CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
J
ust before I reached the turn-in to my parking lot, I saw a flash of blue go by as Chi unexpectedly passed me. I pulled into a spot near the front, and as I opened my car door, he was standing with his back to the building, methodically scanning the area.
I nodded in his direction and trudged inside. I felt exhausted, confused, and worried. I was pushing myself too hard and I needed to rest. Learning about Maisy’s overseas account and her meeting with Britt added no clarity, except that it showed how little I knew about Maisy. And on the drive back, I’d realized that my hope for absolution notwithstanding, even if Trevor was out of it, that still didn’t explain why someone had tried to run me down last night.
But
, I thought, stepping out of my car and hurrying into the office,
I’ve already racked my brain for answers as to who might want me dead
.
The chimes tinkled as a reason occurred to me, and I froze—
could it be . . . was it possible . . . could I have seen something damning at the Gala?
If someone had poisoned Maisy’s glass before she arrived at my table, I might not have seen anything.
Which means no one would be trying to kill me because of what I observed
, I told myself. I shook my head, frustrated at the complications.
“Hi,” I said, dragging my attention back to the present moment. “Anything going on?”
“Nope,” Gretchen said. “Just waiting for Dr. Kimball.”
“Oh, yeah,” I acknowledged, remembering, “the Chinese porcelain guy. He’s due at three, right?”
“Exactly.”
I glanced at the clock on Gretchen’s desk. I had about forty-five minutes. “I’m going to my office.”
“Are you up to the stairs?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I fibbed.
She looked doubtful, but wisely, she stayed silent. I wasn’t in the mood to argue, and she knew it. I turned to Fred tapping away on his computer.
“How are you, Fred?” I asked.
“Fine. Working steadily.”
“Good.” I allowed his imprecise answer to stand. None of my staff ever wasted time. Lucky me.
After struggling up the stairs one at a time, I was glad to sink into my comfortable chair and rest.
Assuming, for the sake of argument
, I thought, closing my eyes, relaxing,
I
did
see something at the Gala that, if known, would reveal the murderer’s identity—what was it? Pretend you are a video camera. Don’t interpret. Just report
.
I closed my eyes again and took myself back to Saturday night.
My seatmates had been talking and laughing, but I wasn’t really listening to their conversation. I smiled when appropriate and responded when addressed directly, but otherwise, I was in my own world.
Just before Gretchen arrived and delivered the bid sheets, I finished my wine, and within moments, a waiter refilled my glass. I remembered that I’d been impressed at the quick service. I took a sip, then idly watched the crimson swirls that formed as I tilted my glass this way and that. I gasped now as I realized the significance of that memory:
As of that moment, my wine was untainted. No one had tampered with my wine before Maisy’s arrival
, I thought. I was pleased that my tactic of focused reminiscence was working.
All right, then. What happened next?
Gretchen came hurrying up.
I was hit by a wave of nausea as a horrific thought came to me.
Could my always-thoughtful, sunny-spirited assistant, Gretchen, have poisoned the wine?
Even posing the question made me sick.
It can’t be. Not Gretchen!
I opened my eyes and watched through the window as a red-and-gray bird swooped down momentarily, then flew away. I shut my eyes again.
What happened next?
Gretchen approached in a rush. She squatted near my chair, radiant, her green eyes ablaze with excitement, and leaned over to hand me the envelope. “The bids are excellent,” she whispered.
Oh, Gretchen. Could it be?
Since she was there, it would seem that she had the opportunity. I forced myself to consider whether she also had a motive.
No!
my heart answered, but the truth was that I didn’t know much about Gretchen’s background, and even after all these years, she had never opened up about her past. She was a master of the art of friendly evasion. A few years ago, Sasha had asked her if she was going home for Christmas. She cheerfully responded, “Home is where the heart is! How about you?”
“The past isn’t over. It isn’t even past,” Faulkner wrote. I simply couldn’t believe that Gretchen had a motive. Could she be insane? The kind of person who killed for pleasure or imagined slights? Absurd! Yet, I had to think objectively. It was one thing to dismiss as ridiculous the idea of Gretchen as a homicidal maniac. It was another altogether to ignore the facts—she was there by my side and she refused to discuss her past.
During her job interview, she told me that she’d moved to Portsmouth from up near the Canadian border because she wanted a fresh start. She joked that she didn’t want to recount the sad story of her past. Her comment struck a chord with me—I, too, moved to Portsmouth to begin a new life—and I, too, didn’t want to talk about my past.
Sitting here alone in my office, stiff, frightened, and in pain, I wondered. I knew my own secrets, but what was in Gretchen’s past that she refused to talk about? She was young, only twenty-five or -six now, so she would have been no more than about twenty-one when she joined my firm. What had transpired in the years leading up to her arrival on my doorstep that was too painful or too damning to recount?
Should I investigate?
Tears welled up and moistened my cheeks. Even to think of spying on her was shudderingly horrible. But if it had to be done, I would do it. I swept the wetness from my face and took several deep breaths for strength.
Think. Where did I leave off?
Gretchen was squatting beside my chair at the Gala, jubilant and exhilarated as she reported the auction’s success. “Great!” I said, responding as much to her enthusiasm as to the Guild’s good fortune.
She stayed a moment longer, then stood up, and I took a sip of wine as I watched her skirt the tables, heading for the back.
I gasped as I recalled this now.
I sipped wine!
I clasped my chest, almost hyperventilating with relief.
Thank God.
From the moment Gretchen crouched by my chair until the moment she stood and sauntered away, I’d sipped my wine steadily—and lived to tell about it. Which meant Gretchen was innocent.
I began to cry, weak from the sudden release of tension. “Oh, Gretchen, forgive me for even asking the question,” I said aloud. I lowered my head and sighed. Whatever her secrets, they could stay safe. I took another deep breath and raised and lowered my shoulders as I tried to relax my knotted muscles.
Forcing myself back to the Gala, I remembered how Gretchen left my side.
What happened next?
After Gretchen headed off, I passed the envelope to Britt, who, as the Gala honorary chairman, was responsible for announcing the winning bids. He was sitting on the far side of my table.
I now recalled feeling relieved that the seemingly endless evening would soon be over. Mostly, if the truth be told, I’d thought about Ty, wondering how he was doing, and hoping he was okay.
Breathing deeply to calm my jagged nerves now, I forced myself to picture the envelope as I handed it to Britt at the Gala.
Then what?
With the envelope in hand, Britt leaned over to Maisy as she sat at a nearby table and said, “Maisy—we’re ready to announce the winners.”
“You bet!” She jumped up and came over to our table, carrying a glass of red wine. Her vivaciousness wasn’t merely out of character; it was so saccharine, I figured it had to be a charade.
God
, I thought at the time,
is she for real?
Was it possible, knowing what I now knew about Maisy’s apparently secret bank account and evident plans to leave the country, that her cloying effusiveness masked something?
What?
Was she publicly declaring that all was well with her? Did she want the Gala participants to witness her contentment? Or was she sending a message, targeting one person in particular? Maybe she wanted her husband, Walter, to know that she didn’t care that he was divorcing her. Perhaps her upbeat demeanor masked nothing more than pride and had nothing at all to do with murder.
I shook my head in frustration. I had no way of knowing Maisy’s motivations, and her behavior was open to so many interpretations, it was hopeless to try to sort it out.
Walter watched Maisy, too
. Perhaps the look he gave her that I’d perceived as bitter wasn’t that at all, but contemptuous. Maybe he understood the message she was trying to convey and was sending one back—that he thought her efforts at camouflage were pathetic. I wondered what Detective Rowcliff had learned about their relationship. I shrugged, acknowledging that no matter how comprehensive the investigation, or what role Walter might have played in Maisy’s murder, it was unlikely that anyone could ever know what had fueled the dynamic between them. Including Pam.
Pam Field had sat at their table, I now recalled.
How well does she know Walter?
I wondered. Had Pam hung out at her good friend Maisy’s house? Did she develop a relationship with him separate from her friendship with Maisy? I shook my head. There was no way to know.
Once again, I asked myself,
What happened next?
Britt gestured to Dora, who was sitting with a boisterous group across the room. She acknowledged his signal and, taking her time, joined us.
I smiled now, remembering how much I’d admired her ability to work the room. Another memory came to me. Before she began her trek, weaving through the tables, Hank, her boyfriend, the trombone player, smiled at her lovingly. She smiled in response, and her eyes glinted momentarily with sensuality and promise, a barely perceptible change in affect. It was a private look, intended just for him, and I felt unholy envy as I watched their intimate exchange. He was younger than she was by a lot and very handsome, tall and fit, with a blond ponytail.
I miss you, Ty
, I’d thought as I turned away, ashamed, feeling like a voyeur.
Maisy said something, I couldn’t remember what, and sipped her wine.
Wait! Maisy drank some wine and she was fine!
My mouth fell open at the significance of the memory. I took a deep breath and struggled on.
After Maisy sipped her wine, then what?
I thought back, picturing Maisy standing to the side. She placed her glass on the table next to mine just as Dora arrived and hugged Britt. Britt handed the bid sheets to Dora and moved aside with Maisy, chatting, while Dora scanned the pages.
“
Think!
” I whispered aloud.
All I was doing was reliving the same experiences again and again. It was as if I were watching a movie, frame by frame, yet nothing new was revealed.
Focus. What happened next?
Britt and Maisy kept talking. I couldn’t recall now what they’d said.
I ran the film back several frames.
Britt reached across and handed Dora the bid sheets.
I opened my eyes now, stunned.
Britt’s arm had been extended over our wineglasses as he passed the papers to Dora. Could he have had the cyanide in his hand, maybe in a fold of cloth or tissue, and dropped it in the wine as his hand passed over the glass?
That would have required the dexterity of a magician, and no sleight of hand had been possible, because everyone was looking at him. He was standing at the front, the focal point of everyone’s attention.
Maybe.
I, at least,
hadn’t
been looking at Britt. I’d been looking at Dora. She looked so gorgeous with her easy smile and beautiful gown. Her dress was black silk and covered with glittering gold sequins. I’d hoped we might become friends.
A piercing shriek of seagulls overhead brought me back to the here and now, my mouth hanging open, astonished. Britt could have poisoned the wine and I wouldn’t have noticed. I’d been there with my eyes open and yet saw nothing.
Murder in plain sight. Was it possible?
I closed my eyes again, willing more memories to come.
Dora scanned the bid sheets. I noticed her shimmering shawl, draped artistically, barely resting on her shoulders, drooping low at the back and dangling from her elbows. A small black clutch purse was tucked under her arm.
I looked at Dora; then I moved the wineglasses, shifting them aside, away from Dora’s shawl.
The shawl’s too close; it will dip in the wine
, I thought as I watched Dora.
In the waning afternoon light, the trees visible through my window appeared dense and dark. I allowed my eyes to stay fixed in the middle distance as more freeze-frame memories came to me.
When Dora had finished reading, she rearranged her shawl a bit and turned toward Britt. She was excited by the results—the Guild had raised a lot of money. He accepted the bid sheets from her and said something to Maisy that I couldn’t recall now, then spoke to me, inviting me to join them at the podium. I declined.
When did Maisy pick up her glass? I shook my head. I had no recollection. What I did remember was that as soon as Britt approached the platform, Hank’s brass quartet segued into the fanfare, as scheduled. Britt climbed the few steps to the low stage, stood behind the podium, and looked out over the crowd with self-important satisfaction.
Was he feeling prideful because of the success of the Gala
, I wondered,
or because of his handiness at poisoning the wine?
I didn’t know anything about Britt’s relationship with Maisy, beyond what Wes had revealed. Wes discovered that Maisy had consulted Britt on what we assumed was a non-Guild matter and paid in cash. Why? And was that act related to her death?
Maisy was far more complicated than I’d realized. Maybe everyone was once you scraped the surface of their veneer.