I looked toward the street, embarrassed that my stupidity and immaturity had made Max’s job more difficult.
As Max finished his comments, I noticed a woman driving a shiny red sports car with the top down. She slowed for the stoplight, her head bopping to music I couldn’t hear, and I wondered what kind of songs she was playing and whether she felt cold in the brisk October air.
I bought my first car when I was almost seventeen, a used Fiat 850 Spider, and my dad and I cruised around for more than an hour with the top down even though it was a frigid, windy December afternoon. Even with the heat blasting on high, we nearly froze, but it didn’t seem to matter at all. We had a blast. Oh, Dad.
I turned back to Max, who was waiting patiently for my response. “I’m really sorry. I just kind of lost it.”
“Why?”
I took a deep breath. “I think that what put me over the top was seeing yesterday’s Seacoast Star. They printed that goddamn article on the front page,” I said.
He nodded. “Yeah. I saw it.”
I began to cry and turned away from his sympathetic eyes, angrily sweeping away my tears. After a long minute, I gulped down the last of my emotion and said, “I’m sorry, Max. I’m just a mess.”
“Don’t keep apologizing, Josie. You’re fine. Really. You’re holding up very well, all things considered. I’m sorry I upset you.” He patted my shoulder.
“You didn’t. Wes did, writing such drivel.” I sniffed, and when I opened my purse to find a tissue, I discovered the folded newspaper I’d stuffed in earlier, and I began to cry again. I wrestled the paper loose and thrust it toward him. “Here. I don’t want the damn thing.”
“I’ll throw it away for you.” Max accepted it and tucked it under his arm, out of sight.
“I’m okay now.” I blew my nose and felt better, used the crumpled tissue to pat away under-eye mascara smudges, and took several deep breaths. “It sounds like Rowcliff is convinced that Trevor is out to get me, huh?”
“Rowcliff isn’t giving up on any line of investigation, Josie. He’s very thorough. Remember, he’s checking on who could have acquired the poison and who could have put it in Maisy’s wine, in addition to following up on Woodleigh.”
“And he’s still considering whether Maisy was the intended target,” I added, forcing myself to sound at least a little hopeful. With any luck, I’d know more tonight, after I spoke to Pam Field.
“Right.”
“Thank you, Max. Not just for your great lawyering but also for being so kind.”
“Aw shucks, I’m blushing, little lady,” he said, switching seamlessly into an old-style western cowboy dialect, shuffling his feet and looking theatrically ill at ease.
I smiled and felt comforted by his silliness. Competent and gentle. What a guy.
I didn’t get back to Prescott’s until just after 5:00 P.M. I could tell from the solitary car in the parking lot that only Sasha was still there.
I entered the office, the chimes jingling, and discovered Sasha, her coat in hand, ready to leave.
“Go on ahead,” I told her. “I’ll lock up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked.
“No, if it’s all right with you, we agreed that I’d take tomorrow off, and Fred would take Wednesday.”
“And Gretchen, Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s fine. Just one thing before you go.”
Sasha turned to me, suddenly anxious. I had to watch my tone and my words when I spoke to her. Comments or questions that seemed to me innocuous were to her fraught with innuendo and danger. Perception, I reminded myself, colors outlook. Don’t underrate the power of perception.
“What?” she asked.
I smiled. “The Picasso. Any news?”
She grinned, her worry dissipating in a flash. “It’s very exciting, actually. It looks as if Picasso drew it in exchange for a meal.”
“What?”
She nodded. “He did that sometimes. Not for the money, but as a tribute. Because his works were so highly regarded, if he favored a café, for example, he might create the drawing as a favor to the owner.”
“And present it at the end of dinner?”
“Yes. Usually at the end of a big, expensive dinner!” she said with a grin. “In lieu of cash.”
I laughed. “Smart fellow.”
“Oh, he was. Absolutely.”
I perched against a nearby desk. “And this particular drawing?” I asked.
“We’re pretty sure we know which restaurateur he gave it to. We have some inquiries out.”
I shook my head in mock amazement. “I can’t believe you tracked it down. You’re incredible! The best of the best.”
Her smile was huge. “Thank you. Not really. I mean, it’s work, you know. And Fred is just as good as I am.”
“Ah, maybe. But you’re my chief researcher, so you have to accept the accolades.”
“Thank you,” she said shyly, still smiling, unsure of what to do or say next.
“Go home now,” I told her. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“Okay. Thanks, Josie,” she said.
As I watched her depart, I noticed that clouds had begun to move in from the west and the sky was streaked with gray.
I nearly skidded off the road as I realized that Trevor might have been on-site at the Gala. I slowed and righted my direction, focusing on the road. Trevor could be my mystery waiter. I pulled over and braked to a stop.
Perception, I thought. I’d never, not in a million years, have expected Trevor to be a waiter at the Gala, so I’d never have noticed him if he were there in that guise. He could have poured me wine.
It was hard to believe, yet even as I tried to chase the thought away as absurd, I realized that it was completely plausible. Not probable, perhaps, but possible.
I needed to talk to Eddie and glanced at the time display on the dashboard. It was almost five thirty. I found my cell phone at the bottom of my purse and scrolled through the phone log until I found Eddie’s number and pushed the connect button.
“Eddie,” I said when I had him. “I have a question.”
“Sure, Josie. Shoot.”
“It’s going to sound stupid, but indulge me, okay?”
He chuckled. “Sure.”
“The waiters for the Gala.”
“Yeah?”
“Any newcomers? Any last-minute subs?”
“Sure. For a big job like the Gala, I always have new guys.”
My heart started beating. “Can I stop by and show you a photo?”
“Of a waiter?”
“Of someone I’m wondering about. I want to know if he was a waiter.”
“Who?”
“Just some guy,” I responded, keeping it loose.
“Can we make it tomorrow, Josie? I’m on my way out the door.”
“Sure,” I replied, disappointed. “What time?”
We settled on nine, a late start for me, but early for a caterer who normally worked late into the evening. I was impatient for information.
As I stuffed my phone back into my purse and pulled out again, I shivered even though the heat was on. There was too much I didn’t know for comfort, and in the face of my frightening realization about Trevor—that he could have been standing beside me, adding who knows what to my wine, unnoticed by everyone—I realized that I could no longer assume that I was safe.
Ty, I thought. Now I had another reason to talk to him—beyond missing him, I was confident that he’d be able to provide direction or suggestions.
When I turned into my driveway, my headlights swept over my new landlady, Zoe, as she sat alone on the front stoop of her house. She looked harassed.
“Are you okay?” I asked as I got out of the car.
“Am I okay?” she repeated in a musing tone. “Well, the police aren’t here and it’s been over an hour, s
o that’s a good thing.”
“Zoe, my God! What happened?”
She rubbed her forehead a couple of times, then said, “Do you know Mrs. Wilson?”
“Sure. Nice lady. Lives with her husband next to the Frost place.”
“Right. Well, she stopped by to drop off a cherry pie as a welcome gift.”
Zoe must have seen my confused look, because she added, “She saw Emma—you remember my two-year-old, don’t you? Well, Mrs. Wilson rings the bell, takes one look at Emma in the cage, drops the pie, and flees!”
Curiosity burned hot. “Why was Emma in a cage?” I asked.
“It’s Lassie’s cage. For transporting her. Since she’s new to the house, I left it in the front hall, you know, to help her settle in, so she could go inside to a safe, secure, familiar place if she wanted to. Lassie’s blankie is in it, and some food and water.” Zoe sighed and rubbed her forehead again. I figured she had a headache. “And her favorite rawhide bone,” she added.
I nodded. “So what happened?”
“So Emma toddled in and fell asleep. She looked so cute, I didn’t have the heart to wake her, and I said to myself, Why should I? Let her be.”
“That’s logical. She wasn’t going anywhere, right?” I smiled, hoping to ease the tension.
“That’s what I figured. But still, given the look of abject horror on Mrs. Wilson’s face, I wonder why she didn’t call the cops.”
“Maybe when she got home and told her husband what happened, he warned her to lay off the booze, and they’re still fighting about it.”
“Maybe.” Zoe laughed. “So tell me, how was your day?”
“Oh, special. I had a very special day,” I said. “Are you ready to laugh again?”
“Always,” she replied.
“I spent a chunk of the afternoon with a homicide detective, discussing who wants to kill me and why.”
“Oh my God. Tell me.”
“It isn’t funny,” I said, “so I don’t know why I feel this overwhelming urge to laugh.” I sat beside her.
“Me, too. The flip side of crying maybe. Give me an overview so we can really share a chuckle.”
“Okay. Have you heard how Maisy Gaylor was killed at the Gala this weekend?” I asked.
“No. All I hear about are nursery issues.”
“Well, you have to be the only person around who’s unaware of what happened.” I sighed. “She drank some wine spiked with cyanide while hosting an event my company was sponsoring.” I sighed again. “I was proud to be the sponsor. Can you imagine? God, it’s been awful.”
“What’s the funny part?”
“They’re not sure whether the poisoned wine was intended for me and poor Maisy died by accident.”
“You’re right,” she said, turning to look at me. “It’s not funny.”
“No, I guess it really isn’t.”
Zoe reached her arm around me and gave me a quick shoulder squeeze. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
I smiled. “In a good way.”
She smiled, too. “I agree.”
We sat in companionable silence for a long minute. I heard soft crackles as small animals traipsed on fallen leaves across the road, on the other side of the old stone wall, sharp clicks as insects said their good nights, and, in the distance, the forlorn, echoing cry of a seagull.
“Josie?” Zoe asked.
“What?”
“Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without this conversation. It’s really helped lighten the load, you know?”
“Me, too,” I said.
“You know what?” Zoe asked, standing up.
“What?”
“We gotta go inside. It’s f’ing freezing out here.”
“I can’t. I’ve got a call. I’ve got to get ready.”
“You’ve got to get ready for a phone date? What’s involved? Cheetah-print lingerie and a Web cam?”
I laughed. “I wish.”
“So-o-o?” she asked, shaking her head a little, trying to draw me out. “Who is he? Where is he? Fill me in.”
“Oh, just a fellow I’ve known for a while,” I said evasively, not wanting to share that part of my life, not yet.
She pushed a little for details, not too much, and finally we hugged good-bye. As I started across the leaf-strewn lawn that separated our houses, I looked back. “Zoe,” I called.
“Yeah?” she replied.
“You can use me as a character witness with Children’s Services anytime.”
She laughed, thanked me, and disappeared inside.
Under the dim wattage of the lone bare lightbulb that illuminated Zoe’s porch, everything was washed with a soft golden glow, the color of joy and contentment. An omen, I thought, and hoped it wasn’t an illusion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I
had one message, from Wes.
It was brief and menacing. All he said was that he needed to see me as soon as possible. He sounded severe. Remembering Sunday’s paper, I felt no inclination to talk to him, let alone see him, but his message scared me. Calling him seemed the lesser of two evils. I didn’t want to speak with him ever again. But I was more afraid not to know what he had to say.
With some trepidation, I dialed his number, and he answered on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting for my call.
“Wes,” I said. “It’s Josie. What’s up?”
“I have information for you. And a question.”
“What?”
“Not on the phone.”
“God, Wes, you’re so dramatic.”
“I am not. I’m prudent.”
Maybe he’s right, I thought. “Is it really that urgent?”
“Pretty much so. Can you meet now?”
“Not now. How’s morning?”
“It shouldn’t wait,” he responded, lowering his voice for effect.
I thought through my schedule. I wanted to grab something to eat before I met Pam at eight o’clock. And I hoped to talk to Ty before that. If his doctor meeting was brief. “I can meet you for a few minutes around seven thirty.”
He sighed, the sound of Wes disappointed, but capitulating. “Okay-y-y,” he said, drawing the word out, signaling that he thought delay was a bad idea. “Where?”
I thought for a minute. I wanted someplace easy to get to, where we could talk without interruption—and somewhere clean, I reminded myself, remembering Wes’s sticky and litter-filled car.
“How about by the salt pile?” I suggested, thinking of the huge mountain of salt used to de-ice Portsmouth’s streets throughout the winter. It was located just outside of downtown, not too far from the Blue Dolphin, where I was meeting Pam afterward.
“Too public. Let me think for a minute.” After a pause, he asked, “You know Mill Pond Way?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to picture the street.
“It’s off Dennett.”
“Oh, right. I know where you mean.”
I’d bought a lovely Wedgwood teapot from a woman who lived on that street. I recalled its fancy enamel work in pink, green, black, and yellow, the acanthus-molded spout, and its scroll handle. Sasha identified the design as “Chintz” pattern, and she authenticated the pot as a David Rhodes original, produced in the Wedgwood factory in 1775. It was a beautiful piece.
“It’s a dead-end street, isn’t it?” I asked Wes to confirm my memory.
“That’s it,” he said, and we finalized our plans.
Ty hadn’t called by the time I needed to leave to meet Wes. I figured he was still tied up with Aunt Trina’s doctors. Maybe later, I thought.
I parked at the very end of Mill Pond Way, near North Mill Pond, and got out of the car. I stretched. It was cool, and the air was fresh with a smell of rain.
My smile faded as soon as I saw Wes. The creep. I was still mad at him for his scurrilous writing, but although I’d never admit it to anyone, I secretly admired his unrelenting determination to dig deep and get the facts.
I
wondered if I was smart to meet him. If he wrote another article insinuating that I had guilty knowledge of a murder, I might just prove the truth of his words by killing him.
He was standing with his back to me. “Wes,” I called softly as I approached.
He turned and looked at me. I was wearing a black wool cape, warm enough for the evening cool, yet dressy enough to suit my mood, over clean jeans and high-heeled green lizard cowboy boots.
“How come you’re all dressed up?” he asked.
Always a reporter, I thought, wanting to know.
“I have plans,” I responded, then turned the subject before he could ask for details. “So did you get a bonus?”
“For what?” he asked.
“Your article made the lead story in the paper. Your editor must be thrilled.” I hoped my sarcasm made him feel bad.
“I’m really sorry about it,” he said, looking contrite.
“Ha.”
“Really. I told you already.”
I relented. “Still.”
“Tomorrow’s article focuses on tracking the purchase of the poison. You’re barely mentioned.”
“What do you mean, ‘barely mentioned’?” I demanded wrathfully. “Why am I mentioned at all?”
“There’s no record of you having purchased any,” he said, as if he expected me to be thrilled to get the update.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” he asked, sounding more hurt than ever. “It’s good news for you, isn’t it?”
“Good news? That’s like the old joke: ‘So how long has it been, Mr. Smith, since you stopped beating your wife?’ Don’t you get it, Wes? Saying that I didn’t buy poison is implying that someone had reason to think I might have done so.”
“Well,” he said, annoyingly rational, “they did.”
“Wes,” I said, ready to pull my hair and stamp my foot, “the point is that I don’t want my name associated with a murder investigation in any way.”
“I understand, Josie,” he said patiently, as if he were talking to a four-year-old. “But you are associated with a murder investigation. I didn’t involve you; I’m just reporting the truth.”
I gave up. I understood his point of view, and I knew he was right. But that knowledge didn’t quiet my angst. “Okay, whatever. Forget about it. Is that what you wanted to tell me? That I didn’t buy any poison?”
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