“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?”
“Not exactly. I have a question, and it’s important.” He looked at me as if gauging whether I might fire up again, or whether it was safe to proceed.
“What?” I asked, resigned.
“I understand from my sources that the police have found no record of anyone involved in the case purchasing potassium cyanide. Not a surprise when you think about it, since only a fool would openly buy poison he or she intended to use for murder, and there’s no reason to think that the killer is a fool.”
“True,” I agreed.
There are other ways to get cyanide
, I thought,
besides buying it. Do photographers still use cyanide?
I knew they used to years ago. Images of Trevor supervising photographers came to me. One photographer in particular, Lewis somebody. Old-school, temperamental, talented.
I remembered walking into Lewis’s photography studio in the Chelsea section of New York City for the first time. Trevor had introduced me as his bright new star. Despite all that had passed, recalling the moment when Trevor spoke those words brought a flush of pride, just as it had when I first received the tribute.
Some photographers probably still used the old way of developing, the one that called for cyanide. I bet Lewis was one of them.
Is Trevor still in touch with Lewis?
I wondered.
“What are you thinking about?” Wes asked, watching me with hawklike intensity.
“Nothing.” No way was I sharing information with Wes. “What’s your question?”
“If you wanted to get your hands on cyanide, how would you go about it?”
“I wouldn’t!” I responded, outraged. “What a question!”
“No, no,” he said. “I meant theoretically.”
“What do you want to ask me, Wes? Stop being cagey.”
He sighed, disappointed that I wouldn’t allow him his dramatic lead-in. “Okay, okay. Here’s the point. Since the police still don’t know whether you or Maisy was the intended victim, it got me thinking. Potassium cyanide has many industrial applications. For instance, it’s frequently used in the jewelry business. You know, gold plating. So I was wondering—do you have a relationship with anyone who does any gold plating?”
The wind off the pond was biting and I flipped my cape’s hood up. “No, no one. I don’t know any jewelers,” I said.
“How about jewelry designers? Anyone you know do amateur designing? Anything of that nature?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“What about for your work? Don’t you ever have things plated? You know, restoration stuff.”
“No. What are you doing? Trying to see if you can find evidence that I’m a murderer?”
“Of course not!” he assured me, sounding shocked. “I’m thinking maybe someone set you up. If I can trace the poison, then we can find out who has it in for you.”
I was appalled at his calmly expressed suggestion of a diabolical plot against me. “That’s outrageous, Wes.”
“Maybe. It’s just one line of thinking I’m investigating.”
“It’ll be a waste of time.”
“Probably. So, how come you don’t use any gold platers in your business?”
I stared at him for a long moment. His idea about seeking out people who used industrial cyanide had merit. His thought that I was being framed did not. It was absurd even to think about.
“That’s just not what we do—we don’t restore things. We sell things as is. If they’re in rough shape, they go to the tag sale. The better items go to auction. But we don’t do restoration.”
“Think, Josie,” Wes insisted. “It’s important. Any source of metal plating?”
I shook my head. “Nothing comes to mind.”
“No neighbors who are jewelers?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Former neighbors?”
I shook my head again.
“Do you know Frank Connors?”
“No, why?”
“How about Michelle Piper?”
“No. Who are they?”
“Gold platers in the area. Maybe you know someone and just don’t know what they do for a living. The last one is named Labelle Brown. Do you know her?”
“No. Truly, I have no idea of anyone who has access to cyanide,” I stated firmly, pushing thoughts of Lewis aside.
“Except that someone did, in fact, acquire and use cyanide.”
“Good point,” I acknowledged.
And if I can identify the source of the cyanide, I might get a clue about who obtained it—but I can’t believe someone got cyanide, and used it to kill Maisy, in order to frame me
.
“How’s your research coming?” I asked him, changing the subject.
“Pretty good,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “I’m trying to follow the same logic as the police. That’s the foundation of the article I’m writing—you know, ‘Anatomy of a Homicide Investigation.’ ”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“So I’ve gone back to the basics, just like they have.”
“Wes, it’s cold. Do you have anything else to tell me or ask me?”
He looked hurt, as if he would be happy to spend hours standing in the dark on a cold October night discussing the ways and means of conducting journalistic research. He sighed. “I was hoping to fill you in and solicit your opinion about what I’ve learned. Not because you’re involved,” he added quickly, “but because you know the situation from a close-up perspective.”
I wasn’t flattered. Plain and simple, Wes was an opportunist and I represented access to information he wanted. But I decided to play along both because I was curious and because I thought there was a good chance I might learn something that would help me cope with my increasingly frightening situation. “Okay,” I said, resigned to the inevitable. “Talk to me.”
“So,” Wes said, putting his notebook away and clearing his throat. “You told the police about Trevor Woodleigh. How come?”
I nodded and pulled the cape close as a gust of wind whipped off the water. Wes hunched his shoulders as it hit.
“I had to tell them.”
“I figured it was you. You should have talked to me first.”
“Why? So you could argue with me about it?”
“No, so I’d know what was going on. I wasted time trying to track how they found out about him.”
I nodded, acknowledging his point. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I understand why you told them. You were scared.”
He made it sound like I was a sissy. “It’s reasonable for me to be scared, Wes. There’d be something wrong with me if I wasn’t.”
“So you’re now thinking that you were the target after all?” he asked, poised to strike.
“No. I’m saying it was only prudent to learn more. You should have reported it to the police yourself.”
“I didn’t have any reason to think he was a suspect,” he responded, sounding righteous.
“Whatever,” I said, dismissing the discussion as pointless.
“What did they tell you about Woodleigh?”
I thought for a moment about how much I should reveal, and decided to tell him nothing. I would use Wes to help me find answers to specific questions, but I’d confide in him not at all. “Nothing. Just that they were investigating.”
“I hear he has no alibi,” Wes said.
“That’s not what I hear,” I responded, my curiosity piqued.
“What do you mean?”
“Apparently, Trevor can account for all of his time on Saturday.”
“Right, but nothing is verifiable.”
“I guess,” I acknowledged, not wanting it to be true.
Wes nodded. “I’m thinking of going to New York and talking to him.”
“Lucky you.”
“If I do, I’ll let you know what he says, okay?”
“No, don’t. He hates me and I don’t need to hear about it again.”
“I’ll keep you posted in a big-picture way, okay?”
I shrugged acquiescence and we said good-bye. I hurried toward my car, anxious to get out of the cold and to get away from Wes. He was thorough, I thought as I drove, and very good about following up every lead. He was also good about staying in touch and making me feel important. Which, considering my uncontrollable rage at seeing his damnable article plastered across the front page of the
Seacoast Star
, was quite an accomplishment.
I turned the heat on high. A raw dampness had gotten into my bones from standing outside so long. From the feel of it, I knew there’d be rain before long. I was looking forward to the crackling fire I knew would be burning in the old fieldstone fireplace in the Blue Dolphin’s lounge.
I turned onto Market Street and began the search for a parking space, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Wes followed me, eager to learn more about my plans.