Shadows on the Ivy

by Lea Wait

  Usually Maggie just parked in her driveway, but tonight, with the van full of prints and the sight of her trashed office fresh in her mind, she parked in her garage and locked both the van and the outside garage door. Paranoia is not necessary, she told herself as she double-checked the locks on all the doors of the house. But tonight she wasn’t comfortable being alone. She was glad Gussie and Jim would arrive tomorrow. She could use some conversation with people who were not living in or near a crime scene.

  Winslow meowed and followed her as she checked the doors and windows. “I know you’re here, Winslow. I know I’m not alone. But much as I love you, I don’t think you’re much of an attack cat.” He followed her into the kitchen and demanded dinner, which she provided. Herring tonight.

  While Winslow was licking every corner of his dish, Maggie made the bed in the first-floor guest room, which Gussie could negotiate in the electric wheelchair she now used because of her post-polio syndrome.

  Maggie chose the soft yellow sheets she’d found on sale last spring. The bed was carved oak, and the yellow went well with the beige blankets and the tone of the wood. She covered the bed with a double crazy quilt with a square-cut New England foot that fell straight around the sides of the four-poster bed, then made sure there were fresh yellow towels in the guest bathroom, a new cake of soap and tube of toothpaste, and a box of tissues on the table next to the bed.

  A hand-colored engraving of a duck and a fish by Mark Catesby hung over the bed. Catesby (1682–1749) was the first person to picture the animals and plants of what is now the eastern United States. He did his own engraving and coloring, and his Natural History preceded Audubon’s volumes by about a hundred years. His unique way of combining animals, insects, fish, and plants in single prints made for striking compositions.

  Maggie had been lucky and gotten the Catesby at an auction where the auctioneer had not recognized its value. Catesby was not as well-known as Audubon, and his signature was an M and a C intertwined, which might be missed or misread. She had gotten this one for $1,000 and decided to keep it for herself. She thought of it as a savings account. If she decided to sell, it could be the centerpiece of her exhibit in any show, and she’d price it at $3,500. Or more. There weren’t many Catesbys in circulation.

  For now, though, it was staying right where it was.

  Paul had said he didn’t know what a single person would do with a house, but she had no trouble filling hers. Especially when the space meant she was able to enjoy beautiful furnishings and the company of friends.

  Maggie set up a brass luggage rack and checked the clock in the bedroom to make sure the time was correct. Almost nine. She’d better call Paul before it was unreasonably late.

  Her Somerset College staff directory was in her study. She dialed Paul’s home number. No answer. Should she leave a message? No. She’d already asked Paul about Oliver, and leaving a message might only make him more cautious. He’d volunteered to help her clean and straighten her office in the morning. She’d save her questions until then; that way they’d seem more casual. Less threatening.

  Maggie mechanically washed the cutting board, colander, and cutlery she’d used to make the lasagna. Usually Gussie liked to eat at the local Chinese restaurant when she was here; there weren’t any good Chinese places near her home on the Cape. But in case she was tired and wanted to eat in, Maggie’d made enough lasagna for both Thursday and Friday nights. She had salad ingredients, and she made a note to stop at the bakery Thursday for some éclairs or cream puffs to have for dessert. And bagels, she added. Jim liked bagels. With cream cheese and lox.

  Clearly she’d have to make another grocery run. But some cranberry muffins she’d made a couple of weeks before were in her freezer, and she had eggs and ham. If tomorrow turned out to be as crazy as today, she could wait until Thursday to get to the store.

  Maggie stretched out in her most comfortable living-room chair. The effects of the sherry had worn off, and she went over the day’s events once again. Maybe she’d forgotten something that would make a difference. That would answer some of the questions. Tiffany dead. Sarah still in a coma, she assumed; she’d had no calls from Dr. Stevens.

  And Maria suspecting Tiffany of blackmail.

  She wished she had Tiffany’s briefcase. Maybe if she’d played with the lock…but there’d been no time at school today. Tomorrow, after the police had finished with her office, she could easily get the briefcase.

  She was too restless not to do something. The number for Whitcomb House was on her speed dial. Maria was the one who answered.

  “Professor Summer? Have you heard anything new about Sarah?”

  “No, I haven’t. How are you all doing?”

  “We’re okay. The detectives left about noon, after taking pictures and fingerprints. They did look at Tiffany’s room, but they didn’t go through the whole house again, thank goodness. Kendall went out and got some groceries for us and we just made a big pot of spaghetti and meatballs tonight. It was easy, and the kids love pasta.”

  “Did Tiffany’s parents come for Tyler?”

  “They got here late this afternoon. Tyler was really glad to see them. He’s too little to understand his mother’s dead. All he wanted to do was help them pack his toys and go for a visit. They took some of Tiffany’s things, but left most of her clothes and books and said any of us could have them.” Maria’s voice dropped off.

  “That must have been hard.”

  “Yeah. They said they’d call when final arrangements are made, but the funeral will be in South Jersey, so I don’t know if all of us will be able to go. If it’s on Saturday, I think we’ll try, though.”

  “Let me know about the arrangements when you hear,” said Maggie. “I have a show to do this weekend, but maybe I could get someone to booth-sit for me…” That wouldn’t be a good idea, and she knew it. No one could answer questions and make consistent sales in someone else’s booth. And a funeral in South Jersey would mean being away for the whole day. But at least she could send flowers.

  “I’ll let you know. I promise.” Maria was silent. “It’s awfully quiet here, you know? The kids are in bed, and with just the four of us here the house seems empty.”

  “Maria, can you help me with one more thing? This morning you said you thought Tiffany was going to blackmail someone.”

  “I thought that’s why she needed pictures.”

  “You said your old boyfriend, Eric, was a photographer and Tiffany wanted his number. But you didn’t give it to her, right?”

  Maria hesitated a moment. “I told you I didn’t want Tiffany contacting him, and so I didn’t give her his number. And that’s what I told the police. But Eric called this afternoon. He’d read about Tiffany in the paper and wanted to make sure Tony and I were all right. He had talked to Tiffany. She got his number from my address book.”

  “Did he take pictures for her?”

  “He said no, that he didn’t do the sort of thing she wanted. But he did loan her a camera.”

  “When did he do that?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. It was the kind of camera you can set to go off automatically, or activate from a distance. He said she had it for a few days, and then she returned it.”

  “Did he say what she was taking pictures of?”

  “That she wanted pictures of herself and a friend. A memento of their relationship. But she asked him how to muffle the sound of the shutter, and how to put the camera somewhere it wouldn’t be noticed.”

  Maggie thought a moment. “Was it a digital camera? Or did he develop the film for her?”

  “That’s the really weird part. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it. He just said he wasn’t into that sort of thing, and it was against the law to take pictures like that.”

  “How would he know if he didn’t develop them?”

  “I think he did, Professor Summer. He just wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Do you think he has a copy of them?”

  “He said Tiffany h
ad everything she wanted, and he didn’t want to get involved; he didn’t have anything the police would be interested in. So if he had photos or negatives, I don’t think he has them now. He was worried I’d tell the police he was helping Tiffany.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  “No. When I told them about Tiffany possibly blackmailing someone, I told them I wouldn’t give her Eric’s number. I didn’t even tell them Eric’s name; I just said he was an old friend of mine. And that was the truth.” Maria paused again. “Eric’s had some problems in the past, Professor Summer. If the police knew he’d gotten involved with something like blackmail, he could end up in jail again. He’s pretty upset right now that Tiffany got herself killed. He kept saying she was a stupid bitch—sorry, Professor Summer—and that at least he had his camera back. I don’t think he has anything that would help the police.”

  “Except that he knows she took some pictures. Her fingerprints might be on the camera. And maybe he saw the pictures and could describe them.”

  “Maybe he could, but I don’t think he will. Eric doesn’t want to help the police in any way. He’s not exactly a supporter of the Police Benevolent Fund.”

  “I understand, Maria.”

  “And if he gets in any kind of trouble, that could be trouble for Tony and me, too,” added Maria. “Eric gets awfully mad sometimes. Especially when someone gets him in trouble.”

  “Is that why you had a gun in your room?”

  “I’m sorry, but, yes. I know how to use it, too. But I think Eric will be okay. As long as no one tells the police he had anything to do with Tiffany.”

  “You know if the police don’t find those pictures, then an important piece of evidence is missing.”

  “I want them to find whoever killed Tiffany.”

  “Then give me a little time,” said Maggie. “I’ll do everything I can to keep Eric from getting involved.”

  “Thank you. I need you to do that if it’s at all possible.”

  Maggie sat with the telephone. Tiffany had taken pictures. That seemed certain now. And if she had already given the pictures to the man she was blackmailing, then there would have been no need to kill her. Unless he was afraid she would talk to someone. And tell them what? Maybe he thought she had the pictures or negatives with her when she was killed. But she didn’t. And someone knew she’d visited Maggie that afternoon and figured out the photographs might be in her office. They had to be in the briefcase.

  Maggie brushed Winslow off her lap and paced. Photographs. Photographs sometimes were reminders of things you’d rather forget. She walked over to a small group of photos hung near the window seat. Michael had put them there. Several times since his death she’d thought of taking them down, but hadn’t done it. There was a picture of Michael and Maggie on their wedding day. So full of hope for their future. A picture of Michael’s parents and two sisters. And a picture of Maggie as a little girl, her long hair in braids, with her parents and her big brother, Joe. She’d been six when Joe left home, so the picture must have been taken sometime in that last year. Now her parents were dead, and Joe…Joe might be anywhere.

  She’d had a postcard from him a couple of years ago, postmarked Arizona. But not a word since then, and no way to reach him. He didn’t even know Michael was dead. Although he probably wouldn’t have cared; they’d only met once, at Maggie’s parents’ funeral. Joe had always lived life in a lane separate from everyone else’s. He’d seen life from a little different perspective.

  Maggie wondered where Joe was now, and whether he was all right. She hoped so. She didn’t think about him often, but when she did, it was always with the regret that she knew almost nothing about her closest living relative.

  And that his leaving had changed her relationship with her parents forever. Scared that she, too, would leave, they had been controlling and insistent that she could trust no one in life but herself.

  That was one lesson she’d learned all too well.

  Maybe that was one reason she wanted to have a family. A family that stayed close. Although maybe her parents had wanted that, too. They just hadn’t known how to do it. Why did she think she could do any better?

  Chapter 33

  Night of the Raven. Signed proof of black-and-white wood engraving by Margaret K. Thomas, listed mid-twentieth-century American artist. Bare tree on hill whose scraggly branches reach menacingly toward the sky as a raven flies by. An enormous moon, its light dimmed only slightly by clouds, illuminates the scene. 12 x 19 inches. Price: $275.

  Maggie swallowed a Tylenol, turned off the brass lamp on her bedside table, and snuggled down under the comforter. There was nothing else she could do tonight.

  Morning would come quickly enough. She’d tackle her office, talk with Paul, and find a way to open Tiffany’s briefcase. In the meantime, both her body and her mind craved sleep.

  She lay still, drifting into sleep, lulled by the usual creaks and moans of an old house on a chilly night in early November. The wind must have picked up, she thought drowsily. She trimmed her trees and bushes every summer so they wouldn’t hit the side of the house in winter snow and ice storms. But tonight the noises of the branches were different. She heard a scraping, or scratching, as though the wind were trying to get in through one of the windows.

  It wasn’t the wind.

  Maggie froze. Every nerve in her body was on alert. She listened intently. One after another she heard the windows on the first floor of the house shake. No wind would shake windows sequentially. Someone was trying to get into the house. A burglar? Someone looking for those photographs? Someone looking for her?

  Maggie’s first instinct was to scream. But no one would have heard. Instead, she lay still in the bed, her body stiff with fear. She could hardly hear the windows shaking. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, which was suddenly the loudest noise in her universe.

  She kept most of the windows locked at this time of year; she had put down the storm panes only a week ago. But she had left screens on several, in case warm late-fall days encouraged her to air the house out again before winter arrived to stay. Those windows she might have left unlocked.

  She couldn’t hear anything now. Had she imagined it? Had she let her imagination and the events of the past two days convince her that someone was actually trying to break into her house? For a few instants she wondered. Then she heard the noise again. Whoever it was had passed the kitchen door and was now near the ramp she’d built as an alternative entrance to the French doors in her study. Convenient when Gussie visited in her chair; convenient for wheeling a dolly loaded with prints directly from her study to her van. Convenient for someone else tonight?

  She’d double-checked all of her doors tonight. They were locked.

  But—yes—someone was shaking the door at the top of the ramp, making sure it was secure.

  Maggie felt cold and rigid. She could hardly breathe as she reached out to the telephone next to her bed. This was no time for bravery. She dialed 911.

  The three rings felt like thirty. “Please?” Maggie whispered. “Someone is trying to break into my house…. Yes. Now!” They got her address from their caller ID system. How long would it take for someone to arrive?

  Park Glen was a small town; after midnight few police were on duty. Suburban police departments often took turns covering for each other to save costs. There might be a patrol within a block of her house. Or, more likely, no one within fifteen minutes. Or the only policeman could be on another call somewhere. Somewhere far from her house.

  Was the intruder looking for her? Or for something he thought she had?

  She’d have to gamble that he didn’t want her. She’d parked her packed van in the garage tonight. Most nights she left it in the driveway. Whoever was in her yard might have assumed she wasn’t home.

  Television commercials for burglar alarm systems—why had she never installed one?—said burglars didn’t want to confront people. She could hear the windows shaking in the study now. If the
person still circling her house knew she was at home, would that scare them away?

  Or would that give them an added incentive to break in?

  She had to do something. Maggie reached over and turned the light on next to her bed. Then she got up, automatically put on the bathrobe she’d left at the foot of the bed, crossed to the door, and turned on the light in the hallway that ran the length of the second floor. She could still hear rustling and shaking. Emboldened by the light, she walked into the small bedroom next to hers, at the front of the house. The room that would perhaps someday be for her son or daughter. Tonight she was glad she was alone. How would a single parent deal with this situation?

  She knew immediately. They’d be even more afraid than she was now, because they’d be afraid for their child as well as for themselves. And they’d have to be braver. They’d have to show their child that there was nothing to fear.

  Inspired by that thought, Maggie walked to the front window and looked down at the street. Her feet were frozen, with cold and with fear. The night was dark; clouds covered the moon. But a car was parked two houses down, just visible beyond the glow of the imitation gas streetlight in front of Maggie’s home. It was unusual to have a car parked on this quiet street so late on a Tuesday night. In this neighborhood most people, and their guests, parked in driveways. She couldn’t see the color of the car or the license plate number; all she could tell was that it was a dark sedan. Not a sports car or compact. She wished she paid more attention to automotive ads.

  Emboldened, she left the window, where she might be seen, and turned on the light in that room, in the other front bedroom, and then in the second-floor bathroom. There was a switch for the light over the staircase to the first floor. Should she turn it on, too?