The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  I leaned against my car. Pink and white wild roses lined the road. I’d talked to Sylvia about Edwin and Ava, but not about what she might have seen in the hours before my visits to the fake Ava. She’d been on her lawn, watering her plants, when I arrived. Maybe she’d been working in her garden all morning. Certainly there was no harm in asking if she noticed who arrived about an hour before me.

  I executed a three-point turn so I was heading toward Garnet Cove. After a mile, I had to slow down. A van painted to resemble a yellow school bus rolled to a stop at the curb. MAXWELL DAY CAMP was painted in black on the back and sides. Hexagonal red stop signs unfolded, and the door swung open. A cute little girl in lime green shorts hopped out and waved to the driver, then ran up the walkway to her house.

  Seeing the grammar-school-aged girl got me wondering if Olive Winslow, the principal of Rocky Point Elementary School, might know more about Ava than Cara or Diane had, and if she worked over the summer. I bet she did. Teachers had time off, but administrators were on a different schedule.

  The van stopped again about a half mile farther down Ocean. Three children jumped out at this stop, two boys and a girl. All three were laughing. The two boys high-fived, then tore off to their own houses. The girl cartwheeled her way across her lawn to her stoop.

  I turned onto Pleasant Street, then, a mile farther on, pulled into the Rocky Point Elementary School parking lot. There were a dozen cars and three dozen empty spaces.

  The front door was locked, but a sign affixed to a silver metal box mounted on the left read IF THE DOOR IS LOCKED, PLEASE USE THIS PHONE TO REACH THE OFFICE. Inside the box was a handset. I picked up the receiver, and a phone started ringing.

  “This is Lucy. May I help you?”

  Her voice was low and rumbly, like distant thunder. I suspected Lucy was a longtime smoker.

  “Hi, Lucy. I’m Josie Prescott, and I was hoping I could talk to Ms. Winslow.”

  “I’m so sorry. She’s in a curriculum meeting, and you know what that means.”

  She laughed, a jolly low-pitched chortle.

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Sorry. Curriculum is always a contentious subject. She won’t be done until close to five, and then she’ll be leaving for the day. Is there something I can help you with? I’m her executive assistant.”

  “Thanks, no. It’s about her book club.”

  “How nice! She loves books, no doubt about that! She has time tomorrow if you’d like to make an appointment.”

  “Let me think about that,” I said, not wanting to delay, thinking I might be able to catch Olive on her way out. I thanked Lucy and hung up.

  Sitting in my car, I wiggled my tablet out of my tote bag and Googled the school’s Web site. A welcome letter from the principal was on the home page. It included a standard-issue photo. Olive Winslow looked to be about fifty. She had shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes. I knew her face. She was a frequent customer at our weekly tag sale, collecting, if I remembered right, English bone china teacups and saucers, the more ornate, the better. We’d exchanged pleasantries for years, but I’d never known her name.

  While I waited, I brought up photos of the Tiffany lamp. I could look at it for hours. I was congratulating myself on having arranged for Timothy to film it when a realization hit me like a tsunami—I had no right to use the lamp on my show. The authorization had been signed by the fake Ava, not the rightful owner.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered, thinking of the money the network had invested, the time the team had put in, all for nothing.

  I stared at my tablet, the implications ricocheting through my brain like bumper cars at an amusement park. Starring in Josie’s Antiques wasn’t a lark, although it started that way. Now we’d found an audience and were an established hit. The crew was no longer a pickup band. There were dozens of employees under contract, all of whom counted on the job. If I messed up, my show might get canceled, and they’d be out of work.

  This wasn’t idle speculation or paranoia. There was a morals clause in my contract and another specifying that all objects shown on air would have an unimpeachable pedigree, unless my using a certain object was cleared by the network’s lawyers. They’d explained that they were fine with my showcasing repros and counterfeits as part of my authentication process, but they didn’t want me using stolen objects, no matter what point I hoped to make.

  I had to get Edwin to allow us to use the footage; I just had to. Then I had to call Timothy. If I could get Edwin to sign off on it, my call to Timothy would be easier.

  I called Edwin and reached Miranda. I explained I needed two minutes, urgently.

  “I’m sorry, Josie. He’s booked solid.”

  The best she could offer was one minute at eleven forty-five tomorrow morning. I accepted and thanked her for fitting me in.

  I was tempted to wait until after my meeting with Edwin to call Timothy, but I couldn’t justify it.

  “I have some less than comfortable news,” I said once he was on the line.

  “Time for me to talk to the lawyers,” he said after I explained the situation.

  “Can you wait until after I meet with Edwin?”

  “No, I think I’d better give them a heads-up. They don’t like surprises.”

  “I understand. I wish I’d thought of this before.”

  “You and me both. Will you call me the minute you get the owner to sign the release? Or heaven forbid, if he refuses?”

  I promised I would.

  Quashing my impatience, I resumed my drive to Garnet Cove. Sylvia wasn’t an eavesdropper or a Peeping Tom, but she was in her garden a lot—which meant there was a good chance she might have seen something relevant, whether she recognized its significance or not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sylvia was watering her tomatoes. I parked in front of her house and crossed the lawn to join her. She wore a denim skirt and a sleeveless blouse with a pretty red and blue flowered pattern. No weeding today, not in a skirt.

  “You’re going to think all I do is water my tomatoes,” Sylvia said, smiling. Her smile dimmed as she took in my face. “I heard you were fine.”

  “I am. Just a few nicks and bruises.”

  “And scratches.”

  “Which are healing nicely.”

  Sylvia turned a dial on the nozzle and gave the plants a gentle shower.

  “I’m hoping you’ll help me,” I said.

  She shot me a glance. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  “Several times.” She kept her eyes on the plants and lowered her voice. “I told them about the fight I overheard between Edwin and Ava. I had to.”

  “Of course. What about people coming and going while the Towsons were in Europe? Did that come up?”

  “A woman detective took me through it one day at a time. She got me remembering more than I would have thought I could.”

  “Detective Brownley?” I asked.

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “A little. She’s smart.”

  “And those eyes! Cobalt.”

  “What did you remember?”

  She lowered the nozzle, redirecting the spray to the dirt. I counted a dozen tomatoes almost ripe enough to harvest. Sylvia didn’t say anything else, so I had to. Sometimes all it took was a nudge.

  “I know Merry came in several times a day to walk the dog.”

  “At least three times a day. She’s a very responsible young lady.”

  “Did the housekeeper come in at all?”

  “A couple of times. I think Ava liked Tori to do thorough cleanings while they were away.”

  “How about the handyman?”

  “Sonny? I saw him splitting logs outside and mowing the grass and so on.”

  “Did you see Ava’s sister, Jean?”

  “Yes, but I can’t be sure about the day.”

  “I know the police showed you my sketch. The one of the woman I met with—the fake Ava. You di
dn’t recognize her?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I did see a woman entering the house before you both days, but I simply can’t recall what she looked like beyond saying she was white and young—in her forties.”

  I smiled, amused that to a woman in her seventies, like Sylvia, forty is young.

  “Was she tall?”

  Sylvia opened her palms, a gesture of helplessness. Water sprayed sideways.

  “Old eyes can’t be trusted.”

  “I understand,” I said, disappointed but not surprised. I talked to the woman—twice—and I couldn’t describe her worth a cup of beans, and I was a trained observer.

  Sylvia turned off the water. “Wait here a minute, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  She dropped the hose on the lawn and hurried toward the back of her house, reappearing two minutes later carrying a medium-sized wicker basket with a big loopy handle.

  “Here,” she said, handing me the basket. “I picked some this morning. I want you to have a few.”

  The basket was brimming with scrumptious-smelling, bright red tomatoes. “Thank you so much, Sylvia. They’re gorgeous!”

  Her easy smile broadened. She reached for the hose and began coiling it around her arm.

  “Let me help,” I offered.

  “No, thanks. I have a system.”

  I thanked her again for the tomatoes and walked back to my car.

  As I wedged the basket between my toolbox and a picnic blanket, a young girl, maybe a teenager, but not by much, opened the Towsons’ front door. Corn-silk yellow hair poked out from under the brim of a red cotton hat. Her features were delicate, creating an overall impression of sweetness. Eleanor stood nearby, her tail wagging. She yelped and bounced and hopped all around the girl, perhaps trying to leap into her arms. The girl giggled and dropped to her knees. Eleanor lapped her cheek noisily as the girl cuddled and stroked her back.

  “She loves you,” I said, walking up the path.

  “And I love her right back, don’t I, Eleanor?” She unsnapped the harness, and Eleanor ran inside. “We’re good friends, aren’t we, sweetheart?”

  Eleanor barked her agreement.

  “I think you must be Merry, the Towsons’ dog walker.” She glanced at me covertly. I smiled. She smiled back, a small one, as if she weren’t sure how friendly she should be. “I’m Josie Prescott, an antiques appraiser. I’m doing some work for Mr. Towson.”

  “Hi,” Merry said. She tossed the harness inside, then closed the door, calling, “I’ll see you later, Eleanor!”

  “Eleanor’s got a lot of pep for an old dog.”

  “She’s not old,” Merry said. “She’s only two.”

  Another lie the fake Ava told me.

  “I’m just leaving,” I continued. “Can I give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I like the walk.”

  I lowered my voice. “Please? I want to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Sylvia was walking toward the back, the neatly coiled hose draped over her shoulder.

  “About a timeline,” I said, lowering my voice, “related to Mr. Towson’s project. It’s nothing complicated, just who you saw in or around the house while the Towsons were overseas.”

  Merry looked at her feet, and when she spoke, I could barely hear her. “No one.”

  The gauge on my truth-meter swung toward zero. Merry was lying, but I couldn’t for the life of me see why unless she was protecting the fake Ava.

  “Are you sure?” I asked softly, aiming for empathy, not criticism.

  She nibbled on a hangnail. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m pretty good at reading people, and I’m getting the sense that there’s something you know that you don’t want to talk about.”

  No response.

  “Did someone ask you to fib?” I asked as gently as I could.

  Her eyes flew to my face. “I’m helping,” she whispered, “not fibbing.”

  “How is that?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Did the police ask you to keep quiet?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Towson?”

  “No.”

  “It’s always best to tell the truth, Merry. You know that.”

  She nodded, then looked down again.

  “Was it Ms. Cooper? Mrs. Towson’s sister?”

  “Ms. Cooper didn’t want the police to waste their time on stupid distractions.”

  “I can see that,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “The police are pretty savvy about avoiding distractions, though.”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “And you haven’t felt good about keeping quiet, have you?”

  “No, but I told Ms. Cooper I wouldn’t say anything. I know you’re supposed to tell the truth, but you’re supposed to keep promises, too.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s outrageous that Ms. Cooper put you in this situation. No one should ask you to lie. Period. End of discussion.”

  “It makes sense when you say it.”

  “Good. So who was in and out?”

  “Tori came twice to clean.”

  “That’s the Towsons’ housekeeper.”

  “Right. And Sonny came lots of times. He helps out around the house, you know, watering the plants and stuff. He chopped up an apple tree branch that fell last winter. The Towsons don’t use their fireplace, so they told my mom we could take the wood. Sonny loaded it into the back of his pickup and drove it over.”

  “That was nice of him. And Ms. Cooper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When was that?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Was it the same day the Towsons left?”

  “No. They’d been gone a while.”

  “Was it the day before they got back?”

  “It was way before then.” Merry’s eyes lit up as a memory came to her. “It was the Monday before July Fourth. I mean, the week before.”

  The day of my first visit, I thought. “What did you remember?”

  “It was really hot and humid, totally icky. That is so crazy for seven in the morning, right? Anyway, I always take Eleanor for her first walk around then. After we got home, Eleanor and I played ball in the backyard. Eleanor likes to chase a tennis ball. We normally play after her noontime walk, but I thought we should do it early, before the heat of the day. Eleanor doesn’t like the heat. Ms. Cooper carried in a box. I saw her through the living room window.”

  “Did she see you?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s why she asked me not to tell the police. She didn’t want them to waste their time questioning her.”

  “Did you talk through the window?”

  “No. She came outside.”

  “What was in the box?”

  “Shoes and boots.” Merry giggled. “I said I wished I had that many shoes and boots. She said she was a complete nut for shoes.”

  “It sounds like a big box.”

  “It was. Really big.”

  “Like a refrigerator?”

  She giggled again. “No. Like an amp. My brother bought an amp to take to gigs.” She smiled proudly. “He plays guitar with a band named Rifle Jocks.”

  I smiled. “Very cool. Who else came to the house?”

  “The woman next door.” She dropped her voice again. “The one who’s always fussing with her tomatoes. Ms. Campbell.”

  “Sylvia?” I asked, stunned.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She has a key?”

  “I don’t know. The day I saw her, Sonny let her in.”

  “Which day was that?”

  She pressed her lips together, turned toward the ocean, and stared into the far distance. I kept my eyes on her face. She swung back toward me, smiling.

  “The sixth. It was the Thursday of that week. I remember because Nana, my grandmother, surprised us all with tickets to a play at the York
Theater the night before. In Maine, you know? We saw Guys and Dolls. Have you seen that play? It’s a musical.”

  “You bet! I love it.”

  “Me, too. It was awesome. Anyway, Eleanor and I left by the kitchen door and had just reached the hiking trail when I looked back, I don’t know why. Maybe I heard something. I don’t know … but I saw Sonny letting Ms. Campbell in.”

  “Was she carrying anything?”

  Merry scrunched up her nose. “Avocados. I remember because I hate avocados. She had a crate bungeed to a kind of wheeled cart. Sonny was working in the front yard. He carried it in for her.”

  “And she followed him in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long was she in there?”

  “I don’t know. Eleanor was sniffing around for long enough for me to see that much, but then she tugged on her leash and off we went.”

  “How did you know the crate contained avocados?”

  “The word ‘avocado’ was stamped on the side in really big letters.”

  “How big was the crate?” I asked. “About the same size as the box Ms. Cooper was carrying?”

  Merry pulled in her lips in and puffed out her cheeks, an “I haven’t got a clue” face if I ever saw one. Her shoulders lifted an inch, then lowered. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You’re doing a great job, Merry. Who else did you see at the house?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I think that’s it, unless you mean like the mailman or something.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Merry,” I said. “I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Towson.”

  Her teeth clamped her lower lip for a moment. “Will you have to tell Ms. Cooper?”

  “No, but I do have to share what you told me with the police, and I can’t promise they won’t tell her. You know, Merry, what Ms. Cooper asked you to do wasn’t fair. Or right. You don’t owe her anything. Not your loyalty. Not an explanation. Nothing.”

  “I guess.”

  I couldn’t think of what else to say to reassure her. She’d learn, probably the hard way, like most of us.

  “Are you sure I can’t drive you home?”

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  Watching Merry mosey along the sidewalk, I shivered as a long-ago memory of betrayal came to me and the anger and hurt whiskered through my veins. A girlfriend, a real pal, I’d thought, asked me to cover for her so she could go out. We were fourteen. Her name was Robin. She wanted to go to a party, and her mom said no way since the boy throwing it was a senior and his parents were off skiing in Aspen. Robin asked me to say she was with me if it ever came up, and of course I agreed. I didn’t think anything of it. I wished I could have gone to the party, too, but my dad and I had tickets to a comedy show, just the two of us. After my mom died, he started making fun plans for us on Saturday nights, his way of helping us overcome the wrenching loss. Even at thirteen, I understood his intentions, and I loved him for them.