“We’ll need to check with Monte to see if it fits his schedule. If there’s no problem on his end, it’s fine with me.”
“He’s here now, so if it’s all right with you, I’ll ask him.”
“That’s fine. Text me what he says.”
“Will do. Thanks, Josie.”
I got out of my car, tucking my phone in my back pocket, and stood on the grass watching a sord of mallards paddle around a clump of yellow pond lilies.
As I watched the ducks splash around, Tom’s text arrived. Monte said it was okay by him, that he had nothing planned for the next few days that would put the irises at risk. I kind of loved it that we were working this hard to protect some flowers. Would that the rest of life were that simple.
* * *
I was ten minutes late because Travis Drive was closed for construction, and the only way to access the diner was via the interstate.
I slid into the booth next to Gretchen and apologized to them both.
“No worries,” Winnie said. She smiled, exuding graciousness and kindness. “You got caught in the construction.”
“I had no idea.”
“There was a water main break last Thursday.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be an easy fix?” I asked. “A few hours, and boom, you have a new pipe.”
“I think you’re right for a typical break, but from what I hear, this time the old pipes were rusty, and the rust got in the water that feeds Travis Elementary, so they had to close the whole street down. The last estimate I saw was a week.” She smiled. “But then we’ll have new pipes and the kids will be safe.”
“You walk on the sunny side of the street.”
She laughed. “I guess I do.”
Winnie must have been a knockout when she was young, because she was a knockout now, and I pegged her at over seventy. Her silvery-gray hair was parted in the center and hung to her shoulders in elegant waves. Her eyes were hazel. She wore a short-sleeved cherry-patterned sundress, circa 1960. We placed our order, coffee for me, peppermint tea for Gretchen, and a chocolate milkshake for Winnie.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a milkshake girl,” I said.
“When you reach a certain age, you realize it’s time to eat and drink what you want. I love chocolate milkshakes.”
We compared favorite foods and drinks until the waitress delivered our order. Then I told them my idea to protect the dragonflies that seemed to love the church next door to Prescott’s.
Winnie was enthusiastic, and I left them to discuss the ways and means.
Outside, I texted Max to ask him to help Lainy with her audition. While I waited for a reply, I tried to recapture the elusive memory that had teased me, intimating that I’d missed a detail or misunderstood the meaning of a known fact.
I had been at lunch with Timothy when Celia called to tell me that Maudie had decided to sell the objects. That was Friday, at fourteen minutes after one. Cara emailed her the consignment forms. Celia wanted the forms sent to her own email address so she could review them in advance. She’d told me she’d print them out, that Maudie didn’t trust electronic signing systems, that she wanted to touch the paper to confirm it was real. That rang true to me. Since Maudie wanted to look people in the eyes before she agreed to do business with them, it made sense that she’d want to hold papers in her hands before she signed them. A pen had lain on Maudie’s counter next to Celia’s purse, yet the forms were missing.
I’d assumed that the killer—whoever it was—had taken the box and cat with them when they escaped, and maybe they had. Surely they would be smart enough to lie low, to wait before selling either piece. If the thief had merely pried a jewel or two loose and tried to sell them on their own, a jeweler might be alarmed when large unset superior-quality gems appeared at his door, or he might not. The jeweler might have seen our flyer alerting him to the possibility, or he might not. He might care, or he might not. It wasn’t a coincidence that lots of people involved in illegal transactions used loose jewels as their currency of choice.
The box and cat were missing, maybe stolen, maybe hidden somewhere we hadn’t thought to look. Maudie was missing, too. The pieces of the puzzle didn’t align, which meant some were missing as well.
My phone vibrated. It was Max. Super, he wrote. Have Lainy text me.
The feeling that I was misinterpreting something important was with me still. In fact, the sensation had grown from a minor irritation to a full-blown annoyance. It was hobbling me, like a pebble in my shoe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was just after six when I pulled into the driveway of my rental house and parked. Zoë was on the porch, sitting on a bench staring at nothing. The clouds had finally blown out to sea, and the sky was bright and streaked with red, sailor’s delight. Tomorrow would be a stunner.
“Hey,” I said as I climbed the steps.
She turned her head. “Hey.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“A little, but I like the fresh air.”
“Let me drop stuff inside and grab a sweater.”
I brought out an afghan for Zoë, then went back inside to retrieve a tray containing a bowl of pistachio nuts, some napkins, two plastic martini glasses, and a plastic pitcher filled halfway with watermelon martinis.
I raised my glass for a clink. “To us.”
“To us.” Zoë sipped. “I spoke to Mark.”
“Your ex-husband? In Oregon?”
“I thought I’d be delivering the news about Emma, but she called him herself last week. She called her no-good loser of a father, and she didn’t even tell me.”
“She probably thought you wouldn’t approve.”
“She would have been right.”
I could have pointed out that Emma was an adult and didn’t need permission to talk to her father, but that wasn’t the issue. Instead, I read between the lines. “You hoped he’d talk her into reconsidering enlisting.”
“He said he was proud of her. Proud.”
I felt myself skittering across a superthin, slippery sheet of ice. I was proud of Emma, too, but I couldn’t say so, not now.
“If anything happens to her, I’ll kill myself, Josie. I will.”
“Zoë.”
“I’d wade into the ocean, just about this time of day, and swim out.”
“Are you suggesting that Emma shouldn’t enlist because you’re not strong enough to handle it?”
She turned and stared at me.
I touched her hand. “You promised to give me a week.”
She lowered her eyes to her hands.
“Adapting to change is a process, Zoë, you know that. You’re reconciled to Emma’s choice one day. The next, you panic. Up and down. Eventually, the needle on what’s normal will shift, and Emma being a marine will have become the new normal. You’ll adjust.”
“I don’t know why you think so.”
“Because you’re you. You feel things passionately, and you express yourself freely. Ultimately, though, you’re ruled by your head, not your heart.”
Zoë took my hand and squeezed. “Thank you, Josie.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re saying I don’t have any choice but to get a grip.”
“There’s an alternative. You could stay in a state of perpetual meltdown.”
She laughed. “It may come to that.” She sipped some martini. “Has anyone heard from Maudie?”
“No. Her best friend thinks she’s snorkeling.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, I don’t. Between you and me and the porch railing, I’m scared to my bones.”
“And there’s nothing you can do.”
“You know me, so you know how much I hate that.”
“Me, too.” Zoë leaned back against the siding and shut her eyes. “When Emma is deployed, I won’t know where she is. There’s nothing worse than not knowing. I’m still thinking about taking that job.”
“You gave me a week.”
“Have you made any progress?”
“Yes.”
She sat up and opened her eyes. “You have?”
I patted her forearm. “Trust me.”
* * *
Ty and I went to dinner at the Lobster Pot, our favorite summer seafood joint. The clams steamed in white wine and garlic were briny and rich. The lobster stuffed with crabmeat was sweet and tender. Ty was more cheerful than he’d been in days. His meetings were going well, he said, with everyone now seeming to be on the same page. They had a plan. He was going to drive up in the morning for a couple more days to ensure the plan would be implemented the way he envisioned.
* * *
Ty crashed as soon as we got home. He planned on hitting the road by five.
I stayed downstairs, continuing my research on behalf of Zoë and typing up notes for Ellis. My plan for her had two prongs. I’d signed up Ellis for one of them, providing source names and timing suggestions. I made my recommendation: Perfect Knot, a 50-foot fiberglass sloop, that the owner, Captain Ken, told me was a truly exceptional sailing yacht. Captain Ken was a justice of the peace, and as such, he was authorized to perform marriage ceremonies by the state of New Hampshire. I’d booked it for the week of August fifteenth. My idea had us sailing far enough out so all we saw was open water; then, after the ceremony and the party, the guests would disembark, and off Ellis and Zoë would go to Bimini and points south. That gave them three weeks back home before Emma’s deployment.
I had more research to do regarding my other plan—helping Zoë cope with empty nest syndrome by channeling her endless fount of love and her innate ability to nurture into an ongoing good deed. I figured she should start on September fifteenth, the day after Emma left.
I sent Gretchen an email, too, explaining my ideas for Emma’s party, which I wanted to schedule for September twelfth, the Saturday before Emma left for Parris Island.
After I was done, I still wasn’t sleepy. The temperature had dropped into the fifties, and I curled up on the sofa under an afghan. I rarely took time to reflect on life and myself and my dreams, yet every time I did, I was glad I’d done so. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I had so many balls in the air, I worried that one might drop. Emma’s party. Zoë’s wedding. Zoë’s next endeavor. To say nothing of my regular work—the TV show, our auctions, the weekly tag sale, the column I was writing for Antiques Insights magazine, managing Prescott’s growth, planning our next steps—plus the renovation of the Gingerbread House, and everything swirling around Maudie, Celia, and the presentation box and cat sculpture. I had more questions than answers about that mysterious triad … If only I could remember the memory that was flitting in and out of my consciousness, like a dream.
* * *
I woke up at seven, jelly-rolled in the afghan, feeling unrested and fidgety. I unfurled myself and stood, stretching, trying to chase away the cricks and lingering goblins. I tottered into the kitchen, where the first buttery ribbons of sunlight were striping the kitchen counter and floor.
Ty had made a pot of coffee and I poured myself a cup. He’d left a handwritten note on the counter. You look so relaxed, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Talk to you soon. XOXO. I pressed the paper to my chest.
I made myself some scrambled eggs and read Wes’s article about Stacy while I ate. There was nothing that was new to me. I tidied up and got ready for work, pausing before I left to enjoy the view from the kitchen window. The meadow was in shadow, the colors muted. Closer in, the pale morning sun touched the dew-specked tomatoes, and they shone like beacons. Since Ty had tied up the vines, I could see the tomatoes clearly—I loved that. Before, all I saw was vines and leaves. The tomatoes had been there, but hidden. A minor adjustment that led to a major shift in perception.
Perception.
I stared out over the meadow, but what I saw was Maudie’s apartment. It was as if the memory I’d been chasing had been enveloped by thick fog, and now the fog had lifted, so I could see what had been there all along: Celia’s lifeless corpse and the trunk, the lid open, revealing the Bible and stack of letters. The implications pinballed through my brain, setting my heart hammering against my ribs, and I grasped the counter to steady myself.
Slow down. Look again.
I closed my eyes and let the picture come, viewing again, in more detail, what I’d seen from the entryway of Maudie’s apartment: Celia’s body, the puddles of blood, and the rolling pin; a brown handbag on the counter near a pen; the open windows; and the trunk with the Bible and letters visible. I opened my eyes. It wasn’t an illusion or a mirage. My observation was accurate, and the meaning was clear.
The clock mounted high on the wall told me it was three minutes after eight. I called Ellis on his cell, but it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I called the station.
“I’m sorry, Josie,” Cathy said, “but he just got in, and he’s already in a meeting.”
“Please. Tell him it’s urgent.”
She told me to hold on, sounding doubtful.
Three minutes later, Ellis came on the line. “Josie? Are you all right?”
“Yes, thanks. Question: Is the trunk still in Maudie’s unit?”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I need to show you something. Is it there?”
“Yes, it’s there, but the techs have been all over it, and they didn’t find anything of note.”
“They didn’t know what to look for.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.”
I could hear him breathing for the few seconds it took him to decide. “I can get there by noon.”
“Stacy has arranged for Tom to clean Maudie’s unit at eleven, and I think she’ll arrive early. We need to get there first.”
“What’s going on, Josie?”
“I need to show you. Can you come now?”
“No. Give me a sec.”
I tapped my foot impatiently.
A minute later, he came back on the line. “I can do nine thirty.”
“Good.”
I stopped in at my office to greet my staff, say hello to Hank and Angela, and ask Sasha for any updates they might have about antiques.
“I spoke briefly to Yvette Joubert,” Sasha said. “She confirmed that she and her father are going through the old business records. She’ll email when she finds something about the chandelier, or if she doesn’t. She expects to get back to us by the end of the month.”
“Waiting makes me crazy.” I smiled. “But you already knew that.”
Sasha laughed.
I thanked her, told Cara I’d be back in a while, and left for Belle Vista.
* * *
The sun was shining brightly when I pulled into a space close to the front. A man wearing safety earmuffs steered a riding lawn mower toward the back gardens. It was nine fifteen when I passed Belle Vista’s front security camera.
The woman who’d covered for Lainy the day Celia was killed sat at the reception station. The brass tent sign read LOIS BAXTER.
“Hi,” I said as I walked up. “I’m Josie Prescott, here to meet Chief Hunter. I’m a little early. I might as well sign in, if that’s all right.”
She slid the guest book toward me.
“Is Lainy here?” I asked.
“Yes—she just stepped away from her desk for a few minutes.” The phone rang. “Excuse me.”
I thanked her, signed in, and walked to the window. I sat on the bench and watched Lois’s back.
Lois was busy. She took a string of phone calls, transferring them all, and answered several in-person questions from residents. The café was busy, too, nearly all the tables occupied. I stood, keeping my eyes on her back, and took three steps toward the corridor that led to Maudie’s apartment. I thought I’d take a peek to confirm that the police tape had been removed. I waited a few seconds for Lois to answer another call, then sidled my way across the lobby. As soon as I rounded the corner, I stopped to reconnoiter.
The hall was emp
ty, but that could change at any moment. I continued down it until I reached Maudie’s door. The door was only partially latched, as if the last police tech to leave hadn’t pulled it all the way closed. I pressed my ear to the cold wood and listened. I didn’t hear anything, but I wasn’t certain I could with the lawn mower still at work.
I turned to face the lobby and listened. Faint murmurs emanating from the lobby told me Lois was busy with her work. Probably she wouldn’t even miss me, or if she did, she’d assume I’d gotten tired of waiting and left, and she simply hadn’t noticed.
I reached for the doorknob and turned it slowly as I pushed. The door swung open easily, silently. I stepped inside and shut it behind me, leaving it as I found it, partially latched.
Signs that a forensic team had been on-site were everywhere. Black powder littered the kitchen counter. The drying rack was in the sink. The pools and streaks of blood had dried into cordovan globs and splotches, and blood-smeared footprints led from the spot where Celia’s body had lain to about a foot from the front door. I could imagine a technician slipping on plastic booties as he navigated his way to the exit so he wouldn’t traipse blood down the corridor.
Only one window was open, the screen raised an inch. The rolling pin had been removed. So had the purse and pen. Everything seemed to have been moved, at least a little. The bistro table was pressed against the closet door. The marigold candlesticks sat on the top of the room divider. The toaster oven rested on its side. The trunk, its lid open, had been moved closer to the windows. The pile of ribbon-tied letters sat next to the Bible, just as I recalled.
I walked toward the trunk, freezing midstep at a rustling coming from somewhere nearby. I spun around, but didn’t see anything. I stayed still, listening, but didn’t hear anything else. The lawn mower had moved away, its drone a distant hum. I rubbed my suddenly moist palms against my skirt. I hadn’t imagined the rustling. A strong burst of wind caught one of the sheer panels and sent it swirling, bringing with it the delicious summer aroma of freshly cut grass. I turned toward the window. A crow cawed, and a chipmunk darted across the lawn, disappearing into the bushes. The rustling must have come from outside, its pitch different enough from the mower to be perceived. I was jumpy for no reason. I turned back to the trunk and forced myself to laugh a little, pure bravado. My dad always said to fake it until you make it.
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