CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I
must have fallen asleep again, because I woke up dis-oriented and upset. Hairs prickled on my arms and my heart pounded as if I’d awakened from a nightmare—but if I’d had a bad dream, I couldn’t remember it.
I looked around fretfully, straining my neck. My office was quiet, the phones were silent, and no one was nearby. My fearful awakening seemed inexplicable. It was eerie and unsettling. Stretching gingerly, I looked at the clock. Only a few minutes had passed.
To throw off my hazy discontent, I decided to do some research, and I figured I’d start with Lewis, the photographer, who might still stock cyanide. I could understand why Trevor felt betrayed by me, even though from where I sat, it was he who betrayed Frisco’s and, by extension, me. But I couldn’t understand how his rage could lead him to plot to kill me.
I couldn’t imagine him doing such a thing. Then I could. Then I’d tell myself I was being foolish. Then I’d recall Max suggesting I was doing a head-in-the-sand thing. I was on an emotional roller coaster and it was exhausting. But one thing was likely: If he did kill Maisy, he got the poison from Lewis.
I Googled “Lewis” and “photographer” and “New York City” and got more than a hundred hits. The first link connected me to the National Art and Antiques Photographers Association’s Web site, and there I learned that Lewis had died two years ago. According to the site, his widow had closed his New York City studio shortly after his death and then moved to Scottsdale.
If the studio was closed, Trevor couldn’t have acquired cyanide there
.
As I allowed myself to relax a little, my father’s words came back to me:
Irrational and random events happen,
he told me,
but not nearly as often as people would have you believe. If it’s not logical, it’s probably not true
.
That Trevor was guilty of murder was illogical, and therefore, it probably wasn’t true. His release from prison a day before Maisy’s murder was, it seemed, nothing more than a coincidence of timing. Sure, he
could
have acquired the cyanide from another source—or even hired someone to kill me.
But I just don’t believe it,
I thought.
It’s just not credible that he’d sneak into a fancy community event like the Gala and slip cyanide into a drink. Nor that he’d hire someone to kill me with poison or by running me down. Too dicey.
In fact, I felt reassuringly closer to answering the most basic question springing out of Maisy’s death: Was she the target? Or was I?
It’s not me,
I concluded, overwhelmed with relief.
The tag-sale room gave out to a large uncovered area separated from the parking lot by a tall wooden fence. During nice weather, we put several table displays outside, but the rest of the time, the space was empty.
Just before one fifteen, I opened the door in the fence that gave access to the parking lot and waited. Within minutes, Wes came trudging out of the woods at the rear of the property, brushing aside low-hanging branches as he stepped onto the asphalt. He saw me and hurried over.
Inside, we sat on high stools in back of the cash registers. I left most of the lights off, so anyone outside looking in couldn’t identify us. There was a crossbeam under the counter at just the right level for me to rest my left foot, and by pushing my stool up to the wall, I could stretch my leg out and take advantage of it while also getting some back support. I wasn’t in pain, exactly, but I was uncomfortably aware of my various muscle pulls and skin abrasions.
“Your face looks pretty torn up,” Wes remarked as he got settled.
“Yeah,” I agreed, wishing he’d used less descriptive language.
“Are you ready for a shockeroonie?”
“A ‘shockeroonie,’” I repeated, eyeing him warily. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Right. Sort of. Okay, tell me. I’m ready to be shocked.”
“Guess who Maisy consulted last week?”
“Who?”
“Britt Epps.”
I stared at him, his pudgy cheeks puffed with pleasure at delivering hot news.
“Wow,” I said. “What do you figure that means?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
I turned away and stared out the salt-stained window on the far side of the room. The trees were close to the building back here, mostly evergreens, dark and thick.
“Gala business, maybe,” I ventured.
“Not likely, since she paid him in cash.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, amazed at Wes’s ability to uncover potentially significant information.
“A source,” he said.
“How good a source?” I asked. “This might mean something.”
“It’s solid,” he insisted. “A source in Britt Epps’s office verified the payment.”
“So Britt wasn’t trying to hide the cash,” I said, thinking aloud.
“It looks that way,” Wes agreed. “Why, do you think it’s significant?”
“If it were a business matter, she’d have used a Guild check. Even if it was personal, but in the open, she’d write a check. Paying a lawyer in cash is unusual.”
“That makes sense,” he agreed.
“I mean, think about it. Lawyers are expensive, you know? It’s not like buying a fifty-cent newspaper or even fifty dollars of food at the supermarket.”
Wes nodded, reached into his inside coat pocket, and pulled out his notebook. He wrote something, then looked up and asked, “What could it indicate?”
I thought for a moment. “She didn’t want someone who had access to her checkbook to know that she was consulting a lawyer. Like her husband, maybe. Or perhaps she asked Britt to do something illegal or unethical and didn’t want to leave a paper trail. And Britt,” I speculated, “wanted to be sure that no one thought he was doing anything other than on the up-and-up, so he made darn sure the cash payment was entered into his company’s books.” I paused again while Wes jotted notes. “Also,” I added, “it could be that she tried to bribe him. And just because the payment was recorded doesn’t mean that he didn’t accept the bribe.” I shrugged again, a small one, as my shoulder muscles announced the move. “Or maybe it was about the divorce, and Britt was the only lawyer she knew except for the one she and Walter used as a couple, and she wanted someone who would be
her
lawyer, not
their
lawyer, if you know what I mean.”
“That explains her choice of Britt, but not the cash.”
I nodded. “Okay—maybe it’s really simple. It’s possible that it’s just that she was one of those people who pays for everything in cash.”
“I can check that out,” Wes said, scribbling a note.
“How?”
“Charge records,” he said.
“How can you access her credit-card receipts?” I asked, appalled that he was able to uncover Maisy’s financial information with such ease.
“I have sources,” he said in a lofty tone.
Wes and his sources.
I wish I had them,
I thought, the question about how Maisy had paid, or planned to pay, for her around-the-world cruise in the forefront of my mind.
“What do you think about this?” he asked. “Maybe she was in cahoots with him about something.”
“ ‘Cahoots’? About what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they were stealing money that had been donated to the Guild.”
I looked at him straight on. “Do you think it’s possible?”
Wes shrugged. “Britt Epps has a top reputation, so probably not,” he replied, sounding disappointed.
“Was that the hot news?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think Maisy and Britt having a relationship outside the Guild might be significant, don’t you?”
Wes’s use of the word “relationship” got me thinking. Could Maisy and Britt have had a little something on the side?
Nah,
I thought,
not possible.
“I have no idea, Wes. None. I don’t know anything about anything.”
After Wes left, promising to call me as soon as he got more information, I limped over to the bank of windows at the rear and stood staring out into the sun-flecked forest.
Think,
I told myself.
Be methodical
.
A squirrel caught my eye as it dashed across the leaf-strewn grassy patch at the edge of the woods, an acorn in its mouth. “Hurry, baby,” I whispered. “Get home!” It disappeared into the underbrush. I shut my eyes and leaned my head against the cold glass. It hurt my neck and I grimaced and pulled back.
I pressed myself to process Wes’s information quickly so I would know what to do next. As I stared into the middle distance, the PA system crackled and Gretchen announced that I had a call—Chi.
I took it in the tag-sale room, back over by the cash registers. He gave me his cell phone number and told me that he was on-site and ready to go. He added that after today, I probably wouldn’t see him, or anyone on his team, often or much, unless, of course, I needed help, but they’d be there. I didn’t know he had a team, but I liked the sound of it. He told me to call him if I was going to do anything out of my routine, so they could plan for it. I thanked him and hung up, comforted to know Chi was in place.
I sat for a while longer, weighing my options, considering alternative plans; then when I was ready, I locked up and headed into the warehouse. By the time I reached the front office, moving slowly, ready for another painkiller, I knew my next step.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
W
ould you run upstairs and get my purse?” I asked Gretchen after I’d settled myself into a guest chair positioned near her desk. “Sure,” she said. She hurried toward the warehouse, glad to have a way to help.
While she was gone, I used her phone to call Pam Fields.
“Pam,” I asked after a brief exchange of greetings, “by any chance, did you find that brochure? You know, the one for the cruise ship?”
“I’m sorry, Josie, I haven’t had a second to look. I promise I’ll get to it today.”
“That’s fine. What I’m really after is the name of the travel agent Maisy used. Do you know it?”
“I should remember,” she said slowly, as if she was thinking hard. “I know she mentioned it. But I just don’t recall the name. I’m striking out for you today.”
I reassured her that it didn’t matter and she again promised to track down the brochure.
I called the Guild. A woman answered, maybe Maisy’s assistant, and I said, “Hi, this is Josie Prescott. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Of course.”
“Maisy always told me how happy she was with the Guild’s travel agency, and I’m calling for the name.”
“Sure,” she said. “We’ve used them for years. It’s Victory Travel.”
The address was close—a storefront in a strip mall only about a five-minute drive away.
“A travel agent? Going somewhere fun?” Gretchen asked provocatively, overhearing me reading back the address. She handed me my purse.
“Afraid not. It’s for a friend,” I responded, keeping it vague.
“Want me to enter the information into our vendor file?” she offered.
“Good idea.” I handed her the slip of paper.
While she typed, I dug out the bottle of painkillers from the bottom of my purse.
“All set,” she said, passing the paper back.
Under Gretchen’s vigilant observation, I swallowed the pill.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
I made a face.
“Do you think you should leave—you know, take the rest of the afternoon off?”
“I’m fine, really. Besides which, Detective Rowcliff is coming at four and I should be here.”
“He could meet you at home,” she argued.
“I’m okay,” I said dismissively as Eric entered the office from the warehouse. Glad for an excuse to take the focus off of myself, I turned away from Gretchen to ask him how the pickup at Verna’s house had gone. I was glad to hear that there’d been no problems—no discrepancies, no breakages, and no attitude from Verna. Good news, and a relief.
I told Gretchen I’d be back in a while, and in the face of her patent disapproval, I headed out.
Chi, assuming the slender, dark-haired Asian man behind the wheel was him, drove an old dark blue Alfa Romeo, and at first, he followed close. From the sharp maneuvering I witnessed through the rearview mirror, the car was in race-ready condition.
I pulled into a parking space right in front of Victory Travel’s door. I stood in the sun and looked all around. There was no blue sports car in sight, and I didn’t know if that was good news and Chi was deftly avoiding exposure, or bad news and he’d already lost me.
A bell chimed as I pushed open the door. The agency had one long room. There were eight desks, four to a side, with a central aisle. Six of them were staffed. There were no customers. Posters showing Greek islands, Mexican ruins, the Eiffel Tower, and African elephants walking in the savanna lined the walls.
A woman wearing a fluffy pink sweater greeted me without stopping what she was doing at her computer. “Can I help?” she asked.
“Thanks,” I said, and waited. Finally, she looked up, registered my battered appearance, and looked away, avoiding my eyes, then, after a moment, openly stared at my face.
A name placard on her desk read GERT. “Are you Gert?” I asked, pointing to the nameplate.
“Yes. That’s me.” She giggled, as if she’d said something funny.
“I feel better than I look.” I smiled as best I could.
“Sorry for staring,” she said, sounding embarrassed.
“It’s okay.” I tried smiling again. “I’m Josie Prescott.”
“Hi.”
“Hi. Listen, this agency was recommended by the Portsmouth Women’s Guild, and I was hoping I could talk to their agent.”
“Sure. Do you have the agent’s name?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Oh.” She pursed her lips. “Let’s see.” She typed something into her computer, and within seconds reported that Christie Jax was the Guild’s agent.
“Is she in?” I asked.
Gert gestured to a dark-haired woman sitting at the last desk on the right, talking on a headset. “That’s Christie.”
“Can you let her know I’m here?” I asked.
“Sure,” Gert said, standing up. “Have a seat, why don’t you, while you wait.”
She slipped a note under Christie’s eye and I saw Christie glance at me and nod. While I waited, I flipped through a bunch of brochures describing vacations to the Bahamas.
“Sorry to make you wait,” Christie said as she waved me over.
“No problem.”
Responding to the unspoken question in her eyes, I explained that I’d been in a car accident, then, smiling, repeated that I felt better than I looked. “I was hoping you could help me.”
“Sure. Any way I can.”
“Thanks. It’s about Maisy. Maisy Gaylor.”
Her smile faded. “It’s horrible what happened.”
I nodded agreement, and after a small pause, I said, “Maisy told me she was thinking of a cruise and that you were enormously helpful in helping her select the right one.”
“Oh, isn’t that just like her? So sweet! I hope I helped, but the truth is, she knew exactly what she wanted—I just needed to locate it.”
“What did she want?”
“Very high-end. Very exclusive.”
I nodded. “Which one did she settle on?”
Christie typed something into her computer. “The
Richmond Queen
—an around-the-world tour—it’s a beautiful ship.”
“When was she planning on leaving?”
Christie rubbed her chin as she met my gaze, signaling her doubts. “May I ask what your interest is?”
I smiled again and looked down. “Maisy got me so excited talking about her plans, I began to toy with the idea of booking a cruise myself.”
“Really?” She smiled, her attention captured.
“No promises,” I said. It was one thing to
sort of
imply that I might become a paying customer, but it was another thing altogether to
really
imply that she was about to close a sale. “I figure I might as well capitalize on her research. She sure seemed to check all her options.”
“That’s true. She wanted
all
the details.”
“That was Maisy! Well-organized.”
“And practical!”
“What do you mean, ‘practical’?” I asked, surprised by the word choice.
Christie smiled and leaned back. “She was going on this expensive—I mean really luxury-level tour—but she wanted to know about whether washing machines were available for passenger use on board and if I had lists of Internet cafés in the various ports of call.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I mean at this level, the crew does your laundry—no extra charge, you know what I mean? And Internet access is included on board, too.”
“Proving she doesn’t come from money.”
“That’s true. People from
old
money
assume
everything’s included.”
I smiled at her observation. “When was she planning to start the trip?” I asked.
“Let me see here.” Christie typed something else into the computer, then reached into her desk drawer; after a moment’s search, she extracted a file folder. She laid it open on her desk.
“I haven’t updated the computer yet,” she explained. “She’d just decided on the departure date.”
I focused on reading upside down as Christie turned the pages one by one. From what I could see, the papers appeared to be contact and other information, some kind of liability release, and an insurance form. While she was hunting for departure information, I spotted an unexpected paper—an electronic-transmit authorization form.
Christie looked up at me, and seeing my eyes on the papers, unobtrusively folded her hands to block my view. I played dumb, smiling innocently. After a long pause, she decided not to make an issue of it. “Her departure date was November first from New York City,” she said.
“So soon!”
“Yes, from the beginning, Maisy was looking at November departures.”
I nodded. “And her trip is all paid for. So sad.”
She glanced down and saw the form. She pulled it out and put in on top. “No, just a deposit, but she signed up for the insurance, so she won’t lose anything. Or rather, her family won’t lose anything.” She smiled. “How about you? Would you be thinking of a November departure, too?”
“No, that’s too soon for me. What’s available in March?”
While she typed the inquiry and waited for the answer, I pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook from my purse and, holding it low on my lap, out of sight, copied down the account number and bank address. The bank was located in someplace called Campione d’Italia.
Italy? Why in God’s name would Maisy have had a bank account in Italy?
With a printout of the
Richmond Queen’s
schedule for the entire year in hand, I shuffled to my car.
I knew more than when I’d walked into the travel agency, but I wasn’t sure what any of it meant. I needed to think.