The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  Robin’s mother came over the next morning around ten hoping to surprise Robin, my dad, and me by taking us to breakfast. When she discovered that Robin wasn’t there, that she hadn’t been there all night, the color drained from her face. I’d never seen anything like it. She was smiling and joking around, and then, within seconds, she was tottering, bloodless.

  I knew where the boy hosting the party lived, and we found Robin passed out on the living room floor along with half a dozen other kids. She was groggy and tearful and resentful toward me. Later she told me and anyone else who’d listen that I’d betrayed her. I said that from where I sat, she was the one doing the betraying. After that last shattering argument, I never saw her again. Her mom sent her to live with some cousins in North Carolina, then moved down herself a few months later. My dad used my too-easy acquiescence as what he called a teachable moment. Live your life as if you’re running for political office, he told me. Never lie. Never help anyone else lie. Always do the right thing. Oh, Dad, I thought, wishing he were here, wishing I could ask him what I should do now.

  Sylvia, now dressed in her turquoise capris, was in a different part of her garden, on her knees, weeding. I was tempted to ask her if she grew avocados, but I didn’t. If I didn’t report this new discovery to Ellis pronto, I’d be in real trouble.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I drove out of Garnet Cove and parked in a grocery store lot, then dialed Ellis. I was relieved to get his voice mail. Delivering a message spared me a real-time scolding.

  “As promised,” I said, “I’m letting you know what I learn.” I repeated what Merry had observed, explaining why she hadn’t come forward before now, ending with a friendly “Talk to you later.” Knowing that if Wes picked up the call, he would demand more information than I wanted to give, I updated him via e-mail, providing only the facts, not my source.

  “Good,” I said aloud, glad those obligations were behind me.

  * * *

  I pulled into the Rocky Point Elementary School parking lot for the second time that day. It was 4:53 P.M. Three minutes later, Olive Winslow stepped out of a side door and tugged on the handle, confirming it was locked.

  I got out of my car and called, “Ms. Winslow?” She turned toward me, her brows raised, and I added, “We’ve never formally met, but we’ve seen each other a lot at my company’s tag sale. I’m Josie Prescott.”

  Her features relaxed, and she smiled as she walked toward me. “Of course. How nice to finally meet you. I love your tag sale. I’ve found some real treasures there!”

  She wore a pale blue seersucker A-line skirt that fell below her knees, sensible navy blue pumps, and a short-sleeved pink silk blouse. A small blue purse dangled from her shoulder. She carried a brown leather briefcase.

  “You collect cups and saucers, if I remember right.”

  “What a memory!”

  “‘The true art of memory is the art of attention.’”

  “Samuel Johnson.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “My dad used to quote him all the time. His favorite was ‘The law is the last result of human wisdom acting upon human experience for the benefit of the public.’”

  “That’s wonderful. Insightful.” She tilted her head, her eyes steady on mine. “Is it a coincidence that you’re here?”

  “No,” I said, smiling. “Lucy told me when you’d be leaving. I hear from Cara—she’s our receptionist—that you’re in her book club. I was hoping I could buy you a cup of coffee and ask you about Ava.”

  Olive placed her briefcase on the ground. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I’m on the board of Oceanside Music School, and our quarterly meeting starts in a few minutes. What did you want to ask?”

  “Nothing in particular. I’m just trying to understand what happened. As you probably know, I was doing an appraisal for the Towsons when she was killed.”

  “I heard something about that on the news. Ava was charming. She’ll be sorely missed.”

  Hoping to move beyond platitudes, I said, “I heard Ava was upset with her husband, Edwin.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t know anything about that. I wasn’t in her confidence.”

  “I’m just shooting in the dark here … Did you notice a change in her over the last few months?”

  “What’s your interest exactly?”

  “It involves a Tiffany lamp I’m trying to trace. I don’t know what might be helpful, which is why I’m asking anything I can think of.”

  “Ava was a bit somber the last time I saw her.”

  “And that was unusual for her?”

  “Very. As a rule, Ava always seemed quite chipper. Outgoing.”

  “And that day she was sad.”

  “Quiet, yes, as if she had a lot on her mind.”

  “And you don’t know why?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  I believed her, which only added to my frustration. It seemed the more I asked, the less I learned.

  “Have you spoken to Diane?” Olive asked. “Diane Hawkins? She runs our book club. I’ll be talking to her in the morning—I want to make a donation to the library in Ava’s honor … so sad.” She sighed and shook her head a little. “Anyway … probably Diane knew Ava better than any of us, and I’ll be glad to ask for her take on Ava’s mood.”

  “Thank you so much, but there’s no need. I spoke to Diane the other day, and she was just as open as you are, and, unfortunately, she knew as little. I don’t think Ava confided in anyone, except maybe her sister, Jean. I hope to talk to Jean tomorrow.”

  “I never met Jean, but I can see that—Ava spoke of her often and with great affection. Ava wasn’t reticent, exactly. I’m having trouble putting my finger on the issue.” She paused for a moment, and when she continued, she spoke with conviction. “Ava was warm and friendly, but she didn’t encourage intimacy. Her friendliness was more polished than personal, like a diplomat or a party planner.”

  I decided to change tack and aim to gather more general information. With any luck, I’d find a way into Ava’s world through the back door.

  “How did you get involved in the book club in the first place?” I asked.

  Olive laughed. “Through crew. Do you know Cara’s grandson, Patrick?”

  “Yes, indeed. Cara’s brought him to several parties. He loves her to bits.”

  “He’s a wonderful young man. My grandson, Kent, is the same, another great kid. It gives me hope for the future that we have young people like that, getting ready to lead.” Olive looked down for a moment, her cheeks rosy, self-effacing and proud all at once. “Both Patrick and Kent row for Hitchens University. Cara and I attend the same regattas, and over time, we became friends. When a slot opened up in the book club, Cara introduced me to Diane as a potential candidate.” She chuckled. “Diane runs a tight ship. I was invited to attend one meeting, then a second. After that, she invited me to attend as a guest for a year. I guess I passed muster, because after the year was up, she asked me to join permanently. I’ve been a member for three years now, four and a half, if you count my probationary period.” Her smile disappeared. “I’m so sorry about Ava. I really am. I’m also sorry to think that something was troubling her and that she didn’t tell me about it. If I could have helped, I would. I liked her very much, and I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “That’s quite a burden to bear.”

  “Only if you label it a burden. I call it a privilege.”

  “That’s wonderful, and so true. Words matter. Thank you for talking to me.”

  Olive smiled and picked up her briefcase. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at the tag sale!”

  We went our separate ways. Olive drove toward town, toward the music school, and I drove home.

  * * *

  I always left a light on in my bedroom so I don’t have to enter a dark house, and usually the soft golden glow cheered me. Not today. A maelstrom of upset, worry, and rage so caustic it threatened to eat through my carefully crafted insouciant facade held me in
its grip. I felt drained and stultifyingly lonely. I wished Ty were home to comfort me.

  “Oh, Ty,” I murmured as I walked through the house turning on lights. The brightness helped a bit.

  I lined up Sylvia’s tomatoes on the counter in one long row. She’d given me eleven tomatoes. I picked the reddest, which was also the biggest, about the size of a Ping-Pong ball. I closed my eyes and transported myself back to a warm day in July. I was about ten. My friend Nina’s mom had dropped me off after a play date, and I peeked into the backyard to see if Dad was there. He was. He wore navy blue shorts and a yellow collared T-shirt. He was watering the tomato plants, holding the hose high so the gentle spray rained down like a soft shower. He saw me and smiled, and spoke my name as if it were gold. “Josie! Come have a tomato!” He plucked two big tomatoes from the vine, and we rubbed them on our T-shirts. The first bite was heaven, sun-warm and sweet like candy. I rubbed Sylvia’s tomato on my chest and bit in. I was ten again, loved, and cared for, and free.

  I used another tomato in the salad I prepared for dinner, and stuffed a third with herbs, breadcrumbs, balsamic glaze, olive oil, and honey. I knew all eleven would be eaten in just a few days, and with every bite, I’d think of my father.

  I poured myself a Rouge Martini and settled into my favorite club chair to call Ty.

  “I got you!” I said. “I was sure I’d get your voice mail.”

  “I was about to call you. I’m in for the night.”

  “Me, too. And it’s not even six. Are you okay?”

  “Just beat. Getting the lay of the land is always exhausting.”

  “Are you getting it? Or are you only slogging through muck?”

  “A little of both. I’m making progress. And I have good news—I’ll be home tomorrow for the weekend. If the weather holds, I’ll be pulling in the driveway by six.”

  “Or even five thirty,” I said, raising my glass in a private toast to my wish coming true, then sipped to seal the deal.

  “That’s probably overly optimistic.”

  “I miss you like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Me, too. Hard day?”

  “Super hard. I spoke to Timothy. I’m probably in trouble with New York.” I explained the situation, adding, “I’m so angry I’m having trouble maintaining objectivity. I talk to people and learn things, but nothing I learn seems to matter or help me find the Tiffany lamp, so I just get angrier and angrier.”

  “That confusion is pretty common in investigations, Josie. Think of all the times you’ve been hot on the trail of an antiques pedigree when out of the blue you get contradictory information and have to go back to the drawing board.”

  “That’s true. And I hate it each time.”

  “Yet you always get the answers you need.”

  “Even if the answer is there is no answer,” I said, thinking of Aunt Louise’s remarkable globe desk. I told him how Fred was searching for the man who thought of the perfect gift for his girlfriend, Louise. “I doubt we’ll find him, which means we’ll never be able to verify provenance, but that’s okay. We can authenticate the desk and charm the world with the story of Aunt Louise’s mystery man.” I placed the martini glass on a stone coaster. “The fake Ava haunts me, Ty. I can’t get the way I was played out of my mind. It’s the public humiliation. And I just hate the thought that my oversight might have landed Timothy in trouble with the network’s lawyers and money people…” I let my voice trail off.

  “You’re being pretty hard on yourself, Joz. You don’t have second sight or anything.”

  “I know.” I raised, then lowered my shoulders. “If Edwin signs the release and I find the real Tiffany lamp, my mood will improve.”

  “He will and it will.”

  “You sound pretty certain.”

  “I know you.”

  “I think I’ll take a bubble bath. I’m tense.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Leftover spaghetti and meatballs. Garlic bread. Salad. With fresh tomatoes from Sylvia’s garden. I told you about her—the Towsons’ neighbor.”

  “Wish I was there.”

  “Me, too. What are you having?”

  “A turkey sub.”

  “That’s not dinner. That’s lunch.”

  “I know, but I’m too tired to care.”

  “I’ll make something special for you for tomorrow. What do you want?”

  “Sliced tomatoes and corn on the cob.”

  “Done. What else?”

  “Steamers and lobster.”

  “You got it.”

  “I love you, Josie.”

  “I love you, too, Ty.”

  After we hung up, I leaned my head against the cool twill fabric and closed my eyes. I felt better. Not good, but definitely better.

  * * *

  Wes called as I was running the water for my bubble bath. I turned off the faucet to take the call and sat on the edge of the tub, the leftover steam swirling around me.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t give me your source,” he said, fuming. “You know that reporters need to go to the original source. It’s called verification.”

  “You can’t believe I wouldn’t reveal a source. Well, I can’t believe you’re indignant with me. And you’re welcome. Did you find out anything?”

  “I already knew about Jean’s box. The cops got the skinny from that neighbor, Sylvia Campbell, when they first questioned her after Ava’s murder. According to my police source, when they asked Jean about why she was carrying in a lamp box, she said it wasn’t a lamp box, it was a shoe box.”

  “That’s what I heard, too.”

  “Jean said she has so many shoes and boots she doesn’t have room to store them all in her condo, so she brings them to her sister’s house, where there’s a spare cedar closet, switching out summer and winter clothes twice a year.” He chortled. “Give me a break!”

  “Everyone does that, Wes.”

  “Maybe, but everyone doesn’t have so many shoes they can’t store them in a three-bedroom condo—that they live in alone.”

  “True.”

  “The police saw the closet Jean used, and sure enough, it was filled with her winter clothes and a bunch of shoes and boots.”

  “Did the police examine the box itself?”

  “It was long gone.”

  “So that’s that.” I stood and stared at my steamy reflection in the mirror. “I’ll ask Edwin whether he knows anything about the avocados Sylvia brought over. Or the crate. And you’ll keep me posted, right?”

  “Don’t I always?” Wes chuckled. “Don’t answer that. I’ll catch ya later.”

  I drained the now-cool water and refilled the tub. While I waited, I did a quick e-mail check. Ellis had sent an e-mail with a terse thank-you. I was in the doghouse; that much, at least, was clear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I asked Sasha to lead our regular Friday morning staff meeting. My ability to focus was out the window.

  I’d awakened certain that Jean’s box hadn’t contained shoes and boots. Who waits until summer is under way to retrieve her sandals? I needed to talk to her. Wes had asked if I thought Jean was on the lam with the lamp, and I’d said maybe, but I hadn’t really meant it. It seemed so darn improbable. A well-off divorcée with a beautiful condo and a long-term boyfriend didn’t just disappear. Or was it all a sham? For all I knew she was mortgaged to the hilt and glad to dump the boyfriend.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, smiling at Gretchen, who was saying something about which temps had been trained and bonded, so they could work the cash register at tomorrow’s tag sale. “Does anyone need me?” No one did. “There’s a call I need to make, so I’ll excuse myself.”

  I paused en route to say hello to Hank. He was lying in his basket, with one paw and his neck resting on the wicker rim, as if he’d attempted to get out but was just too exhausted. He was staring into space.

  “Look at you,” I said. “You had an errand, but you couldn’t quite make it.”


  Hank looked up and mewed.

  “Cara thinks you’re bored. Are you bored, big fellow?”

  I lifted him up and kissed the top of his furry little head. He snuggled up against my chest. I carried him upstairs. He settled into my lap and mewed imperiously, demanding jowlies. I put the phone on speaker so I had a hand available to do as he asked and dialed Jean. No answer. I nearly growled with frustration.

  I called Wes and got his voice mail. “I’m wondering about Jean,” I said. “It occurs to me I don’t actually know much about her. Do you? Did you confirm that she’s in as good financial shape as you thought? I mean, no kidding, Wes, is her boyfriend even real?”

  I glanced at the time on my monitor—9:10. I had more than two hours before I needed to drive to Towson’s for my 11:45 A.M. meeting with Edwin. I brought up our master database and searched for clients who lived at the Grey Gull condo complex. Three names popped up. Gary Datlin collected nineteenth-century political memorabilia; Marsha Korbin was always in the market for French cameo glass; and Penelope Hahn, who owned four world-class seventeenth-century Dutch cabinets, would love to add to her collection.

  Our proprietary inventory system conducted an automatic search for clients who might be interested in an antique or collectible as soon as we entered the object’s description into the database. Entering the keywords into the computer was one of Cara’s jobs. If a name popped up, it got passed along to Sasha, who made the call herself, assigned it to Fred, or, for certain high-end antiques or special clients, passed it along to me. In addition, the software allowed for multiple-factor searches, so I could enter broad categories, like “political memorabilia,” or narrow my search by adding a time period or keywords such as “President Lincoln” or “Confederate.” Because of the automatic match function, I wasn’t the least bit surprised that we had no inventory that might be of interest to any of them.