The SUV was two cars ahead but easy to keep track of as traffic moved along 14th Street, lurching ahead at green lights, jolting to a stop at red lights, and clogging at corners as drivers made left or right turns. After several blocks of hair salons, gyms, narrow store-front restaurants with neon signs, and clothing shops with impossibly crowded windows, Union Square came into view. The park’s greenery was enlivened by food trucks with bright umbrellas, and its broad walkways were lined with huge pots gaudy with flowers. Just past Union Square, the black SUV suddenly peeled off to the left. The light turned red and Bettina stopped, two cars between her and the cross street.
“Oh!” She twisted her lips in disgust. “Don’t tell me we’re going to lose him right at the end.”
“No,” Pamela said. “We won’t.” She jerked the door handle toward her, shoved the door open, jumped into the street, and darted around the front of Bettina’s car onto the sidewalk.
Chapter Nineteen
Pamela’s feet pounded along the concrete as she turned the same corner the SUV had turned. It was only a block away, cruising slowly northward. She checked the street sign and discovered she was on Irving Place.
The SUV was taking its time, so Pamela slowed to a walk, catching her breath though her heart was throbbing from exertion and excitement. Here, a block off 14th Street, it was like another world—a world of charming brick buildings no more than a few stories high. They were restaurants and shops, with multipaned windows, signage that featured gilt lettering, and window boxes planted with delicate flowers in tasteful colors.
At the next corner, the SUV turned right. Pamela sped up until she reached that corner and gazed in the direction the SUV had gone. There it was, stopped in midblock—in front of one of those charming brick buildings. She crossed the street but made sure she was hidden from the view of the SUV’s occupants by edging close to the brick wall of the shop at the corner. Then she leaned out far enough that one eye could survey what was happening.
The passenger-side door of the SUV opened and the mysterious man in the possibly seersucker suit got out. The driver’s side door opened and the thin, young man got out. He circled to the back of the SUV and opened the tailgate. Content that the SUV had reached its destination, Pamela began to retrace her path along Irving Place.
She had gone a block and was hurrying past a restaurant whose white tablecloths and gleaming table settings were visible through its multipaned windows, when Bettina’s car careened around the corner from 14th Street. It slowed, and an anguished voice not like Bettina’s at all called, “Pamela!” Framed in the open car window, Bettina’s face looked like she’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes.
“I’m okay, I’m fine,” Pamela called back, extending her arms as if to show she was indeed all in one piece. She hopped off the curb and approached the open window. “He’s around that corner,” she said, pointing in the direction she had just come from. “The tailgate is open, and they’re probably unloading the stuff right now.” She stepped back and scanned the street for parking signs. “I don’t think people are supposed to park along here, so stay in the car and cruise around a little bit. I’ll walk past the SUV and see what’s going on. I’ll meet you up there.” She nodded toward where Irving Place dead-ended into what looked like another park.
Bettina pulled away and Pamela crossed the street once again. Affecting a careless air, as if she was a most leisurely person out for nothing more than a pleasant stroll through a charming pocket of the city, she made her way up to the corner from which she’d surveyed the SUV. It was still parked in the same place and the tailgate was still open. In fact, one of the huge cardboard boxes remained within, but no one was in sight. She set out down the block, glancing here and there, admiring the window boxes, the row of sidewalk trees with delicate iron fences ringing their bases, and a chandelier visible through a window.
When she was parallel with the car, she glanced in that direction, only to notice the mysterious man standing near the open tailgate. She lifted her eyes to the elegantly lettered sign above the window—now, clearly, a shop window, because the sign read J & J ANTIQUES.
* * *
“I’ve got a plan,” Pamela said as she climbed into Bettina’s car, which was idling at the curb in front of an impressive stone townhouse. The park at the end of Irving Place was Gramercy Park, a lush block-long rectangle protected by a spiky iron fence and planted with carefully manicured trees and shrubs.
“I hope it’s better than jumping out into traffic and running after someone who, for all we know, is a killer,” Bettina said, still looking shaken. Even her hair, usually groomed to perfection, had become disarranged.
“It’s an antique store,” Pamela said. “J & J Antiques. We’ll come back tomorrow, dressed in good clothes, and browse in the shop. We’ll strike up a conversation with the owner—you’re good at that—and see what we can find out.”
* * *
“Come in and have some lunch,” Bettina said as she pulled into her driveway. “Wilfred is still steering clear of the Co-Op, so he went out to the farmers market in Newfield this morning. I’m sure he brought back goodies.”
Sure enough, the results of Wilfred’s excursion were laid out on the pine table in Bettina’s spacious kitchen: a huge cluster of tomatoes—heirloom (to judge by their unusual shapes and colors), avocados, an oval loaf of bread encrusted with seeds, a length of hard sausage that gave off a tantalizing aroma of garlic, and a large round pie. “It’s a quiche,” Bettina said, leaning over it and studying the surface, baked custard with the rich golden glow of cheese.
He’d left a note nearby. “Dear Wife—Gone out again. Help yourself.” It was signed with a heart.
“The mysterious man has to be related to Randall Jefferson,” Bettina said, as she set out two of her handmade plates from the craft shop and arranged portions of quiche on them. “He looks exactly like him.”
Pamela meanwhile was slicing the largest tomato onto another handmade plate. “In that photo of the people standing in front of the house, there were two boys,” she said. “Brothers, most likely.”
“But nobody should be helping themselves to Jefferson’s things yet, not even a brother, unless the estate has been settled.” Bettina rummaged in her silverware drawer for forks.
“How’s he getting into the house?” Pamela said. “If he had a key, that suggests they were on good terms.”
“But if they were on good terms, why would he help himself to things? And I didn’t notice anybody at the funeral who looked like Randall Jefferson.” Bettina handed Pamela a cruet of olive oil. “Of course, we were looking for a woman with wild red hair. There were a lot of well-groomed men there—at least judging by the backs of their heads. Or maybe he has a key from long ago, when they were both growing up in the house. Maybe the locks have never been changed.”
Pamela let a few dribbles of olive oil flow over the tomato slices. “So it’s sibling rivalry then?” she said. “Randall inherited everything when his father died, and the other brother always resented that. Years went by, then something happened that made the other brother snap.”
Bettina cut in. “He killed Randall, and now he’s helping himself to all the stuff he thought he should have had in the first place. And he’s carting it off to sell it to an antiques dealer.”
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Pamela said. “You’re good at getting people to talk.”
“Nine a.m.,” Bettina said. “And be sure to dress the part.”
* * *
At home, Pamela collected her mail and climbed the stairs to her office. Roused from a nap on the windowsill, Catrina seemed normal. Pamela waited as her computer completed the cycle of beeps and whirs that brought it to life, then checked her email and got to work.
* * *
“How was your day, Mom?” Penny sat at the kitchen table still dressed in the clothes she’d started out in that morning. She wore a white blouse with a sweet round collar, and a festive skirt that might once
have been a square dancer’s. “What did you do?” she added.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Pamela answered before turning from the counter, afraid her face would give away her lie. She wasn’t a good liar, but she certainly didn’t want Penny to know what she and Bettina had been up to. She had sliced dill pickles onto a plate, and she was forming ground beef into patties for hamburgers. A few buns waited nearby. Catrina had been fed and was pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the entry.
Penny reached down and gave Catrina a pat as she veered near the table. “Did she seem normal today?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” Pamela said. “I think it’s time to make that appointment with the vet. It’s not good to . . . do it . . . while they’re actually in heat.”
“She’s pacing now,” Penny said. “Is that normal?”
“She used to do it sometimes.”
Penny stood up. “I’ll go change,” she said and started for the entry. “Hey,” she called a minute later. “Somebody’s coming up onto the porch.” Just then the doorbell rang. “I think it might be Wilfred,” Penny added. “It’s somebody in overalls.”
“Open it, can you?” Pamela said from the kitchen doorway. “My hands are all greasy.”
Penny swung the front door open. At that moment, a streak of black darted past Pamela’s ankles, zigzagged around Penny’s feet, and leapt over the threshold. Wilfred staggered back and uttered the closest to a curse he had in his vocabulary, “Criminently!”
“That was Catrina!” Pamela cried, the last syllable of the cat’s name trailing off in a heartbroken moan.
“I’ll find her!” Penny squeezed past Wilfred and tore down the steps.
Wilfred remained on the porch, looking crestfallen. “It wasn’t your fault,” Pamela said, joining him. “She’s never tried to run out before, but she’s in heat.” Pamela felt like she was about to cry.
“Dear, dear.” Wilfred patted her shoulder. In his free hand he held a large shopping bag. “Heirloom tomatoes from the farmers market,” he said, holding it up. “Bettina sent them over.” He reached for the doorknob but pulled his hand back. “No good closing the barn door after the horse has gone,” he said and shrugged.
They watched as Penny bounced here and there over the lawn in her festive skirt, peering under shrubs and searching along the hedges that rimmed both sides of Pamela’s lot. After a few minutes, she headed down the driveway toward the backyard. Then she was back, empty-handed.
Pamela and Penny spent a sorrowful evening together.
* * *
A surprise awaited Pamela when she opened her front door the next morning on her way to collect the newspaper. From under one of the porch chairs came a hesitant meow. Pamela looked down and there was Catrina staring up at her, the cat’s yellow eyes as expressive as if she were a contrite human acknowledging a night of debauchery.
And debauchery it had been, Pamela was almost certain. And that meant there would very likely be kittens on the horizon. “Are you pleased with yourself?” she asked with a frown. Catrina dipped her head. “Do you want to come back home?” Pamela gestured toward the open door.
Catrina’s sleek body seemed to flatten and elongate until she resembled a jet-black weasel. With a wary glance upwards, she slunk past Pamela’s slippered feet and over the threshold.
“I suppose you’re hungry,” Pamela called after her as she headed down the steps to collect the Register.
* * *
Half an hour later, Catrina had been fed and Penny seen off to work. Dressed in the best outfit she could muster—a freshly ironed white shirt and a pair of navy cotton slacks, Pamela was standing in front of Bettina’s open closet. Four rejected jackets lay on the bed.
“It’s hopeless,” Bettina said with an exasperated sigh. “If only we were the same size, I could put together a wonderful ensemble for you. But you’re not going to make a good impression in a jacket that barely reaches your waist and with sleeves that are three inches too short.” She stepped toward her bureau and opened a drawer. “At least maybe a scarf and some earrings can make you look a little bit more polished.”
She held up a luxuriously silky scarf with a pattern of elegant gold chains against a dark blue background, folded it on the diagonal, and arranged it to fill the neckline of Pamela’s shirt. Then she opened another drawer and brought out a pair of earrings, simple gold buttons with diamonds in the center. Pamela fastened them to her earlobes and studied herself in the mirror on Bettina’s closet door.
“It’s better,” Bettina said, “and at least you’re not wearing your Birkenstocks.”
* * *
The morning crush at the bridge was nearly over, and twenty minutes after leaving Arborville, Bettina and Pamela were zipping down the West Side Highway toward 14th Street.
“We’ll need to put the car in one of those expensive Manhattan lots,” Bettina said after they’d made their turn and were nearing Union Square. “I checked online this morning, and there’s something just around this corner.” She swung to the right and made for the large PARK sign jutting out over the sidewalk. Pausing to let a young couple meander past, she maneuvered her car down the concrete ramp into the shadowy gasoline-smelling depths of the underground garage.
Back up in the fresh air, Pamela and Bettina strolled along Irving Place, past the charming brick buildings housing charming restaurants and shops. A few blocks before the street ended at Gramercy Park, they turned right and soon were standing in front of the shop whose elegantly lettered sign identified it as J & J ANTIQUES. Arranged behind the multipaned window was a display of china so delicate it was translucent—tea cups so very antique they dated from before tea cups had handles, matching saucers, a fat-bellied teapot, and a sugar bowl much larger than a modern one. All were decorated with intricate scenes that evoked their likely country of origin, China.
Pamela twisted the polished brass knob on the shop’s door and pushed the door open, Bettina following. The silvery jingle of a bell announced their arrival, and a bear-like man in a well-starched Tattersall shirt emerged from a doorway in the back wall.
“Good day, ladies,” he said with a courtly bow. He had a sandy, well-trimmed beard and wore glasses with gold wire frames.
“Beautiful shop,” Bettina said. “Have you always been here?” In her black linen skirt suit and pearls, she looked perfectly at home among the lustrous wooden pieces, the gleaming silver, and the museum-quality art.
“Ten years,” the bear-like man said. “Before then we were on the Upper East Side.”
“We?” Bettina offered a flirtatious smile. “Which ‘J’ of the ‘J and J’ are you?”
“Benson Jasper at your service, ma’am.” The words were accompanied by another bow.
“Nice to meet you,” Bettina said with another smile. “Who’s the other ‘J’?” Standing to the side, Pamela marveled to herself. What a slick character Bettina could be.
“That would be Reynolds Jefferson. We’re partners in life as well as in business.”
Bettina’s smile vanished. “Oh, my,” she said, opening her eyes wide and raising her hand to her cheek in a display that Pamela thought was more theatrical than strictly necessary. But Bettina knew what she was doing. “Jefferson! He couldn’t be . . . he isn’t . . .” She paused, then went on. “There was that terrible murder in New Jersey a few weeks ago. He’s not . . .”
Benson Jasper nodded. “He is.”
“Not a close relative, I hope,” Bettina said, reaching out a flawlessly manicured hand to give the antiques dealer a comforting pat.
“I’m afraid he is,” Benson Jasper said. “Randall Jefferson was my partner’s brother.”
“That must be hard on you both.” Bettina offered another pat.
“Reynolds took it quite well, actually. I was surprised.” Benson Jasper’s lips parted in a melancholy smile. “They weren’t close.” The smile widened and he glanced from Bettina to Pamela and back to Bettina. “Are you ladies looking for anything sp
ecial? Decorat-ing a new condo? Rounding out a collection?”
Pamela suspected that the clientele J & J Antiques served had little interest in deviled eggs, let alone platters to serve them, so she kept her mouth closed about that. But there was more sleuthing to be done, particularly given the excellent start Bettina had made. If Benson Jasper and Reynolds Jefferson were partners in life as well as in business, Benson was certainly in a position to say whether Reynolds was with him the night before Arborfest—or not. In which case Reynolds could have been in Arborville clunking his brother on the head with a rock.
But how to ask? What to ask?
Bettina’s voice interrupted her ponderings. “Aren’t these just too precious!” She was standing in front of a tall cabinet with glass-fronted doors. Through the carefully polished glass could be seen a row of porcelain greyhounds, posing on little mounds of porcelain grass.
“Staffordshire,” said Benson Jasper from across the room. “Authentic, you can be sure. Not the repros.”
Pamela returned to her musings. Maybe she didn’t need to ask about Saturday night. If the same person who killed Randall Jefferson Saturday night put the aardvark on his chest the next day (and Pamela didn’t think it made sense to believe that two people were involved, despite the lively discussion the knitting club had had on that topic), then what Reynolds was doing Sunday around noon was just as relevant.
Bettina was truly a mind reader. No sooner had this thought occurred to Pamela than Bettina turned from the cabinet and took a few steps toward Benson Jasper. “My sister would absolutely love these. Will you be here Sunday?”
Never mind that Bettina didn’t have a sister. Benson Jasper didn’t know that. “Of course!” The antiques dealer nodded enthusiastically. “Sunday is our busiest day.”
“So ‘J’ and ‘J’ will be minding the store?”
Though to outward appearances Pamela was casually examining a set of sterling silver flatware, she was in fact listening intently, wondering whether she’d soon be crossing Reynolds Jefferson off her list of suspects. If both partners were always in the shop on Sundays, Reynolds couldn’t have been at Arborfest.
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