CHAPTER TWELVE
N
ew Hampshire was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen, filled with natural wonders. Everywhere you looked was something breathtaking: vivid reds and yellows in fall and subtle lilacs and cornflower blues in spring, opalescent whites in winter, and verdant greens in summer. It was a land of color, with every season representing hope. New Hampshire was my home. That Trevor might violate my adopted homeland with his presence made me crazy.
Don’t speculate
, I warned myself.
Don’t guess about anything—neither Trevor’s anger nor his alibi, neither Maisy’s behavior nor her attitudes
. Research and consideration, not conjecture, answered questions.
Back at the computer, I searched for Trevor’s name in conjunction with Saturday’s date. A man determined to resume his place in the high-end art and antiques world in New York City might have attended a society event or gallery opening. And if he had attended something of that nature, his presence might merit a paragraph—or a sentence—in some publication. If I could confirm his attendance at the event, I could feel reassured that he hadn’t been in my building killing Maisy, and forget about him. I tapped the Enter key and was immediately disappointed. Nothing. No relevant hits.
Now what?
I asked myself.
Should I sit back and wait for Wes to tell me more, hoping he can discover Trevor’s alibi?
Way too passive for me. As my father repeated over and over again when I engaged in wishful thinking as a child,
Work, not wishing, makes it so
. I had to act.
I was certain that Wes would roar like a charging lion if he knew that I was going to report Trevor’s existence to the police. But from where I stood, I had no choice. If there was any chance that Trevor was, in fact, out to get me, I had to protect myself. And unless I hired a New York City private eye to check out his alibi, I was out of options. I couldn’t even consult Ty. I dialed Max’s office.
“Max,” I said when I had him on the line, choosing my words with care, “I’ve had a thought about someone who might actually wish me harm. I mean, I have no reason to think he is responsible for Maisy’s death, but, well, you asked me to tell you if anything came to me.”
“I’m glad you called. Tell me.”
“His name is Trevor Woodleigh.” I fought back unwanted tears, angrily brushing aside the dampness streaking down my cheeks, and forced myself to speak normally. “I testified against him at a trial a few years ago in New York, and it seems he’s been released from prison.”
“And he blamed you?”
“Yeah.” I half-laughed. “Pretty much, he hates my guts.”
“Well, this is certainly relevant information. I’ll call Detective Rowcliff right away.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
After a small pause, Max said, “Probably you’re right. Still, it can’t do any harm to check it out.”
In for a penny, in for a pound
, I thought, quoting my mother. If I was going to check out Trevor, I ought also to see what I could learn about Maisy. I brought up another window and Googled Maisy’s name.
Of the fifty-seven hits, only three were unrelated to Maisy’s work with the Portsmouth Women’s Guild. I went through them all, starting with the items connected to the Guild. I scanned newsletter articles about past years’ Galas, press releases about awards the Guild had won, photos showing Maisy smiling as she handed someone a check or shook someone’s hand—looking more stiff than comfortable—until finally, I came to the three non-Guild references.
The first one was a feature article in the
Seacoast Star
from two years ago, in which Maisy was quoted as supporting the arts in Portsmouth. The second reference was a photograph published in a service organization’s magazine, showing Maisy, her features relaxed and her behavior buoyant, raising a glass of what looked to be sparkling wine with someone called Pam Field. And the third one was an issue of Maisy’s church’s newsletter—apparently, she had baked chocolate chip cookies for a fund-raiser last July.
I hit the back button until the magazine photograph reappeared. Maisy really did look lighthearted. The caption read “Maisy Gaylor and Pam Field celebrating Ms. Field’s new venture, Field Design Studio.” I studied the photograph. Pam Field looked familiar. Curious, I checked her name against the Gala invitation list—and there it was. She’d been at the Gala. The memory came back to me—I hadn’t met her, but I had noticed Maisy and her, laughing. Anyone who was able to get Maisy to relax and have fun—well, that was someone I wanted to meet.
I found the Field Design Studio contact information in the White Pages and dialed the number. No answer. After six rings, a machine came on, but I hung up without leaving a message. I glanced at my computer monitor—maybe they weren’t open yet. I jotted the phone number and address down and slipped it into my pocket.
As I walked downstairs, I wondered whether Pam Field would be able to shed any light on Maisy’s unexpectedly sprightly performance at the Gala. Were they friends? I also wondered what Rowcliff would think about Trevor and whether he would follow up in person, and if so, how he’d react to what, no doubt, would be Trevor’s vituperative condemnation of all things Josie.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
D
o you think they’ll get divorced?” I heard Dora, the volunteer chairperson of the Gala, ask as I crossed the warehouse, heading toward the main office.
“I think so,” Gretchen said. “It’s so sad, isn’t it? Their twins are only seven months old.”
I wondered whom they were talking about. I didn’t know anyone with seven-month-old twins.
“What do you think happened?” Dora asked.
“Same old, same old. He fell in love with his costar on the movie set. It happens all the time,” Gretchen added, lowering her voice as if she were sharing a secret.
To the uninitiated, Gretchen probably sounded like she had inside knowledge, but I knew that her juicy tidbits came from weekly tabloids and on-line scandal sheets.
“You’d think that—” Dora said, breaking off abruptly as soon as she saw me. She slid off the desk where she was perched and walked to meet me, her hands outstretched. “Josie, how are you? Isn’t this awful? Are you completely overwrought?”
I smiled in greeting, thinking how much I admired her graciousness. Reed-thin, Dora always looked like a million bucks. Today, she wore an ivory silk sweater set with a long gold chain-link necklace and dangling gold earrings. Her knee-length pencil skirt was rust-colored wool, and she wore high-heeled brown leather boots. She was stunning.
“It’s no fun, that’s for sure. How are you holding up?” I responded.
She grimaced. “I talked to that detective, Rowcliff, I think his name is. Isn’t he horrible?”
“He’s intense, I know that,” I replied, avoiding saying anything negative.
Never gossip at work
, my father had warned me when I started at Frisco’s.
If it would bother you to read it in tomorrow’s paper, don’t say it
.
Dora leaned toward me, her eyes expressing worry. “I got the impression that the detective thought
you
might have been the target. Is it true?”
Dora’s question caught me off guard, and for a moment, I froze, aware that both Gretchen and Dora were awaiting my response.
Of course Rowcliff would have asked Dora if she knew any reason why someone would want to kill me, just as he’d asked me. In fact, as I thought of it, I realized that in all probability, he’d asked everyone.
I took in a deep breath and exhaled, trying to decide how I should answer.
Turn the headlights in another direction
, I thought, my pulse racing. All I wanted was to take the focus off myself.
In as playful a tone as I could muster, I said, “Nah, he’s just covering all bases. Unless . . . Wait a minute. Gretchen, what do you think? Am I
that
tough a boss?”
I thought it was pretty lame, so I was pleasantly surprised when both Gretchen and Dora laughed a little.
“You’re a great boss!” Gretchen exclaimed, sounding ready to argue with anyone who said different.
I was touched. “Thanks, Gretchen.”
I turned to Dora. “I’m a simple soul. Who’d want to kill me?” I added, crossing my fingers behind my back for luck, hoping that what I said was true and that Trevor Woodleigh was busily plotting his redemption in New York City, not planning my murder in Portsmouth.
“I still can’t believe it,” Dora said, shaking her head sadly. “Poor Maisy.”
My deflection worked and the discomfort I felt passed. My pounding heart began to slow and I took another breath. “How about if we head toward the back, Dora, and wait for Britt there?”
“Sure,” Dora agreed.
She picked up her jumbo-size leather tote bag and together we headed toward the inner door that gave access to the warehouse.
“Gretchen, when Britt arrives, bring him back, okay?”
“Okay. It was nice talking with you, Dora,” she said.
“Oh, you too! We’ll catch up more another time.” Dora gave an airy wave as we passed into the bone-cold warehouse.
Our footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls. When we were about halfway across the expanse, Dora asked, “Did you know them well? Maisy and Walter, I mean . . .”
I shook my head. “I never met Walter until the Gala. And Maisy, well, I got to know her a little, since we’d been working together. But nothing personal, you know? How about you?”
“I only met Walter once before the Gala. It was at a cocktail reception over the summer, one of those ‘we’re all working together on the Gala, so bring your significant others and let’s bond,’ things,” she said, casting her eyes heavenward, a nonverbal commentary about what she thought of that idea. “I took Hank. You met him, right?”
“The trombone player,” I said, remembering a tall guy with a blond ponytail. He’d been one of the brass quartet that had played soft music during the cocktail hour. He was maybe ten years younger than Dora, and cute as all get-out.
“Right. He’s my honey.”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“He’s a sweetie.”
“That’s great,” I replied, unsure how to respond.
“Anyway,” she said, “Hank is the most patient creature on earth, but after two minutes talking to Walter, he’s tugging on my shawl and whispering in my ear, ‘Get me away from this jerk before I pound him into the ground.’”
“Really? Wow, that’s amazing. I mean, I got the impression that Walter was upset about something, you know? But I had no idea he’d inspire a patient man to violence.” As I spoke, I opened the door that led into the auction hall and switched on the overhead lights. “Well,” I said, “here we are.”
Eddie was long gone, along with everything that wasn’t nailed down or on display. It was a little creepy. Whereas an hour earlier there had been tables and chairs, linens, dishes, and candles, now there was nothing except the antiques we were there to discuss.
Dora glanced around and placed her tote bag against the wall near the display cases. I couldn’t read her expression, but I sensed she felt as uncomfortable as I did.
“I wonder if Greg—he was my seatmate at the Gala—I wonder if he won the sideboard,” I remarked. “Do you remember?”
“No,” Dora answered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. But I do remember that it sold for more than its estimate.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“It’s an excellent thing!” Dora agreed. “What was it estimated to go for?”
“Nineteen thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“Not really. Not for this piece.”
Attributed to Anthony Quervelle from Philadelphia, and dating from 1830, the mahogany sideboard featured a backsplash that was carved with acanthine scrolls and a bowl of fruit. There was a central long drawer flanked by a pair of pedestal cabinets, each with a drawer over a cabinet door, and columns leading to scrolled paw feet. It was in pristine condition, having been lovingly maintained by the Hillshaw family for more than 175 years. I knew because Fred, my researcher, had personally confirmed its provenance.
“I don’t like it, do you?” Dora asked, her hand on her hip.
“It’s a magnificent example of American craftsmanship,” I replied.
“Fair enough, but do you like it?”
“Well, yeah, I do, actually.”
“Really? I didn’t know anyone—”
Britt Epps stepped into the room. “Thank you, Gretchen, for the escort.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
I heard Gretchen’s French heels tapping as she made her way back through the warehouse.
Britt spotted us and beamed. “Josie, it’s so good to see you,” he said, walking in our direction. “How are you holding up during this difficult time? Dora, my dear, how are you? Not that I need to ask. I can see that you’re looking as beautiful as always. My, my, I’m a lucky fellow this morning, aren’t I, surrounded by two such lovely ladies.”
“Oh, Britt, you are such a flatterer!” Dora teased.
“I never flatter, my dear.”
I stood by, removed from their mindless interaction, half of me wishing that I could joke as deftly as they did and the other half wishing they’d just be done with it. After five long minutes of small tall, during which I smiled and said the little sillies that were expected of me, Britt finally got down to business.
He opened a flap of his oversized briefcase, closer to the big square ones used by pilots than the more traditional kind typically carried by lawyers, and began to paw through it.
“Here it is!” Britt exclaimed, standing up, waving the manila envelope containing the bid sheets that I’d handed him at the Gala. He closed the flap and latched it.
Twenty minutes later, we’d tacked Post-it notes with the names of the winners and the sale price on every piece of furniture and display case, and we’d begun to write a script for Gretchen to use when making the calls to the winners, when Gretchen’s voice crackled over the PA system.
“Josie,” she announced, “you have a call on one. It’s Ty.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
M
y heart stopped.
MI had to resist a white-hot urge to run full speed to the phone. Instead, I forced myself to smile politely and say, “Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute,” and walk at a normal pace toward the rear, where a telephone was tucked into a cleverly disguised cubbyhole.
“Hello?” I said into the receiver.
“Josie,” Ty exhaled, “finally. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said, my tone neutral, acutely aware that Britt and Dora were within earshot. “You?”
“Good. Aunt Trina is still undergoing tests—I have an appointment to review the results with the doctors later today. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about Maisy. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. Actually, I’m sort of in a meeting right now,” I said, clearing my throat. “Can we talk later?”
“Sure.”
“How’s six o’clock my time?” I asked.
“That won’t work—I have that doctor’s appointment.” Ty paused, thinking. “How’s one, your time?”
“That won’t work for me. I have an appraisal.”
“Maybe this evening,” Ty said.
Neither Britt nor Dora spoke. I felt uncomfortably conspicuous. “Sure,” I agreed. “Let’s give it a try.”
“Sorry about that,” I said as I walked back.
“No problem,” Dora said, smiling.
“I was just standing here considering something, and you know what?” Britt said. “I don’t think this process needs to be so complicated. I mean, there’s a lot of information we need to capture, but instead of writing a script, why don’t we just explain what we need to Gretchen and let her ask questions?”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I responded, relieved that we wouldn’t have to take the time to write things out. Gretchen could take whatever notes she needed. And I could have some time to consider my next step in researching Trevor and Maisy before heading to my lunchtime appointment in Newington.
“Good idea, Britt, you clever dog, you!” Dora said. “Why don’t you two go on ahead and talk to Gretchen. I’ll just take one last look at the names to be certain they’re spelled right. I know enough about donors to know that misspelling names is a surefire way to offend them.”
“Are you sure? We could stay, if you want, and help,” I offered politely while heading toward the warehouse.
“Nope, I’m all set. You both go on ahead and get started with Gretchen. I’ll just be a minute.”
I gestured that Britt should precede me, and when I glanced back, I saw Dora looking back and forth between the papers in her hand and the Post-it on the sideboard, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
Dora slipped into the office a few minutes later and placed a friendly hand on my shoulder for a moment, smiled, then sat next to Britt.
“So,” Gretchen said, “in addition to gathering payment information—check or credit card—I also need to confirm how they want the tax-deduction record to read, is that right?”
“Exactly,” Britt said. “Some people might want their company to be the donor of record; others might want it to be recorded as an individual donation.”
“What do I say if they ask about the tax rules?”
“Tell them that because every situation is different, they need to consult their own tax adviser.”
Gretchen nodded as she wrote.
“Also, we need to consider how they want their names to appear in the donor listings,” Dora added. “John and Amy Smith, for instance, or Mr. and Mrs. John Smith.”
Gretchen nodded again and jotted the instruction down.
As they continued explaining what Gretchen needed to do, I allowed my mind to wander, my thoughts drifting from antiques and tracking donations to Ty, then to Trevor and Maisy, then back to Ty. On the phone just now, Ty had sounded good. Pleased to be talking to me. My skin warmed at the thought.
Dora and Britt stood up, preparing to leave. I’d missed just about their entire conversation.
Glancing at the pink Mickey Mouse clock on Gretchen’s desk, I was surprised to see that it was after eleven thirty. I’d need to get ready to leave soon.
Dora air-kissed me and Britt, chattering all the way out the door. “What a beautiful day! It’s just gorgeous, isn’t it? Don’t you love this time of year? It’s so good seeing you both. And you, too, Gretchen. We’ll be in touch soon. Bye-bye. See you later!”
I stood by the open door and watched as Dora pulled out of the lot in her jazzy gold Jaguar. Britt shrugged into his trench coat and picked up his briefcase.
“Would it be possible to use the rest room?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Gretchen will show you where it is.”
“This way,” she said, leading him into the warehouse.
When she came back a moment later, I asked, “Are you clear on what you need to do?”
“Absolutely. There’s a lot of bits and pieces of information Britt and Dora want me to capture, but it will be easy—I’ll just add fields on the Gala spreadsheet to track the data.”
I listened with half an ear as she summarized what they’d discussed and how she planned to approach the task.
“Let me know if you run into any problems, okay?” I told her.
“Sure.”
“Thank you, ladies,” Britt said as he hurried into the office.
“Gretchen will start on the calls today,” I told him, and he thanked her once again.
I stood by the open door in a rectangle of sun and watched as he wedged himself into his silver Mercedes and took several minutes fussing with something or other before starting the engine. A careful man, I thought. Precise and thorough. No wonder he had the reputation of being one of the top lawyers in town.
I turned back to Gretchen and told her that I was leaving.
“Anything before I go?” I asked.
Gretchen glanced at her desk and computer screen. “Nope. I think everything’s under control. I should have the tag-sale figures by the time you’re back.”
“Good. Do you know which day you’re taking off this week?” I asked.
Because we all worked Saturdays, everyone got a weekday off. Eric, my all-around handyman and assistant tag-sale cashier, usually took Mondays. Gretchen was charged with reconciling the weekend tag-sale receipts, so she almost always worked Mondays and coordinated with Sasha and Fred so that there was always office coverage.
“I don’t know. I have nothing going on this week, so I’ll let Sasha and Fred pick first.”
I nodded. “They were in yesterday, working on the Picasso.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, spinning around to look at me. “What’s the word?”
I raised crossed fingers and flashed a quick grin.
Gretchen smiled. “Great!”
I was halfway to Newington when my cell phone rang, interrupting my disordered thoughts. Between fanciful anticipation about my upcoming conversation with Ty and fretting about the implications of Maisy’s murder, I was agitated and perplexed.
“Hello,” I said, angling my head to keep the phone in place.
“Josie. It’s Max.”
“Hi, Max,” I said, my worry meter spiking.
“I just spoke to Detective Rowcliff. He wants to see us this afternoon.”
“Why?” I asked, not really wanting to know. My heart began to thud.
“Apparently, he has questions about a few things—including some about Trevor Woodleigh.”
“Do you think there’s a problem?”
“I think he just wants to clarify some things.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
Max paused. “Well, Rowcliff isn’t as forthcoming as I might like, so it’s a wait-and-see situation, I think.”
The studied neutrality of his response added to my anxiety. If Rowcliff had bad news, he wouldn’t say a word to Max, no matter what Max asked, but if Rowcliff had good news, either he would have volunteered the information or Max would have discovered it. I felt a sense of impending doom.
“So,” I said, knowing there was no alternative, “when?”
“How’s three?”
I thought about how long I’d be at the Newington house. Verna, the woman who had called to schedule the appointment, was on her lunch hour, so I guessed that an hour was the outside limit. Twelve thirty to one thirty, a quick lunch, yes, I could get to Portsmouth by three o’clock.
“Sure,” I said, feeling resigned to my fate.
“Rowcliff asked if we’d come to the police station. Are you okay with that?”
“Why? Why does he want to meet there?” I asked, on the edge of panic.
“His convenience. I could refuse, but that might make us appear uncooperative.”
I swallowed as I turned onto Woodbury Avenue, pushing the panic aside.
You’ve done nothing wrong, Josie. You’ve done everything right
. “Sure,” I said as calmly as I could. “No problem.”
“Let’s talk for a minute in the parking lot before we go in, okay?”
“Okay. About ten of?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you there.”
I tried to recapture the giddy pleasure of fantasizing about Ty, but unease about my impending interview with Detective Rowcliff had taken hold.
As I turned into Verna’s street and searched for house numbers, I found myself fighting tears. I winked away the dampness as I pulled into the pockmarked driveway of 11 Melody Lane.