Guavatini in hand, I joined Ty and Frankie at the table. The transformation seemed incredible. Frankie was almost animated talking about hat tricks and penalties, and he didn’t curse once.
Zoë entered, Emma on her hip. “The natives are getting restless. Time for food!”
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“Nothing! You’re a queen to me. Paige agreed to babysit tomorrow. You know what that means?”
“What?”
“I get to go to the mall without my darlins’. Woo-hoo! Hot time in the old town tonight! Zoë’s going shopping!”
“That’ll work out for Frankie, too,” Ty said.
Frankie looked down at his hands. I noticed he chewed his nails.
Zoë shifted Emma to a new position and gently rubbed her back. She looked over at Frankie, then back at Ty, and her expressive face revealed her thoughts. She understood that Ty wanted to be certain that Frankie got to go shopping.
“Right. You can do your thing, Frankie, and I’ll do mine. We can hook up later for some pizza or a burger. Sound good?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
Later, after we were home again, with Paige upstairs in bed, Ty came to me and tilted my chin up so our eyes met full-on, and then he hugged me. I shut my eyes and buried my head in his chest, feeling cherished and protected. After a long while, I opened my eyes and turned my head, and among the dozen or so vases I kept on top of my kitchen cabinets, I saw one made of etched glass. “Oh, my God,” I said.
“What?” he asked, pulling back to see my face.
I pointed to it. “Look. An etched-glass vase.”
“What about it?”
“The roses that were delivered today—they were in an etched-glass vase.”
“Officer Brownley mentioned it. She’s checking it out.”
“I just remembered something,” I said.
“What?”
“Una, the receptionist at Heyer’s. Last month, Edie gave her an etched-glass vase for Christmas. She was upset and I can’t say I blame her. She needs money, you know, not glassware.”
Ty nodded, thinking about what I said. “Did you see it?”
“No, she just told me about it. When I was signing in, you know? We often chat. I don’t remember what I said, exactly. Something neutral, I think, about how I liked etched glass as well as cut glass.” I shrugged. “I was trying to make her feel better about a gift she didn’t want.
“There’s something else that may be relevant. I don’t know.” I looked at him. “You know how Mr. Bolton told me to track down every place Rosalie might have kept things?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I identified a coaster from Rosalie’s scrapbook as coming from The Miller House restaurant,” I explained. I met his eyes and hoped mine revealed as little as his did. “I went there.”
“Why?”
“Paige insists that Rosalie had something of great value, and I haven’t found it—and I have two extra keys, one of which Rosalie hid away as if it were valuable. I figure the key’s got to go somewhere.”
His eyes hardened. “What would a key fit at The Miller House?”
“Those wine-storage units, maybe. Also, I thought that maybe I’d learn about other people Rosalie was friends with.” I shrugged again.
“So did you learn anything?”
“Well, Gerry has a wine-storage unit. And customers don’t get keys or store anything there except wine they buy from the restaurant, but I learned something else. Gerry took Una to dinner there a few times, I’m guessing until Rosalie came into the picture.”
“What?” he asked, his tone so brusque, I winced.
“Betty, the hostess, said that Una had been a dinner guest of his more than once last summer.”
“Last summer? And Una has an etched-glass vase,” he said, thinking.
“Yes.”
“Given to her by Gerry’s wife, Edie.”
“Apparently.”
“And you don’t know who else has one?”
“I don’t know, but if that was this year’s gift to Gerry’s employees, maybe a lot of people.” If so, did she keep one for herself? A memory came to me. “Rosalie has one. I saw it in the kitchen, next to a book on making cheese. It wasn’t an antique, but it was nice. I’m pretty sure it’s the same style.”
He nodded again. “What else did Betty say?”
“She said that Rosalie went there a lot with whatever guy she was dating.” I thought for a moment, then shrugged. “That’s all, I think.”
He reached for his phone and he gave Officer Brownley a long list of questions to ask of and about Una, Edie, Gerry, and The Miller House. After he was off the phone, he said, “Besides going to Tim’s Storage, what are your plans tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I told Paige I’d teach her to make Jerry’s Chicken, so I need to go to the grocery store.”
“I’ll tell Officer Brownley to take you.”
“Really? Are you saying that running around town is a risk?”
He shrugged. “No. I don’t think there’s any danger. But there’s no sense taking chances.”
My heart started beating at his carefully measured words. “Well, I won’t be going out to the jetty after dark, I can tell you that,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
Ty smiled. “I always knew you were a sharp cookie.”
“Seriously, Ty . . . that last message was pretty darn creepy—‘I know where you live. I know where you work.’ ” I shivered as I remembered the dark sedan that had followed me more than once. “Do you think you’ll ever catch him—or her—whoever’s been following me? And the secret admirer?”
“Yes,” he replied, his tone reassuringly confident. “I’m waiting for some forensic test results.”
“Like what?”
“Like various things.” He smiled again. “Come here.”
And I walked into his arms and closed my eyes and felt completely safe. After a short reprieve from worry, I leaned back and touched his face. “I love you,” I whispered.
“Me, too,” he murmured.
I tucked my hand inside his left arm and walked him to the door. “You gave Frankie money for clothes.”
“He’s just a kid,” he said.
“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.”
“Aw, shucks.”
“Are you going to miss me while you’re away?” I asked in a sleepy soft voice, suddenly exhausted.
“More than you know.”
“Want to know if I’m going to miss you?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“If I ask, you might tell me you’re not going to.”
“I am,” I said, yawning.
“You are what?”
“Going to miss you.”
He kissed the top of my head, and left. I stood by the door watching until his SUV rounded the corner and then I stood some more, wondering if the fear that held me in its grip was based on fact. It felt as if someone was out there, after me, threatening, powerful, hidden, and yet inching ever closer. I checked that all the doors and windows were locked, then hurried up the stairs to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
M
elting snow dripped from the gutter and roof, and the meadow visible from the big window over the sink seemed to undulate as snow liquefied in the early January thaw. I was glad for the temporary reprieve from the numbingly cold and long New Hampshire winter.
Paige came downstairs just as I was finishing mixing the batter for blueberry pancakes.
“Hey,” I said. “How are you?”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
Her eyes were puffy and sort of red and her skin was pasty white. My heart cracked a little. I poured two glasses of orange juice and walked through the slanting yellow sunlight that spilled across the floor to the table and sat down.
I patted the chair next to me, and said, “Come and join me. Have some juice.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know about you, but I hate Sundays.”
“You do?” she asked, surprised.
I shrugged. “Without family, it’s hard.”
Paige nodded and turned away, looking out toward the meadow, and sipped some juice. “Rosalie and I always spent Sundays together.”
She began crying, tears spilling over and running down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Paige,” I whispered, and got her some tissues.
As I rubbed her shoulder, I stared out the window. Everything in sight was white, blue, or green. White snow, blue sky, and green conifers. Sometimes there was brown, but not today. No deer streaked across the meadow, nor was there wind that allowed bare limbs to show. Everything was still. After a while, Paige’s tears slowed and she grew quiet and finished her juice.
“What do you do about Sundays?” she asked.
“Keep busy.”
“Doing what?”
I shrugged. “Fun things that absorb my mind, not just my hands.” I smiled. “I cook. I read. I work. I go to museums or movies or plays.”
Paige nodded, listening hard.
“Want to know the things I don’t do?”
“Sure. What?”
“The worst things for me are to go for a walk alone, or listen to ballads, or crochet, or knit—anything that lets me spend too much time thinking in isolation is bad. Not ‘bad’ bad, if you know what I mean.” I paused, trying to find the words to express my thoughts. “I mean, thinking is good, but not when I’m feeling sad and lonely—then it’s brooding, not thinking.”
Paige nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you still want to babysit today? ’Cause I’m sure Zoë would let you off the hook if you’re not up for it.”
“No, I’d like to do it. It’s just what you said. It’ll keep my mind occupied, not only my hands.”
“Okay, then. You’re going at eleven?”
“Yeah.”
“I have an errand, and then I’ll go grocery shopping, but I should be home by about three or four.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got my cell phone number if you need anything, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Zoë will have lunch for you, but I’m thinking we should have a nibble in the late afternoon. You know, something light, ’cause Jerry’s Chicken takes a while to cook.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your favorite snack?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you a carrot and cucumber sort of girl? Potato chips? Cookies?”
“Anything.”
“Paige!” I objected, laughing a little. “Stop being so agreeable! I want to know your favorite.”
“Pizza.”
“Done! What kind of pizza? Thin crust like we had at the store yesterday? Deep dish? What toppings?”
She smiled shyly. “My favorite favorite is Pizza Quickies.”
“Yum. How do you prepare it?”
“Sauce and cheese. Plus fresh tomatoes. And sometimes Rosalie added a green thing on top—an herb, but I forget its name.”
“Basil?”
“Yeah, that’s it! How’d you know?”
“It’s yummy and it goes great with tomatoes. What kind of cheese? Do you remember?”
“I’m not sure. One came in little pieces in a plastic bag and the other one we shook from a can.”
“Mozzarella and parmesan. Sounds delish.” I nodded. “Okay, then. We got us a plan.”
I heard a thump as a clump of wet snow fell from the roof. I watched the drips for a moment, then got up to cook breakfast.
“I just realized that I don’t know if you’re a churchgoer,” I said. “I’d be glad to take you if you want.”
She shook her head. “I’m mad at God.”
I cocked my head. “Maybe you want to go to church and tell God how you’re feeling.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
“I won’t. I haven’t been to church since my parents died.”
“What did Rosalie say to that?”
“She said that I shouldn’t be mad at God, that He took them because they were so wonderful and He needed them in Heaven. I don’t know if she believed it or just thought it was one of those things you have to say.” Paige shrugged. “I’m just plain mad.”
I hugged her then. And she hugged me back. And later, she ate three pancakes.
Just before eleven, Paige went next door to Zoë’s to babysit. I wanted to talk to Shelly, my New York appraiser buddy, before Officer Brownley came to get me.
It was a good time to call. It wasn’t so early that I’d wake her, nor so late that I’d miss her. Shelley was a die-hard party animal, typically booked to the teeth every nonworking moment. As far as I knew, it was she who invented the disco nap, an after-work two-hour-long snooze intended to allow her to club-hop long into the night and still show up at work on time and perform at peak level. I also knew that she never skipped Sunday brunch at the Water Club.
“Shelly!” I said when she answered. “It’s Josie. From New Hampshire.”
“Jesus, Josie! What time is it?”
“It’s almost eleven. I wanted to be sure and catch you before brunch. Aren’t you awake yet?”
“God, no. Hold on. Let me throw some water on my face.”
I giggled and thanked her, then glanced at the clock to time her. Two minutes later, Shelly was back on the line. Not bad, I thought.
“So what’s up?” she asked.
“Whistler’s palette. What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a twentieth-century American art expert,” I protested. “You must know something.”
“I don’t know everything about everything, but I’m flattered that you think I do. You should talk to Aaron.”
“Aaron Goldmark? Why?”
“Aaron’s Ph.D. dissertation was on Whistler. Hold on. I’ll find his number for you.”
I heard rustling, then Shelly said, “Got a pen? If you call him now, you’ve got to promise not to tell him you got his number from me.”
“God, Shelly, you are a hoot!”
“I miss you, too, Josie. How is it up there in the frozen tundra?”
I turned to the window. Rainbows of refracted light streaked across the pristine meadow. “Sunny and beautiful.”
“Isn’t it like a gazillion degrees below zero?”
“Shelly, you really have to get out and about more. It’s gorgeous up here. And no, it’s not a gazillion degrees below zero. We’re above freezing already today.”
“Oh, joy! You should come for a visit,” Shelly said. “There’s a new country place in the Village. We can go line dancing.”
I loved line dancing, and was good at it, and it pleased me that Shelly remembered. “One of these days,” I warned her, “I’ll turn up on your doorstep wearing cowboy boots.”
“You got it, girlfriend.”
“You need to come visit me, too,” I told her.
“Josie, you’re a peach, but I don’t like the country. I don’t even like the suburbs.”
We chatted for another few minutes. She told me about her recent promotion, our former boss’s efforts to rehabilitate his reputation after spending time in prison for conspiring to fix prices, and a new club in Tribeca. I told her about my company’s expansion, my growing friendship with my neighbor and landlady, Zoë, and Ty’s new job. She didn’t mention if she was dating anyone, and I didn’t reveal that Ty’s likely travel schedule worried me.
I always enjoyed our conversations, and as I hung up, I realized that I missed her. I wondered if the dilution of our friendship was inevitable or whether I could have done something to prevent it.
I eyed Aaron Goldmark’s phone number. I didn’t know him all that well, but I decided that there was no time like the present, and dialed. A woman answered and I heard her call, “Aaron! Aaron?”
He got on the line. “Hello?”
“Aaron,” I started, “this is a blast from your past. It’s Josie Prescott. We worked together a couple of times when I was at Frisco’s.”
“Josie!” he exclaimed. “It’s been years! Good to hear from you. How are you?”
After a couple of minutes of catching up, I told him that Shelly said he was the man to ask about Whistler.
“I don’t know about that, but I’ll tell you whatever I can. What do you need?”
“I have a palette that’s alleged to be Whistler’s, but apparently isn’t. But a real one may exist. So I have a few questions, if I might.”
“Yes, please,” he said, his interest fully engaged.
“First of all, Whistler used palettes, right?”
“Yes.”
“Poplar or maple?”
“Typically, but not exclusively, maple.”
“How did he arrange the colors?”
“Lead white in the center, with browns and grays ranging out.”
“Always?”
“Always. This is exciting. How did the palette come into your hands?”
I promised to tell Aaron everything as soon as I was at liberty to do so. After I hung up, I sat with the phone in my hand, picturing the fake palette. There were smudges of gray at one end and white at the other.
Mrs. Woodricky had said that Evan was a devoted fan of the artist. If that was true, and he’d laid out the paints, he would have gotten it right. The case against Lesha just got stronger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
O
utside was a mess. The melting snow had nowhere to run off, so pools of ice-cold water stood everywhere. My knee-high waterproof boots got a workout as I slogged through ankle-deep puddles to Officer Brownley’s car, looking and listening purposefully. Nothing registered as trouble. It was a relief to slide into the passenger seat. I was glad to see that someone I knew was on my side.
“That legal thing with Cooper Bennington is something, huh?” I said as we drove away.
“Yeah. Makes me wish I knew more about Ms. Chaffee’s research, you know?”
“You and me both. What’s your next step?” I asked.
“I’m meeting with him later today.”
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