by Sofie Ryan
I smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Good morning, Rose,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” she said as she fastened her seat belt. “I know how important this is to Stella.”
Mac turned in his seat. “Hi, Rose,” he said. He looked at me. “So, are we still going to work the same way?”
I nodded as I pulled away from the curb. “Uh-huh. We’ll start in the kitchen and work out to the front of the house. Remember, Stella wants the dishes.”
He nodded.
“And those colored Pyrex bowls,” Rose added.
Mac and Rose talked about our plan of attack as we drove out to the house. Elvis watched them both as though he were actually following the conversation.
As I pulled in to the driveway I glanced over at Paul Duvall’s house on the other side of the street. There was no sign of him or his daughter.
“Want to check things out before we start lugging in boxes?” Mac asked.
“I do,” I said.
We all got out of the SUV. Rose carried Elvis. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside the house. Rose set Elvis down in the entryway. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose at me.
I could smell bleach. Stella had told me on the phone she’d wiped up the kitchen floor. It was better than the scent of blood and death that had been here before.
I hesitated for a minute, remembering Ronan Quinn’s body crumpled on the floor. Mac gave my shoulder a squeeze and eased past me as if he could read my mind. He stepped into the living room and looked around. “We’re taking that bookcase, aren’t we?” he asked, pointing at a tall, glass-fronted set of shelves to the left of the big window overlooking the street. It was piled with stacks of old newspapers and issues of National Geographic.
“Yes,” I said, walking over to join him. “Along with the sideboard and the hutch.” I pointed to the heavy wooden pieces against the end wall. “And a friend of Mr. P. wants to buy all those Geographics.”
“You’re kidding?” Mac said.
Elvis had started for the kitchen with Rose. She turned to look at Mac. “Oh no,” she said. “Elwood and his brother, Jake, have a little side business selling old books and magazines. They’ll take every one of those Geographics and keep your eyes peeled for any copies of The Saturday Evening Post. Elwood will take those, too.”
“Elwood and Jake?” Mac whispered. “The Blues Brothers? She’s messing with me, isn’t she?”
I grinned at him. “It’s Rose, Mac. There’s no way to know for sure.”
We followed Rose and Elvis out to the small kitchen. The smell of bleach was stronger. Elvis walked around gingerly sniffing the boxes piled by the windows where a table and chairs should have been. “That’s the wine,” I said. “It stays where it is.”
“Got it,” Mac said. He and Rose were already walking around looking in the cupboards. Rose would pack the dishes Stella wanted to keep while Mac did an inventory of everything else on his iPad so we’d know what we had when it came time to have the in-house estate sale I was planning.
“I’m going to do a walk-around,” I said.
Mac waved at me over his shoulder. I walked back out to the living room. Along with the pieces of furniture, there were a couple of framed paintings that I was taking back to the shop to sell on commission for Stella. I hoped to get more money for them by putting them on our Web site.
Elvis wandered out from the kitchen. “Let’s go take a look in the bedrooms,” I said.
We went down the tiny hallway. The master bedroom was the starkest room in the house with just a double bed and two dressers. Someone—Stella probably—had long since taken Edison Hall’s clothes. The room had an air of sadness about it. I’d noticed a couple of blankets folded at the end of the living room sofa the first time I was in the house. I suspected Edison Hall had been sleeping there and not in this room.
The next bedroom was almost as large as the master and it was jammed full of stuff. If there was logic or a pattern to what was stored there, I couldn’t see it. At least most of the stuff was in boxes. The downside was that none of them were marked. I looked in the top of one of them. It held six cans of Spam and a large jug of water. Supplies in case of a natural disaster? I wondered. I carried the box out into the living room so I could go through it to see if the food had expired.
I stepped back into the room in time to see Elvis jump onto the seat of a low rocking chair, balance and leap from there to some boxes.
“Hey! Where are you going?” I said.
He meowed at me and started making his way across the stacked cartons. I reached for him, but he was already more than an arm’s length away. He turned and looked over his shoulder at me and then jumped down, out of sight, onto a lower pile of boxes. To the right there looked to be just enough space to squeeze around the piles and get the cat.
The boxes had a musty smell about them and the room was full of dust. I sneezed as I lifted a garbage bag out of my way and dust motes rose in the air. “I hope you’re not back there with anything that has fur and a long tail,” I muttered.
Eventually I worked my way to the back wall of the room. Elvis was sitting on the window ledge. I had dust in my nose, on my shirt and—I was pretty sure—in my hair. There didn’t seem to be a speck of it on Elvis’s sleek black fur. In fact, he almost looked smug. On the windowsill next to him sat what looked to me to be an old model train engine. I picked it up while the cat watched me.
The steam cylinder was painted a dark brown with the word ROCKET stenciled on the side in gold letters. A black stack of a smaller diameter rose maybe four inches above it. The only model train items I recognized were Lionel, and I knew this wasn’t.
“Let’s go ask Mac about this,” I said to Elvis.
His response was to launch himself onto the nearest stack of boxes. The flaps were folded down, not taped shut, and Elvis pawed at one edge.
“Leave that alone,” I said sharply.
He completely ignored me, scratching at the edge of cardboard again.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll look, but if anything in there is alive I’m tossing you inside and closing the lid.”
“Mrrr,” he said, and it almost seemed as if he shrugged.
I set the train engine back on the window ledge and gingerly opened the box. As soon as I’d pulled the flaps apart, Elvis was poking his nose inside.
“Let me see,” I said. I couldn’t hear any noises that suggested anything had set up home in the carton.
Inside the box I found four more train cars. They looked to be the right size and vintage to go with the steam engine.
“Nice work,” I said to Elvis. He blinked his green eyes at me, then began making his way toward the door.
I picked up the engine again and squeezed through the maze of boxes and bags. I left the box with the other train cars behind. I knew I couldn’t squeeze through the narrow space if I was carrying it.
Elvis was already headed to the kitchen, so I followed him. Rose was humming softly while she wrapped a china cereal bowl in newspaper and Mac was standing in front of the large pantry cupboard typing on his iPad.
“Mac, do you know anything about model trains?” I asked, holding up the engine Elvis and I had found.
“Not really,” he said. “Is it Lionel?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s old, whatever it is. I think it might be a replica of some kind of steam engine.” I showed him the word ROCKET lettered on the side of the cylinder.
Rose tucked the paper wrapped bowl into a box at her feet and joined us. “Alfred knows a little about model trains,” she said. “Would you like me to call him?” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and held it up.
Mac looked at me and shrugged.
“Why not?” I said.
Mac took the engine from me, turning it over carefully in his hands. �
��It looks old, but it’s in decent shape. Where did you find it?”
“That little bedroom, the one that’s piled with stuff.”
Elvis meowed loudly and jumped up onto the only kitchen chair that didn’t have a box on it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “it was actually Elvis who found it. And there’s a box with several cars that I think probably go with it.”
Rose was nodding at her phone. She ended the call and rejoined us. “Alfred thinks it may be a Marklin engine,” she said. “Could we take a photo and send it to him?”
Mac cleared a space on the counter. He set the engine down and Rose snapped a picture of it. It might have been another minute after she sent it to Mr. P. that her phone rang.
“What do you think?” Rose asked. She listened for a moment. “Oh, that would be lovely.” She looked at me and held out the phone. “Alfred would like to speak to you.”
I took it from her. “Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, Sarah,” Mr. P. replied. “Rose said you found some additional train cars. Could you describe them to me?”
I shared what I remembered from my brief look inside the box.
“Splendid,” Mr. P. exclaimed.
“Does that mean you know what this engine is?” I asked.
“I believe I do,” he said, and I could hear an edge of excitement in his voice. “I think what you have is a Marklin S Rocket, which is a replica of Stephenson’s Rocket, one of the most advanced steam locomotives of the early eighteen hundreds. It wasn’t a big seller in its day for Marklin. A complete set with all the cars would be a very rare find. It sounds as though that’s what you have.”
I looked at the tin engine. “Does rare equal valuable?”
“Indeed it does, at least in this case. The last set, minus one car, sold for more than twenty-five thousand dollars about eighteen months ago.”
“So this set could be worth more than that?” I said.
“To a collector, yes,” he said. “And I should caution you that I’m no expert on this kind of thing. You need to get the train evaluated by someone who knows model trains.”
“I will,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear,” he said.
I handed the phone back to Rose.
“You’re smiling,” Mac said.
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the rounded edge of the counter. “If Mr. P. is right, that engine and the train cars I saw in the box could be worth twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Wow.”
I smiled even wider at him. “Exactly.”
By noon Rose and I had packed all the dishes that were going to Stella, and Mac had finished the kitchen inventory.
“I’ll check with Stella about getting these boxes moved before the estate sale,” I said to Mac, indicating the cartons of wine. “Unless they turn out to be evidence.”
“What do you mean, evidence?” he said.
“Michelle told me that the police are looking into the fraud with the wine,” I said quietly.
“As part of this investigation or as something separate?”
“Both,” Rose said, looking up from the box she was taping shut.
“How do you know that?” I said, rubbing a knot out of the back of my neck with one hand.
Rose looked at me unblinkingly. It was disconcertingly like the look Elvis often gave me.
I shook my head. “This falls into the category of things I’d probably be happier not knowing, doesn’t it?”
Rose just smiled.
“Do you know how Edison Hall got interested in collecting wine in the first place?” Mac asked. “Did Stella say anything about it?”
“Not to me,” I said. I looked inquiringly at Rose.
She shook her head. “She didn’t say anything to me, either.”
Mac raised an eyebrow. “That might be useful information to have,” he said.
Rose nodded slowly. “Yes, it might,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “Sarah dear, don’t you need to get back and get ready for your lunch date?”
I straightened up. “Yes, I do. Are you two coming back here after lunch? I don’t need the SUV.”
“I brought lunch for the two of us,” Rose said, smiling at Mac and tipping her head in the direction of her tote bag sitting on the one bare space on the counter. “We could just stay here and you could come back for us.”
Mac shrugged. “Fine with me.”
“Why don’t you drive me down to the shop?” I said to him. “Then when you’re ready, you and Rose can leave. I have no idea how long this lunch of Liz’s is going to take.”
“Do you mind staying here by yourself?” he said to Rose. “It won’t take me very long to drive Sarah back to the shop.”
Elvis meowed loudly and it seemed to me, just a bit indignantly.
“As Elvis just pointed out, I won’t be by myself,” Rose said with a smile. “Go ahead. I’ll start packing up those National Geographic magazines while you’re gone.”
Rose seemed to have an unlimited amount of energy. She could work someone half her age under the table.
“There are a couple of plastic bins in the living room,” Mac said. “You can use those, but don’t lift them. I’ll move them when I get back.”
“All right,” she said in the tone of someone who was just humoring him. She patted my arm as she passed me. “Don’t let Liz get off-topic, dear,” she said. “You know how she can be.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, pulling down my shirtsleeves. “But I’m not promising anything, because I do know how she can be.”
“I’m just going to grab the toolbox,” Mac said as we pulled in to the lot at the store. “I think I’m going to have to take the hutch and the sideboard apart.”
“Put in a couple more hours and call it a day. I’ll be back . . . when I’m back.”
“All right,” he said. Then he smiled. “Good luck with Liz.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think finding that model train was a good omen.”
Of course I was wrong.
Chapter 11
Liz was standing by the front door talking to Charlotte when I came down the stairs. I was wearing the dress Charlotte had suggested with heels that were probably too high and lipstick that was probably too red.
Liz looked at me and made a circular motion with her index finger. “Twirl.”
I did a slow pirouette for her.
“Perfect,” she said.
“You look lovely,” Charlotte said with a smile.
I stuck out one foot. “Are these shoes too much?” I asked.
Liz gave a snort of laughter. “No, they’re not. Those shoes make a statement.”
“I’m just a little nervous about what they’re saying.”
One perfectly groomed eyebrow went up. “What they’re saying is ‘Look at these legs,’ which is exactly what I want them to say and exactly want I want Channing Caulfield to do. While he’s distracted by you, I can get the answers I’m looking for.”
“That’s rather sexist, Liz,” Charlotte said.
Liz nodded. “Of course. It’s totally sexist. So is Channing Caulfield. That’s why it’s going to work.” She looked at Charlotte. “Don’t shake your head at me, Charlotte Elliot. You know I’m right.” She held her car keys out to me.
Charlotte tried to hide a smile but wasn’t quite successful.
“Mac and Rose will be back in a couple of hours. I’ll be back when Liz is finished dangling me in front of Mr. Caulfield like I’m a fly and he’s a trout.”
Liz laughed and put her arm around my shoulders. “Okay, Sarah,” she said. “Let’s go dangle you in the water and see what we can catch.”
I looked back over my shoulder and waved at Charlotte.
“Where are we going?”
I asked as I slid behind the wheel of Liz’s car.
“The Hearthstone Inn.”
“Fancy.”
“It’s all about setting the right atmosphere,” she said, smoothing the skirt of her black suit over her knees.
“And what reason did you give Mr. Caulfield for inviting him to lunch?” I asked as I pulled onto the street.
“We’re both interested in the new development proposal for the harbor front. I’m thinking of investing some of the Emmerson Foundation’s portfolio and you’re thinking of moving your business.”
I shot a quick glance in her direction. “Will he buy that?”
Liz nodded. “Yes. Channing was—is—very good at his job. I’ve talked to him several times about investments over the years. He’s always given me excellent advice.”
I stopped at the corner, waited for traffic to pass and then turned left. “Is Rose right?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road. “Is Mr. Caulfield interested in you?”
“How would I know that?” Liz retorted.
I stifled a smile. “So that would be yes.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Have you perchance been putting up with Mr. Channing’s ongoing interest in you because of his excellent advice?” I asked.
“Perchance?” Liz said, an edge of sarcasm in her voice.
“It’s a perfectly valid word.”
“If you’re Shakespeare.”
I sent another quick glance in her direction. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m not avoiding it. It was such a preposterous question I didn’t see the point in answering it.”
“So that would be another yes.”
There was silence for a moment; then Liz laughed. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Rose, missy,” she said.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the road. “Guilty as charged.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Liz shift a little in her seat. “When I took over the Emmerson Foundation, do you know how much money was actually going to programs?” she asked.
We were almost at the inn. I slowed down and put on my blinker. “Since you’re asking the question, I’m guessing not enough.”