When I called Max, his assistant told me he was in a meeting, so I left a message that I’d expect him and Detective Rowcliff at four o’clock.
I entered the amount I’d written to Literacy Matters into my check register and realized that I was too filled with nervous energy to start any project that required concentration or precise thinking. Instead, I dusted my rooster collection, the bookshelves, and all the flat surfaces in the room, and still it was only 3:50 P.M.
I picked up Detective Rowcliff’s Mitsubishi listing and idly flipped through the pages. With a sigh, I turned to the first page and began to read, once again, each name and address, just in case I’d missed something.
And there it was—right in front of me.
I stared at the entry, shocked, my mouth gaping open. I couldn’t breathe. Once I recognized it, it was so obvious. Henry Avery on Old Locke Road. Hank. Dora’s boyfriend, Hank. Synapses sparked in my brain as previously unrelated facts linked into one cohesive chain of events. I didn’t know why, but now I knew who—Hank.
He owned a black 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer ES. And he fit the sales clerk’s description of the man who purchased the reproduction soup tureen—he was tall and quiet, with light-colored hair.
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t even conceive of such a thing. Hank? What did I ever do to him?
With Max and Rowcliff due any minute, I picked up the phone, my hand trembling.
“Max,” I said when I had him on his cell phone. I choked, suddenly so dry that I couldn’t speak. I gulped some water.
“Hey, Josie. I’m just pulling into your lot. You okay?”
I coughed. “Hurry upstairs. I need to talk to you before Detective Rowcliff gets here. I’ll tell Gretchen.” I hung up, then got Gretchen on the line and told her to send Max right up but to buzz me when Rowcliff arrived.
“Sure,” she said. “Also, Bridgewater Elegant Junque would like to know if you want to bid on their barn. They’re closing the shop and moving to Florida, and they’re looking to sell everything as one lot.”
I heard the words, but they made no sense, and I didn’t know how to respond. I couldn’t think. I forced myself to focus. An entire barn’s worth of stuff for sale. I knew the place. It was a dump, and nothing in the place was worth much. But I knew I should take a look regardless. “Yes. Make me an appointment for Monday,” I said.
“Sure,” she responded, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?”
“You bet!” I lied, not wanting to be burdened with explanations.
Max hurried into my office and sank into the yellow guest chair nearest the door, not taking his eyes from my face. “Tell me,” he said.
I pushed the listing across the desk and pointed. “The second one down. That’s Dora’s boyfriend, Hank, the trombone player at the Gala. I was at his house at a luncheon Dora hosted today. I saw him. He’s tall, thin, blond, and quiet. He has to be the one.”
Max stared at the printout, then at me. “It doesn’t seem logical, does it?”
“I just can’t imagine. I can’t think. I mean, I—” I raised a hand, shut my eyes, and forced myself to breathe. Don’t talk until you can control yourself, my father once warned me. Otherwise, people will only hear your emotion, not your message.
“Sorry about that,” I said, looking at him, and trying to smile. “One possibility is that Hank learned something about Maisy from Dora and tried to blackmail her. Maisy threatened to go to the police—or to Dora—and he killed her to eliminate the threat.”
“But how? How could he have killed her? He was in the back, wasn’t he? With the band?”
“Not really. He was only sitting with the musicians when he was playing. Otherwise, he was with Dora, and I’ve talked before about how Dora is an absolute master of working a room. I mean, I can’t say for sure, but I’ll bet you that she stopped at every table—including, I assume, Maisy’s. If I’m right, that means Hank was near Maisy’s wine and could have poisoned it.”
“But you remembered Maisy drinking her wine and being okay.” Max shook his head, perplexed.
“That’s right.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I remember the waiter clearing glasses, but the truth is that I’ve sort of lost track.”
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I agreed, thinking hard. “I wonder where his car is now.”
Max nodded and made a note on his legal pad. “Astonishing to think of,” he said, sliding the papers back toward me. “Is that how Hank could afford a house on Rye Beach? By blackmailing Maisy?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. According to Dora, his family has owned the house on Rye Beach forever. Maybe he comes from money.” Wes can find out, I thought.
“But why would Hank try to kill you?”
“Or steal the soup tureen?” I added, shaking my head. “None of it makes sense.”
I was struck by a sudden thought: If Hank’s in, Eric’s out, and I felt weak with relief.
Gretchen buzzed up. I glanced at Max and he gestured to proceed. “Send him up,” I told her.
“Do you know what Detective Rowcliff wants?” I asked, almost as an afterthought.
“Only that he has some photos he wants you to look at.”
“Photos of what?”
Max shrugged and shook his head. Before I could respond, I heard Detective Rowcliff’s feet pounding up the stairs. He sounds angry even when he walks, I thought.
He sat first, then said hello. “Did Max tell you I have some pictures to show you?”
“Yes,” I managed to say, shaking a little as I reached for my bottle of water. “No problem.”
“Before you start,” Max interjected, “Josie recognized a name on the Mitsubishi list.”
“Tell me,” Rowcliff instructed.
Max explained, and Rowcliff looked at me, assessing something—I didn’t know what—for more than a minute. I drank more water.
“Why didn’t you pick up on him before?”
“I only met him at the Gala—and he was introduced as Hank, not Henry. I’ve never even heard his last name. If I hadn’t looked at the listing immediately after driving down his street, I don’t know that I would ever have noticed it.”
“We cross-referenced the Mitsubishi owners with the invitation list—and he wasn’t on it. Why not?” Rowcliff growled.
“He was working. No one who was there to work was on the list.”
He stared at me, as if he was considering whether to believe me. I stared back.
“What do you know about him?” he demanded after a long pause.
I glanced at Max and he nodded, indicating that I could answer. I took a deep breath. “I spoke to him today for the first time.”
“And?” Rowcliff waggled his fingers, wanting more information.
“We chatted about his business. In addition to playing in a quartet, he repairs brass instruments. Trumpets and tubas. For schools, mostly.” I shrugged. “Nothing special.”
Rowcliff shifted in his seat and began tapping his foot, staring into space, thinking. Max and I watched him for what seemed like a long time.
“I’ve got some snapshots,” Rowcliff said, “taken by a Gala guest.” Rowcliff pulled a manila envelope out of an inside pocket, unfolded it, and extracted a Ziploc bag stretched taut, filled with four-by-six glossy prints. “In a minute, I’m going to ask you to comment on each one, but first, point out Hank Avery.” He flipped through the photographs, found one showing the brass quartet posing in a formal stance, their instruments in their hands, and passed it to me.
Hank’s tux fit him as if it were custom-made; his smile was crooked, kind of awkward and very appealing; and his gaze conveyed understanding. He looked like a really nice guy. “That’s him,” I said, pointing, “on the right.”
Rowcliff accepted the photograph and pulled out his flip phone. He pushed a preprogrammed button, and when someone answered, he said, “Two things. Send someone out to visit Henry Avery—the second entry on the Mitsubishi list. . . . Do yo
u see it? Right. . . . Old Locke Road. Confirm the whereabouts of the car, but don’t spook him. You know the drill. Routine, right? Also, I want someone to go to Weston’s pronto with a photo array. Use the guy on the far right from photo number”—he paused to turn over the photo—“nineteen.”
Smacking his phone shut, he turned to me. “In the meantime, take a look at the photos one by one. Tell me what you notice.”
He slid the pile toward me.
The first dozen or so were shots of the gathering crowd, and nothing in particular struck me. Pointing to one shot, I commented, “See what they’re doing?” I pointed to a jovial group gathered near a small rosewood table, one of the antiques that had been offered for sale. “That’s mostly what people did until dinner—they looked at the antiques, greeted their friends, and drank.”
The next photo showed Maisy standing off to the side, next to Pam, viewing the room, a goofy expression on her face. A few photos later, Maisy, still grinning happily, stood next to her husband, Walter, who stared disapprovingly into the far distance.
There were several photos of Dora chatting with people, all with Hank by her side. One shot showed her brushing up against him as she laughed at something out of view. Hank’s face was far less expressive than Dora’s—the reserved demeanor of a quiet man. Pam appeared in two pictures. In one she was seated near Maisy, raising her glass in a toast, and in the other she was chatting to a man I didn’t recognize.
I paused to sip some water and noticed that my trembling had stopped. The shock had passed and my ability to concentrate had returned. I continued my narration.
“Look at this!” I exclaimed. “It’s just like I described! Britt is leaning over my glass, handing something, or indicating something, to Dora. And there she is looking at the bid sheets.”
Gretchen called up, interrupting my commentary. “Eric’s left and asked that I tell you he’ll be in by seven o’clock tomorrow.”
“Is everything locked up?”
“I did it myself—and I set the alarms in the tag-sale area and the auction room. Sasha and I are getting ready to go, too. Should I set the phone or ask Fred to cover it?”
“How long does he plan on staying?” I asked, aware of Rowcliff’s irritation.
I heard her relay the question.
“For at least an hour,” she said.
The clock in the corner of the computer monitor read 4:30 P.M.
“Go ahead and set the phone, and would you ask Fred to call up when he leaves?”
“You got it! Can I bring you anything before I head out? You want some tea?”
I thanked her, and said no. I didn’t know what I wanted, but whatever it was, I doubted that she’d be able to provide it. I was able to act the part of a helpful citizen, but beneath the surface, I was seriously shaken.
I did the only thing I could think of—I turned my attention back to the photos.
In two go-arounds, considering the photographs one by one, I noticed nothing unusual or unexpected. Rowcliff asked me no questions, but he seemed attentive throughout the process, making an occasional note. I tried hard to describe everything I saw, but after a while, it began to seem like a senseless exercise.
Just as I was finishing my commentary, Fred called up to say that he was leaving, and I told him I’d see him in the morning.
Rowcliff’s phone rang. “Bring him in,” he said to the caller. He stood up, tapped the pile of photos against my desk to line them up, and slid them back into the plastic bag. “I’ll be in touch,” he said as he headed for the door.
“Wait! What did you learn?” Max asked.
“Nothing official,” he replied evasively.
“Understood,” Max said, standing up and walking toward him. “We won’t hold you to anything.”
They stared at one another; then Rowcliff replied, “Henry Avery refused to talk about the car. The clerk’s ID was positive.”
Max and I followed Rowcliff as he clomped down the stairs and strode through the warehouse to the front office and out into the parking lot. A man on a mission. After locking the door behind him, I turned to Max.
“What do you think it means that Rowcliff is bringing Hank in?” I asked.
Max looked at me for a long moment. “Best guess?” He shrugged. “It means that Detective Rowcliff thinks Hank Avery knows something. Something significant.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
c
alled Ty and got him.
“Can you talk?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’m at a coffee shop down the block from the hospital. I decided to stretch my legs.”
I heard fatigue in his voice, and something else. What? Anxiety. More than that. Deep worry. Maybe even more than that, too. I wished I could see his face to better gauge his mood. “How’s Aunt Trina doing?” I asked.
“Seems she’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Well, according to the doctors, some people don’t get better.” His words were brusque, but his intonation expressed frustration, not anger.
“That’s not very comforting, is it?” I said.
“No.”
“What else do the doctors say?” I asked.
He paused before responding. “They say I should stay close.”
Ominous words, calmly spoken. “Makes sense,” I replied, ashamed for feeling disappointment at the delay in his return. I chastised myself. How selfish is that, to even think of such a thing while Aunt Trina lies gravely ill.
He cleared his throat. “How about you? You okay?”
“Yeah. Much to my amazement, I seem to be holding up all right. Actually, there’s new info.”
“What?”
I explained about Hank and asked, “I figure it’s good news, right? Rowcliff bringing him in for questioning, don’t you think?”
“It could mean anything—or nothing,” he said, hedging his bet. “It sounds like a solid lead, though, and I bet Rowcliff was hungry for one of those.”
We talked about small nothings for a while, then said a quick good-bye and I hung up, wishing I could do more to help him. He’s such a good man, I thought. Good and strong. Like my dad.
Back in my office, I swiveled and looked out of the window. Through the mostly leafless trees that gave onto the main street, I saw Chi talking to a man in a brown sedan hidden in the deep shadows, and felt simultaneously frightened and relieved.
Why would Hank want to kill me? I shook my head, troubled and annoyed. I needed more information. Wes.
I dialed his number from memory, and he answered in his usual rush, sounding as if I’d caught him on the run.
“Wes,” I said, “it’s me. Josie.”
“Whatcha got?”
“News. And questions. We need to meet. It won’t take long, but I’m not comfortable asking on the phone. Can you be at the Blue Dolphin in about fifteen minutes?”
“No problemo. At the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“Done. See ya in fifteen.”
I called Chi and told him I would be making a stop before going home, and he thanked me for the heads up.
Walking to my car, I shivered in the growing evening chill and noticed that Chi was gone, but the brown sedan was in place and its occupant met my eyes and nodded in my direction. The sunny day had given way to a cold, moist evening, shrouding the distant trees in a mist.
As I drove up Market Street, I felt my heart begin to pound, and I had trouble catching my breath. I was terrified. The last time I’d been to the Blue Dolphin, I’d nearly been killed on the street outside.
I found a spot a hundred feet away from the restaurant and sat for a moment trying to calm myself. As I watched, a woman in a trench coat passed through the deep shadows cast by the sharp white conical glare of a streetlight. It was unnatural-looking. I glanced around. Two couples were laughing as they entered a restaurant across the street. Three young woman, dressed in goth black, strutted into a dark, small bar on the corner of Bow Stre
et. An older woman wrestled open the heavy door of the Blue Dolphin and went inside. A tall man walked a wire-haired terrier while smoking a cigarette and talking on his cell phone. No one paid any attention to me.
I took a deep breath and stepped out, ready to proceed despite my anxiety. Inside, I paused in the entryway and took several more deep breaths, then entered the lounge. There were half a dozen people scattered around in pairs, talking quietly. Wes was waiting at the bar. He didn’t look well. His features were puffy, and he seemed pale.
Jimmy, the red-haired bartender, came over and asked if I wanted my usual. I didn’t. I was upset, and I wanted my mother’s chicken soup, not a drink.
“Just water right now, okay, Jimmy?” I replied.
“You got it,” he told me, and placed a tall glass of water, no ice, in front of me.
“How ya doing?” Wes asked. He scooped a handful of mixed nuts from the small bowl at his elbow and stuffed them in his mouth.
I wanted to whip the nuts away and order him a salad. Instead, I said, “I’m okay.” I cleared my throat and sipped water. “Listen, Wes, did you hear that the police have brought in Hank Avery for questioning?”
He stopped chewing and aimed his laser-focused eyes on me. “Why do I know that name?” he asked.
“Dora Reynolds, the chair of the Gala—Hank’s her boyfriend,” I explained.
“Huh. Really. What did he do?”
“He bought a reproduction tureen—presumably the one that was put in the display case to hide the theft of the antique—and he owns the same model and color Mitsubishi as the one that tried to run me down.”
His eyes rife with speculation, he pulled a folded wedge of paper out of his pocket, found an unmarked corner, and wrote something. “This is good news,” he said. “It may be the big break in the case—nice and dramatic for my article. I could title this section ‘The Final Chapter.’ What do you think?”
I restrained myself from answering his question honestly, and only said, “I’m glad you think the information will be useful in your writing—but right now, we still have work to do.”
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