Deadly Appraisal (9 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A

bout ten minutes after Rowcliff uttered his chilling comment, Max and I left the station and walked across the parking lot.

“What was up with that display of attitude?” he asked as we approached my car.

“What attitude?” I replied cheerily, hoping that my perkiness would distract him enough to skip the issue. In my current mood, the last thing I wanted was a lecture on proper decorum during police interrogations.

“Josie?” Max sounded stern, apparently unimpressed by my assumed insouciance. “It’s a serious situation, and when you joke around, you sound defensive, not playful.”

“I was trying for sassy, not playful,” I said brightly, flashing a thousand-watt smile, still trying to distract him.

He didn’t respond; he didn’t smile back at me, and his eyes conveyed neither amusement nor reassurance. I brushed my hair aside, suddenly feeling childish in the face of his distress. What was I thinking—that I could wish the situation away? I looked aside again, girding myself to face the music.

“I’m sorry, Max,” I said, sighing. “I know I shouldn’t let him push my buttons.”

“It’s okay,” he responded. “No permanent damage was done. But you shouldn’t behave that way again.” I nodded acquiescence, and he reiterated what I knew, that it was crucial that I stay calm, act professional, and not take anything Rowcliff said or did personally.

Listening to the lecture I hadn’t wanted to receive, hearing nothing new, was tough. Tougher still was facing why I’d acted as I had. The bottom line was that I was full up with anxiety and worry, and as a result, my exterior toughness was worn down. It was as if my nerve endings were closer to the surface than usual, so that Rowcliff’s normal sarcasm and cynical disdain were not merely irritants, but felt like sandpaper that had rubbed me raw. Regardless of the why of the situation, my reaction now struck me as sophomorically self-indulgent, dumb, and, worse yet, counterproductive.

I looked toward the street, embarrassed that my stupidity and immaturity had made Max’s job more difficult.

As Max finished his comments, I noticed a woman driving a shiny red sports car with the top down. She slowed for the stoplight, her head bopping to music I couldn’t hear, and I wondered what kind of songs she was playing and whether she felt cold in the brisk October air.

I bought my first car when I was almost seventeen, a used Fiat 850 Spider, and my dad and I cruised around for more than an hour with the top down even though it was a frigid, windy December afternoon. Even with the heat blasting on high, we nearly froze, but it didn’t seem to matter at all. We had a blast.
Oh, Dad
.

I turned back to Max, who was waiting patiently for my response. “I’m really sorry. I just kind of lost it.”

“Why?”

I took a deep breath. “I think that what put me over the top was seeing yesterday’s
Seacoast Star
. They printed that goddamn article on the front page,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. I saw it.”

I began to cry and turned away from his sympathetic eyes, angrily sweeping away my tears. After a long minute, I gulped down the last of my emotion and said, “I’m sorry, Max. I’m just a mess.”

“Don’t keep apologizing, Josie. You’re fine. Really. You’re holding up very well, all things considered. I’m sorry I upset you.” He patted my shoulder.

“You didn’t. Wes did, writing such drivel.” I sniffed, and when I opened my purse to find a tissue, I discovered the folded newspaper I’d stuffed in earlier, and I began to cry again. I wrestled the paper loose and thrust it toward him. “Here. I don’t want the damn thing.”

“I’ll throw it away for you.” Max accepted it and tucked it under his arm, out of sight.

“I’m okay now.” I blew my nose and felt better, used the crumpled tissue to pat away under-eye mascara smudges, and took several deep breaths. “It sounds like Rowcliff is convinced that Trevor is out to get me, huh?”

“Rowcliff isn’t giving up on any line of investigation, Josie. He’s very thorough. Remember, he’s checking on who could have acquired the poison and who could have put it in Maisy’s wine, in addition to following up on Woodleigh.”

“And he’s still considering whether Maisy was the intended target,” I added, forcing myself to sound at least a little hopeful. With any luck, I’d know more tonight, after I spoke to Pam Field.

“Right.”

“Thank you, Max. Not just for your great lawyering but also for being so kind.”

“Aw shucks, I’m blushing, little lady,” he said, switching seamlessly into an old-style western cowboy dialect, shuffling his feet and looking theatrically ill at ease.

I smiled and felt comforted by his silliness. Competent and gentle.
What a guy
.

I didn’t get back to Prescott’s until just after 5:00 P.M. I could tell from the solitary car in the parking lot that only Sasha was still there.

I entered the office, the chimes jingling, and discovered Sasha, her coat in hand, ready to leave.

“Go on ahead,” I told her. “I’ll lock up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” I asked.

“No, if it’s all right with you, we agreed that I’d take tomorrow off, and Fred would take Wednesday.”

“And Gretchen, Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s fine. Just one thing before you go.”

Sasha turned to me, suddenly anxious. I had to watch my tone and my words when I spoke to her. Comments or questions that seemed to me innocuous were to her fraught with innuendo and danger.
Perception
, I reminded myself,
colors outlook. Don’t underrate the power of perception
.

“What?” she asked.

I smiled. “The Picasso. Any news?”

She grinned, her worry dissipating in a flash. “It’s very exciting, actually. It looks as if Picasso drew it in exchange for a meal.”

“What?”

She nodded. “He did that sometimes. Not for the money, but as a tribute. Because his works were so highly regarded, if he favored a café, for example, he might create the drawing as a favor to the owner.”

“And present it at the end of dinner?”

“Yes. Usually at the end of a big, expensive dinner!” she said with a grin. “In lieu of cash.”

I laughed. “Smart fellow.”

“Oh, he was. Absolutely.”

I perched against a nearby desk. “And this particular drawing?” I asked.

“We’re pretty sure we know which restaurateur he gave it to. We have some inquiries out.”

I shook my head in mock amazement. “I can’t believe you tracked it down. You’re incredible! The best of the best.”

Her smile was huge. “Thank you. Not really. I mean, it’s work, you know. And Fred is just as good as I am.”

“Ah, maybe. But you’re my chief researcher, so you have to accept the accolades.”

“Thank you,” she said shyly, still smiling, unsure of what to do or say next.

“Go home now,” I told her. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“Okay. Thanks, Josie,” she said.

As I watched her depart, I noticed that clouds had begun to move in from the west and the sky was streaked with gray.

I nearly skidded off the road as I realized that Trevor might have been on-site at the Gala. I slowed and righted my direction, focusing on the road. Trevor could be my mystery waiter. I pulled over and braked to a stop.

Perception
, I thought. I’d never, not in a million years, have expected Trevor to be a waiter at the Gala, so I’d never have noticed him if he were there in that guise. He could have poured me wine.

It was hard to believe, yet even as I tried to chase the thought away as absurd, I realized that it was completely plausible. Not probable, perhaps, but possible.

I needed to talk to Eddie and glanced at the time display on the dashboard. It was almost five thirty. I found my cell phone at the bottom of my purse and scrolled through the phone log until I found Eddie’s number and pushed the connect button.

“Eddie,” I said when I had him. “I have a question.”

“Sure, Josie. Shoot.”

“It’s going to sound stupid, but indulge me, okay?”

He chuckled. “Sure.”

“The waiters for the Gala.”

“Yeah?”

“Any newcomers? Any last-minute subs?”

“Sure. For a big job like the Gala, I always have new guys.”

My heart started beating. “Can I stop by and show you a photo?”

“Of a waiter?”

“Of someone I’m wondering about. I want to know if he was a waiter.”

“Who?”

“Just some guy,” I responded, keeping it loose.

“Can we make it tomorrow, Josie? I’m on my way out the door.”

“Sure,” I replied, disappointed. “What time?”

We settled on nine, a late start for me, but early for a caterer who normally worked late into the evening. I was impatient for information.

As I stuffed my phone back into my purse and pulled out again, I shivered even though the heat was on. There was too much I didn’t know for comfort, and in the face of my frightening realization about Trevor—that he could have been standing beside me, adding who knows what to my wine, unnoticed by everyone—I realized that I could no longer assume that I was safe.

Ty
, I thought. Now I had another reason to talk to him—beyond missing him, I was confident that he’d be able to provide direction or suggestions.

When I turned into my driveway, my headlights swept over my new landlady, Zoe, as she sat alone on the front stoop of her house. She looked harassed.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I got out of the car.

“Am I okay?” she repeated in a musing tone. “Well, the police aren’t here and it’s been over an hour, so that’s a good thing.”

“Zoe, my God! What happened?”

She rubbed her forehead a couple of times, then said, “Do you know Mrs. Wilson?”

“Sure. Nice lady. Lives with her husband next to the Frost place.”

“Right. Well, she stopped by to drop off a cherry pie as a welcome gift.”

Zoe must have seen my confused look, because she added, “She saw Emma—you remember my two-year-old, don’t you? Well, Mrs. Wilson rings the bell, takes one look at Emma in the cage, drops the pie, and flees!”

Curiosity burned hot. “Why was Emma in a cage?” I asked.

“It’s Lassie’s cage. For transporting her. Since she’s new to the house, I left it in the front hall, you know, to help her settle in, so she could go inside to a safe, secure, familiar place if she wanted to. Lassie’s blankie is in it, and some food and water.” Zoe sighed and rubbed her forehead again. I figured she had a headache. “And her favorite rawhide bone,” she added.

I nodded. “So what happened?”

“So Emma toddled in and fell asleep. She looked so cute, I didn’t have the heart to wake her, and I said to myself, Why should I? Let her be.”

“That’s logical. She wasn’t going anywhere, right?” I smiled, hoping to ease the tension.

“That’s what I figured. But still, given the look of abject horror on Mrs. Wilson’s face, I wonder why she
didn’t
call the cops.”

“Maybe when she got home and told her husband what happened, he warned her to lay off the booze, and they’re still fighting about it.”

“Maybe.” Zoe laughed. “So tell me, how was your day?”

“Oh, special. I had a very special day,” I said. “Are you ready to laugh again?”

“Always,” she replied.

“I spent a chunk of the afternoon with a homicide detective, discussing who wants to kill me and why.”

“Oh my God. Tell me.”

“It isn’t funny,” I said, “so I don’t know why I feel this overwhelming urge to laugh.” I sat beside her.

“Me, too. The flip side of crying maybe. Give me an overview so we can really share a chuckle.”

“Okay. Have you heard how Maisy Gaylor was killed at the Gala this weekend?” I asked.

“No. All I hear about are nursery issues.”

“Well, you have to be the only person around who’s unaware of what happened.” I sighed. “She drank some wine spiked with cyanide while hosting an event my company was sponsoring.” I sighed again. “I was proud to be the sponsor. Can you imagine? God, it’s been awful.”

“What’s the funny part?”

“They’re not sure whether the poisoned wine was intended for me and poor Maisy died by accident.”

“You’re right,” she said, turning to look at me. “It’s not funny.”

“No, I guess it really isn’t.”

Zoe reached her arm around me and gave me a quick shoulder squeeze. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

I smiled. “In a good way.”

She smiled, too. “I agree.”

We sat in companionable silence for a long minute. I heard soft crackles as small animals traipsed on fallen leaves across the road, on the other side of the old stone wall, sharp clicks as insects said their good nights, and, in the distance, the forlorn, echoing cry of a seagull.

“Josie?” Zoe asked.

“What?”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without this conversation. It’s really helped lighten the load, you know?”

“Me, too,” I said.

“You know what?” Zoe asked, standing up.

“What?”

“We gotta go inside. It’s f’ing freezing out here.”