I asked in a gossipy tone.
Bitsy gave a little snort. “Money. What else do couples fight about?” She laughed, but not like she thought something was funny, and jerked her head toward the little girl. “G-rated answers only, please.”
I nodded, acknowledging her unspoken request. “Money, honey. The love of which is the source of all evil. I thought they were very well off.”
Bitsy lowered her voice as if she were sharing a secret. “I think it was Becca who had the money. Thomas wanted Becca to sell some paintings, and Becca said no way.”
“Was that what the fight was about the day you called the police?”
Bitsy nodded. “It was about seven o’clock. I remember, because I’d just put Sophie here to bed. Becca shouted that she wasn’t going to the lecture, that they were going to have it out here and now and settle it once and for all. It didn’t take long before Becca’s shouts became screams. Then I heard something shatter, like a vase. No joke. My husband was at work—he’s the night manager at the North Conway Diner. I came out here on the porch. A woman was standing here, her mouth hanging open like she couldn’t believe her ears. She told me she’d been about to knock on their door but got scared.” She shook her head, remembering, almost wincing. “I hope I never hear anything like that again.”
“Then what happened?” I asked, opening my eyes wide,
communicating how absorbing I found her story.
“We whispered back and forth, agreeing that we ought to call the police. She was frightened to make the call, worried, she said, that her cell phone number would appear on the police report, and that Thomas would think she turned on him. I didn’t care. Let him think what he wants, that was my attitude. Maybe it would make him think. I went into my place to make the call, and when I came out again, the woman was gone.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know. I never saw her before, and I haven’t seen her since.”
“How old was she?”
Bitsy made a “who knows?” face. “I’m not good guessing ages. Forties, maybe.”
“Was she white?”
“Yes. White. Well dressed. Pretty.” She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“What a situation! What happened when the police came?”
“They were only inside about ten or fifteen minutes; then out they come with Becca. She had two big suitcases. I never saw her again.”
“Was Thomas arrested?”
“Not that I saw. The law up here is funky when it comes to domestic violence cases—it’s up to each individual police officer’s discretion.” She smiled, a knowing one. “I’m from California. The police have a very different attitude there, I can tell you that. The North Conway cops probably figured that since Becca hadn’t been hurt and was leaving, what was the point?”
“Sounds like Thomas got lucky.”
“I’ll say. And Becca got smart.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Would you want to stay with a man who’s only after your money, who threatens you if you won’t sell some paintings?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Me neither.” She ruffled her daughter’s hair. “And I want to make darn sure Sophie gets that message loud and clear.”
I smiled down at Sophie. “She’s beautiful.”
Sophie disappeared behind her mother.
“Thanks.”
“So Becca left, and Thomas stayed. When did you last see him?”
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