Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”

  Using the flashlight, I found an insulated container Ty kept in a high-up cabinet and eased the baking pan containing the partially cooked beef inside. Outside, bundled up, I placed it on the front seat, and turned on the motor. While the car heated up, I swept away the several inches of built-up snow, then backed out of the driveway.

  Crawling along, seeking out familiar landmarks to help me stay on the road, I drove through whiteout conditions toward the interstate. Finally I made it to the relative safety of the recently plowed highway with its overhead streetlights.

  According to a local radio station broadcasting from Hitchens College, we could expect the storm to last until dawn the next day, maybe longer, depending on whether the wind let up enough so the hovering storm could move offshore. They were predicting two feet of snow by morning. Power lines were down from the combination of heavy snow and wind. More than 7,500 customers were without electricity.

  All at once a car appeared in back of me, tailgating. I was momentarily blinded by its headlights reflected in my mirror, and I gasped and swerved. My car begin to fishtail, and quelling a spark of panic, I followed my dad’s oft-repeated instruction to steer into the spin, and almost right away, I felt the tires regrip. My heart was hammering against my ribs.

  I looked back through the rearview mirror and saw that the car had retreated, thank God. Once I was firmly back in control, I began to shake and pant, my typical reaction to a crisis handled well. I got off two exits farther up, and it took concentration and care to slow down and navigate turns without skidding. I made a right off the secondary route, only minutes from home, and noticed a car in back of me signaling a turn, too. I wondered if it was the same car that had come up on me so suddenly on the interstate. I hadn’t noticed it since then, but I wasn’t certain that I would have—my focus was on the road in front of me. I looked back several times, but I couldn’t identify anything about it, not even its shape. It was just a big dark blur.

  I fought my way up the hill, turned to the left with the following car still in sight, then pulled into my driveway a quarter mile down the road. I noticed lots of lights on at Zoë’s house, a reassuring sight in the too-dark and lonely night. Maybe, I thought, I’ll go say hey to her so I won’t have to be alone. The car that had been in back of me drove past and disappeared.

  I hate coming home to a dark house, so I always leave a light on upstairs in my bedroom and I glanced at it now, relieved to see its welcoming golden glow. I turned off the wipers, then the engine, and sat for a moment, listening to the engine clicking quiet and then to silence. Within seconds, the windshield was thickly matted with snow, cocooning me, but I didn’t feel safe. I felt raw with emotion.

  With a sigh, I stepped out into knee-deep drifts and struggled up the steps to my house.

  I got the beef into the oven and nibbled on leftover salad while Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played softly in the background. I decided not to call Zoë. I wanted to take a hot shower, wrap myself up in my favorite pink chenille robe, and read The Black Mountain, a favorite Rex Stout mystery, while I waited to hear from Ty.

  After my shower, I decided to sit in my rarely used living room. I turned on the walkway lights so I could watch the storm, curled up in a club chair with my book, sipped lemony tea, and occasionally peered outside to watch the snow fall in slanting twirls.

  A car slowed, then stopped, shielded by the high hedge that separated my house from the street. I could see it, but barely. The hedge was as tall as a man and thick, the kind of denseness that occurs when bushes are carefully groomed for generations. Mr. Winterelli had nurtured his garden like an adored child.

  Ty, I thought, hoping it was his oversized SUV that had come to a stop by the hedge. I couldn’t imagine who else would come visiting on such a night. The vehicle backed up. Was someone lost? Maybe they were trying to take advantage of the light cast by the pole-mounted lamps that illuminated my walkway to review their directions or read a map.

  It wasn’t Ty’s car.

  I couldn’t identify much about it in the thickly falling snow, and I couldn’t see the driver at all. It appeared to be a medium-sized, dark-colored sedan. The car plunged into darkness—someone had turned out the headlights.

  I felt my pulse speed up, and, keeping my eyes on the car, patted the air, then the table, found the lamp and pushed the button to turn off the light. Standing, I made my way to the porch to turn off the outside lights. I flipped the switch and the night went black. It was as if I were suddenly alone in the world—me and the nameless somebody in the barely seen car by the hedge.

  Allowing my eyes to adjust, I returned to the living room and sidled up to the window. I shielded my eyes, hoping to see better. No luck. All I saw were shadows on the snow, dots of black on a gray background, parts of the hedge against the snow-covered yard, the barely perceptible shape of a dark car and none at all of the driver. I waited for the headlights to come back on, but they never did.

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  After a few minutes, I returned to my chair and sat in the dark until, finally, I saw the car, its lights still off, glide away. It seemed to move stealthily, like a predatory animal in the night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A

  round nine-thirty, I gave up waiting for Ty and ate. He called close to midnight, just as I was getting settled under my feathery duvet.

  “Things were worse than I expected. One of the injured passengers died, and the car that started the crack-up fled the scene.”

  “A hit-and-run?” I asked, shocked.

  “Yup. Luckily someone got a pretty good description of the car and we got him. He was drunk.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you on your way now?”

  “About ten minutes away. I’m pretty hungry.”

  “There’s leftover lasagna and the Beef Wellington. Which sounds good?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll forage when I get there. You go to sleep.”

  As I nestled into bed, my thoughts drifted to Paige. I hoped she was sleeping tight, but I doubted it. I was worried about her.

  I slept fitfully and awakened unrested. I’d fade into sleep, then wake up with a jerk as if something had intruded into the quiet—a noise or a touch, but I never heard anything and no one except Ty was nearby. He slept solidly, seemingly undisturbed by my fretfulness. At seven, my alarm went off and Ty turned over. He’d asked me, when he’d finally come to bed after two, to wake him at eight. Relieved the night was over, I got up, showered, and stood, sipping coffee, by my kitchen window.

  A The snow had stopped sometime overnight, earlier than expected. Plows had banked the snow waist-high beside the old stone walls that marked various property lines. From the side window, I had an open view to the horizon. The dawn glowed with luminous possibility.

  Eager to get going with Rosalie’s appraisal, I hurried through my morning routine, reset the alarm for Ty, shrugged into my coat, and pulled on my boots. As I stepped onto the porch just after seven-thirty, I nearly bumped into Paul Greeley looking as delicious as ever.

  “Caught in the act!” he said with a lopsided grin.

  “What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”

  He wore a loose-fitting burnt orange corduroy jacket. It didn’t look as if it would be warm enough, but it sure looked good on him.

  “I wanted to ask you something, but you look like you’re in a hurry.”

  “I am. Sorry about that. Is it important?” I asked.

  “Important, yes. Urgent?” He shrugged. “No. Rosalie’s dead, so there’s no urgency there. I came to commiserate about her is all. Let me buy you breakfast.”

  “I just ate. Thanks, though.”

  “You can keep me company while I have breakfast.”

  His tone was cajoling, his manner seductive, yet there was something about him that polarized as it magnetized. That I was drawn to him was
undeniable, but at the same time, inexplicably, a warning bell gently chimed inside of me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Just my luck. Can I delay you by one minute at least? I want to ask you something.”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “How about if we go inside to get out of this wind?”

  It was bitterly cold, but I didn’t want to invite him in. “Tell me here.”

  “Please?” he coaxed.

  I smiled and shook my head. “You only have forty-five seconds left.”

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

  I swallowed and my heart began to thump. He was standing too close to me and I didn’t like it.

  A recent memory came to me. Only a month ago, a porcelain expert named George had asked me out to dinner. He was good-looking, funny, and smart, and if I hadn’t been involved with Ty, I would have accepted his invitation in a New York minute. I made a point of telling him why I was saying no. I wanted him to know that under different circumstances my answer would have been an enthusiastic yes.

  I had a different reaction to Paul. He too was good-looking, funny, and smart, and when I looked into his eyes, I felt myself begin to melt—he was incredibly sexy. But then my brain kicked in and, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I just wanted to get away.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go,” I said, stepping back, bumping into the shingles near the front door. I felt trapped.

  His smile faded. “I’ll give you a call, okay?”

  “Paul, you know that I’m involved with someone. Seriously involved,” I said.

  “Still? He’s one lucky guy.”

  I moved to the side and took two steps to get near the porch railing, and in the open air, I felt less threatened. “Thanks.”

  “Okay, then. I’m going to stay in touch. I should warn you . . . I don’t give up easily!”

  Like Rosalie’s secret admirer, I thought with a shiver. I watched as he walked toward his car, its black finish stippled and streaked by spewed-up rock salt. He pulled out with a jaunty wave. I reached back to tug the doorknob, just to be certain that I’d locked the door, and there, perched against the threshold, was a clear plastic bag containing a square white envelope. I stared at it for a long, frozen moment, my mouth agape.

  “You okay?” Zoë called.

  I turned. My neighbor stood on the porch, a plastic-encased newspaper in hand.

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “An envelope in a plastic bag,” I replied. “Someone left it here.”

  “Who?”

  Paul? I wondered. “I don’t know.”

  “You look completely freaked out. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  No, I thought. “Sure. It’s just weird, is all,” I said, more to reassure myself than her.

  She paused as if she were considering whether to believe me or not, then smiled, and said, “Come for dinner tomorrow?”

  I smiled back. Dinner at Zoë’s was always zany fun, a noisy jumble of kids, food, games, and wine. “I need to check with Ty, but yes. Thanks.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” she asked, observing me closely.

  I shrugged. “I’m okay. I’ve been better, but I’m okay. Really.”

  She nodded. “You need something, you call.”

  “Thanks, Zoë.”

  She stepped back into her house and I picked up the plastic bag and got settled in my car. As the engine warmed up, I took the envelope out of the bag, and looked at it carefully. The word JOSIE was written in block print. I slit it open with my finger and, with some trepidation, extracted the contents. It was a greeting card. The art on the front was a Van Gogh landscape. I turned it over and saw that it had been produced by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  Holding my breath, I opened it. The preprinted message read: THINKING OF YOU. Below it, someone had penned, also in block print, FROM YOUR SECRET ADMIRER.

  I tossed it aside as if it were scalding. “Oh, my God,” I whispered, shock and terror washing over me in waves.

  Paul, I thought. I caught him in the act of placing the card and he deftly turned it into a request for a date. I began to hyperventilate. Paul, who, according to Rosalie, became possessive. Paul, who’d looked at me like a bear looks at honey.

  I dug my cell phone out of my purse and punched the button to speed-dial Ty. Rosalie’s reaction of fear and contempt when she received her secret admirer’s offerings no longer seemed over the top.

  “Ty.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked sleepily, hearing something worrying in my tone.

  I took a deep breath and scanned the snow-covered meadow. I saw nothing out of the way. “Someone left a card on my porch.”

  “What kind of card?”

  “A greeting card in a plastic bag.”

  “Tell me,” he instructed, and after I said it was signed “secret admirer,” he interrupted me.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the driveway.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe. I was so scared I thought I might faint. Paul, I thought. He killed Rosalie, and now he’s set his sights on me.

  Two minutes later, Ty stepped onto the porch. From his backseat, he selected a plastic evidence bag and approached the passenger-side window. I lowered it.

  “Show me,” he said by way of greeting, and I pointed at the card, envelope, and see-through plastic bag that sat where I’d tossed them, on the passenger seat.

  He used a pencil, eraser end out, to gingerly lift the items, one at a time. He studied the card for several seconds, holding it in his gloved hands by its edges.

  “I’m assuming you don’t know who sent this, right?” he asked.

  “I think maybe it was Paul Greeley.”

  His expression gave nothing away. “How come?”

  “When I stepped outside this morning, he was on the porch.”

  “Why? Did he say?”

  I nodded, feeling awkward. “He asked me out.”

  Ty’s eyes narrowed. “Why in person? Why at this hour?”

  “He said he wanted to take me to breakfast and exchange Rosalie stories.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He nodded. “No one rang the bell?”

  “No. When I picked the plastic bag up, I noticed it was icy cold, though. So it had been on the porch for a while.”

  “We don’t know that. Plastic would get cold quickly in this weather.”

  “I guess,” I acknowledged.

  “Did anyone call?”

  I remembered the wrong number call I’d received while I was cooking at his house last evening. I looked up at him. “I got a call. I thought it was a wrong number.” I recounted the details.

  I found the number in my cell phone’s log. It was a 207 area code—Maine. He wrote the number down and asked if anything else had happened. “Anybody else surprise you by appearing at your door? Any oddball calls at work? Anything?”

  “No,” I replied, shaking my head.

  “Have you noticed anyone hanging around? Anyone following you?”

  “Maybe,” I managed, and swallowed, and told him about the car that had seemed to be following me last evening and the one that had stayed so long by the hedge. Oh, God, I thought. What’s going on?

  “What did it look like?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Black. Or dark-colored. Medium-sized. A sedan, not an SUV, a pickup truck, or a van. But I know that description isn’t terribly helpful.”

  He pulled his notebook from his inside coat pocket and wrote something down as I spoke. I watched him, trying to get a read on his thoughts. I couldn’t. He was, as he always is, self-contained, and his countenance revealed nothing.

  “Am I in danger?”

  He paused. “What’s your day look like?” he asked, ignoring my question.

  �
��I’m going to check in at my office, and then I need to appraise Rosalie’s possessions, which Paige’s lawyer, Mr. Bolton, has hired me to do.”

  “Give me a minute, okay?” he asked, gesturing that I should stay put.

  He stepped onto the porch, squatted by my front door, then stood up and systematically surveyed the entire area, the porch, the yard, the street, and the woods beyond.

  “What are you looking for?” I called.

  “Footprints, tire marks, anything that might help us ID the guy who left the card.”

  I looked through the rearview mirror. Tire marks crisscrossed the road by the hedge. It’s hopeless, I thought.

  “Okay,” Ty said, “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  He hurried into the house. While I waited for him, I looked out over the meadow. Prisms refracted in the snow, dazzling and distracting me. It was a perfect winter day—the air was clean and crisp. One of God’s days, my mother would have said.

  I turned my attention back to my secret admirer. Who but Paul would do such a thing? I asked myself. It had to be someone known to both Rosalie and me, and no one else seemed to fit.

  If Gerry had sent Rosalie cards on the QT, pretending they were from a secret admirer as subterfuge, she would have been pleased, not creeped out. And she wasn’t. She’d been genuinely repulsed. No, I thought, not Gerry. But wait! Maybe Rosalie hadn’t known that the cards and flowers were from Gerry. Maybe he was building it up as a huge surprise for her. I shook my head, realizing that there was no way of knowing. Frustrated, I asked myself, Who else do I know who knew Rosalie?

  I’d met some men at Hitchens College events, I recalled, but no one in particular stuck in my memory besides Paul—except Cooper the Condescending. In Cooper’s ideal world, he’d never have to interact with anyone he considered beneath him, which was nearly everyone. I smiled as I recalled my father’s assessment of the Boston Brahmins: The Lodges talk only to the Cabots, he’d mimicked, recounting the old adage, and the Cabots talk only to God. I stopped smiling. Toward me, Cooper had never even been courteous, let alone amorous. Impossible, I concluded.

  Unless I just can’t tell, I realized.