“See what?”
“The bathtub. Where she died.”
“Not especially,” I said. “Unless you think it’s important for me to see it.”
“I don’t know whether it is or not. But since I’m asking for your help. . . .” She spread her hands apart. “Maybe there’s something there they missed. I haven’t changed anything. You don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to.”
I didn’t want to. I’d already seen it.
“No problem,” I lied.
CHAPTER 8
Dorothy picked up the discarded shoes, and holding them gingerly by their narrow straps, walked across the off-white carpet and opened a door. “I’ll just put these away,” she said. “Then we can talk about what’s important and what’s not.” She shrugged. “I don’t know the difference yet.” Seconds later she returned, smiling and still barefoot.
I sipped my coffee and waited, not speaking, hoping she’d answer some of the many questions that had been spinning around in my brain since our conversation on the trip to the cemetery.
She pulled up a stool on the opposite side of the counter and faced me. “Coffee okay?”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Back home in False Pass I make it in an old percolator over a wood stove.”
“Uh-huh.” Come on Dorothy. Enough small talk. Get to the point.
“Look, I know the police said it was accidental. Maybe she took too many sleeping pills. Maybe she washed them down with too much wine. Maybe she fell asleep in the tub and just died. Maybe maybe maybe.” She put her cup down hard enough to splash coffee onto the granite surface. “I don’t think so.”
“What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”
“Mostly because I knew my sister. She rarely took a drink. I’ve never known her to take pills. And there was something . . . something odd about the letters.”
“Letters?”
“Yes. We corresponded the old-fashioned way. Wrote letters. Internet is pretty near useless up there except locally. I used to call long distance once in a while from one of the fish house stores, but they close down for part of the year, so letters have been just about it.”
“That’s why you didn’t hear about her death sooner.”
“Right. Paula sent a telegram, but the only way to get to False Pass from the mainland is by boat or plane”—she shrugged—“so I didn’t get the message until after Emily had been cremated and my stepmother had already gone home to Georgia. I came right away of course. I knew there was something wrong. I was pretty sure it wasn’t an accident.” She stopped speaking, her eyes misty.
“The letters,” I prodded. “You said something about her letters.”
“Her letters. Right, here’s the thing. I think she had some kind of a problem going on at her work.”
“Where did she work?” I asked. “The paper didn’t say anything about her job.”
“She was kind of a secretary I guess,” Dorothy said. “For a real estate business. Happy Shores Real Estate. Kind of a goofy name for Salem, huh? Sounds more like Florida or Hawaii, doesn’t it? Happy Shores.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We do have shores, you know. North Shore. South Shore. Do you want to tell me about the letters?” I realized that I was beginning to sound impatient and tried to soften my tone. “Take your time, Dorothy. I know this is hard for you to talk about.”
“It is,” she said. “The letters are in the bedroom. Come on and take a look at the bathroom and her bedroom and then we can sit down and read the letters. Maybe you’ll see why I don’t think she died by accident.”
Going into Emily’s—now Dorothy’s—bathroom was strange. I’d seen it before in the oval mirror in my own bedroom. Of course the tub was empty now. No body. No bubbles. No wineglass. A black-and-white striped shower curtain hung from circular tubing above the tub, matching the black-and-white tiled floor. I looked around the room. A pedestal sink, a toilet, a towel rack with two fluffy white bath towels, a white wicker shelf displaying folded white hand towels, a bottle of spray cleaner, a soap dish holding a new cake of Ivory soap and a bevel-edged mirror. It struck me as a simple, efficient, almost Spartan environment. I wondered where she’d kept her makeup, hairspray and perfume.
I glanced at Dorothy. She didn’t use makeup and perhaps her sister hadn’t either.
None of my business.
“Very—um—neat,” I said. “My bathroom seems a little messy in comparison.”
“It seems luxurious to me.” Dorothy smiled. “My place in Alaska doesn’t even have a bathroom.”
“Can’t even imagine it,” I said. “What do you do there for work up there?” I asked.
“I’m a commercial fisherman,” she said. “Have my own boat. Just me and one crew. I sell the catch to one of the fish houses. It’s a pretty good living. Off season I do a little hunting.” We’d entered a small bedroom, the walls painted the same beige as the living room. A single bed, a nightstand and a long, low bureau dominated the space. She opened one of the top bureau drawers and withdrew a package of letters, tied with white ribbon. “Here they are,” she said. “I’m so glad I saved them. I almost didn’t.”
She headed back to the living room and I followed. We sat together on a chocolate brown microfiber couch. Dorothy turned on a fat, white, round ceramic lamp, then untied the ribbon on the packet of letters.
She unfolded the first one, smoothed the paper gently and held it where I could see it as she read aloud. “Dear Dot,” she began. The handwriting was rounded, the letters neatly formed. The stationery was delicate looking, an almost translucent white with scalloped edges all around.
“I guess I told you a little about my new job at Happy Shores Real Estate. The big boss is Mr. Shores. His wife is named Trudy. She’s very nice and she more or less runs everything and seems to like me. My work is easy. I do stuff like typing up agreements and making appointments for some of the agents, buying balloons and cupcakes for open houses. I wish I had a little more responsibility though. When are you going to come to Salem? I miss you. Love, Em.”
She refolded the letter carefully, placed it on the lamp table, and picked up another. This one was written on the same kind of paper, but had jagged edges as though it had been trimmed with pinking shears.
“Dearest Dot,” Dorothy read. “Well, today was kind of fun at work. You would have liked it. I learned something new. It wasn’t really part of my job. It was my afternoon off actually, and one of the real estate agents invited me to go with him to get a soil sample from a big piece of property Trudy and Happy own. (The boss’s real name is Harold, but everybody calls him “Happy.” I don’t of course because I’m only a secretary. I call him Mr. Shores.) Anyway, the soil sampling is nothing official. All the testing on the property has already been done, but he wanted to show me how they do it. He’s really smart. Has a degree in that sort of thing he says. It was sort of a date I guess. I don’t know many of the agents. He’s a nice guy. Everybody here calls him J.D. He even brought me a pair of boots to wear because the ground was muddy. Ugly things. You’d probably like them.”
Dorothy looked up from the letter. “She drew a little smile face there,” she said, brushing a hand across her eyes, then continued reading. “It was interesting, digging holes, putting the dirt in plastic bags and writing on the labels. J.D. is sending our samples to a lab for testing. I think that’s exciting! You know how I always liked chemistry and science and all those subjects. Anyway, maybe next time J.D. asks me out it will be for dinner and I won’t have to wear ugly boots. Love you. Miss you. Em.”
Dorothy folded the letter, gave it a little pat, and put it on the table. The next one was written on a long, narrow sheet of the same paper, this one with wavy edges. “Dear Dot,” she read. “I’m writing this early in the morning. Couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind. I wish you were here. Remember when we used to stay up all night just talking sometimes? I miss that. I need someone to talk to. When that fish store opens again, telepho
ne me, will you? Love, Em.”
“Did you call her?” I asked. “That one sounded urgent.”
“I did, of course. The fish house was still closed so I hitched a ride on a seaplane and phoned from the mainland.”
“And did she tell you what was wrong?”
“Yes. And, no.” She added the letter to the pile and sighed. “There were no more letters after this one. She told me on the phone that her new friend, the one who’d taken her on the soil sample project, had suddenly quit or maybe even been fired. She’d overheard him and Trudy Shores talking. Then he’d come out of Trudy’s office, stopped at Emily’s desk and told her he’d call her soon, that he had something important to tell her. He never called. She looked in the employee files for his number but his file was missing. She asked Mr. Shores about him and was told that he’d left town for a better job.”
Dorothy paused, folding her arms. “Emily didn’t believe him. Now I don’t think I do either.”
“Did Emily tell you this man J.D.’s full name?”
“At the time I didn’t bother to ask. I thought she was just feeling hurt, you know. About this guy not calling.” She waved one hand in the air. “We all know what that’s like.”
I nodded agreement. The thought was interrupted by a sudden, muted burst of music.
At my questioning look, Dorothy smiled. “Next door neighbors. Just moved in last weekend. Other than a little country and western once in a while, they’re pretty quiet.”
“Does it bother you?”
“A little. I guess when they turned the place into apartments they didn’t worry much about insulation. Some of the walls are so thin you could probably hear a mouse fart next door.”
I laughed, then returned to the more serious subject of Emily’s letter. “So what did you tell Emily about her new friend not calling?”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t much help. I told her he’d probably call when he got settled, wherever he’d gone. That he wasn’t worth worrying about.” She shook her head. “I totally missed the point. She didn’t believe he’d left town without calling her. She was actually worried about him.”
“And you think all this has something to do with Emily’s death?” I was confused, and said so. “I don’t get it. Have you talked to the Shores couple?”
“I have. I went to see them as soon as I got to Salem. They were nice as pie. Said how much they missed her, what a good worker she was, how terribly upset they were about what had happened.” Dorothy frowned. “Mrs. Shores even had tears in her eyes, said she felt a little bit responsible because they’d had a party at their house that night and maybe—that’s what she said—maybe Emily had a teensy bit too much to drink—that’s what she said—a teensy bit too much to drink. She said she’d followed Emily back here in her car that night, just to be sure she got home safely.”
“Did you ask about the missing agent? The man Emily was expecting to call her?”
“Sure I did. They said he just wasn’t quite right for Salem. Just didn’t fit in with their way of selling. Claimed he used high pressure tactics and they thought he was better suited to a different market.”
“But did you get his name from them?”
“Not exactly.” She frowned. “Mrs. Shores started to tell me. She said he always went by his initials, J.D., but that his name was James . . . she started to say his last name . . . it sounded like ‘Dow.’ But then Mr. Shores interrupted and said it wouldn’t be proper for them to give out private information on employees. Then he told me to have a nice day, handed me a bag full of advertising stuff, held the door open for me and practically pushed me out of the office.”
She reached behind the table and pulled out a canvas bag like the ones Aunt Ibby uses for shopping, only this one had a stylized H.S. monogram on it. “Here”—she said, shoving it toward me—“you might be able to use it. I really don’t have any use for it.”
“Okay then,” I said, tucking the bag under my arm. “We can always use an extra grocery bag. Thanks, and listen. Don’t worry. I’m sure we can get J.D.’s name. I’ll call and pretend to be one of his customers. Someone in that office will let it slip out, maybe even tell me where he went. But meanwhile, have you checked Emily’s computer?”
“I tried. I don’t know her password.”
“Keep trying. It may be the name of a childhood pet, or a street you used to live on.”
“Okay. I’ll do it tonight.”
“Good. Speaking of mystery men, Shannon says that you know the blue-eyed artist who makes the fake grave rubbings.”
“Sure do, Dakota Berman. He’s the super of this building. Nice guy. He knew Emily.”
CHAPTER 9
“Small world,” I said, marveling because it really is. “I didn’t notice you talking to him when we were at the cemetery.”
“We kind of waved to one another,” she said, retying the letters with the white ribbon. “He’s really shy. Not much for conversation. Keeps to himself. He lives in the basement here.”
“Shannon wants to interview him for the project. Think he’ll talk to her?”
Dorothy returned the letters to the bureau drawer. “He might, because she’s so pretty. She may as well try. I think he might enjoy talking about his work. He’s a pretty good artist, besides the tombstone thing.”
Together we walked back to the living room. “Have you talked to him about Emily at all?”
“I’ve tried to, but I don’t think they actually spent any time together. He doesn’t gossip. Minds his own business. Good traits for a building superintendent.”
I had to agree. “I should think so. I’d like to meet him sometime.”
Maybe I can brush up on my interview skills.
“I’m sure we’ll run into him again at the cemetery,” she said. “I’ll introduce you if you like.”
“Thanks,” I said, “and thanks for sharing the letters. I understand why you feel that you need to find out all you can about Emily’s death.” At that moment I wanted to reach out and hug her, or at least to take her hand, but held back. “I’ll help where I can,” I said, “but please be prepared to accept that it’s entirely possible—even likely—that it was, after all, a terrible accident.”
She gave the slightest negative shake of her head, but smiled at the same time. “I understand. Thanks for coming over . . . and for taking pity on my poor sore big feet.”
I returned the smile. “Feel free to wear your Mukluks to class if you like. See you tomorrow.”
We said our good-byes and I took the elevator down to the foyer and stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. I walked to my car, then looked back toward the apartment house. I noticed the row of balconies along the top floor and wondered if the one with a profusion of plants was Emily’s. A few horizontal narrow windows dotted the base of the building.
You’d think an artist would need to have more light than that.
It was just a little past six, not too late for a real estate office to be open. I reached for my phone, called 411 and got the number for Happy Shores. An automated voice told me what button to push. After an interim of classical music—Bach I think—a human answered.
“Happy day from Happy Shores,” chirped a female voice. “How can I make your day an even happier one?”
I grimaced and wondered how anyone could maintain that cheery tone of voice while repeating that inane message over and over. “May I speak with James please?” I said. “He told me to call as soon as I got my cash down payment together. I hope the property is still available.”
Cash probably trumps confidentiality at Happy Shores.
There was a long pause before the cheery voice resumed. “I’m sorry. There is no one called James connected to the agency.” She sounded as though she was reading a script. “May I direct your call to another member of our happy professional staff?”
“No thanks, I really need to talk to James. Can you tell me where I could reach him?”
Again a pause, and the relentlessly ch
eerful voice. “I’m sorry. There is no agent by that name connected with this agency. May I direct your call to another member of our happy professional staff?”
“Sometimes he goes by J.D.” I persisted.
Another pause. More script reading, but this time the chirp had a little edge to it. “I’m sorry. There is no one called J.D. connected with the agency. May I direct your call to another member of our happy professional staff?”
I knew when I was being stonewalled. “Thanks anyway,” I said. “Have a happy day.” I hung up and headed home. I knew that Pete could get the missing James’s name somehow but that it would involve miles of paperwork. Anyway he’d need a reason beyond the possibility that the guy had stood Emily up.
Time to call in the big guns. I’d put Aunt Ibby on it. No problem. Once she had the name, I’d turn it over to Pete—who’d probably tell me that the company had every right to keep employee information confidential.
I’d looked forward to a quiet evening. Aunt Ibby had made plans with Mr. Pennington to attend a lecture on Chinese porcelain at the Peabody Museum and Pete had to work the three to eleven p.m. shift. “Looks like it’ll be just you and me, O’Ryan,” I told the cat as I put a frozen chicken pot pie into the microwave for me and opened one of those tiny cans of gourmet cat food for him. I turned on the kitchen TV and caught the tail end of the evening news on WICH-TV. Phil Archer reminded viewers to watch the Sox-Yankees game at eight. Wanda the Weather Girl reported on a low pressure area in the Gulf of Mexico. The refrigerator vegetable drawer yielded part of a head of lettuce, a nice tomato from Aunt Ibby’s garden and a couple of carrots. Good enough for a salad of sorts with a dab of mayo.
O’Ryan made short work of his White Meat Chicken Florentine with Garden Greens in Delicate Sauce. Maybe I should have put it into one of those footed crystal dishes like they show on TV. Scooping the last bite of crust from the bottom of the cardboard pot pie container, then polishing off the better than expected salad, I rinsed our dishes and started a pot of coffee. It would be a while before the start of the game, so I switched channels and watched TMZ for a few minutes, then remembered my promise to Dorothy to do a little checking myself on James D. Why not? Maybe some of my aunt’s research skills had rubbed off.
Grave Errors Page 5